Act Ten: The True Knight (Part Nine)
Nine
Many nobles and officials gestured in greeting. People parted to reveal the royal couple.
Yakov thought he would see the same beautiful pregnant women he had seen in the Transylvanian castle, as depicted in Schumeer's paintings—the vampires were all exquisite and elegant, exuding a delicate charm—at least every Noctenias he had ever met was like that.
He first spotted Ambikia's striking red hair in the crowd. He had never seen its color in the sun before, Yakov thought, and surely no one in the world had ever seen that red hair in the sunlight. Yubi had said that if a vampire's hair touched the sun, it would burn and turn to ashes—Ambikia's once smooth and soft red hair was now shimmering wildly in the sunlight, like a struggling flame. The strands of hair were wildly disheveled among the golden crown and pearl ribbons, like a clump of unruly weeds determined to sprout from the cracks in the wall or the corners of the brickwork.
Beneath her disheveled hair was a face covered in red pimples. Ambikia's nose and mouth had become disfiguredly large, and even makeup couldn't conceal the coarse pores. Her upturned, sharp red eyes hadn't changed much—Yakov could almost entirely recognize Ambikia by those eyes. Thanks to those eyes, the vampire's face still retained a trace of delicate nimbleness. But Yakov continued to look down; the stiff, ornate dress could no longer conceal her swollen limbs. Her rounded belly bulged slightly beneath the embroidered skirt, resting on a hand adorned with a ring—a blood-drop-shaped ruby ring with an obsidian base.
This appearance inexplicably made her seem more mature and approachable, Yakov thought. The pregnant woman's hand firmly held her husband's—the frail Greek looked even more listless, with dark circles under his eyes and a haggard appearance. He wore a long robe embroidered with gold diamond patterns, loosely hanging over his shoulders, the purple area seemingly more pronounced than before.
"...How far along is she in her pregnancy?" Yakov couldn't help but ask. "When will she give birth?"
"It must have been four months, right?" Yubi answered him softly. "Logically, the delivery should be in June next year."
“That’s been too long,” Yakov said, cursing viciously. “She’s been hogging your ring for so long.”
"Don't say that to your sister!" Yubi hurriedly grabbed Yakov's arm, which was holding the umbrella, and urged him to bow. "Ten months of pregnancy is such a difficult thing!"
The two squeezed to the side of the square, making way for the Komnins to enjoy the best view of the harbor amidst cheers and blessings. Yakov stared at Anbichia's vibrant appearance with considerable displeasure, reluctantly bowing to her. After a while, the bishops and monks in top hats from the church arrived. Someone shouted towards the sea.
"Manuel the Great's army has returned!"
As was customary, the citizens lined the streets to greet their defeated, dark-skinned, aged, and great emperor. The emperor disembarked from the boat and then mounted his chariot. The bishop applied holy oil to his sweat-drenched forehead, children and women adorned his helmet, rumored to have been bent askew by the Turks, with wreaths, and the young and beautiful queen, with her infant son, wept as she kissed the back of his hand. The procession flowed like a river of soldiers, with chariots and siege towers moving slowly like small boats through the fragrant streets.
"Do you know that all the spices on the street are bought from us?" Yubi shouted to Yakov amidst enthusiastic cheers and applause. "You can't buy them anywhere else!"
Yakov's mind was elsewhere. His arm was held over the umbrella, his eyes scanning the procession nervously. As expected, he quickly found them and the people Anbikia was waiting to greet—from this distance, he couldn't recognize the Empire's complex ranks and titles, nor could he make out the faces of those wearing helmets, but he recognized Seleman simply by his figure and movements.
The blood slave he once called a "eunuch" has now truly become a general! Seleman rides a massive warhorse clad in heavy armor, a crimson cloak trailing behind him. In his left hand he holds an exquisite round shield, adorned with the symbol of the Kayser; in his right hand he raises aloft a towering flagpole topped with a glaring golden dragon, adorned with several bright yet tattered ribbons, fluttering ostentatiously and pitifully.
The general spotted his true master in the crowd in the square and smiled at the loyal man. Yakov noticed that the wretched blood slave seemed to give him a provocative look—any look, in his eyes, was a provocation.
A frenzied jealousy gripped Yakov's heart. He repeatedly asked himself, "The Mamluks once became generals even after defeats, so when will it be my turn to achieve glory?"
“Look at that!” Yubi, who was beside him, tugged at his robe. “Yakov, look!”
"What are you looking at?" Blood Slave reluctantly turned his gaze to the direction his master had pointed. He saw a group of blond, blue-eyed mercenaries walking in formation, carrying axes, and scoffed disdainfully. "What's so surprising?" he said. "This is the Varangian Guard, Schumer told you about it."
“I didn’t ask you that,” Yubi asked, both innocent and cruel. “If you hadn’t gone to your mother’s castle, would you have ended up like them?”
“…Maybe.” Yakov answered him, biting his chapped lips.
