Act XII: The Destruction of Sodom (Part 7)
seven
"What are you doing in Jaffa?" Yakov asked. "Where's your butcher shop in Jerusalem?"
Compared to her previous listless appearance, Eudosia now looked much more lively and cheerful, and her arms and legs seemed stronger and healthier. But upon hearing the question, she blushed for some reason, lowered her head, and remained silent. Just as Yakov was about to drop the matter, Naya spoke up for her from behind. "I heard that the Hospitallers who went north with Count Flanders are gradually returning," the slave girl replied with a smile. "The ship docked in Jaffa these past few days."
"You...you mustn't say it!" Eudosia tugged at her sleeve fiercely. "I'm so sorry, Lord Yakov...the pork shop has been closed for the past few days, thank you for your concern. We've revised our sausage recipe according to your previous suggestions, and business has indeed improved considerably..."
“Oh, Pascal,” Yakov said, feigning ignorance and naivety. “For him, even a sandstorm couldn’t stop you.”
A blush spread across Eudosia's face all the way to the roots of her neck. She clutched her headscarf tightly to her face, and after a long pause, managed to stammer out a complete sentence. "I...it's nothing, I think..." Her voice trembled like a thrush's cry, "We...we were fortunate to have met your comrade; he knew the way, otherwise our group would have gotten lost..."
Yakov glanced back warily and helplessly—Yesau was at the back of the long line, watching over the prisoners for the soldiers, muttering some nonsense about converting people to the faith. It was the first time he'd really observed the expression on this ownerless blood slave's face: the man's temperament seemed completely opposite to his own, he was very cheerful. Seeing that face, so similar to his own, trying to be friendly was really unsettling—"Then what are you doing in Jaffa?" Eudosia thought for a while, then suddenly asked him, "I thought Lord Eubius would never let you leave his side."
It seemed she had indeed heard plenty of Diophantus's foul language in the past. "He's the city lord now; he should be more concerned with important matters than throwing tantrums," Yakov replied with ease. "Unlike you, who can come whenever you want."
The little girl was so angry at his words that she exhaled sharply, her fingers gripping Naya's clothes tightly and twisting into a knot.
"When do you plan to send this female slave back to Lud?" Yakov suddenly stopped in his tracks. "Now that you've settled down in Jerusalem and are living such a leisurely life, you should return her to her."
Eudosia trembled at the sudden seriousness of the matter, clutching Naya's arm tightly. "M-My lord… I still need her, please plead with Lord Eubius…" Her previous lighthearted tone vanished, replaced by cautious words. "Wait a while longer, I can't do such heavy work alone…"
Yakov's gaze swept quickly over her hands and Naya's hands—the experienced Slavs could tell what had happened just by looking at those well-maintained, delicate, and smooth fingers. "You can't always rely on other people's help," he said coldly, recalling the recent troubles in the girl's family. "Otherwise, you might as well go back to Constantinople and marry an old man."
The harsh reprimand made the girl flinch, and tears even welled up in her eyes for a moment. Yakov felt no remorse, only disdain and annoyance. "Even though you say that, you still work for Lord Jubius," Naya unusually comforted Eudosia's shoulder. "Everyone lives by the help of others. Lord Jubius knows this truth and won't mind."
When did the female slave he had personally bought become so arrogant, daring to look him in the eye and oppose him? Yakov frowned, about to unleash his anger to intimidate him, when Yesau stepped forward. “‘The generous will prosper, and the one who refreshes will be refreshed,’” the older knight said with a smile, trying to mediate. “The Knights Templar should encourage helping others and follow the Lord’s teachings.”
“‘The poor on earth will never cease to exist.’” Yakov sneered. “Can simply giving alms be considered helping others?”
"Our duty and nature is to find the true path to help others, not to reject charity." Yesau clasped his hands together and prayed toward the cross of St. Peter's Church. "Everyone has times when they are weak and helpless. To demand that they take up arms to fight for their own safety at such times is to be a kind of blindness of humanity and a poverty of compassion."
