Act XIV: The Dance of the Seven Veils (Part 4)
Four
After leaving the city, Yakov found Ansopea's grave on a hill outside Lud. Her tombstone and coffin were not deeply embedded in the ground, awaiting relocation to Nablus after the monastery was built, yet they were still far more noble and magnificent than the graves of many warriors. The Blood Slave hid nearby, watching people offer flowers and light lamps at the grave until nightfall. Finally, only he remained guarding the grave, along with Yesau, who was still kneeling in repentance.
The Blood Slave lit a torch and went to the old man, pressed him down, and lifted his tattered robe—a terrible result he least wanted to accept was presented to him: Yesaudo's chest still bore a mark, bright red and bloody, like a wound that stung his eyes.
“You’ve been turned into Ambikia’s blood slave.” Yakov pushed away the withered body and took two steps back. “...You had absolutely no chance to resist.”
Yesau glanced at him with his cloudy eyes, as if trying to recognize his appearance, or perhaps out of pity for his realization.
“Since they can remove their marks at will and cover others with their own,” Yakov grabbed his collar, “then all that nonsense about ‘the language of God’ is meaningless. The blood slaves will never have a chance to resist again. This world has truly become their playground, and everyone has truly become an ant, with no hope of ever rising up, destined to be filler in war, meaningless sacrifices, and forever deprived of freedom!”
His words sounded like an outburst of anger, or a desperate cry. But Yesau remained unmoved. The elderly knight simply sat quietly by the grave, his eyes flashing with a blankness that Yakov could not yet comprehend.
“You’re right.” He actually nodded at the tombstone. “Only today do I realize the value of a ‘free person.’ You were more clear-headed and more lonely than any of us.”
Yakov hadn't expected his response. A wave of indescribable fear sent chills down his spine.
"...Why don't you argue with me like you used to?" He grabbed Yesau's robe and lifted him up. "A mark, a little pain, can make your soul kneel, can distort your beliefs? What orders did Anbichia give you?"
Suddenly, Yesau's eyes filled with tears. He wept bitterly, his mouth agape, his teeth chattering. Yakov saw the old man's withered, twig-like fingers clutching his chest, pressing them against his heart.
"Why are you crying?" Yakov drew his sword. "You coward!"
Yesau stared at the blade, his tearful eyes suddenly brimming with a death-defying joy. An old man, weeping uncontrollably, was being held by his clothes, threatened with death—something that somehow felt strangely familiar to Yakov. He suddenly remembered more than ten years ago, when he first encountered a vampire, interrogating the old priest beside Camilla's severed head. He couldn't remember the old man's name anymore, but he remembered the glittering shards of glass filling the hall, as fine as sand—now, they were standing in a real white desert, the bitter taste of dust in their mouths.
Yakov loosened his robe and coldly let him go.
"...What will you do now?" The fugitive sat down on the ground. "Are you going to be bound by the mark for the rest of your life?"
"I don't know," the old knight murmured, head bowed. "Perhaps... I should go and find my lord."
Yakov felt a strange sense of satisfaction, as if Yesau's miserable state proved his cruel wisdom. But then he thought in despair that the two of them seemed to be sitting at the edge of the world, in the eternal night, becoming forgotten trash.
"Get up, I'll take you to your master!" Yakov led the horse to the tombstone. "What Anbichya could do, your master can do too! You abandoned, displaced slave, now that you have the chance to see the light of day again, you can always choose your own master!"
Yesau remained kneeling on the sand, his thin legs too weak to lift. Yakov reluctantly helped the old man to his feet, lifting his haystack-like body to the saddle. Before he could even place his own feet in the stirrups, Yesau slowly turned around to look at him.
"But you are a free man now. Your master gave you freedom, didn't he?"
Yakov stood there, gripping the handles of the saddle. His movements faltered.
