Act VIII: The Mother Goddess and the Queen (Part 7)
seven
The breath of spring burst forth in full force after the vernal equinox. Yubi received another housewarming gift—a wisteria sapling. "It's an old tree; plant it this year, and next year the vines will cover your balcony," Helen said. "If you build a pergola in your garden, the blossoms will surround your living room with a beautiful sea view. When the wind blows, the pale purple petals will drift to the ground—even the most luxurious carpet can't compare."
“If you need a carpenter to build the pavilion, I can recommend one to you,” Seleman said with a smile.
Yubi lay languidly in the chair. "If Yakov were here, he would definitely say that this thing is difficult to take care of and clean." The warmth of spring made him sleepy, and he couldn't help but yawn. "I can just imagine him nagging."
The female slaves beside them poured drinks into their cups—a brown, bubbly beverage with a bread-like aroma.
“Speaking of which, where did he go?” Helen picked up the glass beside her. “I thought he was always bothering you.”
“He’s been incredibly busy lately,” Yubi said, rising from her chair. “I’ll take you to see him.”
The three men, each carrying a drink, moved from the hot spring area of the reception room to the adjacent study. Yubi tiptoed and pushed the door open a crack—Yakov was engrossed in a large workspace at a table, his tall figure obscured by piles of books and papers. He clearly noticed the visitors, but glanced at them and ignored them. “I must say, he’s a good student, with a natural talent for languages,” Yubi said, raising his chin with obvious pride. “After only three months, he can already read the Greek Iliad by comparing it to the Latin version.”
"What a remarkable achievement!" Helen exclaimed. "Thanks to you, my wonderful teacher."
“Reading and recognizing words isn’t that difficult.” Hearing the praise, Yubi lowered his head shyly. “People who know Latin can also learn Greek easily.”
“He should understand now.” Seilman smiled, raised his glass, and greeted the busy Yakov in Greek, “‘Cheers to your health, Yakov.’”
The Slav glanced at them for the second time. "Don't block the way, it's annoying to look at." He put down the land deed and Latin dictionary he was working on, and said irritably, "If you want to 'cheers,' come inside and talk."
He passed the little Greek test without a hitch—and everyone was invited to the table to drink together. "I thought this was beer," Helen said, frowning as she examined her glass. "What kind of strange drink is this?"
Upon hearing this, a barely perceptible emotion flickered across Yakov's eyes. "This is a Slavic drink, made from breadcrumbs!" Yubi explained enthusiastically. "It's called kvass; in the north, Rus' nobles drink it!"
“That’s wonderful!” Helen blinked. “I should learn how to make it. Would you teach me, Yakov?”
Yakov didn't want to reply, but Yubi kept tugging at his wrist. "Alright," he said helplessly, rubbing his aching brow, "I'll have the cook come to your place when I have time."
“Such busy days need a break. Take a day off today, go out for a walk, Yakov.” Seilman’s hand moved silently across his desk, pulling out a crumpled land deed from the bottom of a stack of scattered ledgers, contracts, and ship quotes. “Want to go to the training grounds for a match, get some exercise?”
"Really?" Yubi jumped up excitedly. "I can see you two have a match?"
“Maybe it’s not just the two of us,” Seymour chuckled. The paper in his hand swayed.
Yakov's face immediately darkened when he saw the contents of the paper.
The four followed the map to the edge of the former concession—a blacksmith shop was marked on the land deed that Seilman had unearthed, and behind the blacksmith shop was a branch of the Knights Templar. Some Franks were walking around there, all wearing familiar white robes with red crosses over their chainmail. The knights, mostly speaking French and German, passed by them, laughing and joking as they carried toy swords, heading to the training grounds nearby.
“I know that’s why you came here,” Yakov sneered. “To compete in the training ground? What a clever lie.”
“That’s exactly why I came here.” Sellerman shook the land deed in his hand with feigned innocence. “Half a month has passed, and the blacksmith here doesn’t know where to pay his rent. He asked around all the way to the Kanakakis mansion. I thought you must have forgotten about this property, so I had to come and remind you in person.”
A wave of embarrassment washed over Yakov, making his neck turn red—was this eunuch implying that he couldn't even manage a ready-made estate? "You're just making excuses," Yakov snatched the deed from his hand. "I knew you had no good intentions the moment you stepped into this house."
“It’s such a small blacksmith shop, it won’t take long to go in and check.” Helen was affectionately putting her arm around Yubi’s shoulder. “Go on, Yakov. We’ll wait for you here.”
Yakov was too lazy to prolong the argument any longer—in fact, he thought he was too lazy to avoid the matter any longer.
The Slav strode heavily through the blacksmith's door, exuding an air of authority, like a seasoned steward. The blacksmith wasn't in the yard; he headed toward the shed—and as soon as he stepped across the threshold, Yakov spotted a familiar figure standing before the anvil, wearing a black robe with a white octagonal cross.
"Have you seen a Slav today?" the man asked politely in Latin. "Tall, with blue eyes, wearing a Templar cloak, and carrying a longsword inlaid with rubies."
The Greek blacksmith, annoyed by him, shook his head and banged on his horseshoes. "Go back," he muttered in Greek.
The room was sweltering, like stepping into the dead of summer, and Yakov was immediately startled, sweat beading on his back. He turned to run away, but it was too late—"This blacksmith doesn't understand Latin." The figure turned back, "Could you translate for me?"
