The Last Supper (Part 9) - Act XIII
Nine
When will she arrive?
"She had already set off when the letter was sent, so judging from the timeline, it will be about half a month later."
Where will she stay when she arrives?
"She will surely go to Nazareth, Nablus, and Jerusalem first, and then it's hard to say..."
"Hard to say?" Yakov took off his helmet and tossed it to his attendant. "Having finished her pilgrimage, shouldn't she return to Byzantium?"
Schumeer wore that awkward expression again. To Yakov, it seemed like a criticism of his ignorance—the Jew stopped his reckless steps and pulled him to the edge of the courtyard. “I was just about to tell you this,” Schumeer said softly. “I think Ambicya didn’t come on a pilgrimage, but rather used the guise of pilgrimage to escape.”
The fact that Ambicya's name appeared in the same sentence as the word "fleeing" made Yakov chuckle. "Even if everyone in the world died, it wouldn't be her turn to flee and seek our help," the knight said, then swallowed his harsh words. "...Why do you think that?"
Schumeer's face then showed another complex expression: like revenge had been served, or like a sigh of regret; like something precious had been destroyed, or like old shackles had been cast aside.
“I have received news,” he said briefly and with restraint, his eloquent mouth beneath his mustache, “that a riot has broken out in Constantinople and many Latins have died.”
Yakov frowned in confusion. "How much is 'a lot'?" he asked. "Why?"
“Thousands upon thousands, countless. The mob cut off the heads of the papal legates and paraded them through the streets tied to dogs’ tails. All the concessions were burned down, and the Golden Horn was filled with corpses, the seawater remaining murky for three days.” Schumacher pointed to his amber eyes, which he had regained. “The Greeks had long hated all the outsiders in the city. They were either killed or driven out.”
Standing before Yubi's door, Yakov held his breath. He thought of that magnificent villa facing the sea, and the purple sunset over the Golden Horn—what would they be like now if he hadn't halted the booming spice business, if he hadn't fought so hard to win the Grand Arena? It was as if a terrible god of misfortune was following their fate, forcing them to keep going; as if the world itself were a vast arena, built to exhaust people.
"Did you tell him about this?" Yakov asked.
“Of course,” Schumacher said helplessly, pointing to his chest. “I can’t tell him a single lie.”
The slaves helped them push open the exquisite door with its latticed windows and embroidered folds. A rich fragrance wafted towards the faces of the knight and the tax collector. Yakov had expected the young vampire to be terrified by these troubles, to look gloomy and complain whenever he saw him—but Yubi simply waited quietly by the window, clutching a piece of parchment in his hand, bearing the coat of arms of Kanakakis.
“Take off your boots before you come in.” He stared at Yakov’s feet. “They’re covered in sand. Don’t get the carpet dirty.”
How dare this brat speak to him like that? Yakov stood frozen at the doorway, yet he also felt that this was proof of Yubi's maturity and composure, and shouldn't be suppressed or criticized—the filthy knight reluctantly obeyed, taking off his leather boots, worn from days of travel, and tossing them to the slave. His mark, therefore, became itchy and uncomfortable.
The three of them settled on the couch and sat around the table. The door closed, and the heavy, solemn atmosphere made no one want to speak. Yakov's mind raced, and the words of admonition squeezed to his lips. "I..."
"You think Anbichia wants to seize our city, right?" Yubi continued, "Are you afraid that Lud will be granted to another noble family?"
“…Not only that.” Yakov’s rebellious spirit was doused with cold water. “She may also want to find Inart, because we found his blood slave here.”
“That’s possible.” Yubi handed the letter to Yakov. “I think my sister must have had a hard time after Isaac died. She had red hair and no sons. No one would accept her as a Greek, let alone continue living as a member of the royal family.”
“She’s a vampire.” Yakov took the letter with a cold face. “She doesn’t need to think about these things at all.”
“But she can’t turn everyone into blood slaves,” Yubi sighed. “If she did, it would be like living in hell, with constant wailing and screaming. Right?”
Yakov didn't want to discuss this topic in front of Schumeer, and silently shifted his gaze to the letter. Why not turn everyone into blood slaves? It seemed that every vampire had a completely different perspective on this issue, he thought. Some were utterly naive, some were utterly cowardly.
