Act XIII The Last Supper (Part 5)
five
Margot developed a high fever as soon as she returned to Lud. Yubi entrusted her to her maid, changed out of her clothes, and returned to his magnificent hall. The ball guests, noticing their host's late arrival, inquired with concern. He gave a few polite replies, then sat in the head seat of the banquet, staring blankly at everything around him.
The vampire thought he was mature enough—ten years had passed since he rode Yakov's horse out of his mother's ivory tower. At first, the pain was unbearable, bringing tears to his eyes at the mere thought; later, he grew accustomed to many things, removing his mother's ring and heeding his sister's advice; and when he became powerful and revered, it seemed all that pain had vanished. He believed he had long since stepped out of the thin membrane Yakov had torn for him, and was no longer a fragile, naive fledgling.
He gazed at the hall, brightly lit even during the day. It was all his own creation, Yubi thought, as if he had packed all his favorite things into a box: the ceiling murals resembled the domes of a grand monastery, the mosaic floor reminded him of Roman statues, and the enamel on the walls depicted exotic flowers and plants from Arabian Nights. He added Seresian vases and Indian spices, and ordered roasted swan, egg tarts, and yogurt lamb to fill all the tables. His guests danced in the candlelight and incense, like exquisite toys crafted by Venetian artisans, twirling and moving to the music at the appointed time.
But it was still just a box. Yubi thought, so he had hatched from his shell and entered another warm box that Yakov had created for him. Didn't Yakov hate this kind of thing the most—had he never understood him, been deceived by the blood slave from beginning to end? How could he deceive him and escape the punishment of the mark?
“Where have you been?” Schumacher emerged from beside a marble column. “I’ve been looking for you all day. Please stamp these documents.”
Nuk brought several sheets of parchment, a spiced wax tray, and a copper, ornately carved wax-sealing spoon, presenting them as a set to Yubi in a smooth wooden box. The young lord watched as he skillfully filled the blackened spoon with wax granules and heated it over a candle flame. The wax melted inside, its soft, swirling patterns releasing a burnt smell—this was something they did almost every day, Yubi thought, stroking the lord's seal ring on his hand.
He suddenly insisted on grabbing those parchment sheets and reading them carefully.
“You don’t usually look at these things, and you don’t need to.” Schumeer just smiled and didn’t stop him. “If you have any questions, you can ask me.”
Yubi pursed his lips and said nothing. Latin, French, and Arabic characters tangled and crashed into his vision, the wording stiff and complex, requiring careful deciphering to make sense: the first was a "Land Sale Court Record," the second a "List of Unpaid Tax Farmers," the third an "Application for Security and Military Expenses," and the fourth a "Detailed Amendment to the Customs Law for Silk Merchants." Each word was understandable individually, but together they created a sense of unease, as if under a spell, leaving him completely bewildered.
Nuk had already distinguished the colors of the wax particles on each document and presented them to his esteemed lord. Yubi sighed and stamped the ring designs onto each document—as he always did. "...Why was the tariff on silk merchants lowered?" he stubbornly asked, choosing a question that was somewhat understandable. "Are we flush with cash now?"
Schumeer punched holes in the parchment and sorted the different colored wax stamps by tying them together with string. "I did this precisely because I'm short on funds," he said with a squinting smile, his mustache swaying on his lips. "I just received important news, which is why I made this arrangement."
"What news?"
Schumacher leaned close to his ear.
“Two weeks ago, Emperor Manuel the Great died. His eleven-year-old son, Alexius, succeeded him and became the new Roman Emperor.” The Venetian’s words carried a strange, inexplicable smugness. “You should inform the guests of this news; there are some things that are not yet appropriate to tell them…”
Not particularly surprising news, Yubi thought with a sigh; people get old, get sick, and die, and emperors are no exception. "What else?" he asked, troubled.
“The King of Hungary reclaimed Croatia, uprisings broke out in Bulgaria, the Seljuks broke the peace treaty and launched a massive invasion, and Prince Antioch abandoned his Byzantine queen to marry a new lover. Constantinople descended into civil war, with princesses and princes vying for the throne, and many people with the surname Komnen died.” Schumer murmured, “Your sister’s husband, Isaac Komnen Kanakakis, also passed away.”
The swirling shadows of the guests in the hall were blurred by the heat of the candlelight. Yubi stared wide-eyed, unsure how to react. He crumpled the fur spread on his seat.
"Then..." he hesitated before speaking, "how is my sister now?"
“I think you don’t need to worry about that for now.” Schumer lowered his eyes. “How Ambichia handles these matters is neither your concern nor your business. What you should be thinking about is how to make some preparations to benefit yourself—for example, by lowering the tariffs on silk merchants, which would encourage more silk merchants who cannot stay in Byzantium to do business with you.”
Yubi couldn't refute these words. He pursed his lips in suppressed anger, his mind a jumbled mess. Nuk poured a pot of bright red liquid into a glass and presented it to him. The city lord had to force a dignified yet amiable demeanor, and stood up, grasping the glass—without him saying a word, the sounds of the lute and shepherd's flute in the corner had already ceased.
