Act X, The True Knight (XIV)
fourteen
Constantinople grew hotter each day. When Nuk delivered the black armor in June, Yakov glanced at it and closed his eyes in distress. He could imagine how stuffy and hot it would be to wear. They slipped out of the city at night and found an inconspicuous hillside.
"Try them on!" Yubi and Helen urged him. "See if anything doesn't fit!"
The two boys bustled about, helping Yakov put on the outfit. Aside from the solid chainmail, there were two arm guards covering his upper arms and two leg guards covering his thighs, secured inside with sturdy, intricate leather buckles. Add to that two gloves and two spur-studded boots, all forged and painted by a blacksmith, adorned with luxurious gold patterns. The matching helmet was full-face, padded, and secure and comfortable, but Yakov found its red-dyed ostrich feathers too flashy and ostentatious. Not to mention the patterned robe and cloak—also red, embroidered with moons and bat wings in gold and silver thread. Numerous tassels hung from his shoulders and neck. Finally, Daoud helped him fasten a gilded belt. The lavish attire shimmered and dazzled in the moonlight and candlelight.
“It matches your horse armor.” Yubi pointed to his mount, which was adorned with decorations and draped in cloth, with almost nothing showing except its eyes. “How does it look?”
“…I told you not to be so flamboyant,” Yakov sighed and complained.
"You were the one who said you wanted black armor!"
"Then what is this pattern?"
“My sister said that Mother used to use the moon and bat wings as the family crest.” Yubi turned around, admiring Yakov wearing it, touching it with obvious affection, completely ignoring his complaints. “So I let you use it.”
"You look incredibly imposing," Helen exclaimed, praising him exaggeratedly. "Even William Marshall couldn't match you!"
Yakov rolled his eyes and looked up at the sky. "Luckily, that formidable knight didn't have time to come from England to compete."
“I’ll have Nuk come with you, okay?” The slaves behind Yubi carried out tents and beds, and placed lamps and provisions on another horse. They prepared various weapons—longswords and spears, shields and daggers, two sets of each. “More attendants mean more people to take care of you.”
Yakov caught Daoud and Nuk exchanging excited glances, having already changed into matching servant robes. "Since the lad's willing, let him come along," he added in a strange tone, "as long as he doesn't gamble in secret again."
“You’ve already scolded them, they know it themselves.” Yubi smiled and took his hand. “Is there anything else you need?”
"It's probably gone."
"Um…"
Their hands were clasped tightly together, and they were reluctant to let go.
“Let me bless you.” Yubi raised his head and stared into the deep piercing in the center of the mask in front of him. Even in the darkness, he could still clearly see Yakov’s eyes watching his every move.
My knight,
May your sword be fearless against wind and frost, and may your steed run swiftly like the wind.
May you be propelled to the pinnacle of glory, may you be crowned with the garland of victory.
If the dust and grime have stained your armor, I will wipe away the traces of wind and frost for you;
If your banner is soaked with blood, I will wash away the filth of your sins.
Please do not be afraid, do not hesitate.
When you win the crown, I will be with you.
Yakov knelt down on one knee before him. He held the helmet and kissed the cold headband.
"Good luck, Yakov." Yubi helped him to his feet. "See you at the arena tomorrow."
At daybreak, Yakov packed his belongings and set off with two attendants. He raised a high a black banner adorned with a moon and wings, facing the bright sunrise, and rode down the hillside. They crossed the moat in the coolest hour of dawn and entered through the Charesius Gate.
The city had just awakened. Everyone stared at his gleaming, beautiful armor, marveling at it. He walked along the Via Messer into the walls of Constantine, saw the Valens Aqueduct to the north, stepped into the familiar Forum of the Bulls, and passed the towering Trajan's Column—as if walking in the opposite direction, gloriously retracing the cobblestone path where he first arrived, retracing the steps of his initial panic and struggle—he returned to the entrance of the Colosseum amidst murmurs of envy and resentment, stood at the feet of the four gilded bronze horses, and walked proudly among the knights waiting for their individual matches, approaching the official in charge of registration under the scrutiny of the crowd.
“Sir, please state your name,” the registrar asked him in Latin.
“My name is Ursus Lieber,” he said. “A free knight from the North.”
The registrar frowned at the obviously false name. “Ursus Lieber, the free bear… with two attendants.” He adjusted his hat. “Please go to the open space over there and wait for the weapons and equipment inspection.”
Lord Xiong nodded calmly and led two attendants to the side. Just then, he heard the sound of hooves behind his horse that did not belong to him, so he turned around to look.
Just one glance from him and his throat went so dry he couldn't make a sound.
The new contestant wore a simple cotton armor. It bore a familiar symbol, like the insignia on the chest of a blood slave, symmetrically arranged on four sides to form a flamboyant cross.
