Act VI: The Bitter Sea (Part 1)
one
"Have you heard of the Hasasins?" a veiled Roman girl asked from horseback in the night.
“I would appreciate your guidance,” Batur replied respectfully, also mounted on his horse. He bowed his head.
"They were a group of assassins, their profession was assassination." The noble young woman's voice was as clear as a silver bell. "I heard that the leader trained them from a young age. When they reached a certain age, he took them to Heavenly Garden—what the □□ called paradise. There, there were inexhaustible delicacies and fruits, a constantly flowing river of sweet milk, bewitching herbs leading to bliss, priceless silks and satins, and beautiful maidens and servants to attend to them. However, this heavenly life only lasted a day and a night before they were taken out of Heavenly Garden. The leader gave them missions to assassinate others, promising that they could return to Heavenly Garden after completing them. That's how assassins hidden in the shadows were forged."
"However, I think that temptation is not enough to make someone willing to die for their cause. Such temptation is insignificant in the face of death. If one dies, even the greatest bliss loses its meaning. Only by living can one savor all the beauty of the world. Therefore, rumors are just rumors after all."
“That’s very true,” Batur agreed. “Life is the foundation of everything.”
The girl sighed softly, disdainfully looked away, and said nothing more.
Yakov wasn't paying attention to what they were saying. He didn't know what the Hasasins were; it sounded like Arabic. His attention was entirely on the guard beside him—a middle-aged man with brown skin, who looked similar in build and rank to him, responsible for protecting his master. Where was he from, Egypt, Persia, or Iberia? Yakov pondered the dark face. The man was old, but not a beard on his chin. Yakov suddenly realized—was he a eunuch? Rumor had it that the [unclear] had an elite army composed entirely of eunuch slaves. They were captured from various places as children, subjected to harsh training, and only one in ten survived—was this brown-skinned guard one of them?
Suddenly, the guard turned his head in the darkness and nodded to Yakov.
Yakov didn't know how to respond, so he just nodded and had to look away.
He arrogantly made a comparison in his mind: I am a slave, and he is a slave. I am responsible for my master's safety, and so is he. Perhaps our skills are evenly matched, our scimitars and horsemanship equally formidable. But I am much younger than him, yet I have already risen to his position. Clearly, I am stronger than him.
Most importantly, Yakov thought matter-of-factly. I didn't cut off that job to gain skills and opportunities. I'm still a man, and the future is bright.
The group departed from the docks of Kherson, leaving the Dnieper River for the steppe. The river had just thawed, and the breath of spring, like a restless child, eagerly pushed through the ice and snow, stubbornly sprouting new buds. The Roman girls, accompanied by many attendants, were dressed in light, flowing garments embroidered with intricate patterns; both men and women wore shoes unsuitable for the season and complained in Greek, which Yakov couldn't understand. Yakov thought, "These are fools living in warmer climates. Don't they know it snows and freezes here? If they had come two months earlier, they would have frozen to death." He then examined the large, heavy luggage and noticed an exquisitely magnificent deep red tent, requiring five horses to pull—a symbol of extravagance, Yakov thought. "Why would the Khan's yurt be so shabby that they had to bring their own tent?"
He sat at a distance on horseback, watching the Romans erect a magnificent cloth spire on the steppe. Once they had arranged the intricate decorative vessels, lit the incense burners and candles, the crowd—including the noble and beautiful young woman—began to pray before the ornate, cloisonné cross. Yakov stared at them, thinking of his own lowly compatriots. Those who worked in the mines and charcoal kilns also worshipped this god called Jesus. He felt a strange sense of incongruity—the poorest slaves and the wealthiest Roman nobles believed in the same god.
"What do you think?" Before he knew it, his master had silently ridden up behind him. For some reason, the young Khan's successor had an unusually stern face, as if a great battle was about to begin.
“I don’t know.” Yakov mimicked his master’s stern expression. “My beliefs are for you to decide.”
Batur shook his head. “That’s not what I’m asking,” he said. “I’m talking about the Hasasin.”
Kasasin? Yakov hadn't listened to the story closely. He immediately felt ashamed and reflected, "I just think... if people still need good food, wine, and beautiful women to win their loyalty, it probably only proves that the slaves aren't loyal enough."
“But only a slave knows whether he is loyal or not. How can the master confirm this loyalty?” Batur gazed at the magnificent spire, pointing to the praying, dark-skinned guard. “Do you know why they prefer castrated slaves?”
“Because they are a corrupt and perverse race that believes in disgusting gods,” Yakov replied.
Batur coughed dryly. “No, because eunuchs have no offspring. This makes them loyal only to their masters,” he said. “Then do you know why I trust your loyalty more than anyone else?”
Yakov suddenly realized that he and his master were having a crucial conversation, not their usual idle chatter. This fact immediately made him anxious and his mouth dry. He kept licking his chapped lips, trying to moisten them. However, when he bit off a piece of dead skin, blood immediately welled up on his lips, causing pain and itching.
“Because I am a Slav.” The salty, rusty taste of his blood melted in his mouth. “...You will never have to worry about me being appointed by others or followed by others. I will always be loyal to you alone, and I am your slave.”
