Act XI: The Promised Land (Thirteen)
Thirteen
Yakov could not abandon his post. He remained steadfastly in the tower, his palm pressed against Yubi's turban, forbidding the vampire from raising his head. The knight kept one eye on Saladin's army and the other on the ships in the harbor.
"Let me see it!" Yubi shouted reluctantly. "I want to see how you're so sure that ship is [illegal/destructive]."
Even if it wasn't, so what? It's always better to be cautious now, Yakov thought. But he didn't respond to the young nobleman, only silently glancing at the commotion in the harbor. Soon a small commotion arose—Daud's message had clearly arrived, making the knights and soldiers on duty extremely nervous. The strange ship with pigs running on its deck was ultimately not brought ashore, and its crew waved their arms in dissatisfaction, so they had to go around it by sea.
"If you won't show me, at least tell me about it!" Yubi grabbed his hand and took it off his head. "Are you guessing wrong, that's why you won't let me see it?"
"Stop fooling around!" Yakov pushed him back down into his cloak once more. The sun was high in the sky, its rays dangerously slanting through the narrow opening. "The ship's gone; nobody dares to tell them to come ashore!"
“These knights are all as suspicious as you,” Yubi complained. “They might just be kind Italians who brought you pork and were wrongly accused and driven away.”
“It’s better that they’re innocent than for Saladin’s spies to infiltrate the city.” Yakov’s gaze shifted from the port to the army outside the city—he noticed that the 30,000-strong encamped army was finally beginning to wriggle through the valley. The knight’s hair stood on end with tension—was the siege about to begin? He immediately reached for the trigger crossbow beside him, shoved it into a crack in the wall, and drew the string, readying his arrows.
"What is this?" Yubi reached out to touch the exquisite weapon. "How come I've never seen this in Constantinople?"
“Christians are not allowed to use this when fighting Christians.” Yakov frowned and grabbed his hand back. “It is very lethal and can only be used when fighting infidels.”
"...as if using other methods wouldn't kill anyone," Yubi said, surprised and puzzled. "That's just self-deception."
Yakov thought so too, offering no objection. The knight, gripping his master's wrist with one hand and holding the trigger with the other, soon sensed something was amiss—he knew what a siege was like: boulders, slick with oil and ablaze, would be hurled against the walls, crushing the sturdy stone, followed by brutal hand-to-hand combat and mountains of corpses; countless arrows would rain down, killing anyone unlucky enough to be struck, whether merchant, woman, child, preaching bishop, or armored general; he could already smell the boiling asphalt and excrement next door—sticky, filthy, and scalding hot, poured down the walls, causing burns or infections to anyone who touched it. Then the attackers would hurle the corpses of the dead back into the city with catapults, hoping to spread a plague.
He wanted to show Yubi these cruel things, but then he thought—vampires aren't afraid of these things. Since they've lost the fear of death, how could they truly understand?
“Find a place to hide,” Yakov said in a dry, parched voice. He felt his throat parched again. “Find a place without the sun, find a cellar.”
“I’m definitely going to stay with you.” But Yubi looked firmly into his eyes. “What if you die here while I’m gone?”
“If the walls collapse and you’re driven out into the sun, you won’t care about me anymore!” Yakov gritted his teeth angrily. “I’m afraid you’re so clingy and a nuisance, that’s why I don’t allow you to leave the Temple Mount! But you just won’t listen to me!”
“Actually, I have a way.” The vampire suddenly lifted his iron hat. “I can hide on your head.”
Yakov didn't understand what he meant. Just as he was about to ask, he saw the person in front of him suddenly transform into a black shadow, emerging from layers of darkly patterned robes. The heavy fabrics and beaded chains scattered on the ground, like a magician's trick, the vibrant flesh inside instantly losing its shape—leaving only a dark, wet bat clinging to the back of his hand, flapping its membranous wings and scratching its ear.
The Blood Slave felt a surge of absurdity, as if the suffering of war had truly become irrelevant to him in the face of this miracle. "...Your mother could do this too," he said, deliberately keeping a straight face, "except that the one she transformed into was much larger than yours."
The bat squeaked twice and could no longer speak. It simply flapped its wings, grabbed Yakov's beard and nose, climbed onto the chainmail on his head, and covered itself with the iron cap.
