Act XI: The Promised Land (Part 1)
one
Yakov had many of the same dreams when he was young.
The Slavs used the earth as their pillow and the sky as their blanket. He pressed his ears to the steppes on the northern shore of the Black Sea, where he could hear the waves crashing against the rocks and the clatter of horseshoes against the earth. He fell asleep to the deafening sounds. In his dream, he saw countless cavalrymen roaring as they rode down the hillside, each carrying an exquisite bow made of sturdy cow horn with wooden tacks. Yakov looked down and found himself riding a fine horse, wearing a mask with a beard carved from fine iron, and a mouth harp hanging around his neck. He was thrilled. He lifted the mask, took the harp, put it in his mouth, and plucked a terrifying melody—the entire troop drew their bows, and his command transformed into a dense rain of arrows, hurled towards an unknown distance and a faceless enemy.
Yakov smugly removed his helmet. The smooth metal surface reflected his face—a blond, pale-eyed, broad-bridged nose, deep-set brows, the face of a slave. In his dreams more than twenty years ago, he had been so terrified that he had either thrown the helmet away, hastily put it back on, or simply woken up with a start. But this time, he held it firmly in his hand.
The mask did not depict the terrifying face of the Cumans, but rather a deep cross was engraved on it.
Yakov frowned. He leaned closer, looking at it again and again, touching it repeatedly. The cross pattern gradually melted away, transforming into a design he knew best, a design that haunted his dreams—the cross grinned, curving to reveal sharp fangs, blood dripping from its lips.
Blood Slave quietly opened his eyes and saw the tiled ceiling and flowing curtains in Yubi's room. He confused the sound of the waves on the northern shore of the Black Sea with that of the Golden Horn, and for a moment felt as if reality was a dream, unable to distinguish between fact and illusion.
The vampire rested his head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, a book clutched in his hand. Its cover was illuminated by the dim candlelight, and Yakov had to squint to see it clearly; it appeared to be the Aeneid. "You've woken up earlier than usual," Yubi said lazily, lifting his eyes from the pages. "It's not even dawn yet; I can sleep a little longer."
“No need. Today we should go outside the city to find Turana.” Yakov groped his way to his feet. “I want you to come with me.”
“I was going to go with you anyway.” Yubi tilted her head and looked at him.
"I want you to come with me to see Batur."
"Oh! Why?"
"This may be the last time I see him. I need you to listen."
What do you want me to hear?
“I have kept many things from you.” Yakov stared into his master’s eyes, which gleamed in the darkness. “It’s time for you to know.”
The Slav no longer wore a helmet that covered his face. He wore a round iron hat, crowned like a tiara over his chainmail. On his white cloak, the crimson cross, symbolizing the Knights Templar, draped on either side of his arms like two wings made of blood. The two set off on a cool summer morning, accompanied by their servants—blood slaves—leaving the Golden Gate. The vast and magnificent procession resembled a long dragon symbolizing majesty, with Yakov leading the way. His horse's hooves followed closely behind on a road paved with rose petals and laurel leaves, like a sharp needle piercing through a frivolous golden thread into the dense white felt tents of the Cumans along the Thracian River.
Yakov thought, just like the team he had seen in Ambikia when he was young.
The complicated financial matters were left to Shumel and Borakhan, who then left the main tent with Thurana. "He won't live much longer," Thurana said, her horse stopping in front of another large yurt, which, like the Khan's, was adorned with brightly colored woven ribbons. "But I beg my master not to kill him."
“I have warned Yakov,” Yubi nodded from behind his veil and umbrella. “Don’t worry, he knows what he’s doing.”
Yakov remained silent. He straightened his back, exposing his bearded face to the bright sunlight. A gentle breeze blew through his chainmail, tickling and cooling the dried sweat behind his ears.
Like the curtain of a play, the Tatar servants drew back the yurt's curtain, and a somber, decaying smell secretly wafted out, drawing him into a wave of memories. He followed his master, throwing himself into that viscous vortex.
It was dark and cooler than outside, Yakov thought. Like Yubi's room, it never saw the sun, and stepping inside made one drowsy, with a chill penetrating to the bone. A robust middle-aged Slavic female slave led them through the silent tent hall to an inner room veiled by a beaded curtain—they first heard a series of muffled coughs and wheezes, worse than a broken bellows, like a latticed window on a tattered sheepskin cover, so old and full of holes that it was about to crumble into pieces and turn to ash in the cold wind.