Batur's serious face finally softened into a smile, but his brows furrowed even deeper. "You're honest and smart," he said, patting Yakov's shoulder lightly and sighing heavily. "Riding is too tiring. I need to get off and walk around."
As the banquet began, Yakov noticed the group of Byzantines—each equipped with a gleaming silver knife and fork, using them to cut the roasted meat before stuffing it into their mouths. How extravagant and affected! So many utensils for eating, just to display their wealth and status? Were their hands covered in thorns? Yakov shifted his gaze to the center of the tent carpet, where a blonde, blue-eyed Slavic slave girl was dancing. She had come from the large ship on the Dnieper River five years ago.
“I’ve heard that she used to belong to the Grand Prince of Novgorod,” the Khan’s heir said, slightly tipsy. “But Rus’ slave girls only have a few years of beauty. Look at her, she’s already old and faded. Unlike you, who always has youth and noble bearing.”
This flattery was a bit excessive. Yakov was mesmerized by the swirling, jewel-adorned skirt and braids in the center of the carpet. The slave girl wore a revealing, slit dress, her snow-white thighs swaying between the hem, her voluptuous belly twisting seductively. But indeed, as Batur had said, she no longer possessed the youthful lightness and agility she had five years ago—her thighs had thickened, and a hint of fat had accumulated around her waist. And the scars on her fingers no longer seemed so pitiful, but rather repulsive.
The Roman girl was whispering something to her dark-skinned guard when she quickly sat up straight and gracefully returned to her seat.
“We’ve brought Greek musicians,” the guard relayed. “They might be perfect for dancing with your beautiful slave girl.”
“Alright.” Batur waved politely, signaling the musicians playing Turkic music to leave their seats. “Let us appreciate some real art.”
A group of young men carrying lyre, harp, cymbals, and hand drums entered the tent. They were full of energy and their light steps made the air much more lively as soon as they entered. The musicians and the female slaves exchanged a bow, their eyes meeting in tacit understanding—as if this bow had already enabled them to communicate in spirit and art, as if they were old friends who had worked together for many years.
The female slave knelt in the center of the tent, sorrowfully and joyfully untying her braids. Her long, curly hair was released like golden waves. The exquisite hair ornaments she had removed were wrapped around her waist like a circle of tiny bells. Finally, she tore her skirt even wider, making the fork extend all the way to her waist.
The musicians waited patiently for her to finish. Soon, a rhythmic, delicate drumbeat began, and a series of melodies with an oriental flair poured forth from the strings. Among the musicians was a singer who hummed the opening tune, his voice shifting and turning, from a low, faint tone to a melodious, soaring chant. It sounded like a love song, yet also like a war song. Yakov couldn't tell. He didn't understand Greek.
He stood behind Batur, watching the female slave rise to the music—Yakov never remembered her dancing like this. She leaped up like a burning flame, her movements like a lurking cobra. Her eyes became proud and fiery, a stark contrast to the pitiful look Yakov had seen her when he first met her five years earlier. Yakov had never seen any Slavic female slave so vibrant in the Khan's tent.
Everyone in the tent watched her silently and intently. The slave girl seemed no longer bothered by the filth or greed in their gazes—the drumbeats in the music quickened, the singer's voice rose higher, and the slave girl's dance steps quickened in sync with their movements—she danced with abandon, her long hair quickly soaked with sweat, clinging to her skin like growing vines, as if the early spring tent had become as hot as midsummer. The ornaments at her waist swayed rapidly, and she was trying her best to make them jingle.
Suddenly, Yakov no longer found her ample waistline and thick thighs objectionable. He forgot to close his mouth. He felt a terrifying divinity and aggression bursting forth from the dance, as if the slave girl's scarred hands were clutching not hair and silk, but two sharp knives symbolizing freedom and revenge.
As the dance ended, the musicians and dancers, joyful yet weary, bowed to everyone seated inside the tent. It was as if, in that brief moment, they were no longer anyone's slaves. Thunderous applause erupted.
"Yakov, you're staring in a daze." Before he knew it, Batur had turned to examine him closely. "If you like, how about I give you Tatiana as your wife?"
Yakov was speechless with surprise. "...I have never had such thoughts," he stammered, a blush rising on his face. "I would never lay a finger on what you cherish."
"A beloved possession? Who said it's a beloved possession?" Batur shoved wine into his mouth while glancing at him with narrowed eyes, then turned to look at the female slave lying on the ground. "It's time for you to get married and start a family, so your children can continue to serve me. You haven't gotten any slaves pregnant yet."
"May you have a son soon." The noble Roman girl laughed lightly, seemingly unconcerned. "This dance comes from Egypt; it is the ritual dance of the goddess Isis, who prayed for offspring."
"Really? I never knew Tatiana had such abilities." Batur laughed and translated these words into Turkic for everyone in the tent. "Our guest says this dance is for praying for children!"
This remark caused a burst of laughter.
