Act VIII: The Mother Goddess and the Queen (Part 1)
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Schumeer and the Muse huddled together in the small boat, propelled forward by the gentle waves. He once again caught sight of the roses, lilies, and irises in those exquisite gardens. Their vibrant petals and sweet nectar attracted butterflies and bees—the drifting planks on the sea, the gleaming Greek lamellar armor darting across the docks, the giant iron chains rising from the Golden Horn—these "man-made" things had nothing to do with bees, butterflies, gulls, or falcons; nothing to do with the vibrant life of spring; nothing to do with the peaceful flow of time.
He felt as if he had been transported back to Venice twenty years ago, gazing at the mercury-like reflection of the lights from his gondola. Just as before, his lofty and grand ideas calmed him, cleared his mind, made him humble and self-aware, and yet also made him arrogantly regard all people and gods alike.
The boatman, rowing, was sweating profusely and kept wiping his face with his sleeve. "After this trip, I'm not going anywhere else," he said. "You're lucky to have caught my last boat."
"What's this!" said a bearded lender next to Schumacher dismissively. "Two merchant ships fighting and you're this scared? If everyone were this cowardly, nobody would want to do business here!"
“But they’ve raised the chains!” a young Jewish woman said as she prayed. “The docks are all blocked, and the ships can’t get out!”
"Sigh, it'll be taken down soon," the lender reassured her with a smile. "If the northern dock is unusable, there's still the southern dock. Constantinople has no shortage of seaports!"
“We have plenty of harbors and city walls,” Schumer chimed in. “Don’t worry, raising the chains is also to protect the citizens, right?”
How could such a vast fortified city, where merchants and workers from all corners of the world lived, be disturbed by such a trivial matter? Schumeer thought—for Constantinople, let alone two Italian merchant ships, even if two Italian fleets were to fight in the Golden Horn, there would always be a way to quell the unrest. This was an ancient city, having withstood the ravages of many wars, and now was its time of prosperity.
The strange thing was this. Why make such a fuss? Schumeer wondered to himself. He felt something uneasy stirring in his chest, a sense of foreboding creeping over him.
After disembarking, the boatman's small boat was indeed seized by Greek soldiers. "Golden Horn is closed to navigation today," the soldier said.
"When will the waterway be open?" Schumeer asked, leading his donkey closer. "Do you have any news?"
"You'll see in time," the soldier replied. "Hurry up and get going, don't linger at the dock."
It seemed there was no news of the soldier, Schumacher thought regretfully. An ominous premonition grew in his heart like a seedling.
The group of Jews from Galata dispersed at the Venetian concession docks, each going their own way. Schumeer looked back at the sea—imperial ships were already rescuing crew members and cleaning up the battlefield. The Genoese merchant ship had sunk, its cargo crates and deck debris buried in the underwater graveyard; Venetian ships equipped with catapults were brought to the docks, all crew members were disembarked, arrested, and taken to prison. The crowds gathered at the port dispersed, whether because there was no more excitement to see or because they were herded back into their homes by the guards. It seemed that the riot caused by the foreigners was about to subside.
Muse reluctantly pouted and groaned, her voice utterly unpleasant. "I know you're recovering from a serious illness," Schumeer said, leaning forward as he climbed onto her donkey's back, patting its crooked face. "But you need to take a walk every day, that's what the doctor said!"
The streets of the concession were no different from usual; some shops that had previously closed had even reopened—after all, it was spring, Schumeer thought. The Mediterranean was difficult to navigate in winter. With the warming weather and the revival of nature, merchants and speculators were eager to try their luck from across the sea. He drove his donkey, following the route into the alleyways, and once again entered the factory where the glass kiln was located. The craftsmen and the burning kiln were working methodically as before, but as soon as he pushed open the door, Schumeer was met with several disapproving glances—this was normal; he had taken away some of the work from the short, stocky foreman. Schumeer understood perfectly: asking an amateur artist to boss around a decades-old craftsman was not only unpleasant for the foreman, but also a thankless and frustrating task for Schumeer himself. He forgave those disapproving glances.
“I thought you weren’t coming today!” Bianca tied her loose, curly orange hair tightly back. Her fingers gripped an account book. “Come here. You don’t need to learn how to make glass, but you have a lot to learn.”
“When I arrived, the soldiers told me that Golden Horn Bay is no longer navigable!” Schumer quickly tied up his donkey and sidled up to his friendly employer. He then changed the subject, tentatively asking, “What if I can’t get back to Galata tonight…?”
“You’re worried about that?” Bianca raised her eyebrows and looked back at him. “You can live in the factory with the craftsmen.”
