Act X, The True Knight (Sixteen)
sixteen
“Damn Greeks!” Schumer slapped his thigh in anger inside Yakov’s tent. “They’re so arrogant and self-important, they want to drive all the foreigners out of Constantinople!”
“Don’t worry about it, Yakov…” Yubi lowered his head and touched his calloused hand. “It’s just that you were unlucky, it won’t affect the outcome.”
“I don’t care at all.” Yakov picked up his water bag and took a swig. “I won more money from this one game than I brought from Transylvania. Take it home.”
He kicked the wooden crate piled with gold coins beside him hard, venting his uncontrollable anger. The sound startled the two servants outside the tent, sending chills down their spines.
“Although I don’t know much about martial arts competitions, similar situations are not uncommon throughout the competition,” Yubi sighed. “Although Latin knights can come here to participate in the competition, their lives of being ostracized by the locals are really not easy.”
“They were able to trade, buy land, and serve as officials here. It was because of this that the Latins were marginalized. It all started with the Venetians.” Yakov rolled his eyes. “Then the emperor sent the knights to be used as a joke, as pawns in his expeditions.”
Schumeer, whose eyes were covered by bandages, listened quietly.
Yubi was silent for a moment. "...Did Seyleman say anything to you?" he asked cautiously. "Why did your sister ask him to participate?"
“Ambichia is thinking the same thing as us: to use this tournament to seize military positions and Egyptian cities.”
"I...I shouldn't have..."
“We are not like her,” Yakov suddenly interrupted him in a very serious tone. “We have nothing to feel guilty about competing with her.”
“…You’re right.” Yubi clutched her clothes tightly. “I know.”
The three fell silent in the tent, as if their unknown future had been shrouded in a thick fog.
“I will win. You don’t need to worry about that.” Yakov stood up and lifted the tent flap. “You just need to watch and cheer for me.”
However, Yakov's luck remained terrible the next day. His second opponent was a knight, perhaps the toughest opponent in the entire arena besides Seilman—the man wielded a spiked hammer, and after Yakov threw him off his horse, he went berserk, trying to break Yakov's mount's legs, completely disregarding the fact that the horse could still be his trophy. To protect his prized horse, which had been with him for many years, Yakov was forced to dismount, his beautiful armor warped on one side, but the horse was still injured. Enraged, he drew his sword, intending to stab it through the man's helmet, but just as he subdued his opponent, he heard him concede defeat.
On the third day, Yakov had to switch to Yubi's black Turkic horse for the battle. The horse was too young and lacked composure, forcing Yakov to spend extra time training it. However, with two matches on the same day, time was already tight. It was a scorching hot day; the morning opponents were manageable, but by the afternoon, Yakov's beautifully painted helmet became unbearably hot shortly after entering the arena—the Blood Slave eventually pulled off the chainmail, risking a bare-headed fight. After his opponent demanded surrender three times, he forcefully knocked the sword from his hand, slammed the man against the edge of the arena wall, and kicked him through the chainmail until he vomited.
The morning of the fourth day was overcast, and only Nuk was left to check his equipment and horses. "Sir, Daoud is sick..." the boy said awkwardly and sadly as he fastened the leather strap around Daoud's neck. "He probably ate something bad yesterday..."
“You could do all that work by yourself.” Yakov said with a dark face, plucking the ostrich feathers that were sticking out of his helmet one by one. “Why aren’t Yubi and Schumer here today?”
“I don’t know…” Nuk wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I didn’t have time to leave the arena, sir.”
"How were the groups divided today?" Yakov asked. "Do I fight that eunuch in the morning or in the afternoon?"
Nuk, startled by his irritable and unreasonable words, pursed his lips. "My lord, it should be afternoon..." he hesitated, picking at his fingernails, "Lord Seleman's opponent from this morning withdrew; he's waiting for you directly in the final..."
Yakov grabbed a tattered red cloth beside him—his cloak, torn beyond recognition by days of fighting. The moon and bat totem was shattered into pieces, several fragments lying on the ground, beyond repair even by mending. Yakov picked up this expensive rubbish and tossed it out of the tent. Unexpectedly, a familiar, affected voice cried out from outside the tent as if struck by a blow.
"You're already full of fighting spirit so early in the morning." The Varangian man with his hair tied in a braid lifted the tent flap and crawled in. "Having a temper to fight is a good thing!"
"What are you doing here?" Yakov's face was as serious and terrifying as the devil statue outside the church. "Do you want to cause me trouble so that you can double your bets?"
"What are you talking about? I've placed all my bets on you!"
I don't believe it.
“Don’t disbelieve me, I really didn’t bet on Seleman.” Oleg sat down cross-legged beside him. “You don’t know, do you? What’s the rumor going around about this tournament’s final battle? ‘The battle between the most savage Latin knight and the most experienced imperial general’. That’s quite a sensation, and the number of people betting on it is countless, with the chips piled up like a mountain.”