The old man lifted his headscarf with his fingertips, pointing to the heavy shackles hidden within. "You shouldn't have gone," he murmured hoarsely. "You should have gone to a blacksmith to cut this thing apart, escaped from here, gone to the western seas, to the northern forests, and never come back. No one will know, nor will they want to know, where you went. You won't need to pry into secrets anymore, or get yourself involved in these things."
"Haven't you done everything you could and are no longer bound by the mark?"
From Yesau's words, Yakov sensed a bittersweet, yet sincere, envy. His mark felt vaguely itchy.
“This isn’t true freedom,” Blood Slave replied sullenly, mounting his horse. “I’m far from free.”
As depicted on the emblem of the Knights Templar, the two men rode eastward in a crowded scramble, reaching Jerusalem before dawn. They watched the holy city awaken at daybreak, walking towards the golden cross atop the distant mosque amidst the sounds of prayer. Passing the Tower of David, Yakov dismounted, pulled his turban tighter, and tied the knot around his ears tightly—he saw more knights and soldiers being assembled, chanting "It is God's will," preparing to join new battles.
"Where are you going to find your master?" Yakov asked impatiently. "Is he hiding in Jerusalem?"
“The gods are everywhere; I can only pray that they will find me,” Yesau said, hunched over in his saddle. “Take me to the market first.”
Yakov obeyed, leading his horse into the chaotic and intricate neighborhood—a place he had thought himself familiar with for years. He knew which neighborhoods the French-, German-, and Greek-speaking nobles lived in, and where to find Arabic-, Armenian-, and Hebrew-speaking merchants outside the city. He kept a close eye on Yesau's every move, listening intently to his words, wanting to know how many secret blood slaves Inart were living right under his nose.
“Now go to the Mount of Olives.” But the old man only ordered him from his saddle, “Spend the night there, and perhaps the Lord will come.”
“I thought you would find an informant,” Yakov said with disdain and reluctance at his order, “like a real assassin.”
"You want to come with me?" Yesau suddenly asked. "Aren't you afraid?"
"What are you afraid of?"
As soon as Yesau raised his hand, Yakov knew what he was asking—Yesau's finger was pointing directly at his heart. "What difference does it make whether you and I go together? On the Mount of Olives in the suburbs, or in the city of Jerusalem, which of us can escape their eyes at night?" Yakov chuckled. "You say not everyone understands the true meaning of freedom, that not everyone is qualified to join you. Have you forgotten?"
He didn't know which word in those sentences had struck a nerve with Yesau. The aged blood slave on horseback suddenly turned ashen-faced and trembled. "You're right, the Lord will no longer accept me!" Yesau cried out, tears welling in his eyes again. "I won't go. I'd rather hide like you!"
His near-madness caused Yakov to stop in his tracks, embarrassed. "Why do you think like that?" he snapped. "You are his blood slave, your heart belongs to him, your hands and feet obey his will. How could he not accept you back?"
"Because I have been defiled!" Yesau dug his fingers into his brow as if he wanted to gouge out his eyes. "I am no longer pure and selfless!"
His voice grew softer and softer, his back more and more hunched, like a lowly beetle curling up from the etched pain. Yakov, enraged, struck his foot with the scabbard. "Defile?" he yanked hard on the reins. "What kind of noble saint, what kind of chaste woman are you?"
He led the horse, guiding the weeping and laughing old man through the city of Jerusalem toward the Lion's Gate—which the most devout believers called Jehoshaphat Gate, saying it was the entrance to the Last Judgment. Yakov discovered that they were walking the Via Dolorosa, the path of Jesus' Passion, where penitent pilgrims were frequently seen, kneeling and praying along the way, stopping every step of the way as they ascended the mountain. On the path of seeking the Lord, a mad old knight was hardly out of place. Some wore various crosses around their necks, some had their feet worn raw in the sand, and some were so emaciated from hunger that they could barely move.
Must one torture oneself to this state in order to find the truth? Yakov looked away in disgust and guilt.
