Act VIII: The Mother Goddess and the Queen (Part 8)
eight
"When did you arrive in Constantinople?" Yubi asked cautiously.
“A week ago.” Pascal stared at Yakov as he changed his armor. It was the first time he had ever seen the Slavs’ backs covered in whip marks, and he turned away in shame. “…Ever since I arrived, I’ve been looking for you.”
"You come here every day?" Yubi asked, surprised and embarrassed. "To find us?"
“I need an explanation,” Pascal said. “Whatever the truth may be, I want to hear your explanations.”
Yubi lowered his head and stared at his fingers.
"...After we left, what happened to Granny Gianda?"
“After you left, the Tatars never returned. We returned to the monastery as Yakov had suggested, and a few days later Lord Brunel’s army passed through there, so I took my men and went with the army.”
"Then what?"
“And then?” Pascal suddenly turned his head, shifting his gaze to Yubi’s face. “I saw Yakov on the battlefield, and I saw you too. Weren’t you two, along with the painter, sitting on the hillside, seeing everything clearly?”
Yubi was terrified by the gaze. "...We've been kidnapped," he stammered. "The Khan forced us to do it."
“Is that so? Fortunately, he didn’t force you to ride down the hill and kill every one of my companions.” Pascal turned his gaze back, his voice filled with a peaceful sorrow and anger, as if he had said it a thousand times in his heart. “Damn infidels, their hands are stained with blood. But my companions all ascended to heaven because of it, possessing glorious, heroic souls.”
Had none of the knights and soldiers who followed Pascal reached Constantinople alive? Yubi wondered, trembling with fear. He remembered the faces of the nuns and soldiers in the monastery, Henry's grave, and the battlefield strewn with corpses. Suddenly, he understood the weight of these memories. That weight instantly suffocated him—he had witnessed countless Henrys die without dignity on the battlefield, their bodies devoured by vultures, and only today did he understand what it meant. Yet Pascal felt this was a superior path to heaven.
His body trembled involuntarily as Yakov, now clad in chainmail, scooped him up. “Stop talking,” the blood slave glanced at Pascal with a less-than-friendly look. “If you’re not planning to come in with us, go back to the stands and sit with Helen.”
Yubi simply nodded and said nothing.
“I don’t like these barbaric things.” Helen picked out a shady seat for him. “Whether it’s horse racing, chariots, or duels, they all smell bad and are bloody. The spectators watch these things out of curiosity, treating them as a thrilling pastime; while the warriors off the field abandon their reason for glory, like desperate gamblers betting their lives on the ring.”
"Don't worry, this is just a training exercise," the former commander said with a smile. "The weapons aren't even sharpened, so no one will get hurt."
The training ground was a soft sandy area, enclosed by a high, thick wooden fence. A dozen or so people stepped heavily through the gate, mostly apprentice knights and sergeants, their footsteps kicking up fine sand. By his height and build, Yubi could easily spot Yakov among them. He also noticed Seyleman wearing strange lamellar armor, extremely short at the hem, with mostly unprotected legs and only sandals on his feet. "Won't he get hurt?" he asked worriedly. "Look at everyone else, all dressed so heavily, even Yakov's chainmail is so long."
“I don’t know anything about what makes armor useful,” Helen said, putting her arm around his. “But I do know that this is an early style of armor from the Empire.”
“That’s right.” The elderly former commander rose from his seat. “It’s a traditional and courageous suit of armor.”
Yubi then examined each person's weapon. He first looked at Yakov—the Slav had chosen an unremarkable longsword, not much different from the one he usually carried. He didn't seem particularly interested in the tournament; Seilman, on the other hand, held a Roman short sword in one hand and dragged a huge, pointed, kite-shaped shield in the other. He looked strangely like a Byzantine warrior from a mosaic; while Pascal had chosen an extremely long spear, his weapon standing tall and conspicuous among the crowd. The other warriors carried all sorts of fancy weapons: long axes, maces, scimitars, and small round shields, and some even carried long, heavy two-handed greatswords on their shoulders, looking like heavy crosses.
The white-haired old man walked to the training ground and opened his arms. "Warriors of Christ, let us hone our skills and share our experiences with friendly hearts. Let us not let personal grudges replace righteousness, nor let selfish interests cover our conscience; let us not betray God's mercy, nor forget the brotherhood of our fellow countrymen. No matter where you come from or what your origins are, we have gathered together under the banner of the Lord."
Then, like a real referee, he began to explain the rules of the competition.