“…It’s really hot in there.” Yakov said helplessly, wrapping his linen headscarf around his neck again. “Just bear with it.”
He glanced again through the gap—the Mamluks' army wasn't heading towards the city walls. The Mamluks, their voices hoarse from shouting, finally grew weary and used their scimitars to slit the throats of the row of prisoners, leaving the Christians' blood staining the sand crimson. The vast army marched around Ashkelon's fortress, heading northeast.
Daoud was panting as he ran back to the tower, a water pouch clutched in his hand. He had to gulp down several mouthfuls of water before he could speak. Yakov had trampled down all of Yubi's discarded clothes and hidden them in a corner, then stuffed them by the stairs.
"My lord! They say Saladin's army isn't attacking here, but is heading towards Jerusalem!" the servant said, coughing. "Jerusalem has no army guarding it!"
All the knights and soldiers in the city were gathered in one place—Yakov looked around; the remaining army of the entire overseas territory should be here. Sancho, leading the camel Yubi had given him, was nervously strapping his sword to his waist. The leather belt was old and stiff, and his clumsy fingers struggled for a long time to tie a knot.
"When was the last time you fought a war?" Yakov pushed aside the servant and gave his comrade a hard tug on the leather buckle. "You haven't handled many sharpened swords in all these years in Constantinople, have you?"
"Stop making fun of me." Sancho slapped his hand away. "After all, I became a knight at the age of twenty-one."
“I’m not mocking you.” Yakov looked away. “...If you get rusty, just go hide in the back row.”
"You're insulting me!" Sancho punched him hard in the chest. "If every Templar Knight thought like that, what's the point of fighting?"
Yakov scoffed, too lazy to retort. He silently observed all the other Templar Knights. Unsurprisingly, Yesau, who looked remarkably like him, was also preparing his horse in the ranks. The vampire slave scrutinized the man from head to toe: he couldn't help but think that all vampire slaves were cowards—not that being cowardly was something evil or shameful. But was there a bat hidden somewhere in that man's cloak or helmet? If not, had he been forced onto the battlefield by the vampires to risk his life?
Yakov pursed his lips, deep in thought. He felt something scratching at his chainmail from above, but it seemed like a hallucination.
Inside the fortress, the leper king, his body wrapped in bandages, rode out of the porch, drawing enthusiastic cheers from everyone around him. Yakov noticed the young man's strange riding posture: his upper body was ramrod straight, he relied entirely on his knees gripping the saddle for stability, and he held the reins with his left hand—"The king has lost all feeling in his right hand," Sancho whispered beside him. "He actually wants to lead the army himself..."
"How can you boost morale if you don't personally lead the troops?" Yakov disagreed. "Having leprosy doesn't absolve you of your responsibilities to the king."
Behind the King, the Archbishop of Bethlehem followed closely. Elegantly dressed pageboys struggled to lift a huge, golden cross, before which lay the small box Yakov and Yubi had seen in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre—the True Cross. All the knights and soldiers prostrated themselves at the sight of this relic, as if the sacred object itself was emanating a terrifying wave, crushing mortals with its awe-inspiring majesty. This scene deeply disturbed Yakov—he couldn't help but recall the subservient yet frenzied appearance of the blood slaves he had witnessed at Camilla's funeral. Yakov suddenly felt as if the entire world had long been slaves to some kind of power, as if people didn't know how to live unless they did something. And what that power actually was, was ultimately irrelevant.
But he still obediently knelt on one knee, trying to hide himself inconspicuously in the army—Yakov secretly observed Yesau, whose blood slave, whose identity was unknown, was doing the same thing as him.
“The Holy Land of Christ is in its most perilous time.” The king’s youthful voice reminded Yakov of Yubi’s voice when it had just broken. “…We are the only remaining guardians of Jerusalem. This sacred mission, this heavy responsibility, falls gloriously on the shoulders of all of us, so that our swords may become the will of the Lord, and our shields may be forged into the glory of the Lord.”
All the knights and soldiers held their breath. Yakov heard the wind whistling against the stone walls.