Yakov didn't know whether to be happy or upset: the audience thought he was sure to make it to the finals; but the crowd was waiting for him to make the biggest tumble on the most dazzling podium so they could laugh at him.
"Why did you bet on me?" he asked, pushing Oleg away. "Didn't you think betting depended on the luck of the player's owner?"
"I'll bet on one thing."
"What's up?"
"Betting on how long it takes for a woman to give birth."
"What?"
“I was sent by Lord Jubius to tell you this,” Oleg grinned. “Because my master went into labor this morning, he might not be able to come today!”
Yakov mounted his horse, pondering the meaning of Oleg's words. All the red ornaments on the knight had faded, and he waited in the shadows outside the arena, awaiting his fate. The calluses on his palms healed quickly, growing thicker and thicker, like a hard shell imprisoning his gloves; the soft lining was no longer of any use. Yakov thought bitterly, luck—it seems insignificant in the face of absolute strength. Yet, in the most crucial and lopsided duel, even a single, light feather can determine the final swing of the scales.
The arena was much larger than in the previous days. Their shouts were like a deafening roar, as if to terrify the warriors before the formidable challenge, like the howl of the three-headed dog guarding the gates of hell, or the alluring song of sirens on the sea. Honor and adventure are two sides of the same coin, Yakov thought, and warriors are the most devout executors of this saying.
The door opened with a loud bang—he took the lance from Nuk and rode alone into the vast battlefield.
The hall of Kanakakis's mansion was packed with people. Yubi stood anxiously in the center with Schumer, their hands clasped tightly. His companion was blind, his fingers withered and thin, yet the warmth of blood still flowed beneath his skin. A woman's agonizing scream came from another room, and more than half the people in the hall were struck down by the sound, collapsing to the cold marble tiles, clutching their left chests where their hearts would be, groaning along with the scream, as if trying to share their master's suffering.
The entire waiting hall now looks like purgatory, and all the blood slaves are twisted souls within it.
"Was it this painful for my mother when she gave birth to me?" Yubi's fingers clenched tighter and tighter. "Does every mother experience this much pain during childbirth?"
“Yes.” The blind man squeezed his hand tightly. “Miraculous mothers have the ability to give birth to all things, and this pain is the price. But it is also their choice.”
“What choice do we have, Schumeer?” Yubi had to grit her teeth to keep from crying. “Why do people have to give birth to offspring, making more and more people repeat these meaningless ordeals over and over again?”
“If Yakov heard you say that,” Schumacher pulled him into a thin embrace, “he would say that you’ve lost your will to live because of that ring.”
Yubi pressed his face against the Jew's thin robe. He was so close to that fragile heart. He could see millions of drops of blood struggling to flow from the veins into it, desperately rushing for this individual—neither base nor noble, pitiful yet admirable—urging that seemingly tireless, endlessly beating heart to beat. The vampire looked up and saw beneath the bandages. His two loose eyelids were empty, staring aimlessly into the nonexistent distance.
Rows of slaves rushed out of Ambichia's bedroom and drew all the curtains in the hall. Soon, it was pitch black. The slaves lit candles again, relighting the room. Each flame flickered with an eerie crimson hue, devoid of warmth, like the color of cooled blood—Yubi thought, fresh blood is warm.
As if in response to his association, a pungent, bloody stench violently assaulted everyone's nostrils from the bedroom where the birth was taking place. Yubi cruelly discovered that he was suddenly filled with hunger. He looked in the direction from which his sister had let out a horrifying scream.
He heard countless chaotic footsteps pattering on the ground. Ambikia's cries ceased, her breathing stopped. Her traces as a living person seemed to have been completely ripped away by some unknown god, vanishing abruptly. In her place—a clear, bright, and long-lasting cry of a newborn baby burst forth like thunder.
Yubi opened his mouth. He stared blankly at the bedroom door.
It was Isaac who stepped out of the door, carrying the bloodied newborn. He was expressionless, his face and body as stiff as a stone statue in the square. The nobleman moved his arm, his beaded sleeves stained with a deep, bluish-purple.
“I have a daughter.” He held up the blood-stained swaddling clothes in his arms.
A small, fragile arm wriggled out from there like a worm—Yubi saw that a ruby ring with an obsidian base and a blood-red color was loosely placed on the tender finger.
In the afternoon, a light rain began to fall in Constantinople. Yakov and Nuk busied themselves for the last time wiping the bloodstains from their weapons and checking their wear and tear. The rain made the temperature slightly cooler, but it also made their nasal passages feel damp and sticky, and their breathing stuffy. After putting away the weapons, he rushed to the stable to check on the condition of the all-black Turkic horse with only white hooves—the horse seemed sullen for some reason, its nose crooked against his palm, as if it were being affectionate, or perhaps it was dissatisfied with the fierce fighting of the past few days—this was not a well-trained warhorse.