All the faces at the table, still brimming with excitement and joy, turned to him. "...I have just received some heartbreaking news." Yubi raised his cup. "Our ally, the devout and benevolent Emperor Manuel, has passed away. Let us mourn for him, and may his soul dwell eternally in heaven."
When Yakov returned to the city gate, it was dusk, and curfew had arrived.
"Lock this man in the detention cell." He summoned a squad, pointed with his whip at the imam in the prison cart behind him, and then called his servant, "Daud, go to Shumer and tell him that the matter has been settled and that the accounts should be settled as soon as possible."
"Yes, sir." Daoud ran off.
"The shifts continue as usual tonight." The knight turned his horse around and pulled an exquisitely crafted, openwork bronze lamp from his robes. "Dismissed!"
The streets were dim and silent. The soldiers, as he had instructed, lit a string of torches along the simple city wall. Yakov borrowed a light and lit his copper lamp. "There are indeed some exquisite and beautiful little things," he thought, gazing at the shimmering shadows on the ground. The shadows were much clearer and more beautiful at night than during the day. Yakov thought they resembled the cracks in a melting ice sheet in spring—but how could a Saracen lampsmith have ever seen a frozen river? The Slav scoffed arrogantly, twirling the lamp in his hand, watching the ice-crack-like light and shadow flow like waves.
He spurred his horse toward Yubi's new house, rounded the brightly lit hall, and tried to enter the bathroom through a side door, but bumped into the Ibelin family's little girl in the courtyard. Yakov, carrying the brass lamp, gave a perfunctory bow. "Didn't you go to the ball with Yubi?" he asked casually.
But the girl couldn't stop gagging as soon as she saw him, and fled in panic, leaning against a pillar.
Yakov frowned, glancing down at his robe and cloak. The pristine white fabric, embroidered with red crosses, was spotless and smooth, unstained by blood, at most a bit dusty. He hadn't engaged in any rigorous training or fighting today; he'd simply been pacing and talking on horseback.
He placed the lamp on the stone bench and called the slave over. "Place this in your master's bedroom." The knight himself unfastened the clasp of his chainmail, removed his sweat-soaked helmet and turban, and said, "Place it beside the couch."
The Saracen slave simply bowed his head and replied, "Yes, sir."
Yakov took off his boots and walked barefoot into the steamy bathroom. But the slave followed him. "Get out of my way, I don't need anyone to serve me," the knight said, turning back with displeasure. "You're not allowed in."
“My master made me do this,” the Saracen slave pleaded. “I can help you scrub your back.”
"Why didn't he come himself, instead of making you do this?" Yakov shouted angrily. "Stay outside!"
Ignoring the slave's growing pained and distressed expression, he went into the steam room and poured hot water over himself. As he picked up the scrub cloth and black olive oil soap, he faintly heard the singing of bards coming from the direction of the hall.
"The king of the cross wields the sword, and prays for peace in the salt flats."
"The believers burn their bones and the shepherds scatter; there is no one to pity them in Galilee."
"Is this the kind of song that should be sung at a banquet?" Yakov asked warily, raising his head. The nobles who had been insulted in the hall clapped and cheered, whether they didn't understand the biting satire in the song or naively believed they weren't among the despicable. Yakov then called the slave in.
“Go tell your master to get rid of that lousy poet who sings bad songs.”
The slave left without a word, timidly. After a while, the poet's song indeed disappeared.
Yakov sat for a while in the quiet, comfortable bathroom, letting the scalding steam seep into his skin and force out a sweat. He scooped up some water and rinsed off the shampoo. His short hair, once wet, stood up like clusters of golden thorns. He dried himself with a towel, wrapped it around himself, and took a shortcut to Yubi's bedroom—Yakov passed a huge, luxurious mirror in the hallway. He couldn't help but stop and look at his reflection.
The swollen, red mark on his chest still looked repulsive. Yakov tormented this pain day after day, repeatedly squeezing out its bitter taste until he became numb, yet he refused to stop. He suddenly realized that, by comparison, his Slavic face no longer seemed so irritating; turning his back, the whip marks covering his spine were no longer shocking. Instead, he could see the strong, powerful body beneath the humiliation, the muscles and veins knotted from the tempering. He gazed at his eyes in the mirror, marveling at their vast depth and indifference, satisfied with their immense forbearance and resilience.
It seemed something was missing. Yakov stared at his reflection, deep in thought. What was missing to carry him to the other side, to the paradise of freedom?
The clean, clear, pale blue water gazed at him in the mirror.
He suddenly thought, what if it could turn red? A color as noble and perfect as blood?
The thought startled Yakov. He felt his heart pounding, blood rushing to his lungs, making it almost impossible to breathe. The Blood Slave slapped himself hard, grabbed a towel, and hurried to Yubi's bed—unusually empty, moonlight spilling onto the low couch covered with a silk mat. His master, the hostage, and his lover were not there; only the icy bronze lamp shone on the beautifully shaped table, and a somber column of smoke rose from the incense burner beside it.
Yakov lay down on the couch and tucked a hard, cylindrical pillow under his neck. He felt a gentle breeze blowing through the window slats, and the faint sounds of singing and dancing from the hall drifted into his ears. Before long, he fell asleep peacefully and wearily.
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com