"Here, there is no such barbaric rule of enslavement for the defeated, nor is it permitted to wager money or property on victory. No terrible waste or cruelty will be tolerated." He paused. "You will be divided into two teams by numbers, distinguished by black and white cloaks. Anyone whose feet or any part of their body touches the sand is considered dead and cannot rejoin the battle. The team that defeats the entire opposing force and survives to the end wins."
"Intentionally inserting spikes into helmet or deck gaps is prohibited; attacking contestants who refuse to fight is prohibited; if a contestant is seriously injured, the competition must be stopped immediately. Do you have any further questions?"
The soldiers all wore heavy helmets. They responded to the old man, their voices muffled and strained under the metal plate.
"Go and choose your faction," the former Grand Master said. "Once you have chosen, the competition will begin immediately."
Yubi sat in the stands, when suddenly a wave of thirst-inducing tension and a cloud of dust hit his face. He pushed away the pomegranate juice Helen offered him and stared intently at the players on the field—twelve people divided into teams of six on the sand. First, Seilman casually chose a white robe, followed closely by Yakov, who picked up a black one. He had assumed Pascal was more eager to fight Yakov, but the Hospitaller Knight had also chosen a black robe. This eased his anxiety considerably: it seemed the rivalry between the two wasn't as serious as he had imagined.
"This is really unfair!" Helen exclaimed. "Seleman was already being lenient with them, wearing simple armor. But the two knights teamed up! They were just fighting outside a moment ago."
Soon, the Black Team and the White Team were formed. The team members, who were still new to each other, exchanged a few words of advice, as if discussing tactics, but Yubi knew nothing about them. The white-haired old man picked up a long-handled yellow triangular flag, placed it across the field, and told the two teams to stand against the edge of the fence.
"Are you ready?" he gestured to both sides. "Let the competition begin!"
Yubi recalled the battles he had witnessed on the steppe—real wars, but he had been too far away then, the men and horses appearing as mere grains of millet on the snowy meadow. The warriors galloped on horseback, brandishing their swords in battle, like a grand drama unfolding in the distance.
The Black and White teams cautiously formed battle lines, then clashed heavily, like two walls pressing together in a struggle for territory. Yubi initially worried about Seleman, but soon realized his worries were unnecessary—the armor was simply too heavy. Some of the novice knights, unaccustomed to the weight, swung wildly a few times before their arms grew heavy, and they were panting heavily, filling the arena with a noisy, stifling heat. Seleman's armor, on the other hand, allowed him agility and conserved his energy; his shield served both defensively and offensively. He bypassed Yakov and Pascal, using only his short sword and shield tip to fell the two exhausted young men, so fast that Yubi couldn't even see his movements. A gap soon appeared in the Black team's defenses.
“Look at him, he’s so despicable.” Helen moistened her mouth with pomegranate juice. “He always targets weak spots, like behind the knees and between the legs, he just hits those areas.”
"Really?" Yubi didn't even dare to blink. "I didn't see anything clearly..."
The defeated warriors, following the former commander's rules, sat down in frustration, dropping their weapons. Yubi then checked on the battle between Yakov and Pascal—and discovered that Yakov was using similar tactics against the beginners. The Slavs, large and powerful, struck their noses with the hilts of their swords, penetrating their helmets, leaving them dizzy and unable to retaliate for a while. Yakov then tripped them with his heel, sending them sprawling to their deaths. Pascal, lacking such strength, used his spear to corner his timid and nervous opponent, his repeated attacks leaving him defenseless until he was forced to his knees by the blows.
Yubi felt a chill. In a real battlefield, would even the weakest soldiers be eliminated so early? The clanging of metal against metal produced a teeth-grinding sound. Soon, the angry shouts turned into groans of pain, weapons strewn across the ground. Yakov was targeted by the remaining members of the White Team, trapped in the middle of the field, heavy weapons raining down on his helmet. Pascal went to his rescue, but his spear was useless in this situation, and he unfortunately snagged one of the men's chainmail—Seleman had already dealt with another dangerous character wielding a spiked mace, throwing him to the ground with a close-quarters back throw. "He's truly my sister's best subordinate," Yubi couldn't help but sigh. "I used to doubt that..."
“Of course I wouldn’t lie to you about this,” Helen asked. “Wouldn’t you like some pomegranate juice?”
Yubi's attention was drawn to the question, finally allowing him to escape the tension of the match. "I...I don't need to," he swallowed hard. "Yakov said I have to protect my voice and avoid sweets..."
"What kind of logic is that?" Helen opened her mouth in surprise. "But he makes you chew licorice root all the time."
"Isn't that bitter?"
