Act X, The True Knight (12)
twelve
News spread rapidly in Constantinople, and provisions, weapons, ships, and soldiers were once again gathered there. The citizens of Constantinople knew, and soon the people of the Holy Land would know. Eventually, the news would reach the ears of the Saracens, and even the dreadful Saladin would hear it. Yakov knew war was imminent, but the news had caught him off guard, leaving him in a state of panic. It was already April, and the days of summer were numbered.
“The emperor will provide the fleet, and the king of Jerusalem will provide the supplies. That’s the arrangement.” Yubi would bring him new news every day after returning from the salon and the banquet. “They also want a new crusade, but none of the kings in the west are willing to come.”
“Of course they don’t want to come.” Yakov buried his head in wiping his longsword by the hot spring. “Even if they conquer it, Egypt won’t be under their control. It will just be divided up by that leprosy king and emperor.”
"Then how can we obtain a city?" Schumacher sat quietly on the edge of the chaise longue. "Have you thought this through?"
Yakov anxiously rubbed the blade of his sword until it rang loudly. "...At worst, I'll find a city to give to the Knights, and then I'll figure out a way to transfer it to Yubi."
“This is supposed to be my job, but the deadline is just too tight!” Yubi sighed. “And I can’t… I don’t want to marry an Egyptian girl…”
Yakov tapped his forehead, his sword dripping wet. "What good is marrying an Egyptian girl? Even if you win, it won't be the Egyptians who rule." The Blood Slave sheathed his sword. "Instead of thinking about this, you might as well just find a princess with a right to the throne and seduce her. Is that what we need?"
Yubi wiped the water from her forehead in frustration.
“Lord Jubius was forced to come up with this idea…” Schumer slowly stroked his mustache. “If you had a better idea, of course you wouldn’t have gone to this.”
“What we need now is an army,” Yakov stood up. “Whether it’s the knights, the emperor’s, or mercenaries and vassals. Win this war first, or everything else is just empty talk.”
“That will cost a lot of money,” Schumacher laughed. “If you need money, come to me.”
“You don’t need to tell me.” Yakov strode toward the stables. His servant was waiting for him there.
The first person he asked was Sancho—"I can only advise you as a fellow knight that you have joined the Order and are no longer qualified to conquer cities and territories for your former master." The Spanish knight awkwardly put his hands behind his back, adopting a lecturing posture. "Even if the Order conquers a city, it belongs to the Order to collect taxes and manage. It cannot be bought or sold at will. Land is not like spices; I can't help you with that."
"Then the Knights don't do mercenary work?" Yakov stared at him. "They fight for the King of Jerusalem, but they can't fight for other nobles?"
"You... how can things in the Holy Land be the same as elsewhere?" Sancho said awkwardly, shaking his hand. "The King of Jerusalem is a descendant of the First Crusade. And who is your Lord Eubius? What connection does he have with the Crusades? Which knightly order did this and could be so blind as to think they were fighting for God?"
"How can going to Egypt to fight the Saracens not be considered fighting for God?"
"A battle is a battle, and an occupation is an occupation! How does that make sense legally?" Sancho angrily poked his head. "With a major battle imminent, you'd better hurry up and recruit more soldiers, and make sure the regiment has more people who can use swords!"
"Bullshit legal principles." Yakov scoffed, dodging him. The Blood Slave found, rather unpleasantly, that the Templar Knight's identity was nothing but a constraint.
A few days later, Yakov went out of the city to the outskirts. The Cuman mercenaries' tents were camped on the banks of a river in the Thracian plain, and it took him a whole day to ride there. "What brings you here?" He didn't see Thurana first, but was greeted by a short, stocky young man who spoke Latin, his build resembling an anvil. "You've come to see my mother?"
"...Who is your mother?" Yakov asked, grabbing his trembling servant.
“You don’t recognize me? Your name is Yakov, right?” The young man revealed an extremely thick, veiny arm from his robe. “My mother is Turana, and I am now the Khan here. They call me Bora Khan.”
Yakov was completely bewildered. He had no idea that Turalya had a son who recognized him. "Who is your father?" he asked again.
“Who else could my father be? My father is Batur!” the burly man named Bolahan said in a gruff voice. “I used to be called Little Batur!”
The knight and his squire, their faces dark, were led into the tent by Little Batur-Bola Khan to meet his mother. "Isn't this all too simple?" Turana sat cross-legged on a fur stool, brandishing a scimitar. "You led your troops to conquer the city, then killed the lord, the king, the emperor! Let alone a city, even a whole country would be a piece of cake!"
“…It’s not that simple.” Yakov closed his eyes in frustration. “Even if I kill them, the position won’t be mine.”
“If the position isn’t yours, then kill more!” Turalya glared at him with her dark eyes. “Kill all those who oppose you; that’s the most straightforward way!”
"How could I possibly kill them all?"
"If you can't kill him, it's because you're not capable enough!"
Yakov sadly realized he could no longer understand such brutal methods. How primitive, how barbaric! He missed this straightforward approach, yet saw its vulnerability with crystal clarity. "...I'll think of something else," he said, bidding Daoud farewell. "Thank you for your advice."
Aside from the good-for-nothings who spent their days drinking and gambling, and the cowardly nobles who considered themselves superior, there was one last person he could ask. The centurion's—the general's—face reluctantly appeared in Yakov's mind. But he hesitated to act, as if asking would mean losing an invisible competition, as if he were humbly begging someone. Yakov felt as if he were trapped in a narrow cave, caught in a dilemma. If he didn't ask, he worried about the urgency of the situation and being helpless; if he did ask, he feared revealing his defeat and being ridiculed.
