Act X, The True Knight (15)
fifteen
On the first day of the competition, Yubi brought Schumer to the Grand Arena. "Your opponent's grandmother is named Komnenos," Yubi said, peering at the knights and generals. "Noble birth, but probably not very skilled."
“I didn’t even look at the boy closely.” Yakov frowned, scrutinizing his two companions: one, bundled up in the sweltering summer heat, had a few stray hairs peeking out from under his headscarf, steaming in the sun; the other was clearly not used to life on the road, his blindness making him feel restricted. “…Come into the tent.” Yakov noticed some of the knights casting hostile glances at the Jew and shoved Schumeer through the door. “Don’t talk outside.”
“You should explain the rules of knightly duels to me in detail.” Schumeer put his cane aside and sat down in the cramped tent. “Let’s see what advice I can give you.”
“You can’t help me much.” Yakov closed the tent flap. “The rules are very simple: each side has one person and one horse, and the servants are responsible for handing over the weapons. The fight continues until one side concedes defeat. The winner captures the loser and gets the armor, horse, and weapons on the field, while waiting for someone to pay the ransom. After the tournament, I might be able to make some money back.”
Upon hearing this, Schumeer habitually stroked the tip of his mustache. "From just what you've said, I can already deduce some things," he said with a smile beneath his bandaged mouth. "For example, if a knight is only participating to earn the ransom, he will surely withdraw early if he encounters a strong opponent to prevent his savings from falling into someone else's hands. So you should stand out and reduce your opponents."
“Knights who really want to earn ransom are fighting in groups outside the city. As long as they have the ability, they can capture as many people as they want.” Yakov said noncommittally, “But that won’t stop me from giving that Angelos a good beating today.”
“But… but what if he refuses to admit defeat?” Yubi asked worriedly. “He is a high-ranking nobleman in the empire. I doubt you would dare to offend him. What if you use this matter to determine the outcome?”
“That’s a question only you would ask,” Yakov scoffed. “If he doesn’t admit defeat in front of everyone, I’ll kill him on the spot. You’d better think carefully about whether his life or mine is more important.”
“It’s more accurate to say that nobles are the ones who value their lives the most.” Schumer agreed, while sighing at the barbaric statement. “No one considers killing someone in the arena a crime.”
Just then, the sound of rhythmic drumming came from outside—the first competition of the day was about to begin.
"Alright, you two stop hanging around the waiting area, especially Yubi." Yakov stood up, straightened the tassels on his armor, and put his helmet back on. "Any more questions? Go watch a couple of matches from the stands and you'll understand."
“Alright.” Yubi smoothed her veil. “I’ll also check out how Seleman is doing.”
The arena was large enough that it was divided into four sections for simultaneous tournaments. There were 39 Latin knights and 23 Greek generals. The first day would feature 31 matches, eliminating half the losers; the second day, 15 matches; the third day, the top four; and the fourth and final day, the champion would be crowned in the afternoon to receive the emperor's reward. Yubi calculated the number of matches: for Zoyakov to win, he would need to fight six opponents over these four days—which, at first glance, didn't seem particularly difficult for his knight.
However, the thought of Seymour blocking his way made him increasingly uneasy.
“Please don’t be nervous, sir.” Naya held the umbrella over him and carefully adjusted his headscarf. “With your blessing, he will surely win.”
“I know,” Yubi replied impatiently. “Just focus on telling Schumacher what’s going on on the field, and don’t bother me.”
Naya stopped speaking and quietly shut her mouth. Beside her, Schumeer also remained silent.
The crowd in the stands whispered amongst themselves, like a pot of gently bubbling porridge. The arrival of the first group of fighters caused them to erupt in excitement—"The first four matches have begun!" Yubi shouted, grabbing Schumacher's wrist. "...I see Seilman, and he's in the first match!"
"Really? You're really lucky." Schumeer couldn't see what was happening, but he quietly listened from his seat. "Playing early means you recover your strength faster the next day."
Yubi watched the competitors intently, studying the rules of the arena. Seilman had only brought a squire, seemingly the "docile one," whose blood Yubi still remembered; his opponent was an unfortunate knight from who-knows-where, dressed in an expensive, bright blue cloak emblazoned with a menacing golden lion, seemingly from Italy. Before the arena, the squires meticulously checked the competitors' armor, ensuring every belt and knot was securely fastened. The competitors mounted their horses, lances in hand, and solemnly saluted their potential killers, clinking their weapons in a show of respect. Their horses circled the arena, returning to the starting point—the helmet visors were lowered, and the atmosphere suddenly became tense and deadly. Yubi felt as if a block of ice had been placed under his nose.