"My master..." The voice, as if emanating from the throat of a man dying of thirst, faintly came from behind the beaded necklace. "I have failed to greet you properly..."
Yakov still recognized the voice, and the scent of medicine and sandalwood in the room. He rushed forward, using his strong, well-dressed arm to lift the beaded chain. A familiar yet unfamiliar face suddenly came into his view.
Yakov couldn't look away. He had imagined what Batur would look like when he was old—they were the same age, had grown up together, and what he remembered most vividly was each other's childhood appearance. In his youth, Batur, like all Tatars, had a round face, his cheeks always reddened by the wind, becoming even more congested and suffocating when his asthma flared up; as he grew into adulthood, his cheeks had subtly sunken, his cheekbones had developed sharp angles, and his beard had added a touch of menace to the frail Khan; but now, his beard was tinged with gray, his once thick, black braids had become sparse tufts, impossible to tie up, revealing large patches of pale scalp. Yakov thought, they were both 45 years old. For 45 to be so withered, they looked like blood slaves abandoned by vampires, wandering souls cast aside by hell.
Only those sinister black eyes, set in their withered yellow sockets, stared at his face, instantly igniting the same fire as before—before, Yakov had only felt it as unreasonable bullying and contempt, the malice of a superior venting their anger on him. But now he understood everything; it was a burgeoning jealousy and defiance burning in those skull-like eye sockets, sustaining his dying body to survive.
Batur lay on the couch, a emaciated hand emerging from under the covers, gripping Yakov's robe tightly. "Plead with the Lord for me, Yakov," the Khan smiled, his lips pursed. Yakov then noticed that Turalya had pulled out all his teeth, making him look like a pitiful, aged wild dog. "Don't you pity me in this state?"
“I’m not here to save you,” Yakov said coldly and with pity. “I’m just visiting you before I leave.”
Batur refused to let go, but another series of coughs and wheezes gripped him—he used to be able to cough out the air from his lungs, but now even that strength was gone. It sounded less like a cough and more like a light, weak exhale, as if another cough would shatter his desiccated body like porcelain. Yakov easily guided the tightly clenched hand on his robe back to the bed—the hand was cold and withered, as if covered by a layer of yellowed oil paper. He returned to Yubi's side.
The Slavic female slave brought them two cushions. The vampire and the blood slave sat on them, gazing through the beaded chains at the Khan lying on the bed, critically ill, as if looking at a half-buried coffin, offering prayers for the dead.
“I forgive you,” Yakov said.
Batur turned his face away, staring only at the wall.
“I think you have forgiven me,” Yakov said again.
"You're taking my army, Yakov. I knew this day would come." A hoarse voice, muffled by coughs, came from behind the beaded chain. "I don't forgive you..."
“I’m not asking you to forgive me for this,” Yakov interrupted him. “I placed all the blame on you and harbored resentment towards you for a long time. Now I’ve come to my senses.”
Batur turned back. His gaunt face, hidden beneath the shimmering beads, resembled that of a priest in a confessional.
“Many things are my own fault.” Yakov’s chapped lips moved slowly beneath his beard. “You appreciated me, trusted me, nurtured me, and gave me opportunities that others didn’t have. Without you, I wouldn’t be where I am today. You have given me many things that slaves shouldn’t have been given, whatever your purpose was in doing so.”
“It was I who first asked you to be my bodyguard, and you agreed; it was I who suggested the idea of hunting, and you adopted it; it was I who personally volunteered to go to the bear den, and you granted it; it was also I who first envied your female slave, and you then bestowed her upon me.”
"I killed her child with my own hands. I ran away out of fear of punishment."
“Oh.” Batur chuckled weakly. “Tatiana’s child.”
Yakov frowned, the name deepening his wrinkles as if carved by a knife. "...Tatiana and your child."
"That baby has golden hair. It's your child."
Yakov was silent for a moment. Under Yubi's judgmental gaze, he bit his lip hard, and blood trickled from it. "Tatiana's child," he said, his mouth tasting metallic. "It's a boy."
“A boy,” Batur nodded. “I had hoped he would be the next you.”
"I came here the same way?" Yakov asked.
“Who knows?” Batur answered him vaguely. “Most strong slaves come from this kind of source.”
Yakov was silent for a moment. He nodded, as if mourning a mother he had never met. “You are Khan, you have to do this,” he said. “You are ill and need a strong and loyal person to assist you. I understand.”