It wasn't until Yubi's enormous wisteria had bloomed again in the new year that Yakov, in a fit of irritability, rode alone to Kanakakis's mansion one afternoon. "Seleman isn't here," Isaac said. "He's out at sea."
Yakov was filled with suspicion. "Where did he go?"
“I don’t know,” Isaac answered him listlessly.
Yakov was fed up with the nobleman's tight-lipped manner and turned to leave. He was relieved that he didn't have to let Seilman know his troubles, yet disappointed to find that he had no one to confide in. The knight rode slowly along under the pinkish-purple sunset of Constantinople, the sound of the horseshoes striking the cobblestones rhythmic and leisurely, but he was lost and didn't know where to go.
When he came to his senses, he found himself back at Yubi's villa in Golden Horn Bay. Looking up at the heavy curtains behind the windows, the Blood Slave felt a strange sense of peace amidst his melancholy—wouldn't it be wonderful if Yubi remained a landless nobleman in Golden Horn Bay, engaging in honest work with Schumacher and himself? If they feared exposure, they could ask Ambicea for two Blood Slaves and, like Camilla, find a secluded mountain retreat. Wouldn't that allow them to live peacefully and quietly for a long time?
But then he thought of Camilla's severed head, Christina's gleaming dagger, and Schumacher's empty eye sockets—nothing lasts forever, nothing is ever truly permanent. Those who attempt to live a life of laziness will always face their just deserts.
Just as Yakov was lost in thought, someone rushed in front of his horse, startling it so much that it reared up. "What are you doing here again?" Yakov reined in his horse and looked closely. "What are you doing here now?"
Oleg's braids and beard were much dirtier than usual, making him look like a disheveled beggar. The only valuable thing he owned was his gold-inlaid axe. "Good man! Can I borrow a gold coin this time?" he whined like a stray dog. "If you lend it to me, I'll never borrow money from you again!"
Yakov was already irritable, and seeing his expression only made him angrier. "Can't you just get your own hands dirty and find some work to do?" The knight dismounted and kicked him to the ground.
“I’m a member of the Emperor’s guard, how can I go looking for work to do!” Oleg threw himself to the ground, rolling around in a tantrum, smearing mud all over himself. “I don’t know how to do anything but fight, and there’s no such work in the city!”
“I won’t lend it.” Yakov led his horse straight to the stable. “What does it matter to me if you die by the roadside?”
“My dear brother…”
Who is your brother?
Seeing his resolute refusal to help, Oleg jumped up in fright and squeezed next to him. "How can we not be brothers? Think about it, Lord Ambicya and Lord Jubius are siblings..." He tore open his shirt, secretly revealing the horrific mark on his chest to Yakov. "In that case, aren't we brothers in the same boat?"
Yakov stared at the familiar markings on his skin—and realized he had stopped in his tracks.
He stared into Oleg's identical pale blue eyes. "Did you become a slave willingly?"
The Varangian man's mouth opened and moved slightly. "...I...when I first had this thing, a long time passed, and I didn't even realize it. I knew nothing about it." He lowered his head dejectedly and pitifully. "What's this about voluntariness..."
Yakov couldn't tell if the man was lying. He could only scrutinize every inch of the dirty skin on the face for signs of concealment. But he quickly lost patience.
"A gold coin." He tossed a thin, saucer-shaped gold coin from his pocket onto the ground. "Don't ask me for money again."
"Oh! That's wonderful! Yakov, you're such a kind man!" Oleg held the gold coin as if it were a priceless treasure, jumping for joy. "The bet was big this time, even winning a little will make a lot of money! I'll pay you back first when I have the money!"
Yakov rolled his eyes. "Still a knightly duel?"
“This time is different.” Oleg’s beard trembled with excitement. “This time, it’s being hosted by the Emperor himself!”
Yakov arrived at the entrance to the Grand Arena for the second time. This time, even the magnificent gates housing the four gilded bronze horses were packed with citizens. "This time it's truly legal," Oleg pointed out. "Look, the bettors are all officials; everyone is betting openly and honestly!"
"A large casino personally run by the emperor," Yakov thought grimly. "It's illegal for others to do it, but he alone can. It's certainly a good way to make money." "Who are you going to bet on?" he asked. "Let me see which fool you're going to place your bets on."
“I haven’t decided yet,” Oleg said, tilting his head.
"Haven't decided yet?"
“It’s not my fault. It’s still uncertain whether the invited knights will be able to come on time, and the registration channels are still open.” Oleg’s finger moved to another door. “The prizes for the tournament held by the Emperor are generous. If he’s in a good mood, he can give the champion a territory, a title, or a manor with just a word. Knights all over Europe are thinking of participating. We need to carefully consider who to bet on.”
A territory, a title, an estate. These three words were firmly entrenched in Yakov's mind. A seed buried for who knows how long sprouted in his heart. His mouth opened and closed beneath his beard, his fingers gripping the hilt of his sword so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
"Are you listening to me?" Oleg noticed the person next to him staring blankly and clapped his hands in front of him. "What are you thinking about?"
Yakov's gaze immediately returned to this. "I'm leaving." He turned and ran, but after a couple of steps, he turned back. "When does this match start?"
"Less than two months left, starting in June..."
Yakov ran off to his horse without a word.
"Hey, aren't you going to help me figure out which families these participating knights belong to?" Oleg scratched his head, annoyed by Yakov's inexplicable reaction. "Where are you rushing off to in such a hurry?"
Yakov mounted his horse and pulled on the reins. He raised the corners of his mouth in a gloomy yet arrogant manner.
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