"Oh dear, look how easily he fooled you. He should have taken a few more hits on the field." Helen shoved the juice into Yubi's hand. "Licorice root is bitter because it's too sweet. If you boil it into juice, it can soothe your throat, and it'll even be sweet."
The battle quickly escalated to a fever pitch. Yakov, his eyes glazed over, was battered and thudded, feeling like a pigeon trapped in a bell, its head spinning from the resounding clang. This finally ignited his fury—"Go hit that eunuch!" he yelled at Pascal, "He's on the side!"
The Hospitaller Knight was clearly regretting his choice of weapon. He struggled to free his lance, which had been caught in its grip, and, together with the last remaining member of the White Team, they went to confront the dark-skinned warrior. Yakov gripped his longsword, roared, grabbed one of the three men beside him, and forcefully kicked him over with his knee—a reckless move that would throw him off balance and make him vulnerable to being pushed. However, his weight and armor were heavy enough that the other two failed to seize the opportunity to overturn him. Like a boulder rolling down a hillside, Yakov bent down, grabbed the remaining two White Team members, and shoved them straight towards the edge of the fence—Damn it, if this were a real battle, I should have already stuck a dagger into the gaps in their helmets and smashed them flat with my sword! Yakov thought.
A strange emotion propelled him forward, supporting his stance. He thought, he hadn't intended to win this duel. What was the point? He gritted his teeth and threw his two opponents over the fence. Damn it, did I have to fight? That damned eunuch, that damned vampire! Why did he have to control me, why did he have to bring me to this wretched place, to humiliate me with his high-sounding rules?
He felt as if his whole body was on fire, his restless breath trapped as if encased in heavy armor. He kept asking himself, what do you want? Where are you? Where are you going?
"Yakov!" Pascal's weary voice brought him back to his senses. "Help!"
As if emerging from a dream, Yakov felt time slow down. He struggled to prolong his brief moment of respite, then raised his longsword and charged towards Seilman—he only struck a large, sturdy shield, the force of the impact rebounding onto him with a thud. He gritted his teeth, nearly falling—fortunately, his survival experience allowed him to steady himself. Yakov knew that on a real battlefield, falling meant death.
Pascal's spearhead shattered at the base, the wooden splinter dangling limply, yet he still charged forward—he was foolish, foolish like a donkey that had run into a wall and refused to turn back. Why didn't he pick up a weapon from the ground and fight again? Yakov watched coldly as the knight was struck hard in the abdomen by Seyleman, finally collapsing from exhaustion.
“Perfect timing, we can share some practical combat experience with these apprentice knights.” Seleman’s lamellar armor gleamed behind his shield. He smiled, his breathing even. “Yakov, come and attack me.”
Yakov raised his longsword. His arm felt incredibly heavy, almost too heavy to lift—but seeing Yubi and Helen staring intently at him from the platform, he had no choice but to raise it. The Slav cautiously composed himself, adjusting his breathing and pace, searching for Seilman's weakness. "My longsword is stronger than his shortsword," Yakov thought. "If I avoid that large shield and aim for his unarmored lower body, he'll surely parry."
The two men circled the arena, facing each other. Yakov held his breath, seizing the opportunity to slash at Seilman's right side, where the shield was not raised. He intended to feint upwards to deceive Seilman, then immediately turn the blade downwards—but Seilman skillfully intercepted Yakov's short sword with its hilt, blocking his path and breaking his attack. Then, the tip of the kite-shaped shield slammed into the nose guard of Yakov's helmet, causing him to stagger backwards, his vision blurred.
“Many of you believe that swords are for attacking and shields are for defending, but that’s not true,” Seyleman explained with a smile. “The enemy knows this too. In actual combat, we can be flexible and use this impression to attack or defend with any weapon.”
Yakov felt warm liquid trickling down his nose to his lips. He licked it; it was fishy, salty, and rusty. "Again." Through the dim gaps in his helmet, he saw Seyleman standing there, beckoning to him.
He looked around, dropped his longsword, and snatched a long axe from someone else. "This is a good shield-breaker," Yakov thought. "I'm strong enough to cleave that obstructive shield in two." But seeing this, Seleman dropped his kite-shaped shield and only used his short sword. "He's humiliating me!" Yakov's eyes widened under his helmet, and with all his might, he swung the long axe horizontally at Seleman. Not too high, not too low, just waist-high, Yakov thought. He didn't have time to duck or jump to avoid it. He was doomed!
However, Seilman charged forward with only his short sword. Yakov's axe handle was too long and his strength too great; the blade carved deep into the wooden fence behind Seilman, and the man who should have been struck had moved in front of Yakov, the short sword slamming into his elbow—Yakov didn't have time to pull the heavy axe out of the wood, his arm went numb, he released his weapon, and dodged Seilman's follow-up attack, breaking out in a cold sweat.
