Act VII All Roads (Part 9)
Nine
Yakov woke up on the soft bed in the large bedroom of the side room. The brilliant sunlight beside the stone pillar shone on his face, making him instinctively raise his hand to shield his eyes. His master, who was leaning against the headboard, was also awakened by this movement.
"You're awake!" Yubi jumped up. "I didn't wake you. You've been having nightmares and talking nonsense..."
Yakov's head throbbed with pain, and he couldn't open his eyes. He grabbed Yubi's clothes and pulled him in front of him. "We have to figure this out ourselves," he said, uttering these incomprehensible words. "We have to go!"
“Where are you going?” Yubi asked in surprise, pulling her hand away. “Seleman said you’re still sick.”
Sick? Yakov thought, they're trying to frame me as a madman or a mental patient again. "I'm not sick, listen to me." He clutched Yubi's clothes, crumpling them. "Ambikia wants me to join the Knights Templar. She wants to get rid of me so she can control you."
Upon hearing this, Yubi drooped his head in silence like a withered plant. He moved his lips, and after a long pause, he finally uttered a sentence. "I know this," he said cautiously, "but once you join the Knights Templar and become a knight, you are no longer a slave."
"Besides, why would my sister control me? I'm useless anyway."
Yakov felt a rush of blood to his head, making his eyes bloodshot and throbbing. "She just wants you to be useful, to become a handy tool, do you understand?" He sat up in bed, a movement that made his head throb even more. "Do you want to fight for usefulness so she can use you like a slave?"
Those large, red eyes looked at Yakov's face with confusion, hesitation, and timidity. "But I also want to be a capable person, someone who can stand on their own," Yubi asked. "Capable people are all useful. I can't be the other way around, making myself useless..."
Yakov frowned and closed his eyes; he was experiencing a slight ringing in his ears. “You have to be useful to yourself. Listen to me.” He gripped Yubi’s thin shoulders tightly—the boy’s frame was growing even thinner and more frail with age, making Yakov’s hands ache. “You can’t let others steal your achievements, demand too much of yourself based on others’ words and opinions, or become what others want you to be. Then you become a puppet, a mere puppet, do you understand what I’m saying? To stand on your own, you must first offend those who want to control you, those who criticize you. I won’t join the Knights, and you shouldn’t go to those high-society gatherings anymore.”
“But how do you distinguish between these?” Yubi struggled to understand what she was saying, and he argued indignantly, “Why did my sister give you the qualification to join the Knights Templar just to control you and make you miserable? Why did I become a puppet just because I was invited to a gathering and met some important people? If you join the Knights and become a Knight Templar, no one will think you are of low status anymore!”
"Because she wants something, she wants to exchange something with you and me!" Yakov roared angrily. "Do you really think there are free gifts in this world?"
“Ambikia is my sister!” Yubi retorted. “She might genuinely care about me, just like you do!”
Yakov's heart swayed heavily for a moment, but quickly sank back to the bottom. "You really think I have no demands, no desire to exchange anything for you?" His mark began to ache as expected. "If your mother hadn't turned me into that damned blood slave, I would have stolen a horse long ago and lived a carefree life in the village. I wouldn't have to scheme against any city lord or khan, nor would I have to travel long distances, crossing mountains and rivers, nor would I have to take care of and raise a spoiled young master who knows nothing and does no physical labor!"
"...That's not what you think at all! You keep talking nonsense!"
Yubi's words fell crisply into the bedroom, filling the utterly quiet and empty space. Yakov didn't know what to say in response. He felt all his senses amplified to their extremes—he could hear the birdsong and flowing water outside the balcony, the distant wind and waves, and the heavy breathing of his master; he could see the warm dust motes falling from the air, the shadows of leaves swaying on the wall, and the pupils of those red eyes suddenly dilating. They stood there, motionless, as if Medusa from the underground basilicas had traveled down the aqueduct to the bedroom, freezing the two of them, along with the bed and clothes, into a stone sculpture.
Someone was lifting the curtain and entering the room through the archway, breaking the quiet. "Damn eunuch, get out!" Yakov roared. "You have no right to interrupt!"
