Act XI: The Promised Land (Part XII)
twelve
For the fourth day in a row, Sancho had stopped peasants carrying flails and sickles at the gates of Ashkelon. "...No need to say more." He snatched a strip of cloth from the hand of a stuttering, slurred peasant; a cross was drawn on it in red paint. "Was it 'Lord Yakov' who sent you again?"
“Sir, you’re right.” The villager in the lead had a face covered in boils. “Where should we stay, and what should we eat?”
Sancho sighed and checked each of them. "Where did you come from?"
“Sir, we live in the mountains by the sea, at a place with a dilapidated stone archway. It collapsed, and now only half of it remains.” The farmer gestured to show the shape. “Our village is right next to the stone archway, under a very large olive tree. Lord Yakov called us here from there…”
Half of the village was nestled in the mountains by the sea, under olive trees, next to a dilapidated archway. Sancho interrupted their answer, "Are you Christians or [illegible]?" He straightened his round face, adopting a stern expression.
"We are Christians!" the farmers immediately responded passionately. "All the villagers have been driven away, not a single one is left!"
"...Come into the city first, and line up at the fortress." Sancho beckoned his squire to lead the way, and then gestured to the guards on the tower, ordering them to lift the city gate. These past few days, being summoned back and forth by his rebellious comrade had been driving him crazy. He was just thinking to himself that he should give Yakov a good scolding when they met again, when he saw a long, serpentine dust storm rising from the distant sands—three horses were galloping from the edge of the desert and the beach, their red-crossed cloaks billowing in the wind.
"...Where have you been these past few days!" He staggered a few steps and stopped Yakov's horse in front of the city gate. "You've only ever caused me trouble!"
Yakov tumbled from his horse—his comrades found him covered in dust, his lips cracked, his robe filthy as if he'd rolled on the ground, and his three once-swift horses now half-dead from this stubborn, reckless rider. "...Have some water first." Sancho was about to scold him but then softened, simply taking off his own water pouch and placing it in his hand. "The Grand Master may not pursue your transgressions...but you always ruin yourself like this, without even informing anyone. Why do you insist on being a lone wolf? Why don't you discuss it with us?"
Koyakov simply pushed aside his water pouch without even glancing at it. "Where is Yubi?" he asked, his voice hoarse and dry. "Is he still on the Temple Mount?"
"Can't you ask something else?" Sancho snorted from beneath his curly beard. "I didn't ask him to come along, don't worry. I won't mess up the thing you entrusted to me."
Yakov relaxed as if a puppet had finally been released from its strings. He bent over, snatched the water from his comrade, and gulped down half the jug. Water droplets trickled from the corners of his mouth into his beard, instantly turning the dirty sand on his face into muddy streaks. As he swallowed, he led the three horses past the thick stone wall with heavy steps.
"Close the city gates immediately." Yakov coughed twice, choking on the water, before speaking again. "I came from Gaza."
Sancho keenly sensed something from the tone. His dark eyes darted nervously, and he immediately pulled his servant to his side. "What's wrong with Gaza?" he asked, pressing down on Yakov's shoulder.
Yakov struggled to catch his breath, and Sancho patted his chest several times, then pulled off his scorching hot iron hat and threw it on the ground.
“Saladin,” he said, moving his chapped lips, “Gaza is surrounded by Saladin.”
Upon hearing this news, Sancho's squire gasped and fled from their side like arrows. A moment later, Yakov heard a commotion erupt around him—knights, squires, soldiers, craftsmen, even barons, counts, princes, bishops, and the young, frail leper king all appeared on the city walls. Everyone gazed southward at the barren, scorching sands. Gaza was only half a day's walk from Ashkelon, yet the billowing sands in the distance seemed not to be blown up by the sea breeze, but rather created by the trampling of a thousand hooves, about to engulf the newly built fortress and unleash a bloodbath.
"We have the True Cross with us," the archbishop from Bethlehem declared fervently from the city wall, his eyes gleaming. "The Lord's holy relic will enable us to fear no terrible enemy!"
Yakov wearily closed his eyes amidst all the fanatical knights around him. Sancho helped him toward the fortress, but he had already fallen asleep in the corridor, too lazy to listen to any of the useless and ethereal mobilization.
The Roman fleet had departed, and the Count of Flanders' crusaders and the Knights Hospitaller had headed north. Only about three hundred knights remained in the entire Holy Land, eighty of whom were Templars. Including all squires and soldiers, there were only about two thousand men, the majority in Ashkelon and a small portion in Gaza—the mere two thousand were separated by Saladin's thirty thousand-strong army in two cities half a day's journey apart, unable to reunite. Yakov thought that if he were Saladin, even dividing his army in two to attack the cities separately would be considered a smooth victory, and even a win wouldn't be a great honor.
