Act XIV: Dance of the Seven Veils (Part 9)
Nine
"If you were a king, emperor, or sultan," the mercenary said, laughing and warming himself by the fire, "how would you live?"
"I want to eat roasted meat every day. Roasted wild boar, roasted swan, roasted deer." A man with a mouthful of rotten teeth was clumsily slicing salted meat with a knife. "I want soft bread made of dry flour, not naan bread with sand in it, and I want to drink the best wine every day, neither bitter nor astringent."
"What I want most is a grand palace." A man missing a finger gestured vigorously, as if the palace of his dreams was right before his eyes. "I want the biggest and softest bed, tables, chairs and tableware all made of pure gold, and clothes that are either silk or fur, piled up throughout the entire room."
"I want to summon all the beautiful women to serve me." Another man, blind in one eye, grinned lewdly. "A man can marry four wives and countless female slaves. I want them to please only me every day and have each of them pregnant with my child."
Unfortunately, these answers only prompted the questioner to grab a fire stick and point at the dumbfounded faces of each respondent. "So shallow!" the mercenary scolded them. "Is that all the wisdom you have?"
"Then how will you manage?"
“Listen, being a king, emperor, or sultan isn’t as simple as it seems.” The mercenary crossed his arms, feigning profundity. “If it were me, I’d make everyone fear me. The best thing in the world is being able to kill whoever I want, and drive away whoever I want, not even my own parents, wife, or children. If you can be that ruthless and unscrupulous, you can have all the delicacies, palaces, and beauties you want. Plenty of people will be eager to offer them to you.”
The group looked at each other, then couldn't help but laugh.
"What's so funny?" The mercenary angrily fiddled with the fire in front of him, flames almost reaching his face. "Have you heard about the new Greek emperor? That's exactly what he does. He's ruthless, cunning, and scheming. People call him shameless and immoral, but I think that's the kind of character a king should have, not some nonsense about piety and kindness. He poisoned the eldest princess and strangled the young emperor. He not only had an affair with his own niece, but he also forced himself on a 12-year-old princess at the age of 60. Those nobles who used to look down on him and laugh at him, aren't they now kneeling at his feet?"
“He gets to eat the best food every day,” the man with rotten teeth said.
“He can live in the most luxurious palace,” said the man with the missing finger.
“He has a wife, a mistress, and female slaves,” the one-eyed man said.
"Most importantly, he is extremely free. He can freely express his likes and dislikes and make others do as he says." The mercenary puffed out his chest in approval. "Once he becomes emperor, he dares to scold and kill those who have offended him in the past. He can take revenge and feel triumphant. People live for this kind of pride."
They chatted for a while, then stumbled through an Arabic folk song, waving whips in circles like Saracens, and gesturing wildly with their arms around each other's shoulders.
Yakov listened to this from afar, finding it extremely noisy and keeping him awake at night. The Blood Slave, clutching his cold longsword, rolled and shifted positions on the sand. He should throw a stone at them to shut them up! He cursed inwardly, wishing he could plug his ears with sand.
“It’s all a dream.” A woman’s voice rang out. “You will never reach that position in your lifetime, yet you still praise these things. In the end, it is your own wives and daughters who are bullied, and you yourselves who are persecuted and executed. And you just like to uphold this rhetoric, not knowing that you are the ones who are forced to sell your lives.”
"Where did this woman come from?" the mercenaries shouted, stopping their dance and drawing their weapons. "She's got a death wish!"
The commotion made Yakov unable to keep his eyes closed any longer—he turned around and saw a burly, rugged figure rising by the firelight, gripping a scimitar in both hands.
"Why did you stop yelling? You spineless coward." The woman spat on the ground.
Everyone fell silent, no longer daring to be rude.
"I have something to ask you," the woman said rudely. "There's a red-haired noblewoman named Ambicea who came here from Constantinople. Do you know where she lives?"
Yakov frowned, gripping the tree trunk as he climbed to his feet. "What do you want with her?" he asked hoarsely from the darkness. "Who are you?"
The tall woman had bright black eyes. Yakov watched her turn her head and noticed the deep wrinkles around her eyes, a look of déjà vu he felt. "What are you doing here?" the woman exclaimed in surprise, then burst into hearty laughter. "Look at you, all disheveled!"
Yakov was momentarily stunned: he realized the woman was speaking to him in Turkic. The mocked, down-on-his-luck man stepped forward into the light, scrutinizing her face—a Tatar face. The rosy tan lines under the firelight finally made her recognizable. Only, she looked much older than the one he remembered.
The face of the once resolute and terrifying warrior has softened and become more benevolent with age.
"What are you doing here?" Yakov led her to the watering area to avoid being seen. "Where is your son? Where is the army?"
"And what about you?" Turalya arrogantly crossed her arms and scrutinized him from head to toe. "Shouldn't you be with that dark-haired boy, living a life of luxury in some palace, eating and drinking like royalty and wearing gold and silver?"
Yakov's facial muscles twitched involuntarily, and the markings burned. He adjusted his dirty turban, afraid the shackles around his neck would be seen. "...He let me go," the blood slave said evasively. "There are many things involved, too many to explain."
“If I remember correctly, you and Batur are the same age, six years younger than me. I’m 60 this year, do you look 50?” Turana pointed to his face, then to his chest that he was covering. “He didn’t remove your mark, did he? He didn’t let you go.”
"And what about your mark?" Yakov impatiently moved her hand away. "Why do you look like this?"