“Ambicea wants you to come with me to the Venetian concession,” a gentle, refined voice said flatly. His Latin accent also sounded weak and dull, lacking the vibrancy of rhythm.
The two turned to look—a thin Greek man, dressed in a stiff purple striped robe, stared at them with empty eyes.
Yakov angrily pulled his stockings back onto his legs, tied a knot below his knees, and then wrapped his legs with strips of cloth—he refused to wear chainmail out again. His cloth clothes and leather shoes made him look exactly like an ordinary servant or a lowly slave. But he preferred to wear them.
Isaac took a snow-white horse from the stable. Yakov recognized it as a prized Akhal-Teke. Legend had it that this breed could endure thirst for a day and a night in the desert, and was known for its loyalty and gentleness—a truly exceptional steed. Isaac's horse, however, was adorned with an exquisitely beautiful silk saddlecloth, the saddle seat filled with cotton velvet sewn onto leather, and even the bridle and stirrups were gilded—unfortunately, the Greek was clearly not a skilled rider, and could only lean awkwardly against the saddle. Yakov couldn't help but think that such a fine horse was being wasted on weak nobles for mere city transport.
Yubi was reluctant to ride with Yakov. He sat on his own black horse and asked Isaac, "We have a friend in Venice," he said, "Perhaps we can meet him in the concession?"
“Is that so?” Isaac said succinctly. “I hope so.”
"What are we going to the Venice concession for?" Yubi asked again.
“Do many things,” Isaac said.
Yubi wanted to continue the conversation, but he realized that Isaac had no interest in paying attention to him. "We don't have anything in common," Yubi thought disappointedly. "If he were also a blood slave, he might hate me just like Yakov does."
The weather was unusually clear today. The three, accompanied by a small group of servants, traveled quietly along the main road. They passed under the towering aqueduct once more, heading towards the concession area. Constantinople's harbor in the Golden Horn was monopolized by four Italian concessions, the first of which, from west to east, was the Venetian Concession. This was the largest, wealthiest, and busiest concession—Helen had told Yubi that this was all thanks to the special privileges the empire granted to Venetians: the emperor had issued an edict granting Venetian merchants tax-free travel throughout the empire, and Venetian merchant ships free docking—they arrived at the port within the concession, where many docks and buildings were constructed by the Venetians, displaying a distinctly Western style: they also favored arches and columns, but made them smaller and more compact, lacking the grandeur and towering height of the Romans, yet highlighting a more refined and leisurely elegance.
Yubi turned his head to look at the houses and observed the people on the street. They were engaged in all sorts of businesses. From textiles to vases and utensils, from precious spices to dazzling gems, from fruits to flowers, from bread to milk, from iron ore to timber—countless goods were unloaded and sold out, and countless more were loaded onto ships to be sold far away; the ships here never stopped. Beyond shops and stalls, Yubi also saw workshops and factories, observing how many things around him were made: he saw potters shaping wet clay on a turntable, pastry chefs layering puff pastry, booksitters carefully pressing leather to fit the spines of books, and jewelers chiseling gold patterns with small hammers. Everyone here spoke various dialects of Italian, making one feel as if walking the streets of Venice. Yubi tried to find a familiar Jewish painter's face in the crowd, but the painters he saw were all in Christian churches, and the Jews he saw were all moneylenders.
Isaac's horse stopped beside a shop, and his Greek servant immediately went inside and spoke to the shopkeeper. Yubi couldn't hear their conversation, but he saw the servant return empty-handed shortly afterward, and they continued on their way. The group repeated this process past several shops and workshops, stopping at each one for a while—Yubi was truly curious. "What are you doing?" he couldn't help but ask. "Are you buying things?"
“I don’t know,” Isaac said. “Ambichia just told me to do it.”
Yubi frowned in displeasure. Did this man genuinely not know, or was he simply unwilling to let me know? How could he be so dismissive of me?