But both cities were port cities. Italian merchants loved to sell their goods at high prices during times of crisis, willing to risk their lives for gold. Thanks to them, Yakov didn't encounter the famine and civil war common during sieges in his dreams. His mind was preoccupied with the Solomon's underground passage on the Temple Mount, dreaming of the basement beside the stables—his heart felt as if it were being pulled towards that place by a thread. He was extremely worried, fearing that the war would take away something sacred and pure, fearing that his unruly master would disobey him and act recklessly—
The knight opened his eyes and found himself in the fortress's barracks, surrounded by darkness and many snoring soldiers. He fumbled for a flint and lit a candle, intending to find something to eat for his ravenous body while waiting for Sancho to come and relieve him—Yakov turned his head and caught sight of a dark figure peering upside down through the narrow stone window. A pair of red eyes, framed by crooked bricks, gleamed evilly in the candlelight.
The Blood Slave was furious, clutching his chest to calm himself; yet, seeing this, he inexplicably felt a sense of peace. "What are you doing here?" he asked, moving closer to block the window. "Aren't you afraid someone will see you?"
“You bring this up the moment we meet.” Yubi reached her wrist through the window. “I’m so worried about you, I can’t do anything about it. I’ll go crazy if Ashkelon doesn’t come looking for you.”
The window was far too small; even the thinnest person couldn't fit inside. The vampire tried to squeeze in but got stuck and quickly turned into a cloud of black mist that rushed into the room—Yakov grabbed his wrist and pulled him away. The two, carrying candles, avoided the guards in the fortress and hid in a dimly lit corner of the staircase, right next to the deserted chapel.
"Didn't I tell you not to come out?" Yakov roared in a low voice. "Why didn't you stay on Mount Temple and instead came to the battlefield? Now that you're here, you can't accomplish anything!"
“Do you really expect Sancho and Schumer to control me? I can come and go as I please, and nobody can stop me.” Yubi patted himself down—Yakov noticed that the Saracen robe he often wore when he came had an opening at the back under the coat, which showed that the vampire had planned to do this all along—“I brought you a gift, Yakov, have a taste.”
The blood slave hadn't even recovered from his anger. He vaguely saw his master pull a dried-out sausage from his wide sleeve. "...What's this?" Yakov frowned, thinking he was seeing things. "You sneaked into the besieged city in the middle of the night just to give me this?"
“I made this myself with them when I went to Eudosia.” Yubi winked at him with a smile. “Try their new recipe and also try my cooking.”
Yakov stood there, speechless, unable to refute this absurd behavior. Yubi shoved a sausage into his hand, and seeing his indifference, took it out and stuffed it into his mouth. The blood slave chewed stiffly a couple of times. The fragrant aroma of the cured meat seemed to have vanished completely; he couldn't taste a trace of it. Like a vampire who had lost his sense of taste, Yakov thought, how could he possibly be interested in trying any new sausage recipe now?
"How is it?" Yubi looked at him expectantly. "Does it taste good?"
"...Don't you have a heart?" Yakov grabbed the vampire's robe. "You're not a child anymore, you've seen it all. Don't you know what war is all about? Don't you know what time it is? Maybe in two days, the Saracens outside the city will breach the walls and kill everyone here. Gaza, Ashkelon, and then Jerusalem! And you're still thinking about making sausages for me?"
“But this war between Christians and communists has nothing to do with you and me.” Yubi angrily broke free from him. “I came here for you! As long as I’m here, no one can kill you, just like in the Colosseum in Constantinople, you are invincible!”
Yakov felt as if he had been subtly insulted. Many faces flashed through his mind, each with their own beliefs and reasons for fighting. He wanted to ask, "Don't others have anything to do with me?" But he also felt that what did their choices and the war have to do with him? Why should he be responsible for their folly? The knight finally remembered why they had come to this barren land: they had only come seeking war and land, never intending to protect any peace or faith.
The sausage in his mouth seemed to regain its flavor because of this indifference. Yubi, staring into his wavering eyes, broke off another piece and stuffed it into his mouth. "Is it good?" the vampire asked again. "Yodosia and Naya asked me what this sausage tastes like, but I can only ask you to know the answer. You know, Schumer can't eat this stuff because it's made of pork..."
"It's a bit dry, and too salty," Yakov commented seriously, frowning. "If you want to sell here, you should make it milder. Salty food makes people thirstier."