The audience roared and urged them to fight.
The referee's flag moved. All four matches began simultaneously. Hooves kicked up dust, filling the field with sand. The surrounding screams instantly became deafening, drowning out the riders' shouts and the horses' neighs.
Some less skilled riders couldn't control their horses and remain calm during a charge; their mounts slowed and were quickly thrown to the ground by lances—Yubi remembered Yakov telling him that in such duels, whoever fell from their horse first was dangerously at a disadvantage—the nobleman quickly understood the meaning of this statement. Seilman's first strike had already unhorsed his opponent.
The experienced blood slave's spear was still sturdy. He turned his horse and charged relentlessly towards his unfortunate opponent. The opponent refused to concede, drawing his sword to try and cut him down. That was too difficult, Yubi thought, gripping the railing of the stands. How could a longsword reach a man on horseback? Seleman's spear tip struck the knight's helmet—with a clang, a large dent appeared in the smooth, shiny iron. His opponent collapsed to the ground, unconscious.
A burst of enthusiastic cheers erupted from the crowd. The first winner of the day was decided in the blink of an eye.
"Is he dead?" Yubi asked in shock as he watched the knight being dragged away by his squire. "His helmet is flattened!"
“Not necessarily.” Schumeer tapped the ground with his cane. “But it will certainly take some effort to pull the head out.”
What a barbaric and bloody event! Yubi sighed, watching as Seleman raised his helmet visor, revealing a gentle smile to greet the audience's praise—he followed that gaze and suddenly noticed Helen waving to Seleman from a seat not far from him. Helen noticed him too, turning around with a delighted smile. The tailor pushed through the cheering crowd to Yubi's side. "Lord Yubius, I thought you would find a better seat to watch the match!" she exclaimed excitedly, gesturing wildly. "What a magnificent duel!"
"I hope Yakov's situation goes just as smoothly," Yubi sighed beneath her veil.
“He’ll be fine,” Helen reassured him with a smile. “Your knightly skills are exceptional; there’s no way you’d lose in the first round.”
“You’re right.” Yubi’s gloves were crumpled from being twisted, and he stared intently at the remaining fight in the arena with a stern face. “Did you come here to watch Seleman’s match?”
“Not entirely. Whether he wins or loses has nothing to do with me.” Helen took out a piece of papyrus with patterns of clothing and annotations on it. “I wanted to draw what kind of decorations are fashionable among knights these days.”
Yubi keenly noticed that Schumer's heart was racing erratically because of those words. "Let's wait for Yakov to come on stage," he quickly changed the subject.
Daoud and Nuk, like two energetic, never-ending waterwheels, tirelessly ran back and forth in circles around the arena. "Sir, you have nothing to worry about," Nuk assured Yakov, patting his chest. "We've seen all the competitors. None of them are as big or strong as you, and their horsemanship and martial arts are inferior to yours. Your victory is simply a foregone conclusion!"
“Victory isn’t just about these things.” Yakov looked on with displeasure as the sun moved to the west and the sky began to darken, but it was still not his turn to play. “My luck is the worst among these people.”
"Luck isn't that important!" Daoud jumped up anxiously. "Sir, don't worry!"
“I don’t need two young lads to comfort me.” Yakov put on his helmet, pushed them out of the tent, and took the reins. “Do your jobs.”
He could hear the frenzied shouts of the 100,000 people in the arena from the platform below. Beside him, horses fidgeted, their horseshoes scraping against the ground. Yakov didn't want to say a word—he remembered the book Yubi had given him on the ship back to Constantinople that winter. "The champions of freedom, captured, bleed and die in the arena, reduced to playthings." Blood Slave thought, was he standing on the very ground where gladiators had fought and died a thousand years ago, repeating their lives as playthings for others' amusement? This thought made him think of blood at the sight of rust, of slaughter at the glimpse of sand, and even the cheers of the crowd sounded like a storm raging on the sea, waiting to devour him.
But then he remembered Yubi's face—his efforts were worthwhile.
Without warning, he and his horse were carried onto the field. The sweltering air and clear vision eliminated any thoughts of wandering from his mind. He immediately saw his opponent standing opposite him, dressed in a striking blue robe embroidered with a pure white winged saint.
Daoud and Nuk rushed over from the sidelines, surrounding him and inspecting every buckle and belt on his body. A man, whether referee or host, began to rattle off their backgrounds, his voice nearly hoarse—Yakov heard not a word. He mounted his horse and took Daoud's lance from him.
He watched as the young man opposite him mounted his horse. The two spurred their horses, bowed, and sized each other up. Yakov could spot flaws in every detail: the man's stirrups didn't fit his shoes properly, making them prone to getting stuck. While this reduced the risk of falling off, a far greater danger was overlooked by this pathetic nobleman.