Having explored the shops and workshops, they moved on to the houses and courtyards, continuing this process. As dusk approached, they entered a small but charming seaside villa, where the host, speaking in a Venetian dialect, welcomed them into the reception room. The host had impeccable taste; the reception room was spacious and bright, with a huge balcony facing the bustling Golden Horn Bay, surrounded by lush plants that framed it like a beautiful painting. In the center of the tiled floor, a sunken hot spring pool, constructed of white marble, had clean and neatly curved edges, inspiring one to imagine the blissful scene of soaking in it while gazing at the sea view.
“A beautiful house,” Isaac suddenly whispered to Yubi in Greek. “What do you think?”
Yubi was examining the mural on the wall—a depiction of Aphrodite and Cupid. The goddess of love and beauty, born of the sea, was depicted in a perfectly fitting and appropriate way in a seaside villa. "I think...it is indeed a beautiful house, and the owner's care is evident everywhere," he carefully replied in Greek, "but it's someone else's home, and my opinion is insignificant."
“It’s not far from the Templar headquarters,” Isaac said.
A strange premonition washed over Yubi. Why did he bring this up? Yubi turned his head to look at Yakov, who was standing by the door staring at him. Their eyes met, and they immediately looked away uncomfortably.
"We've come all this way today, what exactly are we here for?" Yubi decided to ask Isaac one more time. "What did my sister say?"
“She didn’t say she would tell you,” Isaac immediately dodged his question. “Don’t put me in a difficult position.”
"Is it that you don't want to tell me, or that your sister doesn't want to tell me?" Yubi persisted. "She forced you, ordered you not to let me know about this?"
A helpless and numb expression immediately appeared on Isaac's face, as if he regretted speaking to Yubido. He shut his mouth and focused his gaze on the magnificent sea view outside the window, as if he had encased himself in a shell of isolation from the world, where all the complicated and trivial troubles no longer concerned him.
“You’re not going to reply to me?” Yubi switched to Latin. “What are you worried about?”
“Don’t ask. He won’t answer you.” Standing by the door, Yakov finally couldn’t help but warn him, “Look at him, waiting to die, as if he wants to live with one foot in the grave. You can’t get anything out of a man like that.”
No sooner had he finished speaking than a fierce shout of insults erupted down the corridor. Yubi turned to look and saw that the master of the house was arguing with their Greek servants. Isaac left the reception room and headed for his mount by the door. But Yubi wanted to see what was going on—he turned the corner and headed down the corridor—Yakov followed closely behind him.
“I never knew the Emperor had such a shameless relative!” the owner shouted in Italian dialect, spitting from his beard. “Even if you offer ten times the price, I won’t sell or rent this! Even if you go along the concession and ask every Venetian, no one will be willing to easily give away their ancestral wealth and hard work!”
The Greek servants were hurrying away from the irritable Venetian, preparing to leave with Isaac. Yakov reacted swiftly, grabbing Yubi's arm and shooing him away from the villa owner's spit—he grabbed the young vampire, rushed to the horse, saddled him, and drove away from this troublesome place.
The group walked halfway down the street, and the man's continued cursing could still be heard. Fortunately, darkness was falling, and the church bells nearby rang, drowning out his voice. Yakov's horse trotted to catch up with Yubi's, and sure enough, found his master deep in thought, his face full of worry. "What did he say?" he asked gleefully. "Aren't you going to translate for me?"
“…I think my sister invited Isaac to the concession perhaps to buy some property.” Yubi stared down at the saddle, the gold chain on her crown swaying behind her shoulders. “Those Venetians called us the emperor’s lackeys, those arrogant and decadent Greeks…”
"Isn't this a perfectly valid insult?" Yakov sneered.
Yubi didn't answer, neither angry nor complaining, but simply kept his lips tightly pressed together as he drove along the twilight-tinged streets. Yakov pulled the reins around to stand in front of him. "You're keeping something to yourself," he said, blocking Yubi's path and urging Isaac's horse to go further. "What's wrong?"
“I think…” Yubi reined in his horse, stopping halfway, and spoke in a very low voice, “My sister might want us to stay there.”
These words caused Yakov's brows to furrow tightly. He turned his head and saw that Isaac's white horse had already gone quite far. The setting sun cast his long, decadent yet dignified shadow, a rich, bluish-purple hue on the stone path.
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