The Last Supper (Part 1) - Act XIII
one
“Alpha, Yota, Mu, Alpha.” Anbicya spelled out the word for “blood” in Greek letters. “The Komnins have chosen a good word.”
Seleman listened intently to his master. He knew what Ambicea was discussing—a superstitious and legendary rule within the royal family: whenever a member of the Komnen family ascended the Roman throne, the first letters of the names of all successor emperors had to be arranged in the order of blood. Everyone believed this with unwavering conviction, including the emperor himself. The first letter of "Manuel" was "Mous," and the next letter after "Mous" was "Alpha." Therefore, the emperor had changed the names of all potential successors to "Alexius."
Blood Slave couldn't help but wonder if Ambikia wanted to change Isaac's name to "Alexius" as well.
“But Roman emperors were never just descendants of emperors,” Ambicea continued presumptuously. “More than noble blood, Roman rulers needed to be brave and skilled in battle and have the support of the people. A beggar of commoner origin could become emperor, and a prostitute of slave origin could become empress. You may not believe it, but I like this. It’s fair—you know, in an order that doesn’t care about birth but only about ability, the strong rule. This suits me well.”
For Seleman, Ambikia's bloodline and lineage were clearly far superior to that of any mortal—making his vampire master's words of diligence and ambition all the more precious. The vampire slave quietly exhaled, casting a pitying gaze at Isaac opposite him. The illustrious noble couple in purple robes, adorned with heavy gold, silver, and jewels by their servants, shone brightly on Ambikia, but on Isaac, they resembled shackles and a cage—vampire slaves should all have been forgotten by time. Age hadn't crept into the corners of Isaac's eyes with wrinkles, but a lifeless silence welled up within them. He said nothing. The room fell silent, the only sound the faint strains of a girl crying in the innermost room.
"Mom!" the voice called out indistinctly.
Ambicia clicked her tongue in annoyance. "Didn't you tell her why she wasn't allowed to go?" she asked the grieving wet nurse beside her, her hand, adorned with rings, adjusting her headscarf and beaded necklace. "Does she really want to perform all this in front of everyone when the Emperor dies?"
“Children this age are rebellious.” The wet nurse lowered her head, not daring to look at her. “They’ll understand things when they’re older.”
Ambicia raised her thin eyebrows. “Rebellious?” Her bright red lips curled into a sharp arc. “Not understanding reason isn’t rebellion, it’s just stupidity.”
"How could a three-year-old not be foolish?" Sellerman thought. Yet he remained obediently silent, observing everything. The wet nurse shyly made way for the corridor, and her master immediately rushed towards the source of the sound. As the light, elegant footsteps stopped, the girl's crying ceased a moment later.
Everyone went about their own business, no one caring what was happening in the child's room. Seyleman scrutinized Isaac's face—the child's "father" was also scrutinizing him. Their eyes met.
“A girl,” Isaac spoke to him, unusually. “Girls can’t inherit.”
Seilman stared into those lifeless, fish-like eyes. “Not at all, that rule is outdated,” he said with a smile. “Girls often inherit the throne when there are no male heirs. Queen Melisandre inherited the throne of Jerusalem, and Queen Eleanor inherited the title of Duke of Aquitaine. Even in Constantinople, Empress Zoe sat on the throne of the Roman Emperor.”
“I’m not dissatisfied with it.” Isaac’s stiff face also revealed a strange smile. “Without inheritance, there is more freedom. Unlike me, I won’t be bought and sold.”
Seilerman disliked these stubborn pronouncements about freedom and couldn't be bothered to reply. He watched helplessly as Isaac placed his hand on his left chest and decisively looked away.
The group's master quickly returned, his expression cold. "Let's go," Ambikia said. "Let us see the Emperor off on his final journey."
The palace of Brechner was packed with people, all standing guard before the door of a massive bedroom. Selman followed his master through the hall, pushing aside layers of figures. The first layer consisted of envoys from various countries: Crusader nobles from Jerusalem, Seljuks from the Sultanate of Rum, Normans from the Kingdom of Sicily, Franks from the Holy Roman Empire and France, representatives of Italian merchants from the Lombard League, and even Saracen diplomats from Cairo. He saw Ambichai exchange a few hurried words with one of the envoys, a Hungarian of Magyar descent; the second layer was of bishops, astrologers, and physicians: the Patriarch of Constantinople was whispering with an envoy from the Papal States, astrologers were sketching angles on useless astrolabes, and physicians, hands behind their backs, were shaking their heads and sighing, instructing their assistants to pack away syringes, scalpels, and herbs. Ambichai ignored them, hurrying past; the third layer was the innermost, almost touching the heavy, death-symbol bedroom door. Everyone standing there was dressed in their most luxurious and elaborate clothes, their expensive, vibrant purple conch shells pressed together in a heap. Ambikia and Isaac's group stopped there.