Yakov was too lazy to argue with him on the street. "If you insist on debating with me, let's go to the fortress and discuss it in detail." The Blood Slave sized up his hypocritical piety. "Besides that, I would like to ask you many other things. For example, the origin of your surname and what you have seen and heard about your hometown."
Yesau finally shut his mouth. He smiled vaguely, offering no explanation.
“When you return to Jerusalem, you should pass through Lud,” Yakov deliberately reminded Naya. “See your master and don’t forget his kindness.”
Jaffa is an extremely ancient city. During pilgrimage season, this port, the closest to the holy city, is packed with throngs of tourists. People squeeze into the crowd at the dock, craning their necks to look out at the sea. Legend has it that the hero Perseus used Medusa's head to turn the sea monster Cartot to stone here, rescuing the princess and winning her heart—but the sandstorm is too great, and the sea monster reef that was originally used as a landmark is nowhere to be seen. The port is closed, the once clear blue waters churn with a murky yellow, and all the ships coming and going are trapped and silent on the dock.
Yakov gripped his riding crop and pointed to the Templar tower nearby. His soldiers immediately understood, taking the rope that bound all the horses and prisoners and heading in the direction he indicated. He bid a brief farewell to Eudosia, who stood forlornly gazing out from the harbor, and after taking only two steps, he noticed Yesau following behind.
The two blood slaves stepped silently across the stone threshold of the Knights' fortress in broad daylight, shaking the sand from their cloaks as they shuffled their shoes. Yakov removed his scorching iron hat and soaking wet turban, pulling the loan request from his waist. He suddenly felt a strange sense of shame—the last time he dealt with these bald monks who managed the gold coins, he had confidently demanded his deposit; now he had to humble himself and shamelessly borrow money.
He hoped Yesau would leave, but his comrade stood right at the edge of the hall, as if observing him or waiting for him.
“I’ve brought the request from the new lord of Lud.” This time, Yakov didn’t slam the paper on the table; he simply handed it to the thin monk—which was quite polite for him. “…Take a look.”
The monk, his hand trembling, reached out from beneath his robes and took the parchment. He raised his mirror and began to examine it closely. Yakov knew what they were scrutinizing, hoping only that Schumeer's sweet talk would sway these pedantic men—the monk, chin held high, read it countless times as if he wanted to crush every letter on the paper to dust. When he finished, he called over another hunched-over old monk beside him. The crumpled parchment was then passed to another thin hand, repeating the same slow process.
"They're not going to call a third bald-headed prisoner of war to read this, are they?" Yakov couldn't help but add, "...He asked me to bring 20 prisoners of war as collateral. I hope to collect the money today."
“Oh, slaves.” The old monk was reminded of this. He called a servant and said, “Go and fetch the slave disposal contracts for this gentleman. How many were there again?”
"20."
"Twenty, not one more, not one less?"
"right."
"Then take 20, not one more, not one less."
“We’ll sign the contract later. I’ll come back again. Lud isn’t far.” Yakov glanced at the clumsy servant rummaging through the pile of papers out of the corner of his eye. “These slaves need to be auctioned off for an estimated value, but the sandstorm has closed the market. Dragging it out is too time-consuming.”
"This cannot be avoided." The old monk shook his head with his hands behind his back, speaking in a rambling, chanting manner, "Slaves used as collateral must have their value assessed before a contract can be signed, and only after the contract is signed can the loan be withdrawn. Otherwise, wouldn't it be whatever price you set? Therefore, for any loan secured by prisoners of war, we must first wait for an auction to exchange the heads for gold coins before we can know how much collateral is worth and how many months' worth of payments we can make."
“I know all this, you don’t need to explain it to me.” Yakov finally frowned impatiently. “In the end, the Knights usually keep them; the auction is just a formality. Just give me the loan directly.”
