Act XIV: The Dance of the Seven Veils (Part 3)
three
When Yakov awoke again, it was already broad daylight, and sunlight streamed into the vampire's bedroom—Yubi, now a busy city lord, was no longer there, his days filled with official duties. Beside him, the precious ambergris in the incense burner had burned out, leaving only charred ash and the lingering scent of his dream in his nostrils.
In just a few weeks, the heavy shackles had left bright red marks on his flesh. Yakov loathed them. He wished he could stuff this symbol of humiliation into his mouth, chew it up, and crush it into dust. As on every morning unseen, he first tried to pry the ring around his neck apart with his fingers: it was futile; the ring had an exquisite lock made by the finest Saracen craftsmen, the key probably carried by Yubi every day. Next, he pushed the ring upwards, hoping it would suddenly soften and allow him to squeeze his head out: the Blood Slave found for the umpteenth time that his jawbone was too wide, the iron ring stuck fast; he was no contortionist. Finally, he painfully grabbed any seemingly sturdy object from the table and smashed it against the annoying iron ring, praying it would crack a tiny fissure: but steel was rough and hard; he smashed countless gold jugs and silver-plated mirrors, those soft and delicate things unable to harm the cruel shackles.
Yakov rolled on the ground, his teeth clenched, the chains clanging. Outside, Yubi's slaves, used to his reactions, remained silent, waiting until he was exhausted before bringing in food. Yakov cursed them one by one, wishing they would one day suffer the same fate—his steps halted at the door.
Since the burning at the stake, Yubi had countless hooks nailed into the courtyard specifically to fasten the other end of the chain, turning it into a luxurious prison exclusively for Yakov. Every morning, his chain would be fastened near a pillar, just in time to prevent him from walking out the door. Yakov memorized this boundary, memorizing the furthest carpet pattern he could reach. The slave lowered his head, looking at his toes.
He was stepping on a pattern he wasn't allowed to reach.
Yakov turned around and found that the hook on the other side of the chain was not fastened.
Without a second thought, the slave immediately gathered the long chain into his arms and hid in Yubi's wardrobe—where he found his longsword. Those outside, hearing the silence from inside, finally peeked in. Before they could discover Yakov's disappearance, the chains lashed their heads.
"My God!" Nuk screamed, clutching his head as he was hit. "Help! Someone help!"
Yakov ran barefoot past everyone. No one dared to stop him.
The Blood Slave clutched a large, expensive piece of black silk—Yubi's turban, its surface sweet with the scent of castoreum balm and adorned with delicate gold thread patterns. Yakov quickly wrapped it around his head as a cloak, carefully concealing his face and the heavy chains around his neck, but leaving the longsword at his waist exposed. This attire made him look like a desert bandit, a down-on-his-luck and dangerous fugitive. He had fled to the market in Lud, where he had half-stolen, half-robbed a pair of straw sandals from a sweltering stall, intending to escape the city, when he heard the bells tolling from the courtroom of St. George's Church.
"The trial of the Templars is over," Yakov heard someone say beside him.
"What Templar Knights?" the Blood Slave grabbed the man and asked, "What Judgment?"
"That's...that's the knight who killed the city lord's niece!" The captured man was speechless with fear. "Everyone's waiting to see what kind of torture he'll suffer!"
Yakov absentmindedly released the passerby and looked at the church doors. They creaked open, and a large crowd filed out. First, he saw his own hand-trained squire leading a line of soldiers, pushing aside the onlookers—in his eyes, Daoud was now Yubi's puppet, a walking corpse, a symbol of his failed teachings. Next, several Knights Templar and priests whispered solemnly to each other—members of the order had special judicial immunity, receiving special trials in the lord's court, something Yakov wasn't surprised by. What surprised him was that behind the crowd, Greek judges and nobles emerged. It was daytime, and he didn't see a single vampire. This calmed his nerves somewhat.
Bishop Domenico brought up the rear, carrying a huge parchment scroll. Once everyone had reached the small square in front of the church, found their places, and lined up, the bishop opened the judgment document and, parched with thirst, began to speak:
"According to the laws of the Holy Land, the decrees of the Kingdom, and the consensus of the Holy Church, on June 9, 1182 AD, Knight Yesau Zashchtytnikov of the Knights Templar accidentally lost his hand south of Lud, resulting in the death of Ansopya Kanakakis, the only daughter of the Kanakakis family, who was five years old at the time."
The noblewoman was a member of a branch of the Komnen royal family, and her early death fueled public resentment. However, after a joint trial by the Lord of Lud, the Imperial Inquisitors, and the Inner Court of the Temple, based on witness testimonies and a thorough investigation, it was determined that the crime was an accident and not a premeditated act.
In mourning, her noble mother, Ambicia Ediva Noctenias, granted a general amnesty, sparing the knight from imprisonment and dismissal. She requested, however, that the Knights Templar build a new monastery around Nablus, dedicated to the holy Virgin and the Virgin Mary, so that the souls of the departed may find solace.
The council deliberated today and found the knight innocent, and the pardon was granted. However, the entire Knights Templar were ordered to prepare a monastery by the end of autumn, and the monk Yesau was ordered to repent and visit the grave of his deceased daughter for forty days, remembering this event for the rest of his life.
Thus decided, with the Lord's will in Heaven and the world's witness, this case is closed.
An accidental mishap? A general amnesty? Is trading a girl's life for the income of a monastery a good deal for Ambichia? Yakov hid in the crowd, afraid to linger and be discovered. He covered his face tightly, squeezing towards the side of the street as he ran towards the city gate.
But he heard the sound again in front of the church:
"Brother Yesau's partner, Yakov Zashchtytnikov, abandoned his post after the incident and his whereabouts are unknown. According to the Templar Order's code, anyone who evades investigation or avoids accountability shall be considered to have broken his oath."
Verdict: Yakov Zashchtnikov is expelled from the Order of the Templars effective immediately and is permanently barred from returning. If he requests a retrial, a separate decision will be made.
The verdict has been reached, and the written evidence has been preserved. May the Emperor's judgment be clear, and may all people be mindful of the consequences.
Yakov stopped by the city wall, frowning as he turned back. He immediately spotted the most conspicuous figure among the rows of people—Yesau—being escorted by his brothers in the Knights into the bustling street. The hood and turban used to cover the knight's face were pulled up and torn off, exposing him to the scorching sun.
“My fault, my fault, my greatest fault!” he cried, striking his forehead with a heavy wooden board. “I have sinned before the Lord and before the world!”
Yakov knew Yesau's appearance all too well. They were often said to be like brothers, their faces alike, their builds similar, even their mannerisms indistinguishable; face to face, they were like mirror images. They were both Slavs, blond-haired and blue-eyed, middle-aged, knights in the same order, wearing identical red cross robes, even the shameful blood slave mark on their chests was exactly the same. Yakov thought that if it weren't for this, this madman would never have found an opportunity to sneak into Yubi's mansion in broad daylight.
Now, Yesau, dressed in the most tattered white robe he wore for atonement, walked barefoot on the sandy road. His forehead was bruised and bleeding from self-inflicted blows. Yakov's gaze passed through the black turban and heavy shackles, through the accusations and pity of the crowd.
To his surprise, under the scorching sun, Yesau's appearance was completely different from what he remembered—in just one month, the blood slave's face was full of wrinkles, his skin was loose and flabby, and he had been tortured into looking like an old man in his seventies.
If I get old, I'll probably look like this. That's what Yakov thought at that moment.
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