Act XIII The Last Supper (XIV)
fourteen
Since the guests arrived, Schumeer's work had become much busier. By day, he had to review countless tax forms and contracts with the monks; by night, he needed to skillfully liven up the tense atmosphere of the noble banquets. The little house outside the monastery could hardly be called a home anymore, the Jew thought self-deprecatingly, adding that he spent less time there when he was awake each day than in a single corner of the copyist's room.
As Cicero stepped across the threshold and approached his desk, he glanced warily and helplessly at the Greek notary. "Don't you need to worry about your son-in-law's affairs?" Schumeer put down his hand mirror and rubbed his eyes wearily. "This is no place to take a break."
“I really can’t get involved in that matter.” Cicero laughed awkwardly, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe his bald forehead. “I’m here to help look at the tax laws, which is already quite an easy job.”
He wasn't exactly a nobleman, Schumacher thought. The profession of notary sounded glamorous and envied by commoners; but to truly wealthy men, it wasn't much different from being a useful slave—a thought that evoked a touch of sympathetic intimacy in him. So he asked a monk to fetch rosewater and date biscuits for his guest. The two strolled into the garden for a short rest.
“It’s a bit of an overkill for you to look into the tax laws here,” Schumacher flattered. “This city is small, far from being as grand as Constantinople.”
“It’s different, each has its own difficulties.” Cicero shook his head with a smile. “Constantinople has a large population and a lot of work. If I wanted to make a living there, specializing in one type would be enough; but to be a tax collector in Ludwig, there are countless things, big and small, and I have to handle them all well just to make a living. If we’re seriously talking about who is more capable, I’m afraid I can’t compare to you.”
Schumacher sighed dramatically, refusing to acknowledge the statement. "You are far more experienced and skilled than I am! I know that notaries in Constantinople are not just anyone; a university degree is required."
“That’s true. But someone of my background can only become a notary at best.” Cicero held up three fingers, whether with sarcasm or pity. “In the Empire, it takes at least three generations to truly rise to prominence. It’s far less flexible than in the Holy Land.”
“…Once you have a grandson, you’ll be a nobleman too.” Schumeer, recalling Theophilus’s handsome face, decided not to continue this sensitive topic—he quickly finished his drink and turned back to the copying room. “…Can you read Arabic?” The tax collector tidied up the stacks of documents on the table. “If you can’t, you can’t be of much help here.”
“Aren’t there some Greek speakers in the city?” Cicero followed his busy pace slowly. “There must be more lately.”
"That being said, that part doesn't need to be looked at by others for the time being."
"...You didn't do anything underhanded, did you?" Suddenly, a cunning glint appeared on Cicero's greasy face. "Tax officer is a lucrative position."
Schumacher had intended to sit back down. Hearing this, he had to stop, standing helplessly by the table, trying to straighten his back. "I thought you came here just to exchange pleasantries," he said, moving his hands behind his back. "Is it because I'm Jewish that you're making these veiled accusations?"
Cicero didn't answer him, but pulled up a chair and sat opposite him, gesturing with his fingers as if counting something. "I heard the Holy Land is charging Greeks and Armenians more taxes." His smile was more fake than a mask. "Isn't this the same?"
Schumer watched as the sweaty hand reached for a piece of parchment on the table—he vaguely remembered it being the form from the last time the city had paid the "cultural assimilation tax"—and, to his conscience, Schumer didn't think there was anything shameful on it. He had always been careful to maintain his integrity, never daring to make the slightest mistake. "You don't need to pay here. You are Lord Jubius's guest," he said. "I haven't included you and your family and servants in this form."
"Don't be nervous! I'm just taking a look and learning something." Cicero urged him to sit down. "Wasn't there any opposition when this law was first promulgated?"