Yubi remained silent beside him, her eyelids lowered.
“You’ve even learned this fancy rhetoric now. Yakov, are you pitying me?” Batur grinned maliciously as he lay on the bed. “I wish I were you. If I had your strong body, I would be in your position, leading my own army, instead of being a thief, stealing others’ things and taking their glory!”
“I did this for Yubi, for the master and god you speak of.”
Are you willing to admit to being a thief before the Lord for this?
“You’re trying to provoke me.” Yakov raised his head and looked directly into those dark eyes that had once terrified him. “If everything in the world had an owner, then the virtue of not fighting or grabbing would be useless to those who have nothing. That’s a kind of justice.”
"But there are strong people like you in this world who bully the weak like me. You never allow the weak to have anything, you always take it away from them. Even what I was born with, you squeeze dry and devour, leaving me not a single thing, and you call it justice!"
Batur spoke too hastily, his words caught in his throat, turning into labored gasps. The slave girl skillfully moved forward, easily lifting his clothes with one hand and pulling him against the back of the couch. She patted his thin chest forcefully with her palm. Batur stuck out his tongue and finally coughed—a sight that silenced Yakov, who simply waited quietly for him to catch his breath.
“…I didn’t expect you to think the same way.” The Blood Slave gazed at his miserable appearance. “You think the same way I do.”
“You are truly despicable, Yakov…” Batur gagged, clutching the spittoon the female slave had given him. “…Sometimes you speak of the victor and the vanquished, and other times you cry foul. It’s as if those stronger than you have all trampled you underfoot by improper means, while those weaker than you have all been won by you honorably.”
"Are you talking about me, or yourself?" Yakov asked calmly, "or everyone in the world?"
Upon hearing his words, Batur vomited a large cloud of white foam mixed with blood. This disgusting substance stuck to his beard, which was quickly wiped away by the female slave.
“I am the Khan’s son…I am the Khan!” He breathed heavily, his throat making a gurgling sound as if he had choked on water. “I was born to be the Khan, and you were born to be a slave!”
“I was born strong, and you were born weak,” Yakov said. “Good things are never enjoyed by one person alone.”
Batur closed his eyes wearily and weakly. A disgusting groan escaped his nose.
"What do you think?" The blood slave suddenly turned to his master, questioning him. "Did I steal from him, or did he steal from me? Is it more fortunate to be born strong, or rarer to be born noble? How is strength defined, and where is justice?"
Yubi sat quietly on the cushion like a statue. His expression was hidden behind a veil, only his unblinking red eyes, like jewels embedded in the darkness, gleamed with a lifeless light.
"You forgive him now, just as he forgave you before. It's as if whoever holds power has the moral high ground and has obtained justice," the vampire said slowly. "In that case, the strong are only powerful for a time, and justice does not exist."
As the divine judgment was delivered, the yurt fell into utter silence, as if the wings of an angel had swept away all noise. Yakov could only hear the hot wind blowing across the hillside outside the tent. He then realized that the wool lining beneath his chainmail was soaked with sweat. Batur on the bed burst into tears, his toothless mouth agape, whimpering like a puppy—Yakov had never seen him in such a wretched and distraught state. The Blood Slave was terrified, his hair stood on end, yet a secret joy and peace welled up within him. His right hand went to the longsword strapped to his belt, his left hand gripped Yubi's wrist, both hands clutching tightly as if grasping at a lifeline.
"God," the former Khan cried, his eyes brimming with tears that welled up like a bitter lake. "If that's the case, why do you favor him instead of me?"
Yubi didn't answer, but turned his head and looked at Yakov quietly. His eyes behind his veil curved into a smile that was both favored and tender, sweet and cold.
They spent the entire day in the Cuman camp and attended a dinner. Yubi still disliked the sight of the shirtless Tatars dancing and wrestling, and loathed their sordid and barbaric celebrations. When the moon was high in the sky, he took Yakov's hand and hid among the cicadas chirping all over the hillside, gazing at the majestic Theodosian walls.
“I want you to carry me.” The vampire removed her veil and then untied layers of headscarves. “Let’s go up that hillside over there.”
“You’re not injured, and you’re not tired.” Yakov frowned. “Why should I carry you?”
"I just want to, is that not allowed?" Yubi pried his fingers apart and pulled him down, "Promise me!"