“The princess isn’t here,” Seleman heard his master say. “Who’s inside now?”
“Girls cannot inherit.” The reply came from one of the emperor’s nephews—if Selman remembered correctly, his name was also “Alexius.” “Now the queen and prince are inside.”
"Oh!" Ambikia said, whether with a mixture of joy and sorrow, "I understand."
After a brief moment's thought, Seymour immediately understood: the princess was the eldest daughter and, for a long time, the only child. Before the young and beautiful blonde empress gave birth to a prince for the emperor, no one dared to mention that girls couldn't inherit the throne.
He suddenly sensed the impending chaos of the collapsing building. This would become the master's ladder, Seilerman thought.
Just then, a servant pushed open the heavy door, and the Queen and Prince, their faces streaked with tears, emerged from behind him. All the whispers in the marble palace vanished instantly, leaving only the sound of the Golden Horn's waves crashing in the night. The scent of candles was suffocating and oppressive.
“The Hungarian envoy, come forward!” the servant shouted.
The Magyar envoy who had just been whispering with Anbichia immediately answered the call and stood before the door. Behind the door, the weakened emperor still possessed a powerful voice, enough to terrify everyone.
"Your king has received too many favors from me," the emperor said slowly and solemnly. "He promised that Croatia would belong to the Empire. That promise should not change after my death."
"I will convey this to our king," the envoy said, bowing his head, before being hastily ushered away.
“The messengers of Genoa and Pisa, come forward!” the waiter called out a second time.
Two men wearing Italian feathered hats pushed through the crowd and leaned forward to stand guard at the door. The emperor seemed to cough twice in bed, immediately sparking a murmur of discussion. "Quiet!" a servant sternly admonished on behalf of the emperor, barely managing to quell the commotion.
“Your trade privileges will not change.” The emperor’s voice seemed a little weaker. “My son will be the next Roman emperor, and he will still grant you tax-free use of the concessions and ports.”
The crowd immediately erupted into a near-uproar, with some daring to openly express their dissatisfaction with the Italians' privileges. The servants' voices were drowned out. "He needs a regent!" shouted the "Alexius" who had just been discussing the princess with Ambicea. "He's only eleven years old, still a minor!"
The envoys from Genoa and Pisa were dragged away before they could answer. The Varangians brandished their swords, forcing everyone to keep quiet. "The envoys from Antioch, come forward!" the waiter shouted for the third time in dissatisfaction. "Quiet!"
A knight with disheveled red hair emerged from among the Crusader nobles of Jerusalem. He performed the knightly salute at the door, removed his helmet, and knelt on one knee.
"Your prince is my queen's brother," the emperor's voice grew weak. "He married my niece, and another of his sisters was also arranged by me to marry the King of Hungary."
"As previously agreed, after my death, the Queen may not remarry and must become a nun. She will be the regent of 'Alexius'. And the Principality of Antioch will remain a vassal state of the Empire."
The crowd, which had been clamoring for Italian privileges, fell into a dangerous silence—a chilling atmosphere that even Seilman, standing on the sidelines, could not ignore. He thought this silence was more powerful than any vehement opposition.
"Foreigner." Someone suddenly muttered a curse from the crowd.
"Who said that?" the waiter asked, his eyes widening in embarrassment. "Who is opposing the Emperor's decision?"
“The Queen is indeed a foreigner.” Someone else said, “Foreigner isn’t an insult.”
"This is also opposition, it's blasphemy!" The waiter grabbed the chainmail of the Varangian guard. "Go and drag that man out!"
"You have other people to summon." But the Slavic-looking mercenaries remained motionless, only pointing to the increasingly weak breathing behind the door. "Hurry up, sir." They shook their legs indifferently.
The waiter grimaced awkwardly. "...The French envoy, come forward!" he called out as a final summons.
Brechenne Palace has a wide, luxurious staircase leading directly to the sea. At that coolest, sea-breezy corner, a man led a young girl through the crowd. The girl, lifting her skirt, timidly curtsied to the servants.
“Agnice of Capet,” the emperor’s voice was like a ember about to burn out in charcoal, “as per the previous marriage agreement, you will become the new Queen of Rome.”