Upon hearing his words, both monks wore unpleasant expressions, their lips curling into long, disapproving smiles. "Sir, you are violating the rules of the Order," the older monk coughed a few times. "We don't harbor any grudge against the new lord of Rud, nor do we intend to obstruct your loan, but the proper procedures must be followed. No matter how deep your personal relationship with the lord may be, once you join the Order, you must renounce worldly affairs and devote yourself to the Lord… Do I make myself clear? You have rendered meritorious service and been promoted. But if I report this to the bishop and record your transgression, you will still be punished with three days of fasting."
Yakov was so angry his eyes almost bulged out of their sockets. When Sancho was around, things were never this complicated! He felt utterly humiliated, as if he'd been openly insulted—the Blood Slave glanced at Yesau in the hall. His comrade was listening intently, a pitying yet comical expression on his face. Seeing Yakov's hostile gaze, he playfully shrugged and spread his hands, making a gesture of helpless regret.
“…Once the sandstorm passes, this is the first thing you should do.” Yakov banged his iron glove on the table twice, making a show of bravado. “I’ll be staying here for the next few days, and I won’t leave until I get the loan.”
“Then please pray to God that the sandstorm will end soon, and that someone will offer you a price for the prisoners of war you brought.” In front of him, the monk stuffed the loan request that Schumer had prepared into the depths of the drawer. “Sir, the fortress’s dormitories are upstairs. As long as you are not conscripted, you can stay as long as you want.”
The knight could no longer tolerate such high-sounding sarcasm. He rolled up his cloak emblazoned with a red cross, gripped his sword sheath tightly, and headed for the stairs. "Keep a close eye on these Saracens!" Yakov roared back at his soldiers, "None of them are allowed to fall ill or get injured before the auction, or the price will drop!"
The soldiers reluctantly agreed and led their horses and prisoners of war down the stairs. His comrades hurried a few steps and followed him up the stairs.
“Yakov, ‘the free man,’” the annoying tagalong said, “now it seems like a rather profound allegory—you joined the regiment, won battles, and gained a powerful backer, yet you are still bound by something even more terrible. You are not free, but instead you have trapped yourself.”
“What exactly are you trying to say?” Yakov stopped between the spiraling towers. He quietly unbuckled the belt around his longsword. “Do you think that just because I’m in the Knights’ fortress, I can’t capture you like I can outside?”
“I just don’t want you to misunderstand my intentions.” Yesau watched his every move, then took a step back like a clam retreating into its shell, dropping a step on the stairs. “The Knights’ Fortress in the Sandstorm is a good place to avoid the sight of your terrible master.”
A terrifying master? Yakov's mind raced for a moment before he realized who Yesau was referring to—he connected the word with Yubi's clueless, foolish face and couldn't help but chuckle. "You still haven't told me who your master is." Yakov contemptuously poked the blood slave's left chest with his scabbard, pointing directly at where his heart was beating. "I hope you're not a coward, nor a madman spouting nonsense."
“I told you before,” Yesau obediently raised his hands, expressing his desire for peace, “I have no master, I am a free blood slave.”
Yakov had had enough to do today and couldn't stand any more nonsense. He strode forward, pressing his sword scabbard against his older comrade's neck, slamming him against the stone wall. "Looks like you're a madman spouting nonsense," Yakov spat on the ground. "If you truly have no master, then no wretched vampire can heal your wounds or save your life. I should press a red-hot iron into your cursed mark, char and shred the flesh there. Then we'll see if you can still spew such insane words."
He should either grit his teeth and look like he'd bravely faced execution, or continue to feign madness, Yakov thought—it was one of those two possible reactions—but Yesau chuckled audibly beneath his sword sheath, dust swirling from his beard. "It's not that hard to understand, Yakov." His dirty fingers tapped on Yakov's blouse—where a red cross was painted, and below the cross were etched scars.
“I went to see your court. The vampire who branded you, couldn’t it be your master from Lud City?” The vampire slave stared at him with bright blue eyes. “In that case, I am free, and you should be free too. I am the same as you!”
As if a veil of ignorance had been lifted, Yakov suddenly understood the meaning of these nonsensical words. He put down his heavy longsword in a daze and couldn't help but open his mouth.
"Your master is dead." The blood slave suddenly realized. "Is that so?"
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