“The last one.” Yakov patted and massaged its back, combing its beautiful, smooth mane. “Just a little longer.”
Only two contestants remained in the Grand Arena—Yakov and Seilman's tents were separated, each in a far corner, unable to meet. The Blood Slave understood the referee's reasoning: no one wanted a battle that should have been cheered on by 100,000 people to take place prematurely in an unknown location, resulting in casualties and ruining the most exciting part of the competition.
The knight calmed himself down and slowly, piece by piece, put on his chainmail, letting his squire's trembling fingers fasten the leather buckles and tie the knots in the perforated leather straps.
“The Emperor has come to watch this decisive battle.” Nuk’s voice trembled as if he had been frozen in the snow all day. “...He is sitting in the best stand in front of the arena with the best view.”
“You don’t need to be afraid of the emperor.” Yakov stood motionless inside the tent. “He is not our opponent, he is just a spectator.”
“You, you’re right.” Nuk tied the last knot for him. “May you have good fortune in battle, sir.”
Yakov picked up the helmet and put it on. His vision became even darker in the rainy weather, with only a sliver of light shining through the visor onto his eyes.
"Let's go." He took the reins. "It's time to enter."
Expensive purple curtains hung above the stands, making the atmosphere even more intense than the day before. Yakov didn't know what had driven the audience to such frenzy. To him, it was an amplification of vanity, and a test of courage. He no longer wore his bright cloak and banners, but he was more confident and arrogant than ever—red was the color of blood, a symbol of injury and pain, Yakov thought. Only the pure, somber black of his body made him all the more terrifying, like a death knight riding down from hell; no one could help but tremble at the sight of such a powerful knight.
The entire vast arena was prepared solely for him and Seilman. Yakov passed through the gate amidst deafening cheers and insults. From a great distance, he saw Seilman on the opposite side, dressed in white robes, slowly riding towards him from beneath a gate flanked by four gilded bronze horses—a pure white Akhal-Teke horse that gleamed against the overcast sky.
Accompanied by attendants, the two warriors trudged through the sand, circling the arena and basking in the glow of the spectators. Finally, to the accompaniment of music, the two warriors stopped before the fountain on the three-headed serpent pillar in the center of the arena, facing the central stands where the emperor was seated.
This was the first time Yakov had seen the emperor's face so closely. The dark-skinned old man sat in an extremely luxurious chair, his right hand holding a royal orb adorned with a cross, and his left hand gripping a golden scepter studded with jewels. A deep purple cloak with gold trim draped over his shoulders, and his waist and arms were adorned with gold-inlaid jewels. Yakov observed his expression from beneath his helmet. The emperor's spirits didn't seem to be at their best, perhaps because he wasn't particularly interested in the tournament. He thought, this must be one of the most arrogant and conceited men in the world, his imposing presence hanging like a dark cloud overhead.
"Outstanding warriors," the emperor praised them briefly. "I will follow tradition and present the victors with a wreath of myrtle made of gold."
A court lady took a delicate, exquisite floral crown from a box and held it aloft, its leaves as thin as cicada wings, their veins lifelike—Yakov's gaze followed the movement of her arm—and he suddenly caught sight of a nobleman, his head wrapped in a veil, completely concealed, silently watching him from the bustling audience. Beside the nobleman sat a person dressed simply and similarly, whose gender was indistinguishable. The two were very close, leaning against each other.
Who was that, a leper? Yakov's gaze was quickly forced back. He lowered his head and bit his chapped lips under his helmet.
“May the Lord’s grace be with us in the sacred arena.” A bishop stepped forward. “You fight for honor and victory, but true victory is loyalty to God’s will and mercy to the weak.”
"This is not only a contest of strength, but also a baptism of the soul. The victor should be humble and grateful, and the loser should be tolerant and magnanimous."
"May you uphold the principles of chivalry and justice, and strive for the glory and courage of warriors. Practice the path of faith."
"May the love of the Virgin Mary and the protection of the Holy Spirit, the Son, and the Father accompany you."
The bishop blessed them with a branch of silver willow dipped in water, but Yakov couldn't tell if it was holy water or raindrops falling. He spurred his horse around, clashing his lance against Seleman's spear. Their horses were led back to the entrance by their attendants.
The referee in the arena raised his flag. The drums and horns, symbolizing the start of the battle, sounded.
Yakov raised his lance and stared at the huge colorful flag hanging in the rain—the flag fell, he gripped the stirrups tightly, and his black horse galloped off like lightning.
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