No one bothered to respond to this decision. The emperor's words were like the smallest pebble thrown into a lake, barely causing the slightest ripple. Sellerman mentally recounted the identities of these envoys: the emperor had preserved all the allies he could, hoping to use the intricate web of marriage alliances as the empire's last line of defense.
The French princess cautiously surveyed the faces of the crowd, a bewildered joy welling up within her. "Your Majesty, but I am only nine years old," she said, mustering her courage with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation, answering the emperor's question in the Greek she had only recently learned. "When shall I marry your son?"
"This child is so young; it will be several more years before he has his first period," Seleman thought helplessly. Like everyone else, he cast a mixture of hope and despair toward the open door, which was filled with the scent of incense and candles, awaiting the emperor's reply.
But there was complete silence; not a sound came out.
A wave of panic and heaviness swept through the hall like a storm. The Patriarch of Constantinople, pushing aside the chattering nobles and envoys, dragged incense burners and burst through the door. He let out a mournful sigh in the Emperor's bedroom.
"Lord Jesus Christ, accept your servant, Manuel Komnenos, Emperor of the Romans."
"May he rest in the land of the righteous, free from sorrow and anxiety, in your glory eternal peace, and with all the saints the joy of the resurrection."
"Lord, have mercy on me, have mercy on me, have mercy on me."
On his way out, Seilman couldn't help but wonder if the patriarch was reciting a eulogy for the Roman emperor or for Rome itself. He mounted his horse in the sweltering summer dawn, carefully examining his master's carriage—Ambicea clearly didn't have the leisure for such contemplation; her busyness made the vampire excitedly lick her blood-dripping teeth. Having left the Brechner Palace, she had already shuttled between several noble residences under the dangerous sunlight, and had sent messengers to summon Thurana and Oleg for a meeting.
A young servant approached him and whispered a few words in his ear. Selman nodded, then pulled on the reins and approached his master behind the silk curtain. “Isaac said he didn’t sleep a wink all night and is exhausted,” the blood slave said meekly in his deep voice. “He asked if you could go back and rest.”
“The most interesting part of a boring person is just beginning,” Ambikia replied hastily from behind the curtain. “Let him go.”
Seymman stepped back from behind the curtain. “The master has given his permission,” he replied to the servant. “Tell him to go.”
Their group then split into two, one heading back to the Kanakakis mansion, and the other towards the secret parts of the Hagia Sophia. After walking for a while, Selman saw his master's curtain suddenly lifted again—a pair of sharp, blood-red eyes, hidden behind the veil, like a tightly woven noose, silently pulled him forward.
"Is there anything you want to say to me?" Seleman asked, head bowed.
Anbichia removed her veil and headscarf from inside the sedan chair, revealing her exquisite face and fiery red hair—Seleman saw the smoldering smoke rising around her and opened his mouth in surprise—but he remained silent and well-behaved.
“Those involved are often blinded by their own perspective. I have a question I absolutely must ask you.” His master smiled and pointed to his face. “Look at my red hair, white skin, and I even had freckles when I was pregnant. Where do you think I look like from?”
Sellerman was startled, suddenly realizing the question carried a presumptuous connotation, but he couldn't answer dishonestly. "...That's hard to say. But I've heard that all redheads come from the island of Scotland, and their ancestors were mostly Celts," he hesitated. "...In any case, they're certainly not Greeks. If you became emperor, they would call you 'foreigner' too. I think that's what you're asking."
He quickly averted his gaze, but out of the corner of his eye he caught Ambicia's smile freeze for a moment. Those red eyes were watching him meaningfully.
“Who said I wanted to be emperor?” Anbichia slowly wrapped her veil and headscarf around her head and turned her back. “And who said that the emperor is the most powerful person?”
Seyleman immediately recalled Isaac's face. "You're absolutely right." The Blood Slave closed his eyes tightly.
Ambichia lowered the curtain of the sedan chair window, silently urging him to leave.
They finally stopped beside the church, and from a hidden entrance walked into the Water Palace, to Camilla's statue. As usual, the vampire and her followers gathered, discussing many conspiracies that could change the world. Selman listened intently to every word they said—he knew he was Ambikia's most trusted and intimate subordinate. Yet he still couldn't understand everything they were discussing. His master's deliberate aloofness gave him a strange sense of security, reminding him of Ambikia's advice to Yubi: "Don't put all your eggs in one basket." Ambikia practiced this perfectly, as if she were truly an invincible, all-pervasive, and enigmatic deity, without any vulnerable or cowardly side that needed comforting or reassurance.