This was exactly the answer Schumeer had anticipated. "Your craftsmen don't like Jews!" he exclaimed, feigning surprise. "If I'm caught spending the night in the concession, I might be in trouble!"
"If the Greeks still have the Golden Horn sealed off by nightfall, will they blame the Jews for not being able to return to Galata?" Bianca crossed her strong arms. "Don't think so much. Whether you can go back or not is their problem. What are you afraid of?"
They chatted as they walked from the factory at the back to the shop at the front—the shelves were filled with all sorts of glassware. There were common vases, wine glasses, and dishes; and also novel and fancy candlesticks, chandeliers, and jewelry. They shimmered and sparkled in the sunlight. Schumeer marveled at these beautiful, crystalline handicrafts, thinking that this was a good trade, fitting his romantic nature. In reality, however, he wasn't good at designing small objects; portraits were his forte and his most popular subject—as were the case with most painters. Just as he was pondering this, a clumsy child rushed into the shop through the back door leading to the factory.
"Boss, the quartz sand didn't arrive today!" the child cried out in panic. "They said Golden Horn Bay is still closed, and no boats can get in!"
Bianca looked up from the ledger. "That is a problem." She frowned, wrinkles forming on the bridge of her nose. "How much inventory is left?"
"That's enough for this morning, but there won't be any left for this afternoon." Seeing that she wasn't flustered, the child's breathing also calmed down.
“There’s never a moment’s peace. I’ll go take care of this.” Bianca stood up from behind the counter, closed the ledger, and put it into a box. She pulled a jingling bunch of keys from her sleeve, her thick fingers deftly finding the one she needed and locking the box. “There must be some speculators at the docks who want to hoard rare goods.” She put the keys away, a half-smile on her face, and teased, “I’m not letting you suddenly get an afternoon off.”
Schumacher saw that she had already stepped one foot out of the shop and noticed the child behind the counter staring at him; a wave of panic washed over him. "I'll go with you!" he cried, hurrying after her. "If I stay here alone, I'll be bullied!"
“Going to the docks to find goods isn’t a lazy stroll,” Bianca glanced at him sideways. “You should stay here and draw up blueprints.”
"I'm lacking inspiration right now, so I need to get out and about," Schumeer retorted with a chuckle. "What art can be born while locked up indoors?"
His words often carried weight—thanks in large part to Bianca's indulgence. The morning was just past, the sunlight warming the cobblestone streets. The merchants of the Golden Horn were more restless than usual today. This was to be expected, Schumacher thought; every day the iron chains were raised, countless fortunes were kept out—the great port on the south coast of Constantinople was no less impressive than the Golden Horn, but its taxes, unlike those in the concessions, were not exempt. Bianca walked along, cursing and calculating the profits she would lose that day—the streets of the concessions were filled with Venetians discussing similar topics. In the distance, they saw a crowd gathering at the exit of the concession. A large throng of Italian caps adorned with feathers huddled together, bustling and noisy.
"What's going on?" Bianca asked someone randomly in the crowd. "Why is everyone so crowded here?"
"The soldiers blocked the exit and wouldn't let us out." The wealthy businessman being questioned had a Greek wife. The couple looked at the crowd from a distance, seemingly having been waiting there for a long time. "They said there were people in the concession who were involved in the ship collision, and they wouldn't release them until the investigation was complete."
"God, those damn Greeks, how long will that take?" Bianca cursed under her breath. "There are tens of thousands of Venetians in the concession to investigate!"
“Don’t be impatient! Impatience will only hurt your health and won’t help,” Schumacher comforted her. “Listen, the soldiers are urging us to go back. We should go back to the factory too. What if something happens?”
“That’s not how it works!” Bianca’s eyes widened like cowbells. “If we can’t get the quartz sand this afternoon, we won’t be able to get it for tomorrow either. If this keeps going on, how can the factory keep operating?”
"Hey, are you being paranoid?" Schumeer forced a smile. "Once the soldiers find out, Golden Horn Bay should be open to navigation by tomorrow. How can it keep going like this?"
"What if it doesn't connect?"
"Then come back and ask the soldiers again tomorrow! They'll definitely give you a reasonable answer then!"
Bianca laughed in anger. "Wishful thinking." Her words, sharp and undisguised, pierced Schumeer. "You occupy the high ground of being law-abiding, kind, and intelligent without fighting or grabbing. Yet you enjoy the fruits of others' labor while accusing them of being barbaric and unreasonable. You think you can have the best of both worlds, but you will eventually reap the bitter fruits of your actions."