Turalya chuckled and loosened her fur collar. "I came here to ask about this." She unabashedly displayed her chest to Yakov—the muscles were bulging, the skin sagging, covered in scars, no longer vibrant or lively, but rather suggestive.
“A month ago, my mark with Oleg suddenly disappeared.” She moved her chapped lips and uttered the terrible words, “I had no choice but to come to Ambikia alone.”
Yakov stared at the empty, shriveled chest, instinctively shielding his eyes with his hand—a thousand thoughts clashed painfully and excitedly in his mind. He was so dizzy that he had to blink hard to stay awake. "Put your robe on properly." He turned around, broke off a piece of naan bread, and handed it to Thurana. "Why didn't Oleg come with you? Is that idiot still in Constantinople?"
“He’s a member of the Varangian Guard. Once he’s in office, he can’t leave Constantinople. It doesn’t matter how many emperors come and go.” Turaly rolled her eyes at the question, biting her noodles as she put on her clothes. “A cowardly man, less than a rabbit. Without his mark and without his master, he only dares to send me here to find out why.”
Yakov recalled Oleg's cynical, smirking demeanor and realized that the statement was only half true. "Why did Anbichia suddenly withdraw your mark?" he asked, his tone anything but casual. "What excuse are you looking for?"
“I don’t know him.” Thurana spat out a mouthful of sand. “But I have a reason. I haven’t wanted this thing for a long time.”
"Why?" Yakov glanced at her. Was it because he didn't want to be bound by others and longed for freedom? He wondered to himself.
"Because Bora Khan has grown up."
"Bora Khan?"
“That’s my youngest son,” Turalya reminded him with displeasure. “Since he turned 20, what reason do I have not to call him Khan? That’s what I thought too, which is why I changed his name. As a mother, I should pave the way for him and not interfere too much. But that vampire doesn’t think that way and insists that I lead the army.”
"What's so bad about that?" Yakov laughed dismissively at these words. "What's wrong with you being a female khan yourself?" He cracked his knuckles. "I think Anbichya's arrangement was good. You're capable of it."
He hadn't expected Thurana to be so enraged by his words—in the blink of an eye, a scimitar was pressed against his nose. "Don't spout these useless, sarcastic remarks, trying to insult me in every way imaginable," Thurana cursed. "If I'm forever a slave to that vampire, I'll never grow old. Are you telling me to watch my own son die before me, to live a life of humiliation, to be cared for by me my whole life, to never have the chance to fight? I'd rather kill him with my own hands!"
Yakov couldn't understand a mother's thoughts. Was this some kind of convoluted pursuit of freedom? He inwardly scorned this mother's unrealistic and outlandish demands. Compared to this, wasn't killing the vampire a more feasible idea? The vampire kept this question to himself, not daring to ask it aloud. He swallowed the last piece of naan bread, dusted himself off, and stood up. "...I heard she lives in Nablus." He mounted his horse. "You must have brought your own horse, right?"
“Of course.” Thurana picked up the mouth harp hanging around her neck and blew it out loud and terrifyingly—her mount came running in response.
Ignoring the darkness, the two galloped through the desert and rocky beaches, braving the sandstorm. The holy land was small, and Nablus was not far away; at a fast pace, it would only take a day and a night. "Further ahead, there's a newly built monastery belonging to Anbichya," Yakov pointed north behind the sand dunes. "She lives here on the income from this monastery; that's all I know."
"Isn't this place their God's property?" Thurana scoffed. "Can God's property be taken and used so casually?"
“God’s property, you can even get tax-free access to it.” Yakov stopped in his tracks. “Go ask someone.”
Turalya, standing beside him, had already dismounted. It was sunrise, and the long, drawn-out chimes of the monastery echoed in the distance. "Aren't you going to ask for me?" she asked, looking at Yakov's icy face with surprise and disdain. "I don't speak Latin."
“Your Greek is good enough.” Yakov pulled his headscarf over his face and turned his head away from her. “They can understand Greek too.”
Turana, too lazy to refuse him, gave him a disdainful look and led her horse away. Yakov secretly breathed a sigh of relief, found a crooked rock wall to hide behind, and quietly watched Turana's back—the fierce female Khan stood in front of the monastery, straightening her back and shouting loudly—her terrifying appearance must frighten the nuns, Yakov thought. If he went himself, he could use the etiquette and courtesy he had learned in the Knights, saving a lot of trouble. But he insisted on hiding here safely and detachedly, and wished he could strain his ears to hear what was going on.
He saw from afar that a small panel in the middle of the gate had been lifted—Turana's voice softened as she spoke to someone behind it. Yakov stared intently at her, as if he could read their conversation from her silhouette. The conversation was much shorter than he had expected. A moment later, Turana mounted her horse and rode straight toward him.
"What do you mean?" Yakov didn't dare to approach her until she had run over the rock wall. "Did you find out where Ambicya lives?"
Turana shook her head at him.
"The nun said she was dead."
"What?"
“She was buried here with her daughter just last month, and only a few nobles know about it.” Thulana gripped the reins tightly, and the horse paced anxiously back and forth. “The nun said that she had a bad reputation and made enemies during her lifetime, and it was her brother’s idea to keep her death a secret, for fear of giving people something to talk about.”
"...Which brother?"
"Which brother could it be?" Thurana's eyes widened. "Of course, it's that kid you used to hang out with all the time!"
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