Chapter 61
Konstantinos Dalassenos stood there like a statue carved from sea salt and the winds of the Aegean.
His upright back stretched tall, around one hundred eighty to one hundred eighty-five centimeters, surpassing the average Greek man of his time.
His broad shoulders and slim waist formed a silhouette that immediately told anyone who saw him that this was a swordsman, a war-galley rower, a man whose body had been forged by years of sea winds and blazing sun, by oars that ceaselessly pressed against the waves and a sword that continually swung in battle.
His legs were set shoulder-width apart, steady as if he were standing upon the deck of a rocking ship, a balance possessed only by those who had spent half their lives upon the waves.
His right hand held a scroll, a document he had perhaps been reading before their arrival, while his left hand rested casually on the hilt of a short sword hanging at his left hip.
His head was slightly bowed, as though still immersed in the document or perhaps deep in thought, yet Nirma could see the taut muscles in his neck, a sign that he was fully aware of the presence of the two people behind him, even though he chose not to turn.
For several seconds that felt like eternity, no one moved.
No one spoke.
Nirma and Arya stood at the threshold of the doorway.
Konstantinos Dalassenos stood with his back to them.
Between them stretched a simple yet character-filled room, with large windows overlooking the Sea of Marmara, with wooden floors that creaked softly whenever the wind blew, with minimalist furnishings that showed its occupant was a soldier, not a nobleman who loved luxury.
Then, with a slow yet certain movement, Konstantinos Dalassenos turned.
He turned like a warship steering against the wind, his movement measured, unhurried, yet so firm that Nirma and Arya felt as though they were witnessing a performance designed especially for them.
And when he finally faced them, when the light from the large windows illuminated his face perfectly, Nirma captured every detail with terrifying clarity.
His skin was dark brown from the sun, not olive like Nikephoros, but a reddish-brown typical of sailors who had spent years beneath the blazing Aegean sun, a color that told of thousands of days without shelter, thousands of miles across the sea, thousands of battles beneath a merciless sky.
Fine white lines surrounded his eyes, wrinkles born from the habit of squinting against the glare of the sea, a small map recording every dawn and dusk he had witnessed from his ship's deck.
His hair was jet black, wavy, cut short in a military style so that it did not touch his shoulders, neatly combed back with a faint wet sheen, a sign that he had just washed his face before their arrival.
There might have been a touch of gray at his temples, but far more black remained, showing that age had not yet fully conquered his vigor.
His beard was short and neatly trimmed, following the line of his jaw perfectly, not the long beard of monks or philosophers, but the beard of a soldier, carefully cut so as not to interfere when wearing a helmet.
His face was that of a man who had seen too many battles.
Too many storms.
Too many sunsets upon foreign seas.
His nose bent slightly to the left, the mark of a fracture that had not healed perfectly, perhaps from the blow of an oar handle or a sword strike that had nearly taken his life.
His jaw was square and strong, the muscles there tightening each time he clenched his teeth, a habit he might not even have realized.
His pupils were jet black or dark brown, difficult to distinguish in the room's light, yet his gaze was sharp and unblinking, the eyes of a man accustomed to scanning distant horizons and judging in an instant whether a ship on the skyline was a merchant vessel or a pirate.
A thin scar adorned the space above his left eyebrow, and another lay upon his right cheekbone, two memories he would carry forever upon his face.
His clothing was simple yet made of fine material, reflecting his status as a doux of the fleet currently on leave.
His upper garment was a long dark-blue sticharion, nearly sea-green, made of thick and comfortable Egyptian cotton or linen.
Its sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing muscular forearms with prominent veins accustomed to pulling ropes and swinging swords.
Over the tunic, he wore a sleeveless dark-brown leather vest, functional for keeping warm in the morning air.
His belt was wide and made of leather, with a silver buckle shaped like an anchor, a symbol of the navy he took pride in.
From that belt hung a short sword at his left hip, ready to be drawn, its sheath simple and without gemstones, yet the leather smooth from frequent handling.
A small pouch hung at his right hip, perhaps containing coins or a seal.
His lower garment consisted of loose gray anaxyrides, tucked into black leather boots reaching his ankles, slightly worn at the toes, the trace of years spent walking upon wooden decks.
Konstantinos Dalassenos looked at the young pair standing at the threshold of his residence with an expression difficult to interpret, a mixture of respect and deep curiosity, for he had heard much about them from the soldiers guarding the gate, about how they had arrived bearing an imperial warrant, about how Nirma had read the letter in a voice that left three layers of troops frozen in place, not daring to move.
The man then stepped forward, leaving behind the large window that had served as his backdrop.
When he spoke, his voice emerged in a warm tone, like waves breaking gently upon the shore, entirely different from the tense posture he had displayed moments earlier.
"Welcome to my humble residence, Lady Nirma, Sir Arya," he said, giving a brief military salute, his right hand clenched and placed upon his chest, a gesture reserved only for those he respected.
"I have heard of your arrival from the soldiers outside, and I have also heard of the heavy task you currently bear.
A question has troubled my mind these past few days, and I hope you will not mind if I ask it directly."
He paused for a moment, looking at Nirma and Arya in turn.
Then he continued in a slightly lower, more personal tone, as though speaking to old friends rather than to two investigators he had only just met.
"Have you managed to discover anything?
Have you managed to find who murdered poor Étienne d'Arques?
A thirty-four-year-old crusader soldier who was meant to be dispatched soon to Jerusalem to fight for his faith, yet instead met his end in a foreign land in such a dreadful manner.
I admit, news of his death reached my ears some time ago, and since then, I have not been able to stop thinking about the tragic fate that befell that man."
Nirma and Arya exchanged a brief glance, a silent communication understood only by the two of them.
Then Arya stepped forward half a pace, a faint smile beginning to form at the corner of his lips, not too wide, yet enough to show that they had not come empty-handed nor with ill news.
"We will find Étienne d'Arques' murderer soon, Commander Konstantinos," Arya said in a calm yet confident tone, his voice flowing like a river in the dry season, clear and unhurried.
To be continued…