“If you encounter enemies on the battlefield who wield heavy weapons like axes and hammers, don’t be afraid of their strength and the possibility of them injuring you through their armor.” Seleman stared into Yakov’s eyes. “Heavy weapons are mostly flashy intimidating objects; they are cumbersome and slow to use. The openings after each attack are enough for a counterattack.”
Yakov pulled off his helmet to breathe; his disheveled blond hair, matted with sweat, cascaded down his shoulders, steaming. He picked up a scimitar from the ground—his most familiar Tatar weapon, practical and lightweight. Yubi seemed to gasp at the sight of the blood on his face, but Yakov heard nothing. He twirled the scimitar in his palm, his eyes flashing with a devilish red. Seeing this, Seleman across from him also removed his helmet. He tossed aside his short sword and took a two-handed greatsword shaped like a cross from one of his teammates.
The two needed no further words. Yakov shifted his feet, his gaze fixed on the head beneath the short, gray hair, wanting to slit his throat. He threw out all sorts of feints, his moves dazzling. But Seyleman retreated and circled in the arena, occasionally slashing at him with his greatsword, forcing Yakov to parry and preventing him from getting close. Yakov quickly grew impatient, his strength and patience nearly exhausted—Seyleman seized the opportunity, cleaving through Yakov's chainmail with the heavy blade, throwing him straight to the sidelines. Yakov felt nauseous, bent over and vomited, but remained on his feet, refusing to fall. "Yakov!" This time he clearly heard Yubi shout from his seat, "Don't fight him!"
“A longer weapon offers an advantage, more room to maneuver. Length ensures safety and allows for greater damage when swung with the same force,” Seyleman explained calmly. “Don’t worry, he’ll be fine.”
Why didn't he use that greatsword to cut off my head? Yakov's ears rang. He finally remembered that these weapons were not sharpened; this was just a training match. "Actually, you're not suited to the Tatars' light and agile fighting style, Yakov," Seleman earnestly advised him. "I've wanted to tell you this for a long time, and today I finally have the chance."
Yakov glanced at him. "Give me your greatsword," he said, his teeth grinding.
Seilman said no more, tossing him the greatsword and then swaying as he took the giant axe from the nearby fence. Yakov plunged the greatsword into the sand, struggling to his feet, his steps faltering. Just as he gripped the hilt, finding a comfortable hold—Seilman swung the axe in a fluid motion, a backhand slash. A beautiful arc flashed, and the longsword shattered. Yakov collapsed forward amidst the shards, his knees sinking to the ground.
“Long weapons are brittle and thin, unable to withstand heavy blunt impacts.” Sellerman put down his giant axe. “They are sharp all around, but their interiors are actually quite vulnerable.”
"White team wins!"
Before Seilman could even celebrate his victory, Yakov pounced on him. The two blood slaves wrestled and rolled on the sand. "Let me tell you why he doesn't wear leg armor." Yakov's fist was blocked, so he slammed his forehead into Seilman's face, finally bruising the dark skin as he had hoped. "Because he's a rootless thing, his lower body has nothing to protect, you ignorant Franks! He used to be a bastard, a Mamluk, he was castrated from childhood to gain this formidable fighting skill! And you can't even see that! Ha!"
Yakov's knee slammed into the unprotected groin—and he was immediately ripped apart. Seleman's mouth and eye were bruised, and his face contorted in pain. A strange premonition washed over Yakov. He saw Seleman clutching the wound, slowly wiping the blood from his face with his fingers.
“I’ve wanted to tell you this for a while, Yakov.” Seilman looked up at him with his blue eyes. “With the master and lady here, I didn’t want to tell you now; but since you’re so concerned, I can’t worry about it anymore.”
Do you know about female genital mutilation (FGM)?
Yakov's mouth was slightly open, but he couldn't utter a single word. Yubi and Helen had rushed down from their seats; look at their injuries.
“Like the Jews, the Saracens also practice circumcision.” Seleman spat out a mouthful of blood. “Boys who were taken by the Saracens to be Mamluks as children were afraid of this, especially Turkic boys who did not understand it. Their fear led them to spread rumors, and over time it became a rumor that the Saracens had a legion of eunuchs, and that a circumcision was necessary to become the Sultan’s most valiant confidant.”
"However, the rumors are just rumors. It was just an initiation ceremony of a cult."
“All men have undergone this procedure. It’s just a simple, minor surgery to prove a boy’s adulthood and his faith in God.”
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