Act XI: The Promised Land (Part 11)
eleven
"Have you ever read the Old Testament, Yakov?"
Schumer picked up a book. It looked like a Bible, but it was written in Hebrew—the Jew opened the Talmud and pointed out the illustrations to Yakov. The Blood Slave looked up and glanced at it; it depicted two brothers fighting. "Jacob stole his brother Esau's identity, wore his clothes, and took his inheritance…"
“Whose blood slave is that?” Yubi had removed his veil in the basement. He rushed to Yakov, squeezing between the knight and the map. “Stop looking, think quickly, haven’t you ever seen this person before? You said you killed a Templar Knight in Transylvania and took his clothes to your mother… What did that person look like? Is it this Yesau?”
"Did you kill that man?" Schumeer asked nervously. "Was he still alive when you took his armor? What was his name on his identification document? Did he see your face?"
"Was the Templar Knight you killed a blood slave?" Yubi's face loomed directly in front of Yakov's. "Did that man have a mark on his chest?"
Yakov shoved him irritably and snatched the book from Schumer's hand, closing it behind him. "I don't remember! I was illiterate back then, and I knew nothing about vampires!" He insisted on returning his gaze to the map of the holy land, studying the four tax-paying villages listed in the Yubi Pact. "I smashed that man's face; I didn't notice anything!"
“Maybe that man isn’t dead…maybe he was saved by another vampire!” Yubi screamed in fright. “Is it my brother? Mother said he’s been in the Hungarian court…is that Templar Knight my brother’s blood slave?”
“That crusaders might have been sent by Inard to your mother’s castle back then,” Schumacher frowned. “And now they’ve tracked us all the way to the Holy Land…for what?”
“Maybe it’s for me!” Yubi’s eyes widened.
“Perhaps that blood slave named Christina is the same!” Schumeer exclaimed. “Perhaps Inard wants to get rid of you!”
The two men made wild guesses, one after another. Yakov felt inexplicably irritated, as if their words were somehow provoking a sensitive nerve, as if bees were buzzing around his ears. These feelings of suspicion, inferiority, and danger pierced his brain like needles, making it impossible for him to think about anything else—"What's the point of you guessing like this? What's the point of asking me? What does it matter who the Templar Knight I killed was?" he growled angrily. "The great battle is imminent, I have so many things to do, I don't have time for these unanswerable questions!"
"...Why do you care so much about this war?" Yubi asked again, looking aggrieved. "Even if we help the king defend Jerusalem, we won't get the city the emperor promised... This isn't Egypt."
Hearing this, Yakov laughed in anger. "Just because it's not an Egyptian city doesn't mean you can't seize it!" he angrily grabbed Yubi's wrist. "War means death. When a person dies, what belongs to him is no longer his. If a city lord or lord dies, whether he's Frankish or Saracen, his position will be vacant, and someone will always try to take it! Why can't it be you?"
Yubi was so frightened by his terrifying appearance that he shut his mouth and shrank back.
"...Are you seeking revenge again, Yakov?" Schumer sighed. "Do you feel that everyone has wronged you, so it doesn't matter whose it is?"
“No one is innocent.” Yakov turned and glared at the newly formed amber eyes. “In that case, I have no reason to talk about conscience or contracts!”
He released Yubi's wrist, rolled up the map on the table, and put it into his pouch along with the village decree. Like a wild beast driven mad by rage, the knight grabbed his whip and charged out the door—Yubi's room was in Solomon's underground corridor, with the stables just up the stairs. He brought out three swift horses and chased away Daoud, who had tried to help—the young squire couldn't keep up with his days of travel and had been left idle and remorseful on the Temple Mount for a whole month.
"My lord, the Grand Master has ordered all the knights to go to Gaza and Ashkelon to repair the fortresses..." Daoud followed him with difficulty, "Where are you going!"
“I’ll go in a few days.” Yakov mounted his horse, spurred it south towards the temple gate, and said, “You go with Sancho, don’t worry about me!”
He emerged alone from the yellow and white stone portico and raced down the Temple Mount. Yubi chased after him up the stairs and stopped beside the stable. The vampire was once again trapped by the twilight line, and could only watch from the shadows as the figure disappeared into the swirling sand, growing ever more distant, escaping unnoticed.
“…You still have me, Yakov!” he cried out. “You did it for me, and I did it for you!”
He didn't know if the knight had heard his plea. The sound of hooves quickly disappeared into the howling dust and gale, leaving no echo.
Whenever war was imminent, people would flock into the city like sheep to hide. The ascetic who had previously touted miracles would walk barefoot around the city walls, muttering new nonsense.
"This is divine retribution!" he roared hoarsely. "You have been killing and waging war in the name of God! Everything is retribution. If the enemy takes the Holy City, it is God punishing you for your cruel crimes!"
"That's an old, tired argument." A passing bard played a tune praising the Eastern Expedition. "Didn't the Pope say that those who fight for God can wash away their sins and be redeemed?"
“None of you are fighting for God! None of you understand the Lord’s good intentions!” the ascetic cursed. “You have only been awakened by the blows of heretics… Bloodlust and vengeful thoughts have turned you all into devils. If you do not repent, the Lord will abandon you!”
A passerby picked up a stone and threw it at him. "Spreading heresy," the passerby said. "Shut your stinking mouth, you traitor who speaks for heretics."