“…That was inevitable.” Schumer frowned, pulled two more documents from the table, and walked around to Cicero. “At first, they gathered in front of Lord Jubius’s new house, shouting loudly. Yakov arrested the leader, and the rest were easily dispersed by the army.” He shoved a piece of paper—a list of Catholics written by a monk—into the notary’s hands, pointing to the names on the list. "Then, the Greeks and Armenians learned to register their names in Latin in churches, deliberately making people think they were Latin. People named 'Agnès' wrote 'Anna,' and people named 'Ivan' wrote 'Yahya.' Even worse, some confused the languages, registering the name 'Solomon' as 'Suleiman,' which I immediately recognized. I severely punished these people for 'false naturalization,' and that was the end of it." He then handed the Latin property register to Cicero. "Finally, the most stubborn people registered their properties and shops under Latin names, thinking they were safe, and didn't even bother to hide it. I had the Latins who helped them evade taxes sign an agreement, declaring that the registered properties and shops belonged to the registered owner. Everyone who dared to do this went bankrupt and regretted it immensely."
"What a bunch of scoundrels!" Cicero exclaimed in surprise, raising his eyebrows high. "So cunning!"
Schumer scrutinized him with feigned displeasure. "Not at all, you must have seen far more bizarre things in Constantinople."
“No, not at all.” Cicero handed the three parchments back to Schumacher. “If I were in your position, I would be at a loss with these treacherous people and would be frowning all day long.”
That sounds too fake, Schumeer thought. But he didn't show his doubt on his face, only wearing an ambiguous smile, and put the three pieces of paper back where they belonged. "Do you have any other questions?" he asked, half-provoking and half-dismissing.
"Oh, I'm sorry to have disturbed your work." Cicero finally slowly lifted his buttocks from the chair. "I'll be leaving now."
"Not at all, you're welcome to come again anytime for a chat." Schumeer extended his arm to see the guest out.
The two astute men exchanged pleasantries until they reached the monastery gates. "I have something offensive to ask you," Cicero suddenly stopped, "about you personally."
“Go ahead and ask,” Schumeer said with a stiff smile. “If it’s offensive, I won’t answer.”
He saw Cicero's eyes gleam with a mischievous glint. "You're a Jew," the notary said, feigning shyness. "Wouldn't it be more promising for you to run a lending business here than be an honest tax collector? You wouldn't have to be so busy and controlled by others."
Why did he ask such a strange question? What was the deeper meaning or purpose behind it? Schumeer pursed his lips and thought for a while, a thousand answers rising and falling in his mind, none of which he could be sure of.
"...I was personally appointed by Lord Jubius," he said with a smile. "Being able to help him is the real future."
“You truly understand the art of language!” Cicero chuckled. “No wonder you are so favored by Lord Eubius!”
For the rest of the day, Schumeer repeatedly savored the brief, confrontational exchange, carefully considering its flaws. He thought it over and over, convinced that every word he uttered was logical and watertight. Yet, an ominous premonition slithered through his mind like a snake, making him constantly uneasy and filled with unease.
He first went to Yakov to recount these things. "That bald man probably wants to surrender to Ambikia and is looking for a way to do so." The vulgar knight, wiping his sword, replied to his question dismissively, "Perhaps he already knows about the vampires and is trying to obtain the mark by any means necessary."
Immediately afterward, he went to consult with Yubi. "Don't worry, Shumel," the busy city lord said, holding his wrist and reassuring Yudosia. "If anything goes wrong, I'll definitely help you. A mere notary is nothing to be afraid of!"
When he returned to his less-than-cozy home outside the monastery, Judith and Joseph were already asleep. Schumacher paced alone in the cramped hall for a while, then sat down by the couch and lit a lamp. By the flickering flame, he secretly loosened his robe and looked down at the wound-like thing on his chest.
The brand pulsed bright red, controlling all his blood. Schumer stared at it, lost in thought: how could his frail and useless body bear such a heavy mark? Yet, unlike Yakov, he wasn't brave enough to feel disgust or rejection—and with each thought, a subtle, hidden pain would flow through his veins.
Schumer whimpered softly from the pain, shaking his head frantically to try and forget the punishment. He reached out and touched his eye sockets, covering his two newborn eyeballs, plunging his vision back into darkness and fear.
“Thank you, Lord Jubius,” the Blood Slave murmured, tears streaming silently down his face. “You are my god, who answered my prayers. There is no god as merciful as you in the world. I have received unparalleled fortune and unique favor. Thank you…”
Like a mystical incantation, like a powerful anesthetic poured down his throat, the devout prayer took effect. The pain stopped.
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