By the time they reached the top of Olive Mountain, the two were drenched in sweat and parched. They stopped under a withered old tree, squeezed out a spot among a group of ascetic monks who looked like beggars, and stared blankly at a tomb whose owner was unknown. Yakov kept a close eye on the passersby, trying to spot Inart. Three children selling olive branches, five naan bread vendors, ten believers distributing crosses, and countless babbling idiots passed by. They waited until nightfall, until all was quiet, but nothing happened.
"You're going to starve to death here before he arrives?" Yakov said angrily, breaking off a piece of bread and handing it to Yesau. "Stop crying!"
Yesau tried to refuse without a word, as if he were going to his death—Yakov couldn't stand it, so he just pressed his head down, stuffed the bread into his mouth, and then poured wine on his lips with his water bag.
As night fell, Yakov, his head wrapped in a headscarf, collapsed under a tree. "I'm going to sleep. Maybe it will be over when I wake up." He closed his eyes.
The next day, Yakov was awakened by a cacophony of prayers all around him. Yesau leaned his head against a tree trunk, gazing at the rising sun over the hillside, his eyes bloodshot, clearly having not slept all night. "God has abandoned me..." the pale head murmured, "God has abandoned me."
Yakov found the words extremely familiar, but couldn't recall where he had heard them before. Had Inard really so rashly abandoned his followers? "You say I'm free, but aren't you too?" he probed. "If God has abandoned you, you no longer need to obey His commands or be bound by Him. Why don't you escape to the western sea or the northern forests?"
Yesau shook his head and sighed. "What do you think constitutes true freedom?" he suddenly asked.
“At least we need to break this seal.” Yakov looked away. “Then I’ll escape.”
“Even if you break the seal, you already know that vampires exist.” Yesau suddenly turned his head with a clear look in his eyes, as if his mind had briefly returned. “You run away, but where can you run to? You will live in constant fear, hiding in the light, losing the courage to gaze into the abyss, until you die. What kind of freedom is that? It’s clearly being forced back by the darkness, covering your eyes and pretending to know nothing.”
Yakov couldn't refute that. He lowered his head and pursed his lips.
"Will freedom arrive if we kill all the vampires?" Yesau asked. "Does the absence of vampires mean there will be no more oppressors and slaves in the world? How do you know that new vampires, or anything more terrible, won't be born? If that's the case, won't the struggle be endless, and won't freedom simply not exist? What meaning will our existence, our hearts, and our feelings have?"
Yakov gave him a cold look.
If it were me…
But Yesau didn't continue, only clutching his chest in silence once more. Yakov thought, perhaps he couldn't answer the question either. And what did he think? The blood slave tormented his heart, suppressing the despair surging within. Did he still have a chance to be free? How powerful did he have to be to deserve that?
They waited another whole day on the Mount of Olives. Yesau, having shed all his tears, stared blankly at the rising and setting sun, lost in thought with the sages meditating in the caves, becoming one with the old tree behind him. Yakov slept soundly for the second night on the nearby rocky beach, too lazy to observe the passersby around him as he had the day before.
On the third day, the first thing he did upon waking was to check Yesau's pockets. "I'm taking your money and your horse. Go get new ones from the Knights yourself." Yakov, not bothering to wait for his agreement, snatched the reins. "I can't stay with you until the end of the world. I need to find a way to survive."
Yesau offered no resistance. "Could this be a test?" the old man murmured, his withered lips barely moving, as if speaking to someone else. "Perhaps this is all a test."
Yakov rolled his eyes, too lazy to listen to the ramblings of his abandoned son. He led his horse down the mountain.
The slave returned to the walls of Jerusalem, circled around several times, and finally found an elderly Saracen blacksmith in the most secluded corner. "Remove this for me," he said, carefully lifting his turban to show the blacksmith the heavy shackles around his neck. "Don't ask any unnecessary questions."
The blacksmith circled his neck several times, touching and tapping. "This mechanism is too complicated. It should be melted down to remove it, but I can't put your head on the furnace to heat it up." He shook his head and closed his eyes. "I can only knock off the chain for you, but I can't remove the ring."
