Act VI: The Bitter Sea (Part Two)
two
The boat was so large that they couldn't see the people on board. Yubi thought it was the first time he had ever seen such a large boat and such a wide river. Countless oars slapped neatly on the water, making the boat look like a floating wooden fortress with legs. He jumped off the carriage, ran to the riverbank, and craned his neck to look, almost overturning himself, his jaw agape. The setting sun dyed the triangular white canvas purple. On the high, rounded bow and stern, the dark, armored figures seemed to be bustling about because of their presence. The two oars swayed, changing the direction of the large boat and slowly moving towards the riverbank.
"All the worries I've had along the way have finally come to fruition!" Schumeer leaned back on the carriage floor, unwilling to move a single finger. "Thank you, world of civilization and order! I'm returning!"
"We haven't reached Constantinople yet," Yakov said, his face still stern. "Don't get too excited."
“Whatever you say. I know in my heart that this terrible battle is over, and it’s time for me to relax and go to my own world.” Schumeer chuckled as he stroked his donkey, which was still bound and unable to move, pouting and braying. “Aren’t Ambikia’s servants more reliable and useful than you and me? Or rather, blood slaves? Forget about that box. Ambikia wouldn’t even look at a few thousand gold coins. She has a ship this big; she can earn it back in a few trips!”
Yubi was running back excitedly from the riverbank, his boots creaking in the breeze. "They're here!" he exclaimed, bouncing around as if he wanted to fly. "What a huge ship! It's so big, does it have bedrooms, a study, stables, and a bathroom? What did Byzantine bathrooms look like?"
"Don't use that word!" Schumeer sat bolt upright on the carriage floor. "Don't say 'Byzantine' in Constantinople!"
"Why?" Yubi asked in surprise.
“It’s a long story, but in short, it’s a derogatory term,” Schumacher said, pursing his lips. “The empire has only one name, which is ‘Rome.’ Don’t add ‘East’ in front of it.”
“Rome?” Yubi glanced back at the large ship. “Wasn’t Rome destroyed a long time ago?”
“Oh dear, if you say that in front of those Greeks, you’ll be arrested by the emperor!” Schumeer grabbed his arm. “The destroyed Rome is Rome, the surviving Rome is Rome, the holy Rome is Rome, and the Church’s Rome is Rome. Just remember, wherever you are, acknowledge that it is Rome, and that’s enough.”
Yubi was completely bewildered by these convoluted words and kept scratching his head. Yakov was busy tidying things up in the wagon. He put on his helmet, concealed his face, and shoved the cloth-wrapped glass jar into Yubi's arms—Yubi suddenly realized that he still had to explain to Ambikia what had happened to his mother. His mood plummeted like a kite caught in a tangle.
The bow of the boat touched the shore, clinging to the riverbank like it was stranded—Yakov was about to mock their poor boating skills when he was astonished to find that the cabin directly opposite them had loosened, and the bow plank had been lowered like a drawbridge, creating a smooth path—the gunwale could actually be opened. Yakov squinted at it. He had never seen anything so advanced.
A group of people were approaching them from the ship's cabin. However, the leader was not Yubi's sister—a dark-skinned man, similar in age and build to Yakov, but without a beard. He wore a smooth helmet adorned with a bright red plume that resembled a horse's mane. All of them wore halberds at their waists and armor made of interlocking metal plates, unlike the chainmail Yakov wore. The group's steps were not exactly hostile, but their approach was still menacing.
Beneath the helmet, Yakov's brow furrowed deeper. He stepped forward, shielding Yubi, who was cradling a severed head.
"That guy is really dark-skinned!" Yubi exclaimed, peeking out from behind him. "I've never seen anyone like him before!"
“Go further south, into Africa, and you’ll find people who are even darker-skinned than this,” Schumacher muttered to himself. “Oh, and there’s another taboo: you can’t make fun of the emperor’s dark skin.”
"Why is that?" Yubi turned her head. "So what if I'm dark-skinned?"
"Stop chatting!" Yakov snapped at them. "Quiet down!"
The group drew closer. They stopped disciplinedly on the riverbank a few dozen paces from the three men and their carriage, the dark-skinned man at the head continuing forward alone. Yakov stared intently at him, his hand moving to the hilt of his longsword. Like a dusty treasure chest being opened, he saw the face and instantly remembered seeing this man before—twenty years had passed, yet the guard's appearance remained unchanged, as if time had stood still on that face. A blood slave, Yakov thought, just like him. But this was a eunuch, a man who had once been a slave of a harlot. This thought dissipated much of his tension, as if even alone, he was no less vulnerable than his opponent, who was with his men.
The man stepped forward steadily, his eyes quickly scanning the three of them up and down before finally revealing a faint smile. "I am Salman Abdulrahman, a servant of the Kanakakis family." He removed his gleaming helmet, revealing short, extremely curly, mottled gray hair that made him appear considerably older. "Are you Yubi de Noctennias?"
"What did he say?" Yakov leaned down and asked Yubi.
“There are people here who don’t understand Greek.” The man immediately switched to fluent Latin, though his tone was calm and somewhat oriental. “I am Salman Abdulrahman, a servant of the Kanakakis family. You may call me Salman; that is my name.” This time, he extended a rough, calloused hand to Yubi. “Are you Yubi de Noctennias?”
Yubi looked up at him with her red eyes, then at Yakov and Shumel, before finally reaching out to touch that strong, dark hand and shaking it briefly. "I am it." He quickly withdrew his hand, clutching the jar containing his mother's head tightly, his fingers gripping the fine linen covering it. "Are you Ambikia's servant?"