A face far more haggard than he remembered appeared before him. The man's brown hair had grown long, his green eyes were bloodshot, a thick stubble had sprouted on his face, and he was much thinner. In just a few months, he seemed to have aged ten years, and his gentle and amiable demeanor had faded. The two old friends stared at each other in shock, confronting each other in the cramped blacksmith's shop.
The conflict erupted instantly—a series of loud clattering sounds came from the blacksmith's shed as two men wrestled and fell off the threshold, tumbling onto the stone pavement, drawing the attention of the surrounding knights.
Yubi recognized the man's face at a glance. "Pascal!" He broke free from Helen's embrace.
"We haven't even reached the training ground yet!" Seyleman rushed over to break up the fight, "The Knights don't engage in street brawls."
"Liar!" The black-robed knight grabbed Yakov's neck and shouted hoarsely. "Lord Brunel says you killed Christians in Brasov and fled to escape punishment! He says you are a Tatar spy, a fake Templar! You're not going anywhere until you give me an explanation today!"
The words buzzed in Yakov's mind, like a giant alarm bell ringing in his ear. He gripped the chainmail glove around his neck, trying to pry Pascal's wrist away. But the ignorant knight possessed such strength at that moment, as if his faith and conscience were pressing down on his throat. A crowd gathered around, the sounds and sights blurred by the mist. Yakov seemed to hear Yubi arguing with Pascal, and saw Seyleman's dark hand reaching in to pry open the tightly clenched fingers around his neck. His thoughts swirled and churned. He wondered what he should do, what he should say, what he possessed, and what he wanted.
“I did kill that woman,” Yakov said, his eyes wide, “but I am innocent!”
The whispers of the crowd gradually grew louder, but Pascal was pulled into silence by Seilman. He scrutinized Yakov's face, as if expecting a reasonable answer from him—Yakov rubbed his neck as he got up from the paving stones. He saw Seilman looking at him with a strange gaze, seemingly concealing many hopes and hints. That look ignited a nameless anger within him.
“It seems you have some misunderstanding with your old acquaintances.” Seyleman firmly gripped Pascal’s arm.
"Yakov was defending himself because Christina tried to hurt me!" Yubi rushed to Yakov's side. "It was justified!"
“That reason doesn’t hold water. Why would a maid want to harm a nobleman?” Pascal pressed for an answer.
Yubi wanted to continue explaining, but quickly fell silent in dejection—the rest of the truth could not be revealed in broad daylight.
"That maid used to work at Noctennias's mansion, but was kicked out for some reason. From then on, she harbored a grudge against her former master and came to assassinate him by hiding a knife under her cloak." The Blood Slave pressed down on his master's shoulder, half-truthfully explaining, "Faced with a madwoman, you question her motives, but don't question ours? And why would we kill an old and faded maid for no reason?"
"If that's the case, why did you run away from Lord Brunel's residence?"
"Do you know what kind of person that greedy city lord is? He only wants to take this opportunity to seize our money!"
Pascal was clearly half convinced, but still had doubts. "You can't just slander the virtues of two Christians without any evidence," he said, head held high.
These words ignited Yakov's fury. "You say I'm slandering the virtues of two Christians? That's utterly laughable! The city lord told you the maid was a devout Christian, and you believed him. But how do you know she doesn't secretly worship terrible monsters and evil gods, and has already sold her soul to Satan and the devil?" The tattoo on his chest throbbed with pain. "Is your faith such a high-sounding thing? As long as someone uses the banner of Jesus Christ, everything is reasonable and justifiable?"
These shocking words caused an uproar among the crowd. Yakov felt Yubi trembling under his palm, and Seilman shook his head in apparent helplessness.
“You are not a Templar Knight. You speak Turkic and watched the battle with the Khan.” Pascal was stunned with anger. “You dare accuse someone of pretending to be a devout Christian to deceive me?”
“I used to be a slave of the Tatars, and I suffered all kinds of torment from them.” Yakov stared at him. “Look at my face, don’t you understand?”
The Hospitaller was clearly speechless, a hint of shame even showing on his gloomy face. It seemed the new stubble on his face hadn't diminished his naiveté in the slightest, Yakov thought dismissively; those who were easily fooled by biblical rhetoric were truly hot-headed idiots.
Pascal persisted, asking the final question: "Then why are you wearing the Templar's robes?"
"Then why did you dress the leprosy patient in the Hospitaller's robes?" Yakov was about to ask this when the crowd parted to make way for an old man with white hair, dressed in a coarse cloth robe and looking like an ascetic, who slowly walked out. "Because he is about to become a Knight of the Templars." The old man walked up to Yubius and gave him a slight bow. "Lord Yubius, it's been a long time."
Yakov felt a chill run down his spine at the sight of the man. He had seen this face before at the banquet—it belonged to the former Grand Master of the Knights Templar. Yakov scanned the faces of everyone around him. Some were wary, some shy, some confident, and some indifferent. He suddenly felt like an insect caught in the nest of a cunning spider, sticky and unable to escape.
"Come to the training ground and have a match with the stationed knights," the old man said, dispersing the onlookers. "Perhaps this can mend the misunderstanding."
“Just what I wanted,” Seymour replied casually, a deep wrinkle appearing at the corner of his mouth.
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