“Sir, please state your name.” The registrar saw him and switched to Greek to ask.
“Seleman Kanakakis,” the contestant replied with a smile, “the commander of an Imperial division.”
"Why don't you tell him?" Helen asked softly. "I think knowing this would make him more self-aware."
“Because he trusts me, and I trust him.” Yubi said goodbye to her in the Genoa concession. “Thank you for your help, Helen. I will make my own decision.”
The tailor said nothing more, only bowed and made the sign of the cross. "May your knight be victorious, Lord Eubius." She bent down and kissed the gold ring engraved with heraldry on Eubius's hand.
Yubi withdrew his hand and led a group of slaves out of the concession into the night.
He returned to the Hagia Sophia. After his morning prayers, he walked down the side door into a deep, dark underground tunnel filled with the sound of flowing water, following the eerie flickering candlelight to the tranquil underground cistern.
A crimson figure, hidden in the shadows, bowed to him and offered him a hooded, blood-red robe. Yubi took it and draped it over himself, letting the draped fabric conceal his face. He continued slowly toward his mother's enormous tombstone, his footsteps echoing ethereally through the damp stone walls.
A large crowd had already gathered before the silver bust of the woman, whispering amongst themselves. Upon seeing Yubi arrive, they all bowed and gently touched the left side of their chests, where their hearts would be.
"When is my sister's due date?" Yubi asked. "Will it be earlier or later than the competition?"
“It’s hard to say,” a man with an Arabic accent replied. “The tournament will last for several days, and a woman’s delivery cannot be accurately predicted. It’s all up to fate, to see when the child in her womb wants to be born.”
Everyone listened silently to their conversation, not uttering a sound. "Why are you so bothered by this, dear brother?" Ambicea approached him slowly from behind—she was nearing her due date, her belly swollen and cumbersome, her steps faltering, requiring two people to support her as she moved. "No matter when I give birth, I can't return this ring to you. You can't bear to see your nephew and niece forever as infants."
“…I don’t want that ring.” Yubi turned away, mustering her courage to face her. “I have my own knight, and I have my own thoughts.”
“So you do care about this.” Ambikia’s gaze was like a sharp arrow, sweeping across the robes of each hermit in the dimly lit water palace, as if trying to pierce the heavy, crimson fabric and peer into their souls. “I don’t want to give you platitudes, to force you to understand your weakness and innocence, to make you calculate gains and losses in your life.” Her lips smiled, as red as if stained with blood. “All you want is a small city in Egypt—that’s no big deal. I won’t think you’re deliberately going against me, nor do I want you to think I’m stealing your toy.”
"You can help whomever you want. But since that's the case, you have no right to meddle in my affairs."
"If you really want to compete, even over something this small, let's be fair to each other, Yubi."
Yubi clenched his fist beneath his robe. “I thank you, sister…” he said, both earnest and furious, “I cannot remain your vassal forever. The future is too long for us. This was bound to happen sooner or later.”
“I haven’t complained to you about this, nor do I resent you or blame you. You are still my close brother.” Anbichia was helped to sit on a soft chair. “You just need to think carefully and bear the consequences yourself.”
“I’ve thought it through,” Yubi said. “I’ll take full responsibility for the consequences.”
Anbicia's smile blossomed like a flower, though fine lines appeared on her puffy, mortal face. "Then do what you want to do." She placed her warm hand on Yubi's cold hair and stroked it. "Those with ambition will always take the first step. I admire your courage and wish you all the best for the future."
A terrible desire made Yubi's fangs itch and ache. He saw Ambikia's veins spreading throughout her body, as fragile as any ordinary person he saw every day—did his sister see the same thing when she looked at him wearing the ring? And what was inside her was just a shadow, a misty mass sinking into the twisted flesh, wriggling with each heartbeat—had he himself been such a shadow, feeding on his mother's flesh and blood? How could a mother not resent her child, yet nourish him with her own body?
“I will not come here again.” Yubi bowed to her.
“Go ahead,” Ambikia replied nonchalantly.
Yubi tore off the scarlet robe and threw it on the ground. He turned and left, disappearing into the dimly lit underground water palace.
Anbikia's radiant smile remained frozen as she watched her siblings depart. Only when someone offered her a cup of warm blood did her relaxed brow furrow slightly.
“In a few days, I won’t find this stuff unpleasant to drink anymore.” She slowly raised the cup, the ruby reflecting the blood on her fingers. “May my child be born soon, ending this torment of suffering.”
Daoud and Nuk set up a tent for Yakov in the open space of the Grand Arena, planting the huge, conspicuous black flag beside it, which fluttered in the wind. "My lord, isn't this too conspicuous..." the young servant asked timidly.