Schumeer blushed at this sudden, blatant insult. "If it's about painting, I also..."—but he stopped. Everyone's important, uncompromising things are so different; what right did he have to judge others? Schumeer thought.
“I’m afraid something will happen to you.” He finally lowered his head. “Safety is more important than quartz sand and factories.”
"Who's being paranoid now?" Bianca's bad temper vanished in an instant, and she laughed again. "The Greeks blockading the port is one thing, but what can they do to the merchants in the concession?"
Schumacher thought his mind agreed, but his heart disagreed—and soon he realized he was just paranoid because of the terrible experiences of the previous day. “True,” he said, scratching his scalp under his hat, “this is Constantinople, after all.”
“Since they won’t let us lease the area, let’s try our luck at Golden Horn.” Bianca quickly turned in the opposite direction from the crowd. “The collision happened in the morning, so there are always merchant ships docked before then. If even one of them is carrying quartz sand, I’ll definitely seize it.”
“With such ambition, how can your factory not become the best glass factory in the city?” Schumacher sighed and quickened his pace to catch up with his employer.
Unfortunately, the port of the Golden Horn was teeming with resourceful and intelligent people, and many seasoned merchants shared Bianca's mindset. Each of them seemed capable of multitasking, their eyes and ears constantly scanning the surroundings: some were negotiating with the Greek soldiers blockading the ships, some hurried to find the goods they needed, and some lingered suspiciously, keeping secrets hidden. The sounds of Venetian dialect, Latin, and Greek mingled, their voices rising and falling like a pot of boiling porridge. Schumer followed closely behind Bianca's steady steps, afraid of getting lost in the chaotic crowd. His imposing employer had extremely keen ears, and soon he discerned the words "quartz sand" among the countless vendors hawking their wares, shouting loudly as he pushed his way through the throng. Schumer couldn't help but think that Bianca's broad physique and booming voice were proving invaluable at this moment.
He had assumed there would be many glass factory owners scrambling to intercept other companies' goods—however, to his astonishment, the quartz sand cargo ship that had just entered the port realized the rarity of its cargo and actually started an auction at the dock—this was Constantinople, after all, how could they not sell at the legally prescribed price, and the dock soldiers were completely ignoring them! "How much do you have!" Bianca squeezed to the bow of the ship and asked loudly, her voice drowning out all the other buyers, "Where is it from?"
The captain of the cargo ship was a Slav. "This is quartz sand from Novgorod, transported along the Dnieper River this spring. It's of excellent quality." He said coldly, patting an open wooden barrel in front of him, filled with white stones, both lustrous and rough. "Just this one barrel. Highest bidder wins. Payment on the spot, no credit!"
The man's awkward accent and rude demeanor reminded Schumeer of Yakov. The factory owners were shouting at the top of their lungs, some offering prices, some hurling insults, making the artist's head buzz. He knew nothing about the quality of the quartz sand, only that he saw Bianca holding the white stone, examining it closely and weighing it in her hands.
“It’s no worse than the Syrian ones.” Bianca suddenly grabbed Schumer’s clothes and yelled in his ear, “Take this, go back to the shop and get the gold coins and ledger, then come back to me!” Her lion-like roar could practically shatter eardrums. “Go now! Don’t waste a second!”
A jingling bunch of keys was slipped into Schumacher's palm. "I'll be right back!" he tried to shout, but his voice was drowned out by the crowd. "I'm coming right now!"
Schumeer, panting, ran halfway there before a series of questions came to mind. Where were the gold coins and ledgers locked? How many gold coins did he need to take? Which key was the correct one? Schumeer thought awkwardly that he could ask the shopkeeper's boy—whose name seemed to be Jacob. It wasn't a big deal.
He stepped into the store, keys in hand. "How would I know? I'm just the shopkeeper." But the young man named Jacob replied innocently, "Go ask Gerald."
"Gerald?"
“He’s in charge of the craftsmen.” Jacob leaned back on the counter, his eyes darting around furtively. “He’s in the factory in the back.”
Schumacher immediately knew who he was asking—the short, stocky craftsman who had rummaged through his packages yesterday, calling him a damned Jew, and had given him a few eye-rolls this morning. He couldn't help but complain to himself: if only Bianca remembered this and told him in more detail. But his employer was at the docks haggling with speculators, racing against time; how could he possibly be so thorough?
Schumacher braced himself and forced his way through the back door to the factory. He deliberately made the keys in his hand clink.
“The boss told me to come back and get the ledgers,” Schumacher said cautiously. “Mr. Gerald, do you know where they are?”