The ascetic grabbed his shepherd's staff and struck the man hard on the back. "God's teachings are love and virtue, peace and respect!" he shouted madly, shoving the man to the ground. "Only those corrupted by Satan would do such heinous things, worse than even heretics! Who is the traitor?"
An Armenian man forcefully pulled him away. "My homeland has been completely occupied by the enemy," he cried, his voice choked with sobs. "Christians have to pay exorbitant taxes there, they're not allowed to own land, they're not allowed to enter churches, and even funerals can't be held according to Christian rites. Even so, won't God allow us to fight back?"
Another Frankish pilgrim approached. "My family was robbed on the road and enslaved," he said, tears welling in his eyes. "They're imprisoned in Damascus and forced to convert. I wish I could kill all the infidels!"
Another Greek spoke with deep sorrow. “My brother died on the battlefield against the Turks.” He seemed lost in thought. “You say God teaches us to be kind, but the infidels never think that way. They are cunning, they trample on peace. How can God not allow His followers to take up arms and rise up in resistance? How can God tolerate His followers being humiliated, having their definition of virtue distorted, and being placed below others?”
The ascetic's lips trembled, and his thin chest bulged. Like a resounding bell, he straightened his back and let out a deafening howl.
“If you do the same things as them, the same things as the devil,” he said, his withered hand gripping the shepherd’s staff tightly, “you will be no different from them, no different from the devil!”
Unfortunately, his words only fueled the crowd's anger. The Christians of the holy city picked up sand and stones and pelted him on the head. The old and frail ascetic was struck to the ground without resistance, his expression indifferent yet resolute, as if no amount of blood and wounds could break his faith. Until a Templar Knight rode up and dispersed the crowd, slowly approaching him.
“You don’t understand what the Lord is thinking,” the knight said. “The Lord understands and has mercy on all of humanity’s joys and sorrows, including anger and sin. You think this is where the evil of humanity lies, but the Lord thinks it is where the fragility of humanity lies. The Lord has already redeemed the sins of all who believe in Him, and even if we become the devil in order to defeat the devil, the Lord will forgive us.”
After speaking, he summoned several guards to take away the weeping, incoherent ascetic, and left through the Gate of David with his men. The mournful lament continued to haunt the city walls like an unyielding ghost.
"Hell, hell!" the voice cried. "We don't live among humans, we live in hell!"
Eudosia glanced at the commotion, then returned to her work—the young noblewoman knew nothing about cooking and relied entirely on her female slaves to select the pork. She rolled up her sleeves and rubbed the spices and salt between her soft, clean hands. Soon, her fingers were filled with foul-smelling, slippery fat.
"What do you think?" Naya asked lightly, her head bowed. "If Jerusalem falls, do you also believe it is divine retribution from the Lord?"
“…Don’t say such things, Naya,” Yudosia angrily increased the pressure of her kneading, “The Holy City will not fall.”
“I’ve heard that Saladin has an army of 200,000 men in Damascus alone,” Naya sighed almost inaudibly. “How do you know the Holy City won’t fall?”
Eudosia's face flushed again. She pouted, as if racking her brains for several reasons, but none of them came out. "...The Holy City will not fall." She repeated only once more, "If the Holy City falls, where will Pascal look for me when he returns from the north? And where will I look for him?"
Naya chuckled at the naive and awkward words spoken in love. She turned around and saw her daughter, who knew nothing of the war, squatting by the flour basin, her face covered in powder; she looked up again and saw baskets piled high with date palms under the tree in the yard; she turned her gaze back to the window in front of the kitchen, which faced the market, and looked at the bustling crowd—as if this was how peace should be, as if there had never been a war, and there would never be one. As if peace was frozen in this moment, and that moment was eternity.
She secretly prayed to an unknown god in her heart, hoping that the noble and indifferent god would still have a trace of pity and compassion in his heart.
“Look,” Eudosia suddenly nudged her with her elbow, “there’s another argument in the market.”
“All the guards here have been transferred to the south to build a fortress.” Naya glanced up helplessly and then ignored her, focusing on washing the pig intestines in her hands, waiting to stuff them with the marinated filling. “The city’s security is bound to get worse.”
The Greek girl beside her washed her hands with water, wiped them a few times on her coarse apron, and curiously peeked out from the doorway to join the commotion. Naya didn't want to call her back, and silently buried herself in doing both of their chores. Outside the window, various languages clamored together; she heard Latin, Greek, and French mixed together, and soon the voices of Saracens speaking Arabic could be heard. This was wrong—even though Jerusalem had opened up to Muslims, allowing them to worship at the distant mosque, the place in the city where Muslims shouldn't be was their neighborhood—this was the pig market, the streets filled with unclean food that pagans despised.
Naya finally looked up with worry to find Yudosia. She quickly washed her hands and went out, still dripping wet. Fortunately, Yudosia was running back towards the door with a smile on her face.
“You’ve worried me,” Naya said, bending down slightly. “If anything happens to you, Lord Jubius will blame me.”
“I’m sorry, Naya. I won’t wander off anymore.” Eudosia gently took her hand. “But I just saw something interesting.”
What is it?
“Two thugs just came here,” the girl whispered to the slave girl. “They were disguised and came to buy fat pigs, but they were recognized and laughed at!”
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