“I think you’d be better off as a Templar Knight.” Yubi didn’t notice his reaction at all. “I don’t think their armor and weapons are as cool as the Knights’.”
Yakov heard one of the mercenaries whistling and greeting them, perhaps having spotted a pretty young girl. He paid little attention, gripping his umbrella tightly, fighting off a long-forgotten feeling of inferiority. Yubi continued rambling on about learning Slavic, but it didn't register with him; it was like meaningless tones ringing in his ears. After a while, Yubi suddenly stopped talking.
“…Yakov,” he began timidly, “Do the Cumans also serve as mercenaries for the Emperor?”
Yakov reached out and rubbed his temples. “The Cumans? They’re not entirely absent,” he said. “The emperor has money; he can hire whomever he wants.”
“Look at that woman.” Yubi stretched out her gloved hand from under the umbrella, pointing it out to him in the sunlight. “Who is that?”
Yakov grabbed his hand and pulled it back into the shadows. "If you dare do that again, you might as well not ask me to hold this umbrella anymore," the Blood Slave couldn't help but lash out. "I should really lock you up at home."
"I'm sorry..." Yubi lowered her head, completely losing the aristocratic air she had just displayed.
Yakov had a sudden realization that something was wrong. He then tried to compose himself and peered into the procession—he saw a face that shouldn't be there in the emperor's party—the face of a familiar, fierce Tatar woman.
“There’s a Frankish chef here today; I wonder if his novel dishes will suit everyone’s tastes.” Ambicia had changed into a light, soft dress. Supporting her slightly clumsy pregnant belly, she raised a glass of strong liquor. “I imagine it’s impossible to cater to so many people. If anyone doesn’t like it, I’ll just have to compromise!”
Yakov felt as if he had returned to five years ago. It was as if all the hard work, the noble or despicable schemes, the successful or unsuccessful struggles of him, Schumer, and Yubi over the past five years were utterly insignificant, not even worth a decent chip on this table. He could only sit stiffly at the table, gripping Yubi's hand tightly, as if if he let go, the vampire would float away into the night and disappear; and Yubi was also gripping his hand tightly, as if if she let go, the vampire slave would escape the mansion and vanish into the crowd.
“You’re the one, Yasha?” The Slav sitting next to him was taller and stronger than him, with long, sallow hair and a tangled beard tied into braids. A sharp, heavy battle-axe, inlaid with expensive gold patterns, stood on the chair beside him. The man sized Yakov up, whistling a rather off-key tune. “I’ve often heard about you from Yubina.”
Yakov's gaze suddenly turned chillingly cold. He silently turned to look at his ashamed owner on the recliner. "...He is Oleg Vojinovich." Yubi awkwardly turned her face away, unable to meet his icy eyes. "He is my Slavic language teacher."
“You never told me about this.” Yakov’s voice was low and hoarse, like an old bell.
“Why didn’t I tell you?” Yubi complained softly, their hands tightening even more. “I mentioned it to you once on the ship, and again during the parade…”
“You’ve grown taller.” Thulana sat across from them, legs crossed, one dirty boot propped on the stool as she drank. Her Greek was poor, her vocabulary simple and crude. “I haven’t grown much in the last five years. I’ll stay short from now on!”
“I…I want to ask…” Yubi glanced at Yakov, then at Turalya. “What are you doing here?”
“I was hired by the emperor,” Thurana replied briefly, “and I’m also making a deal with your sister.”
"A deal," Yakov thought dismissively, knowing full well what a dirty deal it was. A vampire's promise was like a baited hook; once one fish escaped, another would immediately follow.
"And your husband..."
Yakov turned back. His gaze fell on Turalya's fingers, and as expected, he found them still intact. "Batur is alive," he said bluntly in Turkic.
“This is none of your business, Slav.” Turalya slammed her glass on the table and scoffed. “I understand your desire for revenge; you want him dead. But he is also the father of my child.”
“They keep calling us Slavs, and there’s more than one Slav at this table. Aren’t we all slaves to the gods?” The Varangian guard captain, Oleg, stretched out his arm, shoved Yubi hard across Yakov’s shoulder, and then grinned at Anbichia. “Before the great gods, what distinction is there between us?”
"Great God." The few syllables echoed in Yakov's chest. He raised his eyes somberly, surveying everyone at the long table—today's banquet in Ambichia wasn't conducted according to Greek custom, and not a single blood slave present was Greek. In this moonlit courtyard, people acted like a wild tribe, devoid of any rules, drinking and eating without restraint—Yakov thought, he had always loathed the rigid rules of the nobility, yet now he felt completely out of place. He didn't understand his place at this table, nor how he had become like this.
The servants brought out an enormous plate, so large that it took two strong men to lift it. On the plate lay a lifelike swan, its curves graceful and its skin pure white, yet the air beneath its feathers smelled of oil and honey. Upon closer inspection, it was clearly just a sculpture made of roasted meat.
