Act XIV: The Dance of the Seven Veils (Part 5)
five
“Everywhere is in chaos now,” a well-traveled mercenary rambled on by the campfire. “In Aleppo, the city is under siege; in Constantinople, the Greeks are beheading Greeks; and it’s the same here. Ever since that leper king fell ill, the nobles of Jerusalem have been fighting amongst themselves, seeing who can become the next king.”
Yakov was pouring wine on his palm, the wound throbbing painfully, making him wince. He remembered his once expensive iron gloves, which allowed him to hold a sword blade without cutting his fingers; he also remembered his once caring and powerful master, who could instantly heal all kinds of tangled wounds—the penniless barbarian quickly dismissed these sentimental thoughts, offering only a perfunctory reply.
"oh."
“You know, just last month, the Byzantines crowned a new emperor who was sixty years old.” The mercenary snatched the wine flask from his hand and took a swig. “He hates the Latins to the core. After that, when they fight the Greeks, don’t expect the Greeks to come to their aid.”
"Um."
"I heard that two of the Knights Templar who went to the Red Sea with the Transjordanian lord were captured alive and sacrificed in Mecca. Do you think that even though they are dead, they were the first two Christians to see what the Kaaba looked like?"
Yakov, too lazy to respond to the chattering mouth, silently glanced around at the people. Around the fires, he spotted a down-on-his-luck Frankish knight, an Armenian archer, and a spearman from an Italian city-state. The middleman in charge of recruiting mercenaries clutched a stack of strips of cloth bearing crosses, handing them out to Yakov. Yakov took his own and pinned it to his shoulder with a simple pin—the cross was crooked and looked shabby and shabby compared to the once impeccably tailored robes of the Templars.
“You can’t go on like this. You’re out of touch, your brain isn’t working properly, you’re not making any money, you’re wasting your talents!” The mercenary, a little drunk, shoved him, his cheeks flushed, and then tried to put his arm around his neck. “Everyone with eyes can see that if new crusaders don’t come, the Holy Land is doomed. If you want to rise to power, these next few years are your chance! Look at those Saracens, when they see Saladin on the battlefield, do you think they’ll be on our side or the other side?”
Yakov peered deeper into the camp. Some of the dark-skinned scimitar soldiers even had crosses painted on their shields—Salarians were, of course, mercenaries. The Saracens weren't necessarily communists, and communist factions were numerous, and not everyone liked Saladin. Adorning one's faith for a living couldn't be a crime, he thought. But he said nothing, only carefully avoiding the drunken arm, making sure the iron ring around his neck wasn't touched.
“I’m curious. With your abilities, you could live a much better life no matter which lord you serve.” The mercenary’s eyes darted furtively at his ruby-inlaid longsword. “Maybe you could become a knight, a lord. If you caught the eye of a wealthy widow with land, you might even become a nobleman. What are you doing here as a mercenary?”
Yakov finally stopped giving evasive answers. "This way is more liberating," he said, uttering his first serious statement.
His words startled the man opposite him for a moment, then he burst into laughter. "Freedom, you speak so well, freedom!" The mercenary shoved an open wine flask into his hand, the wine spilling freely. "We have no faith, no sustenance, no loyal monarch, no wives or children to worry about—this is freedom! Let's drink and be merry while we can!"
Yakov's wounds were wet and throbbing with pain—he poured strong liquor into his mouth and thought bitterly, "This is not the taste of freedom."
Karak was packed with nobles who had come to attend the wedding. Yubi had been in the Holy Land for six years, and this was the first time he had crossed the Dead Sea to reach the easternmost part of the kingdom.
Anbikia bowed to him in the bustling hall, took his arm, and examined his attire. "Since you got rid of those two unruly blood slaves, hasn't your city been getting better and better?" She stroked the sleeve of the Yubi woven silk, marveling at the exquisite openwork embroidery. "With a better city and higher incomes, you can afford such expensive fabrics."
“This was given to me by a merchant,” Yubi sighed softly. “He offered me his best goods in exchange for the city’s exclusive right to trade silk.”
Ambikia blinked and scrutinized him. "So, do you agree?"
“If Yakov and Schumer were still alive, they would definitely disagree. But I agreed.”
"Then what?"
“It’s not just the merchants.” Yubi quietly clenched his fist under his wide sleeves. “I found agents for both tax collection and the market, and reassigned chieftains and elders to each village, letting them manage their own affairs and just pay their taxes on time. I also handed over all the city guards to the Knights, letting them set up their own defenses. With this arrangement, I’m much more relaxed, no longer needing to patrol and issue decrees personally, yet this year’s income is even higher than before… I donated the extra gold coins to the monastery, asking them to make donations, and everyone says I’m a devout and kind city lord who has given them freedom, and they’ve all forgiven me.”
