Chapter 39
Adrianos still sat frozen in his iron folding chair, his hand lingering behind his head, his mouth slightly open as if about to speak, yet no sound emerged.
He wanted to ask, to protest, at the very least to demand further explanation for what had just occurred.
But Nirma and Arya gave him no time.
Even before he could close his eyes as a sign that they were permitted to depart, the two investigators had already turned and begun walking toward the door.
Their steps were steady, neither hurried nor hesitant, reflecting the certainty that they had done what needed to be done and that it was now time to leave.
The four-meter-tall carved teak door opened with the same heavy sound as when they had entered, and within seconds they vanished behind it, leaving Adrianos alone in the silent chamber with four pieces of evidence and thousands of questions spinning in his mind.
Along the long palace corridor, the footsteps of Nirma and Arya echoed across the polished marble floor, accompanied by the measured tread of the Hetaireia guards stationed to their left and right.
The foreign palace guards, their faces like stone, showed no emotion, merely fulfilling their duty with perfect discipline as they escorted the two investigators out of the palace grounds like any other important guests.
Behind them followed the loyal soldiers of the City Prefect who had accompanied them since their first morning at the Kapeleion, their steps lighter yet no less vigilant, their eyes scanning every corner, every shadow, every possible danger lurking in the corridor's dim recesses.
No one spoke, no one questioned, only the echo of footsteps and restrained breaths accompanied their passage toward the palace exit.
The cool morning air brushed against Nirma's face when they finally stepped outside the grand Mangana Palace.
The wind carried the scent of the sea from afar, the smell of salt and fish and damp wood, the same scent that had greeted them on their first morning in Constantinople.
The Covered Carriage that had faithfully accompanied them since the beginning still waited in the same place, the black horses growing restless, pawing at the ground with their hooves.
Nirma climbed in first, followed by Arya, and before the carriage door closed completely, she cast one brief glance back at the palace that was already beginning to recede behind them.
Several palace windows were still lit, oil lamps flickering like giant fireflies clinging to the stone structure.
At one of the highest windows, Nirma caught sight of a shadow, the silhouette of a man standing still and watching them, perhaps Megas Domestikos Adrianos Komnenos himself, still bewildered by what had just transpired.
The carriage began to move, wooden wheels creaking over the damp stones as the black horses advanced with steady strides, leaving the palace behind.
Inside the silent chamber, accompanied only by the four pieces of evidence still lying upon the ebony desk and the icon of Christ Pantokrator watching from the wall, Megas Domestikos Adrianos Komnenos finally allowed himself to collapse inward.
The moment the door closed firmly behind Nirma and Arya, the moment their footsteps faded along the corridor, his body, which had been taut like a bow drawn to its limit, suddenly softened.
His shoulders slumped, his back bent, and for the first time in that encounter he drew a breath of relief.
The hand that still gripped the sword's hilt trembled faintly, a tremor he had never felt in decades of leading wars, born not of physical fear but of immense psychological pressure.
He lowered his gaze to the four pieces of evidence and silently thanked the Almighty that he was still granted the chance to breathe in relief after being mentally tormented by two foreign investigators.
Not because he was guilty, not because he was the murderer of Étienne d'Arques, the unfortunate thirty-four-year-old crusader.
Adrianos knew well that his hands were clean of the victim's blood, that he had never touched poison, never plotted murder, never conspired with anyone to extinguish eighteen crusaders' lives.
Yet he also knew he harbored a secret, a secret he wished to share with no one, a secret concerning his contact with the victim mere hours before his death.
He had indeed met Étienne d'Arques, exchanged a few words with him in a place he preferred not to name, had been among the last to see the victim alive before that monster claimed his life.
And when Nirma and Arya began presenting evidence one after another, weaving their net tighter and tighter, Adrianos felt suffocating tension, fear that his small secret would surface and make him appear as a suspect before the world.
What frightened him most, what made the hairs on his neck rise despite his effort to remain composed, was the manner in which Nirma and Arya treated him.
They did not display excessive reverence, did not tremble before his authority, did not fear his position as supreme commander of the Byzantine army.
They spoke to him as though he were an ordinary man, as though he did not command thousands of soldiers willing to die for him, as though he were not the brother-in-law of Emperor Alexios I Komnenos.
Worse still, they dared to laugh before him, to laugh together in a moment that should have been heavy with tension, laughing as though they were enjoying themselves at his expense.
Never in his life had Adrianos encountered anyone who dared diminish his authority in such a subtle yet devastating manner.
And Nirma's smile—God above, that smile.
Adrianos shuddered at the memory of it, a smile so wide that her face could no longer be classified as merely smiling, a strange and unsettling expression that made him recoil each time he recalled it.
It did not convey joy, nor mockery, nor hatred, yet precisely because of that it was so terrifying, so impossible to interpret, making him feel as though he had faced something not entirely human.
And Arya, the man beside her, though relaxed and occasionally humorous, heightened Adrianos' vigilance drastically.
There was something in his eyes, in the way he moved, in the way he remained silent and observed, that marked him as the most dangerous type of man, one who needed few words to destroy his opponent.
That was why, on several occasions during the interrogation, Adrianos chose to close his eyes and remain silent.
Not because he did not care, not because he underestimated them, but because he understood that if he continued to meet their gaze, his authority would crumble piece by piece.
He closed his eyes to protect himself, to preserve the remnants of dignity he still possessed, to prevent those two foreign investigators from reading deeper into his thoughts.
And though that strategy succeeded in part, though he managed to endure without revealing too much, he knew that he had lost this psychological battle.
Nirma and Arya had stripped away his authority, had demonstrated that before them, the supreme commander of the Byzantine army was merely a man who could be toyed with, frightened, and made to lose control.
To be continued…