Thalerman thought, wasn't concealment a form of protection? To interpret this as distrust would be to disregard his master's compassion and wisdom. He thought of many of his colleagues and felt from the bottom of his heart that they were unworthy of such a respectable and powerful master.
If only such a great person could be emperor. Not just the emperor of Rome, he couldn't help but think, how wonderful it would be if Ambicea were the emperor of the world, with everyone as her subjects. But foolish people judge emperors by only one short-sighted standard: race, gender, age. Judging by these alone, a young red-haired girl could never grasp the scepter of power. It's so unfair, Seyleman thought, neither fair nor efficient. Few understood his predicament, and even fewer understood his happiness. Thus, his predicament and his happiness became his sole privilege.
After everyone finished their discussion, it was already curfew time. "I need to go for a walk," Anbichia said, removing all her clothes and jewelry in front of Seleman, spreading her wings and letting her braids fall loose. "Take the people back."
“Alright.” Seleman told the maid to collect the cicada-shell-like fabrics and gold and silver, and watched his master leap into the night sky.
Constantinople was quickly shrouded in the somber atmosphere of the monarch's death. Within a day, funeral rites and masses had spread to every street and corner of the city. Seilman, leading his cavalry, watched through the dimly lit windows as commoners lit candles and wept for the emperor's soul. They recited eulogies, wishing him heaven. Frankly, Seilman didn't feel they should do this—for the emperor had done little for them in his life, not only due to a lack of ability but also a lack of conscience.
These people are bound to suffer during this chaotic time. Sellerman felt sorry for them.
His cavalry entered Kanakakis's mansion and returned through a side gate. As expected, the little girl's cries once again filled his ears.
“You should try to find more ways to comfort her,” Seleman admonished the wet nurse as she passed by the child’s room. “It’s your responsibility.”
“The child can’t live without her mother…” The wet nurse was extremely distressed. “I am not her mother, and there are many things I am powerless to do.”
But her mother has far more important things to do than take care of her, Seyleman thought. “Besides her mother, she also has a father,” the Blood Slave pondered for a moment. “Perhaps you could take her to her father more often.”
The wet nurse didn't answer him, only an awkward expression appeared on her face—Seleman knew what that meant—who could be sure that Isaac was really the child's father?
“There’s always a way,” Seleman smiled. “If you find it difficult to speak up, I can take you to him. Unlike outside, there’s not much difference between commoners and nobles here.”
The wet nurse felt much more at ease after hearing his gentle words. "Then I'll have to trouble you," she said with a smile.
The two walked down the corridor, passing the Dionysian mural and the central courtyard. "Even so, perhaps Lord Isaac won't have much energy to take care of the child in the future," the wet nurse casually remarked. "Perhaps he will soon have an even more prestigious position... You know what I mean. Everyone's been thinking and talking about this since last night."
“Haha, of course I understand, but not necessarily,” Seyleman retorted dismissively. “Then it wouldn’t be in accordance with the prophecy. It starts with ‘Yota,’ not ‘Alpha.’”
"The name can be changed just like that!" the wet nurse boldly stated. "Besides, everyone knows who the real 'Alpha' is!"
Indeed. Seyleman suddenly realized that "Ambicea" also began with "Alpha." But he didn't say it aloud, only offering a shy yet worldly smile. The two walked briskly forward, filled with joyful anticipation, towards Isaac's room. The lifeless nobleman lived in this mansion like a hermit; the closer they got to his quarters, the less life he seemed to possess. It wasn't his vampire master who was as cold as a corpse, but rather Seyleman himself, a walking corpse. Seyleman greeted every blood slave he passed, and soon they reached a dead end where no one paid him any attention—Isaac's room was inside.
He knocked on the door politely. "The master isn't here," Seleman said carefully. "I want to speak with you, Isaac. Open the door."
Sure enough, no one answered him, and no one opened the door.
“He’s incredibly lazy and incredibly stubborn,” Sellerman shrugged. “He would never do what I say unless it hurts the mark.”
“You still say there’s not much difference between commoners and nobles here,” the wet nurse urged him. “These self-righteous people can’t see reality.”
“Alright, I agree with you.” Saying this, Seleman changed to a sterner tone, “Isaac, it was the master who told me to say that. Since you won’t answer me, I have no choice but to tell you the truth. Open the door quickly, it’s Ambicea who wants to see you.”
As long as he spoke the master's name, he would surely open the door. Sellerman thought this tried-and-true method would surely work, since delicate nobles often couldn't bear pain and wouldn't endure unnecessary suffering.