As if noticing his nervousness, Anbichia stroked his arm and laughed happily. "That's a good thing. What are you worried about?"
Seeing that she smiled, Yubi tried to force a smile herself.
"They say I am pious and kind, yet they say merchants are cunning, tax collectors are treacherous, knights are violent, and landowners are greedy. How come I alone bear the title of pious and kind, completely unrelated to their free yet miserable plight? I feel as if I'm shirking responsibility, deceiving them… or do they simply enjoy being deceived like this? I never thought this way when I entrusted these matters to Yakov and Schumer. I trusted them, and when their work was attributed to me, I felt at ease, as if it were my due. But now…"
As he spoke, his voice grew softer and softer—Yubi noticed that Ambikia's eyes widened in astonishment, as if he had heard the strangest thing in the world.
“My dear brother, what do you think power is, and how should it be used?” she asked.
"Is the essence of power deception?" Yubi stopped in his tracks. "To prevent the ignorant from finding the root of tragedy?"
"No, the essence of power is exchange. You are the city lord, you are a nobleman, you are a god above all others. You are born with everything, and others must trade with you to obtain it. In exchange for freedom, gold, silver, or something else, they all know it's their own choice." The shrewd and ambitious man stopped with him. "Using power is the same as using a mark. Ever since you had your own blood slaves, I thought you should have understood this long ago."
Using power and using imprints are the same thing—Yubi fell silent, pondering his sister's words repeatedly. He recalled the times he had imprinted others: the blood slaves always had various desires, extending a begging bowl to him. As long as he saw the empty bowl, he could fill it with an imprint, commanding them with orders. Was this actually a transaction using freedom as currency?
“I never imagined that freedom could be compared to gold and silver,” he murmured to himself as he pondered. “I thought freedom was something far more precious, something that could not be traded.”
“I have a completely different idea from yours,” Ambikia said, patting his hand to comfort him as they continued walking forward. “Gold and silver are substitutes; they can be used to buy anything, and everyone acknowledges them. But freedom is just a feeling, something only you can experience. It has no value to others, and it’s often the only thing many people possess. What do you think a person with the most freedom should be like?”
Yubi thought carefully for a while—Yakov's image kept replaying in his mind. "That person must be free from anyone's control and unburdened by anything." The vampire fantasized about the ultimate wish of his blood slave, "To do whatever he wants."
"Are they not subject to anyone's jurisdiction: not even their loved ones? Are they not bound by anything: not even morality and law? Doing whatever they want: that is a desperado, a mob. Who would avoid such a person, fear their creed, and loathe their ruthlessness?"
Yubi was speechless, a deep sense of shame washing over him. He realized that Yakov did indeed seem to be that kind of person—or had been. He suddenly understood why Yakov had been so easily turned into a blood slave by his mother: wasn't Yakov pursuing freedom, but rather trying to exchange it for something else? Suddenly, the idea of "trading freedom" didn't seem so despicable to him anymore.
"Of course, such people gain freedom but lose everything, and can be easily defeated," Anbichia said cruelly. "Generals appointed by the emperor to lead troops into battle have their families brought to the capital and placed under strict surveillance; believers influenced and taught by scriptures are bound by their creed in every word and deed. Only these people who have given up their freedom and are ruled can form the most disciplined army, establish the most steadfast creed, exert their strength, and realize their value."
“But what if they don’t want it this way anymore?” A suffocating feeling crept up Yubi’s neck. “What if they want their freedom back?”
“No one can stop them!” Anbicia said lightly, as if joking. “If a general betrays the enemy, his family will be executed; if a believer betrays his religion, he will be excommunicated. Even blood slaves, if they disobey orders, will just have to endure the pain. The choice is right in front of them; if they don’t choose, it’s simply because they want something else more than freedom.”
Yubi was speechless. He vaguely remembered that Yakov had said something similar to him, as if everyone's lack of freedom could only be blamed on themselves.
The siblings, hand in hand, continued toward the wedding venue, bowing and exchanging greetings with every noble they met. "Now no one calls me Kanakakis or Lady Komnenos anymore," Ambicia sighed, her tone ambiguous, neither pleased nor resentful. "'Sister of Jubius of Ludwig,' that's all I've earned. My dear brother, it's all your fault for rising to prominence."
“I thought you had some fiefdoms with the Greeks,” Yubi asked. “Didn’t Isaac leave you any inheritance?”
“If Ansopea were still alive, perhaps I would have,” Ambicea winked behind her veil. “Now Rome has a new emperor, and I have nothing.”
Yubi had already heard about the brutal political struggles in Constantinople and was well aware of the inheritance rules for widows who had lost their only child. "Do you still have an army?" he frowned, his words carrying a hidden meaning. "Are Thurana and Oleg still with you?"