“Indeed. I am here on your elder sister’s orders to take you to Constantinople to see her,” the servant named Seleman said calmly and slowly. “Who are these two?”
Yubi felt a slight relief, but the other half lingered, refusing to settle. "They, um..." he said, head bowed, "are my servants."
"What kind of servant?" Unfortunately, Seyleman wasn't going to be fooled so easily. He leaned forward slightly, casting a large shadow that enveloped Yubi. A look of doubt appeared on his dark face, yet it was inexplicably terrifying and aggressive. "Is he your servant, or your mother's servant?"
Yubi was speechless, unsure how to respond, and sweat beaded on his forehead with nervousness. However, Yakov immediately grabbed his cloak, pulled him away, and stood in front of him.
“His mother is dead. I am his mother Camilla’s blood slave.” Yakov removed his helmet, then quickly tore open his blouse and chainmail, revealing the old and new wounds on his neck and the swollen, scar-like marks. “Stop beating around the bush and putting on airs.” He stared fiercely into those eyes, “You rootless bastard.”
Yakov suddenly noticed that the blood slave had a pair of mirror-like light blue eyes—a color similar to his own.
The blood slave named Seleman seemed slightly surprised, whether from the undisguised bad news or the sudden insult, it was hard to tell. But quickly, like a pebble thrown into a deep lake, the small ripples disappeared—he examined the mark on Yakov's left chest, a look of helplessness mixed with magnanimity on his face. "You are a Slav, and a Templar," he said calmly, seemingly without any derogatory meaning. "Are you from the Zashchitnikov family?"
Yakov suddenly hesitated. Why would a vampire's blood slave ask him such a mundane question? He thought of the knight he had crushed to death in Hungary. In a flash, he decided to tell a safe lie. "...I am," he said.
“But I recognize you. Your name is Yakov.” Unfortunately, Seleman immediately and bluntly exposed his lie. He frowned, revealing a wrinkle on his forehead. “Twenty years ago, you were a slave in the Batur tribe on the northern shore of the Black Sea. You couldn’t possibly be a member of the Zashchitnikov family.”
Yakov stood there, stunned, unsure how to react, his fierce expression frozen on his face. Yubi secretly tugged at his arm. "You shouldn't have lied," he muttered. "This is my sister's servant, why are you hiding it from him?"
Fortunately, Seilerman didn't pursue the matter further, simply continuing forward. He passed the two who had already been interrogated and went straight to the last remaining person awaiting questioning—Schumelt stood there proudly, holding a scroll of parchment—the very document the Doge of Venice had given a Venetian citizen, the one he had mentioned so many times. "I am a painter from Venice. Perhaps you've seen me at my residence in Transylvania," he blurted out before Seilerman could even ask, "or perhaps you've heard of me in Constantinople. In my youth, I had a small reputation..."
The large, dark hand gently pulled the scroll from his grasp and opened it to examine it. Schumer nervously swallowed, scrutinizing the subtle expressions on the face beneath the helmet. But after a short while, Seilman returned the scroll to him.
“I need to look at your left chest,” he said in a calm, monotone voice.
Schumeer stared at him, his usually eloquent mouth under his mustache unable to open.
“This isn’t an unreasonable request,” Seyleman added slowly when he saw that Seyleman didn’t react. “I need to verify your identity.”
Schumer's gaze shifted to Yubi and Yakov, subtly seeking their help. "He's not a blood slave," Yubi cried out anxiously and worriedly, "but I want to take him with me! He's my friend!"
Seilerman turned and glanced quietly at Yubi, then fixed his oppressive gaze on Schumeer. "How much do you know?"
“I… I don’t know much!” Schumer clutched the parchment, trembling, his knees buckling. “It’s my freedom, my choice! I can’t control what I know. But I can choose what I say and what I do. I’m their travel companion; I promised to go to Constantinople with them, and that doesn’t contradict the fact that I’m a man of few words!”
The vampire's servant wore a troubled and dissatisfied expression. He paused, deep in thought. "We have a pact," Yakov couldn't help but speak up. "I need to get him safely to Constantinople."
“I see.” Seymour closed his eyes. “My ship can take you.”
Schumeer took a deep breath, expelling the stale air from his lungs as if he had just escaped death.
“But you have no relation to the Noctennias family,” Seilman suddenly added. “I can’t let you on board for free.”
"What?" Schumer exclaimed in disbelief.
Yakov gazed at the great ship—a truly magnificent vessel, so ornate it could hardly be described as lavishly decorated. He imagined it teeming with obedient servants, comfortable and warm rooms, and countless delicacies—such a ship, sailing from the Danube all the way to the Black Sea, and then to Constantinople—how many gold coins would a single person need for such a long and luxurious journey? He looked down at Yubi's eyes. The vampire was looking at him pleadingly, his gaze a mixture of reproach and hope, making his mark itch.
"How many gold coins do you want?" Yakov asked through gritted teeth, his mind made up. "We'll pay with Byzantines."
Seymman turned around when he was called and stared at him. For some reason, he suddenly smiled faintly, fine wrinkles appearing at the corners of his lips. This smile frightened Yakov; he thought, he really hated this expression of someone who could manipulate others at will just because they held power.
“I want a Denier silver coin.” But the vampire’s servant said calmly and gently, “Pay before boarding.”
Schumer's legs went weak. He collapsed to the ground, the parchment scroll in his hand, stained with sweat, rolling to the floor.
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