“Aside from these, we have other important matters to discuss.” Schumeer stroked his curly mustache. “Given what happened in Constantinople, there must be quite a few Latins coming from there to ‘make a pilgrimage’ to the Holy Land.” He deliberately emphasized the word “pilgrimage.” “By law, pilgrims don’t have to pay taxes; but whether refugees should be taxed separately depends on your opinion…”
“Isn’t it only the king living in Jerusalem who needs to consider this?” Yubi asked irritably, resting his forehead on his hand and smoothing his headscarf. “Where would so many people come from in Lud?”
“Your sister won’t come here alone. Many people in Constantinople are under her protection: artisans, servants, slaves, merchants, and perhaps even an army. Just as the king must consider how to settle the nobles who come on pilgrimage, you must consider how to settle the commoners who come to flee.” Schumeer explained to him, trying to make his words less difficult to understand. “Besides—many of them have already converted to Greek Orthodoxy. Should we encourage those who settle here to revert to Catholicism? If conversion is not encouraged, should we impose a poll tax on Orthodox believers, like [unclear]? I can give it a more palatable name, such as ‘naturalization tax’ or ‘culture tax.’ If we do this, our income will be guaranteed…”
"Are we still so short of money?" Yubi asked hesitantly. "Am I spending too much and being too extravagant?"
“What you’ve spent is nothing!” His tax official quickly waved his hand. “Things are different now. You’re not supporting a port or a shop; you’re supporting an entire city!”
Hearing this, the young city lord seemed relieved. "...If you think it's good, then prepare it this way." He resolutely pulled his turban back. "I'll also ask Margo to find out what other lords are planning to do."
"A wise and prudent decision," Schumacher praised him. "You did the right thing."
Yakov looked up from the letter and stole a glance at them. A strange sense of crisis twisted and swirled in his chest.
“We’ll talk tomorrow.” He suddenly put down the parchment, stood up, and said, “It’s getting late, Schumeer, you should go home.”
“We’ve only been talking for a short while!” Yubi’s face was obscured by his massive shadow.
“No matter how much we talk, it won’t be perfect.” Yakov ignored him firmly, staring only at Schumeer. “I have something to say to him alone. You go home.”
Their Jewish friends paid no heed to this strange request, simply nodding obediently like servants and bowing to bid the two farewell. Yakov escorted Schumacher to the door, watching his back disappear behind the wall, listening to the footsteps fade into the gurgling water of the fountain.
Now, just as he wished, only he and Yubi were left in the room.
Countless thoughts and scenarios swirled wildly in Yakov's mind like headless flies. He slowly opened his parched lips, but the words wouldn't come out—Yakov felt trapped in a web of fear and suspicion. He could barely distinguish right from wrong; good from evil; trust from betrayal. The ancient ruins of Sodom were vivid in his mind, the heavy sarcophagus on the altar awaited, the corpse of the god would grant him final freedom—the mark on his chest ached again, as if a needle were drilling a hole in the deepest part of his heart.
"What do you want to say to me alone?" Yubi appeared silently behind him like a shadow. "Your mark is hurting again."
Yakov turned away, refusing to look Yubi in the eye. He hid his face behind the candlelight, took Yubi's hand, and repeated the action he had performed hundreds of times: the blood slave ran his fingers along one by one, searching for the magical ring at the base of each finger. His master was immediately tamed by this familiar and intimate act, his eyes softening and tenderness, reverting to the side he only showed to him, the side he desired.
“…I have something to advise you.” Yakov leaned down, “but I think if you don’t agree, the mark will hurt.”
Yubi looked in surprise through the shadows for his eyes. "How could I refuse what you're asking me to do?"
“You wouldn’t listen to my advice, you tricked me with the ball and insisted on going to see the stone torture of the □□.”
"That's because you didn't tell me first... I've changed, I'll listen to you now."
"In the past, you kept the matter of the other blood slaves from me until the final battle in the Grand Arena, when you were afraid I would die, and then you told me the truth."
Yubi lowered his head in shame. "...If you want me to apologize, I will." He gently took Yakov's hand. "I'm sorry, Yakov. I was afraid you'd be angry about the ring, so I didn't dare tell you..."
“I don’t need your apology.” Yakov suddenly tightened his grip on his knuckles. “I want you to promise me that there will never be a next time.”