“Tell me and my brother about Milaeusefalon.” Anbichia took the sliced swan meat from Selman beside him. “Tell me how you were promoted to general.”
“It’s pretty much as the rumors say, but there’s not much to say.” Seleman’s eyes were fixed on his master’s fork. He smiled and began, “The army crossed a narrow canyon and was attacked by the Turks who rushed down the mountain. The emperor and his guards got separated in the sandstorm and were separated from each other. Fortunately, the cavalry found him under a tree.”
“You’re being modest, making it sound like you’re criticizing the Imperial Guard.” Oleg gulped down some wine. “This food is awful, all show and no substance.”
“It’s really not very good. Call the chef over.” Anbichia put down his cutlery and gestured to the slaves behind him.
Yakov thought to himself, whether it was delicious or not was no longer Yubi's concern—the vampire beside him watched helplessly as everyone either devoured their food or struggled to swallow, incapable of any judgment, silently sipping the blood in his cup. The vampire glanced at the ring on Ambicea's hand, secretly cursing her for being so picky, wishing her more suffering. "So you got promoted because you saved the emperor," Yakov said sarcastically. "What good luck."
He was certain that Sellerman understood the sarcasm in his voice. “It was certainly good luck,” Sellerman replied with a smile. “If we hadn’t found the dejected emperor, the battle wouldn’t have lasted until nightfall.”
He was secretly boasting about his ability to fight until nightfall, Yakov thought reluctantly. Yubi gently tugged at his finger beside him—his master knew of his burning jealousy and was admonishing him to restrain himself.
"A dejected emperor? It doesn't sound as lighthearted as you made it out to be." Anbicia gracefully touched her face, shifting her body to a position that would ease her stomach discomfort. "Tell me in detail. I want to know everything the emperor knows."
Just then, an astonishingly large pie was brought in from the corridor. It was layered with cheese, candied fruit, and minced meat, and upon closer inspection, one could see that the meats varied in texture, indicating that countless kinds of fillings had been mixed in. The pie was placed on a box-like table with wheels on its legs, and it was pushed across the carpet, creaking as it was delivered to the courtyard garden.
A Frankish man emerged from behind the pie. He wore an apron and walked to the center of the courtyard, bowing to the owner of the house.
"Where are you from?" Ambikia asked.
“I come from England, madam.” The cook dared not look her in the eye. “My dishes may not be the most delicious, but they will certainly be novel and pleasing to the eye.”
“The island of England,” Oleg said, pursing his lips. “No wonder.”
Yakov then noticed that a band was hidden on both sides of the corridor—servants carried giant pies into the music, and the harp and flute changed to a piece with a distinctly Frankish style.
"Look at this, madam!" The Frankish cook's forehead was covered in sweat. He sang along to the music as he introduced the pie, "Please, brave warrior, cut open a pie. When the pie is opened, birdsong fills the air!"
Ambikia chuckled at the utterly uninspired lyrics. "These are all warriors." Her sharp red eyes swept over each eager individual in their seats, scrutinizing their longswords and scimitars, battle axes and daggers. "You want to call me the Goddess of Eris, to mistake your pie for the apple of gold, and stir up trouble?"
The cook was immediately terrified and knelt on the ground, head bowed, not daring to speak. This cruel and terrifying woman, Yakov thought, even her unintentional words had become so. But he remained silent.
“I have an idea,” Seymour said with a smile. “It could make this faction more evenly divided.”
"you say."
“If you want to know the details of the battle, we can show you.” The seasoned Blood Slave stood up and went to the pie. “This faction is Konya, the capital of the Turks. We are the Emperor’s army, here to attack this faction.”
“Not a bad idea.” Anbichia’s gaze fell on the trembling chef.
Seilerman's smile deepened. "I was a defender in the army, so I played the role of a defender."
Oleg gripped his battle axe. "I'm on the left flank of the supply train; the right flank is Prince Antioch's men." He looked at the red cross on Yakov's body and lifted him up—"Yakov isn't a Frank!" Yubi held onto Yakov's hand tightly.
"Antioka's army was completely wiped out!" Oleg exclaimed in surprise. "You won't find a single eyewitness!"
“Antioch was a state established by the Crusaders.” Yakov refused to show any weakness. He resolutely shook off Yubi and moved his hand to the hilt of the longsword at his waist. “I’ll play the right wing.”
Everyone was very satisfied with his attitude of integrating, and they all nodded in agreement.
"Then who are the Turks?"
“I’ll be the Turk.” Turana excitedly picked up two scimitars. “I’ll guard this faction.”
Anbichia smiled and pulled the lone Yubi to her side. "Which team is still missing?"
"The emperor's squadron is still missing."
Who will play the emperor?
Everyone looked at each other, at a loss for what to do, and could only wait for Anbichia's instructions.
“Isaac,” the vampire’s crimson lips uttered, “call him over.”
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