"Then start knocking," Yakov said, a mix of annoyance and shame. "Get started already."
After the sweating blacksmith helped him lighten his load, Yakov tossed over a few silver coins and took the largest set of chainmail. The armor was too cheap, without a lining, and the size wasn't right. The iron rings rubbed against him, occasionally pinching his beard painfully. Yakov endured this shabby attire, removing all the knightly insignia from his mount. The Blood Slave gazed at the boundless desert and the shimmering Dead Sea beyond the city, and suddenly felt a profound sense of bewilderment.
Where did he come from, and where is he going?
Just as the intense heat was hitting his face, a hermit and a bard appeared like a mirage, staggering toward the Mount of Olives.
"This is the end!" the ascetic shouted to the sky, his face covered in mud and sweat. "We have completed the Lord's pilgrimage, and now we can draw closer to the Lord's will and understand His wisdom!"
“How absurd!” The bard beside him, panting heavily, rested on his knees. “Does walking the Via Dolorosa count as suffering the Lord’s suffering? Are they the same? You were also whipped 39 times, carrying your cross on this path, weren’t you?”
"The Lord has suffered and atoned for our sins. Only in this way can you and I have the opportunity to walk on this shortcut." The ascetic shoved the bard to the ground. "These blasphemous words truly betray the Lord!"
“I see you’re so angry because I called you out on.” The bard grabbed his robe and threw it to the ground. “There are so many pilgrims here, each having walked the Via Dolorosa. If they had all gained the wisdom of the Lord through this, the world wouldn’t be the wretched place it is today!”
"Then, according to you, how can one understand the Lord?" the ascetic questioned.
“I don’t understand.” The bard shook his head playfully. “The reason why the Lord is the Lord is because the Lord is the Son of God, not because He suffered or walked the path of suffering.”
Enraged, the ascetic raised his fist and punched the poet in the face without a word. "According to you, everyone is a devil, and no one can withstand the judgment on the last day! All the Lord's mercy has been wasted!"
“I didn’t say that!” the bard shouted, blocking his way. “If everyone could understand the Lord and possess His powers by walking the path of suffering, then the world would truly become hell, and everyone would become a devil!”
Yakov couldn't understand their strange language, but he watched them wrestle and then make up, supporting each other as they climbed back up the mountain. He looked around and saw that it was sunset again, the sky and desert both dyed a blood-red hue. On the city walls, ancient stone bricks and fluttering flags cast wide, distorted shadows that stretched all the way to the mountain path—the ascetics and bards emerged from the shadows, while Yesau stepped into them, heading down the mountain towards him. The old man's steps were firm, his eyes gentle, as if he had attained an unshakeable truth under the tree, becoming like a saint.
Yakov stared in disbelief. "You're alright?" he asked, gripping the reins tightly. "You've seen your master?"
“The Lord is everywhere, the Lord is in my heart.” Yesau grinned. “I understand, I understand everything! I understand everything about the Lord!”
"What?"
The old man's face was like a malfunctioning mask, as if the puppeteer behind it could no longer control his expressions. He laughed and then cried, cried and then laughed again. Yakov watched warily as he knelt on the ground, tore open his robe, and scratched his chest fiercely with his nails—Yakov was shocked to find that it was empty.
"I understand what freedom truly is!" Yesau cried out. "Nothing in the world can hinder a person's freedom, no living being can deprive a person of their freedom. Imprints cannot stop freedom, chains cannot stop freedom, freedom cannot be bound by anything; it can only be determined by one's own eyes and one's own heart! I have passed the test, I am free, ha ha, I am free!"
He was abandoned. He went mad. He was trapped between reality and fantasy, never to awaken again. Yakov's face fell in disappointment. The Blood Slave mounted his horse and covered his face with his turban.
“Is that so?” Yakov said. “I hope I find my freedom too.”
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