Several workers turned to look at him, their eyes not very friendly. The short, stocky one stepped forward. "You weren't this nice yesterday," he said, wiping the grime from his hands with a handkerchief, offering a nonchalant sigh. "The ledgers are in the box, next to the counter. Didn't you see them?"
“I didn’t see it. I looked.” Schumacher forced an unpleasant smile. “Ms. Murano is still waiting for me at the dock. I’m counting on you not to keep her waiting too long.”
Gerald looked up at the smiling face. "It's not my fault. The boss's ledgers and gold coins are kept together. How could I let just anyone open her chest and rob the glass factory? Especially a Jew." He brought closer, holding a hot, thick blowpipe. "Who knows how you got this bunch of keys."
Upon hearing this, Schumacher understood that he would never find the box or get his things back, no matter what. "...What proof do you need?" he asked in frustration, then took a step back in alarm. "I can go and try again."
“Of course! I won’t be at ease until I bring the boss back unharmed.” Gerald laughed. His eyes seemed to scrutinize a despicable swindler and robber. “Go quickly, and take your sickly donkey with you. It’s vomiting all over the place.”
Sweeped out—Schumel thought, this was exactly what had happened to him. He led the Muse around to the front of the street, only to find that Jacob had also closed the shop doors, and he cursed loudly. He had no choice but to drag the Muse toward the harbor—the poor animal was too weak to walk, and it seemed he shouldn't have let it go on the boat today.
The number of pedestrians on the street dwindled until, in no time, not a single person could be seen. The surrounding streets suddenly became eerily quiet; Schumeer had never seen the once bustling streets of the concession like this. He felt as if he were in an unreal dream, squeezed into a chaotic world on the edge. Muse let out a foul-smelling burp beside him, urging him to wake up and move forward.
Schumer hesitated, then pulled the hood of his cloak over his head.
He walked along the rooftops for a while, and the first two people he encountered were two Greek soldiers. "Jews?" they ran up, brandishing spears, but when they caught sight of Schumacher's braids, they moved the spear tips away from his face. "Go back to Galata," one of them cursed angrily. "The concession doesn't allow you to stay."
"What's going on?" Schumeer stared, his mustache trembling. "Why?"
The two soldiers exchanged a knowing glance. "None of your business," they said, shoving Schumacher away by the shoulder. "The Venetian concession is closed today."
"Wait!" Schumer turned around hurriedly. "Golden Horn is blocked. How am I supposed to get back to Galata?"
"We don't care about that," the soldier said. "Find your own way, don't linger here. Get moving!"
A suffocating silence gripped Schumacher's throat. He kept swallowing, trying to swallow the suffocating feeling down and find peace—but reality wouldn't allow it.
The deserted Golden Horn Bay came into his view. The wooden planks and stone bricks of the pier were covered in footprints, a scene of utter disarray. Wood shavings, scraps of clothing, single pointed shoes, lost feather caps—all lay scattered like trash along the beach path. The men and women merchants who had been crowding here not long ago had vanished as if they had evaporated into thin air. “Where did everyone go?” Schumer asked a local fisherman scavenging for scraps. “What happened?”
The fisherman spat angrily on the ground. "These Venetians are all greedy, hypocritical, and wicked nouveau riche, running rampant on Roman soil," he cursed. "They should have done this a long time ago."
"What should have happened sooner?"
The fisherman did not answer. He ignored the Jew in front of him and walked away cursing.
Schumeer, relying on his memory, continued his search along the dock. The moment Muse saw the sea, contrary to its usual weakness, it stubbornly stretched out its limbs, struggling desperately. Its owner had to shout and drag it along the reins, his face covered in sweat. Schumeer finally managed to identify the quartz sand cargo ship—the deck was deserted, except for a flock of sharp-beaked seagulls. Schumeer chased them away, tied Muse to the railing, and pounded on the trapdoor leading to the cabin. "Is anyone home?" he cried anxiously. "Please help!"
"Get out of the way!" A muffled voice with a Slavic accent came from deep inside the cabin. "You're not allowed in here!"
"I'm looking for someone, I'm not coming in!" Schumer shouted. "Where is that plump lady named Murano who wanted to buy your quartz sand?"
"I have no business with the Venetians!" the voice replied curtly. "Ask the Greeks!"
The Greeks. Schumer vaguely understood what he meant—it was the soldiers who did it. But why? He hesitated, looking around, and quickly spotted several soldiers. A bunch of keys that Bianca had given him fell out of his pocket and crashed onto the deck.