Yakov said nothing more, only crouching down with his cross-shaped cloak in hand. Yubi climbed onto his shoulders, stepping on his strong thighs, and wrapped her arms around his thick neck, rolling up her lavishly patterned wide sleeves. Yakov removed his iron gauntlets and steadily lifted his master's knees, bending down to sit. The vampire's body was light, making it easy for the knight to move. But the intricate fabric made him even hotter on the summer night.
"You're so strong!" Yubi exclaimed happily like a child. "You have such a high vantage point!"
Yakov silently accepted his master's praise and strode forward. His iron gloves were held by his master, swaying against his chest. The former slave suddenly remembered doing this: when he was young, he often carried his master across the steppe. At that time, Batur was suffering from asthma and would also be bouncing and panting near his ear; but vampires don't need to breathe—Yakov realized that it was Yubi deliberately blowing into his ear through the chainmail.
"I think you've become so much better than before," Yubi murmured, blushing. "I like you more and more."
Yakov closed his eyes. His boots sank in and out of place. "...I am still me, all thanks to you." He caught his breath and continued up the hillside. "If I hadn't met you, I would still be a bandit in Transylvania."
“I’m not referring to your status or power,” Yubi said, tilting his head. “I’m referring to how much stronger and clearer your mind has become, how much you’ve seen and thought about.”
“That’s because of status and power.” Yakov kept his head down as he climbed the mountain. “Whoever holds power has the moral high ground and enjoys justice. That’s what you said.”
"How can that be the same thing?" Yubi said angrily, tightening her grip on his neck. "You think everyone you meet is a saint just because they're nobles or kings?"
"I am not a saint either."
"But you're much better than them. You think about things they wouldn't think about."
Yakov wanted to refute him, but didn't know what to say. The knight silently climbed to the mountaintop, approaching the enormous, bright moon. He gazed at the distant wilderness and sea, as if catching a glimpse of a lone boat where sky and sea met, carrying two dancing figures—a hermit and a bard. Their dance, unsteady and seemingly without end, went against the tide of the Queen of the Cities, heading east away from this sinful yet prosperous city of Sodom.
"Do you want to be a saint, Yakov?"
Yakov felt that Yubi's question seemed familiar, yet no one had ever asked him it before. He tried to put his master down, but the vampire clung tightly to his shoulder, his cold hands reaching under his chainmail hood.
“Saints simply do not exist.” Yakov offered no resistance, merely tilting his head to offer his neck. “Life is full of dilemmas, and there have never been saints.”
Yubi hooked his arm around his shoulder and craned his neck, his endearing face obscuring the moon from Yakov's view, like a giant python's skin swallowing its light. Yakov thought, it was as if his moon had been eclipsed.
“In that case, I can’t become a saint.” The vampire stroked his strong pulse, his fingertips pressing on the veins. “I have something I want to ask you.”
"Ask away."
“It’s about Schumeer.” Yubi sighed softly, strands of hair brushing against Yakov’s face. “Should I save him, heal his eyes?”
Yakov immediately understood why his master had brought him to this quiet place, and where his earlier questions had come from. The image of the Jewish mangled, hollow eye sockets and their groveling, subservient figures flashed through his mind—now, their pitiful blind friends were calculating their pay in Turalya's tent, voluntarily distributing their years of accumulated wealth to others.
“…I was saved by Ambikia, but I didn’t become her blood slave back then.” Yakov turned his head in confusion. “Can’t you do it?”
Yubi slowly removed her hand from his neck and buried her face in his shoulder in frustration.
"I can only heal the blood slave's body, which is similar to granting someone eternal youth..."
The vampire spoke in a very low, hesitant voice.
“But I still don’t know how to remove that mark, Yakov.”
Yakov's brow, which never seemed to unfurrow, furrowed again. He closed his eyes tightly, feeling his eyeballs dry and taut as they rolled within their sockets, the moonlight shimmering hazily in the darkness before him through his eyelids. He felt a mixture of sadness and relief, as if he had been pushed off a cliff but had landed in a bright and clear stream.
Yubi's hands were freezing cold. Yakov grabbed them and pulled him down, not allowing him to cling to his back or hide in the crook of his neck. Yakov carefully and gently traced the cold arm upwards, his palm pressing against Yubi's thin, youthful shoulder.
“In that case, you should learn what power is,” the Blood Slave said. “Learn to control it, to make it work for you, rather than you working for it.”
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