Yakov was both angry and ashamed, gritting his teeth. He secretly studied the Roman girl's expression, but found nothing. The girl mysteriously covered her face tightly, her hair completely hidden under a headscarf, not a single strand revealed, not even the candlelight in the tent could illuminate her face. Perhaps it was a trick to arouse curiosity, Yakov thought; she did this to make men curious about her appearance. However, he was also reluctantly grateful to her. If Batur's beloved slave girl could truly be given to him as a wife, it wouldn't be a bad thing.
"Get up," Batur waved his hand again, saying self-deprecatingly, "What matters now is not your marriage, but mine."
The female slave quickly left the tent. Her tears soaked a small patch of the carpet.
The banquet lasted almost all night, leaving everyone drunk and drowsy. Before dawn, the noble Roman maiden was the first to lead the group away, returning to the magnificent crimson tent. Yakov had also drunk some wine and was feeling dizzy, but he was still responsible for carrying the unconscious Batur back to the tent. His master was weak, not good at drinking, and was coughing with a high fever. Yakov carried him all the way to the sleeping tent, scolding several slacking servants along the way and ordering them to immediately summon the maidservant who was taking care of him.
“Where is Tatiana?” Batur muttered. “Call her here.”
The Slavic female slave, now stripped of her dance attire, gracefully approached at the summons. She took her frail master from Yakov's arms. Batur collapsed limply onto her breasts, kneading them wantonly. Yakov had never dared to watch this scene before; he would have immediately turned his gaze away. But today, he felt he had both the courage and the reason to stare.
“Give him something to help him sober up,” he told Tatiana. “He’s going hunting in the mountains with his guests later that night.”
The female slave gave a weak reply and said nothing more. Yakov stared intently into her eyes, as if she already belonged to him—he looked up at her.
In an instant, he glimpsed a river of sorrow and numbness flowing through those azure eyes so similar to his own, as if the passionate dance had ended, like the last embers disappearing into ashes, and vibrant life had died entirely in her eyes. Yakov was jolted awake by that bleak color; all the light, fleeting fantasies of youth crumbled like insubstantial clouds, leaving him suddenly grounded, sinking into the earth.
“Get out of here, Yakov,” Batur yelled angrily in the soft harbor. “Come back when I call you.”
Yakov immediately saluted and turned to flee.
As he did every day before, he dozed off before Batur's tent, bow and arrows in hand. Half-asleep, his soul seemed to drift across the steppes and bays, wandering to the north. That should have been his homeland, Yakov thought. He'd heard it was colder there, with snow falling half the year, and thick, perpetual ice covering the rivers and seas. He wondered how he would live if he were born there. Without a master, he would never have the skills of riding and archery or wielding a sword, nor the opportunity to learn Turkic and Latin. He might only be a farmer or a lumberjack, and even with daily toil, he could never afford the armor he wore. In times of war or famine, it would break as easily as a blade of grass in the wind.
But Yakov suddenly hesitated. Was this really better than the other possibility? Did he really possess anything?
He drifted off to sleep, experiencing the distant cold. He was awakened by the blinding sunlight and his master's voice.
“Yakov, wake up.” Batur smiled, revealing his white teeth. “I have a gift for you.”
His master led him to a small wooden hut, not a tent. It was in the Rus' style, built of round logs, small and cozy. Yakov was speechless with astonishment. He didn't understand what Batur meant and kept staring blankly at his master's face.
"Open the door and take a look." Batur stopped under the eaves at the door, smiling politely.
Yakov cautiously yet impatiently stepped forward and pushed open the door. Dried flowers and bells hung on the door, making his footsteps jingle.
The once beautiful Slavic slave girl sat in the center of the room. She was clad in a vibrant, jarring crimson dress, seemingly woven from her own flesh and blood. Tears streamed down her face like broken pearls, her pale blue eyes lifeless and unfocused, making her resemble a rag doll or a corpse. Yakov stood there, stunned, unable to tear his gaze from the inexplicably terrifying bride.
“Go and take off her crown,” Batur said behind him. “She is yours now.”
Yakov then noticed that Tatiana was wearing a shield-shaped headdress adorned with beaded chains, making her look like one of their distinguished Roman guests. He forgot to thank his host, and proceeded with trembling, sleepwalking steps. His hand trembled as it touched the headdress. His bride offered no resistance, nor did she look at him; she stared dead at the door. Suddenly, the wooden door clicked shut, followed by the sound of a padlock.
Yakov turned his head and saw a tiny hole in the door. A familiar black eyeball was blocking it.
He broke out in a cold sweat. He and Tatiana were exposed to the stark white sunlight by the window, like ghosts with nowhere to hide, about to be burned to ashes. But then he thought, isn't this a good thing? As a Slav, perhaps this is something many people can only dream of. Look at this cozy little house; it has a heated floor, a stove, a wooden table and chairs, and on it sits bread sprinkled with salt—it's like a real wedding. Honestly, what's so shameful about this? Aren't real weddings also just for onlookers?
Yakov stopped thinking about anything else. He leaned in, wanting only to kiss his bride.
"I'm pregnant," Kotatiana said.
Yakov had to stop. He turned back with deep suspicion to look at the eye in the hole in the door. But there was no sound from behind the door.
“You must be lying.” He ripped the shield-shaped crown from her hair, shattering the beaded chains into pieces.
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