Ambicia scrutinized his still-youthful face with suspicion. "You've really grown up, even thinking about my army!" she bluntly exposed Yubi's thoughts. "They've all stayed in Rome, doing their own things."
A strange sense of contradiction welled up in Yubi's heart. He couldn't tell if his sister's words were praise or caution, nor whether he should feel proud or ashamed. "I'm short of troops," he said hesitantly, "I can send you some of my pension."
Ambikia laughed, clinging to his sleeve. “An army is useless to you now. You should be thinking about today’s wedding, which side you should be on,” she instructed carefully. “Saladin won’t attack your city first. But if you choose the wrong side, the new king of Jerusalem will immediately take back your territory.”
Yubiben wanted to ask a few more questions, but then thought better of it. "So, which side do you think I should be on? Give me some advice," he reluctantly conceded. "I heard that the king has already designated Princess Sibylla's child as the new king."
“That child is only six years old this year. The king’s intention is to hand over the kingdom to his mother, who is also his sister.” When it came time to discuss court secrets, Ambikia switched to Greek, which was unfamiliar to others, and lowered her voice. “But the king also has a half-sister who has the same right to inherit the throne. You should know that the king approved this wedding in order to suppress another faction and prevent the kingdom from splitting apart.”
Yubi knew who Ambikia was discussing—the king's half-sister, 12 years old, the bride of this wedding. She had been abducted and forced to marry her mother's political enemy. Yubi also knew the bride's mother: when he first met the Komnenos of Jerusalem, she was pregnant, and Yubi had attended her banquet to discuss Yakov's entry into the Knights Templar; later, when she remarried in Ibelin, Shumer had managed to secure control of Lud, allowing them to remain in a corner of the country.
“The bride’s mother didn’t attend the wedding,” Yubi remarked in Greek. “If it weren’t for the conflict, who wouldn’t want to attend their own daughter’s wedding?”
The two weaved through countless guests, enduring tedious social niceties and fawning over everyone. The Transjordanian lord possessed a sturdy and luxurious palace, and the wedding atmosphere was lively and joyous, yet intrigue and hostility lurked beneath the surface, draining everyone's energy. Yubi felt weary after only a few words, yet he had to force a smile—he remembered how he used to enjoy these cheerful and lively occasions, but now he felt like he was bound by heavy shackles, deprived of the right to enjoy them. The grand wedding ceremony was incredibly complicated: the first day was for confirming the agreement and signing documents; the second day was for a mass and a ceremony; the third day was for feasting and revelry; the fourth day was for watching a martial arts contest and enjoying performances; and on the fifth day, the bride and groom would produce proof of their marriage, announcing the fact of their union to all the guests.
Before long, the ceremony hall was filled with people in gorgeous clothes and gold and silver, and the chaotic fragrance mixed with annoying body odor was almost suffocating. Yubi met everyone he knew and didn't know, and felt that almost all the nobles of the Holy Land were standing in front of him, making a noisy racket like a hundred birds trapped in the same cage.
“Did you hear that?” Ambikia suddenly grabbed his hand.
"What did you hear?"
“The sound of horseshoes.” Anbichia’s eyes lit up with excitement, as if she had seen a beautiful circus. “And the sound of footsteps and wheels, all on the sand.”
Yubi's hearing was no worse than his sister's. He listened carefully and could indeed hear a distant, rumbling sound, like waves crashing against rocks, like lightning rolling in the clouds. He had heard this sound before, but couldn't remember where—the sound grew closer, sweeping in like a storm.
A messenger, drenched in sweat, ran to the castle's master and whispered among himself. His master—the lord of Transjordan—was initially surprised, but immediately broke into a fierce smile. He rose, spoon in hand, and loudly struck the golden cup before him. The buzzing noise of the guests in the hall finally subsided.
All the nobles' eyes were fixed on his mouth.
"We have a pagan guest who has come from afar, leading thirty thousand soldiers on his way!" The lord raised his cup. "Unfortunately, the walls of Karak are strong, and he will not be able to take his seat!"
Saladin—the name murmured almost simultaneously from everyone's lips, converging into a dangerous and urgent torrent, hanging like the Sword of Damocles over the chandelier of the hall. Yubi thought, he remembered where he had heard that rumbling sound before—he had first heard it with Yakov in the tower of Ashkelon. He had peered out through the narrow crossbow slits and seen endless rows of soldiers, their Arabic banners burning and spreading like flames.
The vampire suddenly felt a sense of relief and absurdity, as if he had just been transported to another world: it was as if all the profound and difficult questions he had just discussed with his sister were just illusions, none of them of any real value.
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