“The time to hide my talents is over.” Yakov was wiping his longsword, wishing it were spotless. “Once you’ve shown your strength, there’s no room for humility.”
The two squires exchanged glances. "May we look around?" Nuk asked bravely, eager to see which formidable knights had arrived!
“Besides knights, there are also warriors of the Empire!” Daoud chimed in enthusiastically.
Yakov simply waved his hand, and the two boys ran off one after the other. The tent was now quiet, giving his jumbled thoughts a chance to catch their breath. He lowered his longsword, staring silently at the ruby set in the hilt.
The last day before the competition was for inspection and the draw for group assignments. The knights and generals were already fully equipped and lined up at the edge of the arena. The early summer sun was already showing signs of its harshness, and Yakov's dark armor made him sweat beneath his helmet. He couldn't help but regret his suggestion to Yubi—he had originally wanted black armor to be more understated, but now it seemed impractical and made him look like a flashy, wealthy fool.
The contestants were shut out before an iron gate, awaiting entry. The arena's sand had been replaced with fine sand, soft and yielding to the horses' hooves. Through the narrow, elongated visors of his helmet, Yakov peered out and glimpsed the area around the arena already packed with people. An endless sea of heads, a surging ocean of colors, rose and fell in waves of cheers—for whom were they cheering? Perhaps for the free bread and light wine, perhaps for the emperor's majesty and glory. One hundred thousand men, once merely an insignificant number to him, now awaited him outside a gate about to open, one hundred thousand eyes about to be fixed upon him.
Yakov took a deep breath beneath his armor to calm himself. A hundred thousand spectators, not a hundred thousand enemies, he thought. Nothing to fear.
"Nervous?" Seyleman slowly rode his horse through the group of brightly colored knights to his side. "I was very nervous when I first came here."
"Who told you to participate?" Yakov straightened his back firmly, not allowing even the slightest crookedness in the bright red ostrich feathers on his head. "What good would it do you if you won?"
“This tournament is precisely for the Egyptian expedition, as you probably guessed.” Seleman lifted the visor of his helmet, revealing his dark face. “If I win, I will become one of the generals, stationed in the cities we conquer. Perhaps not as large and prosperous as Cairo or Alexandria, but perhaps a village in the desert with gold mines, and I will dedicate this wealth to my master.”
The familiar words filled Yakov with indescribable shame and indignation. He kept his mouth tightly shut under his helmet.
“But even if you win the championship, it won’t matter. Most Latin knights can’t,” Sellerman continued. “The emperor prefers readily available foreign troops and supplies to lone, courageous foreign generals.”
How could he not understand these things? Yakov thought. He understood them all too well, so much so that he etched these people's crimes deep into his heart to punish himself. Before, he could escape and endure them, but now he could not.
“You want the icing on the cake, but I want the well water in the drought.” Yakov’s voice was calm but angry. “Your words won’t make me let go of the well rope. Instead, you should carefully consider which is more powerful: the greed of a bloated mind or the hope of escaping a desperate situation.”
Seilerman smiled wryly. "Well water in a drought, hope in a desperate situation." He pondered these words carefully. "Is that really so, Ursus Lieber—the free bear?"
Before Yakov could grasp the meaning of those words, the melody of ceremonial horns rang out from outside the iron gates, and the deafening shouts of the audience abruptly interrupted their tense conversation. The squires beside them vigorously turned the scroll, and with a sickening creak, the iron gate before the knights was slowly pulled open, the plow kicking up a cloud of dust.
Yakov gripped the flagpole tightly and spurred his horse fiercely. He charged into the cheers and dust with all the knights around him, welcoming the flowers, applause, and blinding sunlight. The enormous arena, countless people, the deafening noise, the sweltering heat—the daytime seemed like a dream, detached from reality. Yakov rode wildly with the crowd, the wind whistling past his ears, reminding him of many similar experiences: in the snow-capped mountains, in the desert, on the battlefield, on the journey.
The horses circled the arena, causing all the cloaks, horse armor, and flags to flutter in the wind, a feast for the eyes of the spectators. Yakov then realized that the contestants had been pre-assigned to two teams: one of Latin knights and the other of Greek generals, so that the competition would mostly be a contest between Latins and Greeks. The intention behind this division was so obvious that it both amused him and sent chills down his spine.
A loud-voiced officiant introduced their names and backgrounds. Under everyone's watchful eyes, the officiant placed numbered clay shards into an embroidered bag and shook it. One by one, the contestants rode forward, drew lots from the bag to determine their numbers, and were paired with their opponents—Yakov turned over his shard to check his number. He looked up as the officiant announced his first opponent.
He was a young, arrogant nobleman named Angelos. Yakov recalled hearing that name five years ago in the forest during a hunting trip.
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