"...How can this be guaranteed?"
"Promise me you'll listen to me from now on." Those icy blue eyes finally emerged from the shadows, like a fierce wolf eyeing its prey. "Can you swear that?"
Yakov watched as a venomous suspicion slowly crept into Yubi's eyes, hissing and snarling at him. This suspicion clashed with his ferocity, causing the mark to struggle and intensify with each heartbeat—the more intense the pain, the tighter Yakov gripped Yubi's fingers, his gaze unwavering. He was so adept at enduring pain, far surpassing Yubi's capacity to tolerate pity and compassion. After a short while, the vampire surrendered and looked away.
"...How do you want me to swear an oath?"
“Swear in your mother’s name.” Yakov gripped his wrists tightly on either side. “You must believe that what I’m advising you about is for your own good, and what I’m hiding from you is also for your own good. You must agree to my request.”
"But what if the advice you're giving me is absurd?"
“There’s a reason behind this absurdity. You don’t believe me, but you always believe your mother’s imprint.”
"I don't distrust you..."
"Then swear an oath."
Yakov approached Yubi's troubled expression, waiting for those sharp-toothed lips to utter a word. "...Alright, I swear." Yubi hesitated for a long time before finally making up her mind, "In my mother's name, I believe what you say, and I will listen to your advice. I will do whatever you suggest."
This sweet promise finally eased Yakov's tense nerves, and the lingering pain subsided considerably. Yubi squeezed out of his stiff embrace, looking at him with a mixture of helplessness and heartache. "Alright, you should at least tell me what it is," the vampire asked, stroking Yakov's brow bone. "I've already promised you."
"I have something very important to tell you. It's about the ring."
"About the ring?"
“Yes, your mother’s ring.” Yakov’s brow furrowed no matter how hard he tried to smooth it. “The ring that you couldn’t grow up or see the sunlight without wearing it.”
Yubi tilted her head, a look of realization mixed with disdain. "It should be in my sister's child's hands now. Ansopea isn't even five yet, even if she came..."
“I’m not asking you to take it back,” Yakov interrupted him. “Listen, listen to me!”
"I want you to never wear it again. Don't touch it, don't even think about it. If someone returns it to you, refuse it; if you see it on the street, don't pick it up; if it falls from the sky, you must stay away. Do you understand?"
As he expected, the vampire looked bewildered. "Why?" Yubi asked instinctively, "You didn't always think this way."
“I have my reasons, which I cannot tell you,” Yakov replied somberly.
"But should you keep this from me?"
The more he questioned, the more Yakov wavered. The mark was like a whip, precisely lashing out at every attempt by the blood slave to break free. "Before, when you didn't want to wear that ring and casually lent it to Ambikia, I warned you a thousand times, but it was no use; now I'm telling you not to touch that ring, telling you not to want it anymore, and you insist on going against me?" Yakov's anger erupted like a volcano, forcefully pressing Yubi back onto the bed. "You just swore you would listen to my advice and do as I say. Do you have to make me sad, make the mark flare up, and torture me? Didn't you say you trusted me more than other blood slaves?"
His devilish look made Yubi shrink back. "...No, I didn't mean to do that." Yubi looked at him pitifully. "If you don't want to answer, I won't ask anymore."
This estrangement made Yakov's hands tremble with guilt. "And what about your vow?" Yakov gritted his teeth, refusing to back down. "You promised me you would never touch that ring again?"
“I promise you,” Yubi sighed, “unless…”
"Unless what?" Yakov's nerves tightened as if pricked by a needle.
"Unless you tell me not to do it again, unless you change your mind yourself." The vampire blinked. "Do you agree?"
Yakov wearily released him.
"Okay." The blood slave finally relaxed with a sigh of relief, his head drooping.
A pair of cool, wing-like things enveloped him—it was Yubi holding his head with silk sleeves. Yakov felt a comfortable quiet in his ears, as if some clamor had finally been driven out of his heart. He was unaware that he was kneeling like a sinner, seemingly in repentance, and unaware that the vampire was admiring this scene with delight, playing with his contradictions with pity.
“Why do you have to make me swear?” Yubi’s voice came quietly from above his head. “How can I bear to see your mark suffer because of me?”
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