"What are you doing?" The soldiers rushed over, and the gleaming tips of their spears were pressed against Schumacher's nose. This time, they didn't even see the braids on his temples before withdrawing their weapons, their eyes fierce and inhuman, reminiscent of wild beasts that had devoured fresh meat and whose teeth and tongues were dripping with blood.
“I…I’m looking for a boat to Galata.” Schumer shrank his neck and unconsciously raised his hands in a show of weakness. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
The soldiers looked at him suspiciously. "Are there Jews in Venice?" one of them asked, rolling his eyes.
Schumer's heart leaped into his throat. His identity document, on parchment, was tucked into his coat's inner pocket.
“Probably not.” But another person replied, “The Doge of Venice would not send official documents to infidels, so there’s no need to arrest him.”
After they finished their discussion, they put away their spears. "Let's get out of here." Before leaving, someone cursed, "You annoying bastards."
Once the soldiers were out of Schumeer's sight, he grabbed the reins of the Muse and searched for ships along every dock, large and small, in the harbor. He was drenched in sweat; his shirt was completely soaked. His mind was buzzing, and his legs and arms seemed utterly numb, functioning only on instinct, as if lifeless. Some illusions about civilization and the spirit of contract collapsed in his mind, stirring up a cloud of old dust. But he had no time to delve into those ruins.
"It can't be that bad," Schumeer thought. With so many Jews commuting to and from the concession in Galata every day, surely he wouldn't be unable to find even a small boat—he walked stiffly, like a walking corpse, and soon stumbled upon a large contingent of Greek soldiers escorting a row of well-dressed wealthy merchants. Startled, he pulled Muse to the porch, his heart pounding and his tongue tingling. Once the desperate pleas and angry accusations in Venetian dialect had faded into the distance, Schumeer slipped out from the doorway again, praying as he tightened his grip on Muse's reins.
"God," he murmured, "bless your chosen people!"
Schumeer walked past a small hut, vaguely remembering a secluded little dock there. As if God had answered him, a small boat floated on the azure waters, its seats packed tightly together, about to depart. The men and women wore either round hats or shawls to cover their faces—they all appeared to be Jewish. This boat must be going to Galata.
"Thank God!" Schumer cried out in Hebrew, overcome with joy. He knelt on the muddy planks of the dock, clinging to the bow of the boat. "Can one more person get on?"
Everyone on the ship turned around, but no one responded. They all looked away. "They're not Jews, they don't understand Hebrew," Bianca's voice came from behind Schumacher, freezing him in place. "And the ship isn't going to Galata."
Schumeer opened his mouth, but no sound came out of his parched throat.
“This ship leads to a large ship that will go to Acre and never return,” Bianca continued. “No one could have escaped here if they hadn’t been disguised as Jews.”
"Then why don't you get on the ship and leave?" Schumacher turned around.
“I am too heavy a burden for this ship. If God wants me to perish here, I have no other wish.” Bianca’s eyes seemed to burn like two kilns. “But you are different, Abraham.”
Abraham. Schumer thought, no one had called him that name in over twenty years. His hands gripped the bow of the boat like a lifeline, his fingernails digging into the peeling wood. "You wretched Jew, you're going to kill someone!" the boatman urged, slapping his hands away. "Get on or let go!"
All the memories flashed before Schumacher's eyes like lightning. His gaze moved from Bianca's face to the Muse's mane, from the shimmering waters of the Golden Horn to the towers across Galata. His thoughts drifted from Venice to here, then leaped over rivers, grasslands, and snow-covered forests, rushing into the deep mountains of Transylvania.
Those trembling fingers loosened their grip on the bow, the planks quickly becoming wet. The boat sped away, escaping Schumacher's grasp like the wind. A terrible sense of regret immediately overwhelmed him, making it almost impossible for him to stand; he could only prostrate himself on the dock.
Bianca's gaze drifted to the corner. There, the sound of soldiers' footsteps, mingled with the clanging of metal lamellar armor, approached. "I didn't expect you to have such backbone," she said approvingly. "More Venetian than many Venetians."
Schumer was dragged up by the noisy Greek soldiers, his lips trembling as he couldn't speak. Soon, the officer-looking man pulled the parchment from his pocket and showed it to the soldiers with annoyance, reciting his instructions.
“We won’t die.” Schumeer suddenly turned his head. He struggled to speak, opening his mouth as if in prayer.
"I don't know if our God exists, but I do know that there are infinitely powerful gods in the world."
"With just a single thought from them, they can save us from dire straits."
Muse vomited on the beach with a loud bang, her limbs went limp and she collapsed, unable to move an inch no matter how the soldiers tried to pull her.
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