Thinking this, Yakov gripped his rifle tighter. He smiled silently beneath his helmet. The two returned to their positions, awaiting the attack.
The referee's flag flashed past his sight—Yakov's feet lashed out at his horse's belly. His familiar mount, knowing his intention, mustered its powerful muscles and galloped from slow to fast to a terrifying speed—the rider opposite him was young, but his riding skills were decent, and his mount was excellent. The two horses approached each other rapidly.
Yakov had been practicing with a carbine for over a few months. Although he didn't like it, his training had paid off.
His arm was longer than his opponent's, allowing the spear to strike his opponent's shoulder first—Yakov had skillfully chosen a point that was both easy to grip and sturdy. His opponent was neither protected by the high saddle nor easily able to dodge. In the very first round, the nobleman was thrown from his horse by his thrust.
Yakov dropped his lance, drew his longsword from his waist, and leisurely turned his horse around—a gasp of surprise erupted from the battlefield. As he had expected, the warrior named Angelos, after being thrown from his horse, had his shoe stuck firmly in the stirrup. His horse, terrified by this hindrance, galloped wildly in circles across the battlefield, dragging and trampling the armored Greek general—Yakov thought, the duel should be over.
However, his lucky opponent escaped at the critical moment: a seemingly experienced old squire quickly stopped the horse and hurriedly helped remove the shoes from the stirrups. The rider's hands and feet were not trampled, and he only suffered some superficial injuries.
Is having a skilled squire considered a skill in knightly combat? Yakov dismissed Daoud and Nuk in displeasure and kicked the horse's belly again without waiting a moment longer—this was a good opportunity, he thought, perhaps he could kill the squire as well—he shouted, trying to frighten the terrified horse, raising his longsword in a ferocious manner.
His shouts startled the horses, causing them to bolt again, but the nobleman had already escaped with the help of his attendants. He rolled and pushed aside the elderly servant, trying to dodge Yakov's blade—Yakov's longsword hadn't missed its mark, but it hadn't pierced the armor. Blood Slave regretted dropping his lance. If he had, the man would be dead here. Sweat dripped from his sweltering helmet.
The nobleman seemed to be saying something in fear, but Yakov couldn't hear anything. He turned his horse around a second time, brandishing his longsword, and charged forward—but he was stopped by the referee's flag.
"He said it's halftime, the game is suspended, you barbaric knight!" the referee shouted in Latin. "We'll resume in a bit!"
"What kind of rule is this?" Yakov angrily tightened the reins, his horse stamping wildly on the sand. "I've never heard of a halftime break allowed in a knightly competition, you cowardly wimp!"
"This is a rule added by the Emperor for this competition!" the referee scolded him. "Don't argue with me!"
"You damned idiot!" Yakov stepped forward and grabbed the referee by the collar. "Calling a stop isn't admitting defeat. As long as he doesn't give up, I should charge into battle with all my might!"
Before he could utter any more offensive insults, the audience erupted in protest. "Savage Latins!" they shouted. "Despicable, shameless, immoral barbarians!" "This savage from the West has attacked the judge!"
The noise grew louder and more furious. Other audience members who hadn't been paying attention were also startled and turned to see what was happening.
Yakov nervously darted around under his helmet. This was only the first match, he thought. Had things gone wrong so badly on the very first one? Were the audience so indiscriminately defending the Greeks' honor, caring only about the Empire's glory? What was he going through? What should he do? Should he put down the judge he had been holding and bow his head in apology? On what grounds?
“Fine, I concede. My skill is inferior to yours; continuing would be futile.” The Greek nobleman named Angelos, clad in the coat of arms of a saint, stepped forward. “The spoils of war are yours, knight. My family will pay you a ransom. How many gold coins do you want?”
What was this? Yakov was stunned by the sudden outburst of rage. Why hadn't this hypocritical nobleman just conceded defeat, instead of saying this now? His lips trembled beneath his helmet, unable to speak, and he gripped the referee's hand tighter and tighter.
"Are we still going to fight?" he heard someone in the audience shout, seemingly confused.
"He should be suspended! How dare he go against the Roma referee!"
"He insulted the emperor!"
Yakov's heart was as cold and hard as a stone sunk into the sea. He put the judge down, letting the grumbling, biased fool return to the ground.
“I think your noble and virtuous character is worth ten thousand Byzantines,” Yakov said viciously.
He gently nudged the horse with his heel, then turned and left the hypocritical racetrack with his two bewildered attendants, not daring to look up and seek their master's gaze.
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