“I really have to ask you to get practical and sincere advice.” Yubi stuffed the remaining sausage into his arms. “I’ll tell Yudosia that when I get back.”
But how long could that little girl sell her sausages and cured meat in Jerusalem? Yakov felt as if he were being torn in two, one half as cold as ice, the other as hot as fire. He thought that if Saladin conquered the Holy City, the authorities would never allow any Christian to sell pork there again.
He pursed his lips, the words stuck in his throat, he felt it would be pretentious to say them out loud, but swallowing them back would be disheartening.
“I’m not going back to the Temple Mount, okay? I want to stay by your side.” Yubi hugged his warm arm. “Whatever you plan to do, whichever city you want to seize, whether from the Franks or the Saracens, I can help you. I can give you strength in your hands and feet, and sharpen your hearing and sight. Maybe I really can help you win countless battles. With me here, you don’t need to worry about anything.”
“War is not a simple matter like a martial arts competition.” Yakov wiped his face with his palm and found that his head was still covered in dust. “You can’t win just by constantly healing me.”
"...How can one win a war?" Yubi asked, craning his neck. "How can you win?"
“We don’t have enough men here. To win, we must rely on tactical superiority.” Yakov wearily raised his hand and pinched his temple. “We need to know the enemy’s movements, understand this terrain, find a way to confuse them… and faith and morale are essential. We have to fight ten men each…”
“That sounds really difficult,” Yubi sighed. “Even if I turned all of them into blood slaves, it would still be a difficult task.”
Yakov was so horrified by these terrible words that his entire body trembled and clenched in pain. He pulled his hand away from Yubi's cold embrace, stood up from the steps, and was about to scold his master when another new candle flame spiraled down the stairs. The vampire beside him immediately turned into a cloud of black mist and rushed into the adjacent chapel, hiding behind the statue.
“I’ve been looking for you all the way here,” Sancho’s surprised, round face appeared in the light. “Were you praying, Yakov? That’s quite rare!”
Yakov reluctantly nodded. "...It's time to change shifts." He patted his burqa. "I'll go with you."
“Actually, there’s still some time. Talk to me for a bit; I was just thinking of praying anyway.” But his comrade pulled him back down the steps. Two small candles cast shadows on their faces, their shadows flickering restlessly. “…This smells like salted meat,” Sancho sniffed, “Did you secretly eat some dried meat yourself?”
Yakov didn't bother to hide it. He simply pulled out the sausage Yubi had just handed him from his pocket. Sancho chuckled, took it from him, and took a bite.
“If only it had been cured longer,” the Spaniard shook his head regretfully. “Our bacon is cured with sea salt for at least ten months to become a delicious ham.”
“That would be so salty that people would have to drink water all day long,” Yakov said casually.
“You’re right, every place has its own unique cuisine.” Sancho chewed with his head down. “The grapes from Toledo can’t grow here, and even if they did, they wouldn’t taste the same.”
How could this carefree, always-laughing person have become like this? A wave of sorrow and resentment choked Yakov's chest, making it hard for him to breathe. "You regret it?" The knight pounded his comrade's shoulder. "Didn't you say you wanted the Holy Land to be like your homeland, where Christians, Muslims, and Jews could all live together peacefully?"
“What good is it if only I think this way? Besides, Toledo isn’t what it used to be anymore…” Sancho grinned, a smirk playing on his lips beneath his beard. “I can’t even get all Christians to think this way, let alone the barbarians outside the city. Their ancestors were slaughtered by the Crusaders in Jerusalem a hundred years ago; how can I expect them to forgive that and necessarily share my views…”
"Then you should go back to Constantinople with the Romans to avoid war."
“…You’re right, but I can’t do it.” Sancho’s hands clenched tightly together. “Sometimes I really envy you, Yakov. How wonderful it would be if I were like you, someone who has no illusions about the world and sees reality clearly. Your reason for coming here is simple and pure, just to find a fief for Lord Jubius—actually, it’s also for yourself, right? I understand, ambition, you know. It’s much easier for people to live for ambition rather than faith.”
Yakov shut his mouth. He was puzzled: was Sancho, that fool, suffering more than he was, or had he simply neglected his own faith?
“It’s not like we’re bound to lose the war,” he said slowly. “You make it sound like we’re destined to lose.”
“Even if we win, it’s not fair,” Sancho shook his head.
“You’re overthinking it.” Yakov turned his head. “Is there anyone in the world who is a perfect saint? Did Saladin never do anything unjust? If you don’t think about yourself or the Christians, you’ll be called a traitor.”