But there was still no movement from behind the door.
"It seems your trick didn't fool him." The wet nurse shook her head. "Let it go."
“That’s not how it works.” Seyleman drew his knife from his waist. “Step back.”
The wet nurse, her eyes darting around, took a few steps back, stopping beside the marble railing, holding her breath. Seleman gripped the knife handle tightly with both hands and swung it at the bolt locked in the crack of the door—his first strike missed, going astray. A terrible pain surged up Seleman's veins towards his heart—he hadn't experienced such punishment in many years, and beads of sweat instantly appeared on his dark forehead. The former Mamluk seemed to be transported back to the brutal days of his childhood training, forced to calm himself and steady his steps.
He swung the blade a second time. This time he succeeded. The door creaked open, revealing the scene inside. The wet nurse behind him screamed, her shrill cry piercing his eardrums.
Despite being in complete darkness, Seymour's eyes seemed blinded by a blinding light. He strolled across the threshold of the room as if in a dream, raised his chin, opened his mouth, and gazed at the beams carved with saints and angels.
Isaac hung there like a bunch of grapes on a vine, motionless.
A piece of paper lay silently at his feet.
Thalerman's hands trembled as he picked up the piece of paper and straightened it in his dizzying vision. What would it say? Would it be words of resistance and defiance, slogans of stubbornness and folly, or lamentations of misfortune and self-pity? But it only had one short sentence:
"God, forgive me."
As the blood slave knelt before his master, he only remembered to utter this one sentence: "God, forgive me." Sylman straightened his back, but bowed his head deeply. "It's my fault, my dereliction of duty."
"Why should I forgive you?" The vampire paced around him barefoot. "What is there for me to forgive?"
“If I had thought of it, if I had foreseen it… this wouldn’t have happened.” Seymour closed his eyes. “I ruined everything.”
"Regardless of whether you're a prophet or not, I was the one who allowed him to go home first," Ambicea said with a chilling laugh. "And what have you destroyed now?"
“He’s dead, and your plans, your future are all ruined…” Seleman gritted his teeth in resentment. “So, I don’t deserve your forgiveness. God, punish me.”
Ambikia finally stopped, staring at his comical yet contradictory appearance for a while. Seleman felt a shiver run down his spine, every pore on his body bulging, waiting with a mixture of fear and anticipation for what he was asked for.
“Oh, I see.” But his master laughed heartily. “You really thought I was going to make that good-for-nothing a puppet emperor?”
Seymman stood there, stunned. He felt the pain from the imprint seem to have eased somewhat, and slowly let out a sigh of relief.
“However, you have indeed made a terrible mistake.” Anbichia’s voice echoed coldly before him.
"You dare to presume to guess my plans and predict my mistakes, causing your own mark to ache because of something I never said."
Do you know what this symbolizes?
What did this symbolize? The forbidden word instantly flashed into Seilman's mind—freedom. That single word sent waves of pain, ten or a hundred times greater than before, surging up his spine. The blood slave's limbs convulsed uncontrollably, his straight back finally bending to the ground. His lips pressed against Ambicea's feet, saliva dripping into the carpet's texture.
“I don’t know whether to call you stupid or smart.” The vampire stomped hard on his face. “You’re stupid, like everyone else, making wild guesses and placing your hopes on others; but you’re also smart, able to immediately understand your own limitations and weaknesses. You’re so loyal that you’re even willing to expose your disloyalty to me. Seyleman, you’re still just a human being. Humans will always commit the sin of arrogance, without exception. One day you will also want to challenge the authority and wisdom of the gods, just like today.”
"I won't, Master." Tears welled up in Seymour's eyes with resentment. "Please believe me."
“When did I say I didn’t believe you?” Ambikia said. “You are a person, and people die, just like Isaac. Everyone dies. Whether emperor or beggar, saint or sinner, all living beings under heaven will die one day. Except for me, only I will not die. Does your weakness and short life warrant my disbelief?”
She gently kicked Seleman on the forehead, gesturing for him to lie on the carpet like a toy. The blood slave felt incredibly relaxed and blissful, as if lifted by majestic clouds, as if weighed on a just scale. He suddenly felt his limbs regain their strength, his soul infused with value once more. As if wrapped in the softest and thickest blanket, Seleman realized that the pain he had been imprinted with had ceased—as if it would never know pain again.
“…You are my greatest master.” He scrambled to his feet in surprise, blood streaming down his dark cheeks. “I thank you, my god!”
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com