"On behalf of all the warriors here, the warriors of God, I pray to the Lord for victory!" He raised his bandaged left hand, pointing his riding crop to the sky. "May all Christians of the world be blessed by the Lord, and lend us strength! I issue this command to every pious person in the Holy Land, and ask for the help of every lord and every fortress! May the power of the true cross protect us all, and protect the Holy Land from the trampling of pagans! Do not fear glorious death, for every warrior among you will be blessed and go to heaven!"
"As God desires!" The archbishop solemnly raised the box containing the fragments of the True Cross high above his head.
"God's will!" The crowd roared like boiling porridge, frantically pounding the ground with their weapons.
Yakov felt time slow down. He saw Sancho, Sancho's squire, the blood slave named Yesau, and the young Palestinian squire beside him. All the familiar faces seemed to be drenched from head to toe in a frenzied, bloodthirsty aura—their faces bore an indignation Yakov was unfamiliar with, a death-defying resolve, some even shedding tears, though it was hard to tell if they were genuine. "God's will," the knight suddenly remembered, recalling how the Romans had shouted the same slogan when they set sail from the port of Constantinople. Yet they had all turned back without ever seeing the enemy. Yakov thought, the slogans that had echoed in the warships were even louder, and didn't sound fake either. Shouting with all one's might and actually shedding blood on the battlefield were two different things; the former was far simpler.
"God's will!" But he also angrily opened his mouth beneath his beard, joining in the exaggerated performance. He thought that no one could tell whether his slogan was true or false.
Saladin left only a thousand men to besiege Ashkelon—clearly, this hapless Sultan paid no heed to the thousand or so men in the city, intending only to seize the holy city. As dusk fell and the city gates opened, enraged knights charged out on horseback, immediately scattering the army.
Yakov intended to target those who resembled Salman, but he discovered these enemies were not the Mamluks loyal to the Sultan. His sword slashed the neck of one of the infidels, who screamed in agony, speaking not even Arabic—Yakov noticed the soldiers had skin as dark as night. He immediately realized: these were slaves from further south of the Sahara, captured and sold to the Sultan to serve in his army.
The knight didn't hesitate for a moment. He recalled his cruel life as a slave and felt no need to pity them; he was merely conforming to some law of the jungle. He spurred his horse forward, shouting terrifyingly through the ranks, cutting down several men. An enemy thrust a spear at his foot, slashing a bright red wound. The wound healed instantly—Yakov grinned maliciously, as if he were a glorious and invincible hero, blessed by the gods, just like the book Yubi always carried—the heroes in those books possessed divine blood and the blessing of legend. Yakov thought, wasn't he more valiant, more fortunate, more worthy of praise than these born-superior heroes? Wasn't he, too, someone who had earned the gods' favor entirely through his own efforts?
His young servant, spear in hand, followed him, searching for the wounded lying on the ground: if they were Christians, he would drag them out and heal them; if they were bastards, he would thrust a spear into their hearts. Before long, the young man's face was splattered with blood, and his eyes had turned cold.
Soon, the walls of Ashkelon were cleared clean. The slave troops weren't so loyal; less than half died, and the rest fled into the desert, abandoning their armor and weapons. Darkness fell quickly, and the sea breeze turned chilly. Yakov, sword in hand, rode back to the city gate, his body covered in dust and blood, which clung to his robes. Many knights returned with him, panting heavily, each carrying their own spoils—some clutching severed heads, others retrieving ornate helmets, and still others snatching torn banners.
"God's will!" they shouted fervently in the ranks once again.
Yakov pulled on the reins to Sancho's camels. "How many did you kill?" he asked, showing off a Damascus steel dagger to his comrade—it had been cut from the waist of a man who looked like a commander, the blade patterned like water ripples, looking both sharp and extravagant. "Don't tell me you went through a lot to come back alive."
White breath was coming out of Sancho's mouth, as if he were shivering from the cold. "...I'm too lazy to steal these things." He chuckled, then said in a low voice, "I don't use [illegible] things. I don't know how to ride this camel at all."
Yakov laughed heartily, the familiar carnage bringing him both pleasure and relief. "Just making excuses for your lack of skill." He handed the dagger to Sancho, "Here, take this. I don't need it."
Sancho silently accepted the heavy, blood-stained gift. Yakov shoved him hard. "Cheer up!" the knight's voice was loud and steady. "We still have to go to Jerusalem and continue the fight!"
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