“That’s it, Yakov!” Sancho laughed heartily. “That’s what I envy about you. Someone like you can survive any hardship!”
Yakov was rendered ashamed and embarrassed by his words, as if surviving was a sin. The two rose from the stairs, the Blood Slave glancing discreetly at the chapel idols. "There's a limit to laziness," Sancho said, twisting his body to brush the dust off his backside. "It's almost dawn, and I'm exhausted. Eat something, then have Daoud take you to the post. Remember to tell him to bring the spare bow and arrows; I don't need to remind you."
“I don’t need you to remind me,” Yakov nodded steadily. It was as if Sancho had unloaded the heavy burden on his shoulders and handed it to him, and he, having received the praise of his comrades, was already a noble person capable of shouldering great responsibilities.
He washed his face with bitter water, and Daoud led him to the dimly lit top of the tower. The solid stone walls had tiny holes, just large enough to allow a hidden arrow to be fired. These were specifically designed for the defenders, allowing them to keep watch for enemy movements while protecting themselves. Yakov peered out from behind one of the holes.
As dawn broke, just as the morning prayers were about to begin, the soldiers outside the city chanted their prayers, their voices echoing through the air. Thirty thousand infidels—Saladin's army—were encamped on the low hillside, a dark, imposing mass. The army stretched between the two cities, waving their banners inscribed with Arabic calligraphy. It was late autumn, but unlike elsewhere, the land here didn't display different colors with the seasons. The yellowish-white sand was covered year-round by unchanging brownish-green shrubs, also growing densely and darkly amidst the dust.
Yakov wondered why the Mamluks hadn't attacked yet. A day and a night had passed since he spotted the army. As dawn broke, the Mamluks, while leading unrelated prisoners captured along the way, shouted orders, attempting to breach the city; but no one in the city cared about those lowly lives.
The young squire couldn't withstand the pressure of war and soon fell into a deep sleep, leaving Yakov alone in the tower. His post was a crucial one, situated in the southwest corner of the fortress, offering a view of both the massive army on land and the supply ships of Italian merchants at sea.
"You're going to stay here all day?" Yubi's voice came from above him—a vampire hung from the ceiling, wrapped in a heavy robe to avoid the sun. "I've never seen a siege battle before."
“If you’re unlucky, you’ll get to see it for yourself today.” Yakov carefully examined the enemy’s army through the small hole, a ray of golden sunlight shining on his iris, making the blue appear pale and white. “It’s nothing fun.”
“I wish the fight started at night.” Yubi landed lightly behind him. “I could go outside and see everything. Just like inside Batur’s tent…”
"Do you think this is child's play?" Yakov interrupted him angrily. "If it weren't for dawn, I would never allow you to stay here. You can't get back to the Temple Mount, yet you dare to come and watch the battlefield?"
His master shut his mouth in grievance, hiding quietly in the shadows behind him.
Yakov shifted his gaze to the right onto the sea—the Italian supply ship was approaching the port again, much earlier than Daoud had told him. Yakov became suspicious and frowned.
"Can you see that ship?" He carefully pulled Yubi closer, making sure the vampire didn't get too close to the sun. "Are there Christians or prostitutes on that ship?"
"You're really making things difficult for me!" Yubi looked at him in shock. "Even with my excellent eyesight, I can't see through a person's beliefs!"
“...Look at their attire and beards,” Yakov patiently explained to him, “They all like to keep very long beards.”
“What’s the use of just looking at these outward appearances?” Yubi retorted. “Look at me, with my head wrapped in a turban and veil, don’t I look like a bastard? Don’t all the nobles in Jerusalem dress like bastards? If a bastard wants to disguise himself, he can just change his clothes.”
Yakov clicked his tongue, pulled him aside, and peered through the hole himself. "This ship belongs to the Christians," he concluded decisively. "There are fat pigs running around on the deck, can't you tell?"
“Who says a ship with pigs on deck is necessarily a Christian ship?” Yubi stomped his foot angrily. “I heard from Yudosia that a few days ago, a certain [unclear] went to the pig market disguised as a Christian and was recognized!”
Yakov suddenly stopped arguing with him. The knight opened his mouth and then closed it again, his mind racing, and he stood there dumbfounded for a long time. He grabbed Yubi and hid behind a pillar, kicking the sleeping squire awake.
"M-Sir!" Daoud was so startled that he immediately straightened his crooked hat, wiped the drool from his mouth, and scrambled to his feet. "I'm sorry, I fell asleep!"
"Get to the port immediately!" Yakov yelled into his ear. "There are spies disguised as Christians coming from the sea!"
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