Chapter 95
When Arya finally opened his mouth, the language that emerged was not one that the soldiers behind them could understand.
Classical Sanskrit, with an ancient sentence structure that had existed centuries before Constantinople became the capital of any empire, flowed from his lips slowly yet clearly amid the thunder of galloping hooves.
"कालः आवश्यकः सर्वान् दस्तावेजान् रेखीयकालपुलिसतः निष्कासयितुम्, किन्तु मन्ये यत् क्रुसेडरसैनिकानां प्रस्थानात् पूर्वं समाप्स्यति।"
(TL: It will take time to retrieve all the documents from the Linear Time Police, but I believe it will be finished before the crusader soldiers depart.)
Nirma did not reply, did not show that she had heard, yet the grip of her hand on Arya's waist tightened slightly, enough to say that the message had been received and understood.
In the distance, at the end of the road that began to rise toward the Chalkeus district, smoke from dozens of metal furnaces could already be seen curling into the sky, coiling like dragons stretching their bodies after a long sleep.
The sun was still fierce, dust still swirled through the air, and their horses continued running without slowing, leaving their traces on every inch of road they crossed.
Arya's hand gently pulled the reins, just enough to make the horse change its pace from a fast gallop to a rhythmic walk.
Nirma felt the change throughout her entire body, how the horse's muscles between her thighs relaxed, how the jolting movements that once felt like blows turned into soft swaying motions that almost lulled one to sleep.
Behind them, the Prefect's soldiers adjusted their speed without needing commands.
Dozens of horses moved in strange harmony, creating a new rhythm along the stone road that began to slope slightly toward the Chalkeus district.
Someone in the rear ranks coughed softly, the sound swallowed by dust.
A horse beside Nirma on the right shook its head violently, causing the small bells on its bridle to chime softly, like a gentle warning that they had entered a different territory.
Smoke began to appear at the end of the road, drifting lazily into the afternoon sky, and the smell of heated iron slowly replaced the scent of horse sweat and dusty streets that had accompanied them since the beginning of their journey.
The sunlight of three in the afternoon poured over the rooftops of old Constantinople, slanting golden and heavy, as though the day had grown old before its time.
Nirma watched that light reflect sharply upon sheets of copper hanging before the workshops, glimmering like neatly arranged dragon scales.
The air in the Chalkeus District trembled with the pounding of hammers.
The rhythm was uneven, yet together it formed a rough and living symphony.
Thin smoke rose from low chimneys, blending with the scent of charcoal, heated iron, and human sweat.
Within the narrow alleys, sparks flew like fireflies in daylight, flaring briefly before dying upon the stone roads worn down by thousands of footsteps.
Nirma observed all of this with eyes that never stopped moving, capturing small details that escaped the attention of the soldiers around her.
How a blacksmith halted his hammer for a fraction of a second as they passed.
How an apprentice boy spilled small nails with movements far too stiff to be a mere accident.
How a strip of wet cloth hung from one workshop, covering something far too long to be an ordinary tool.
She sensed something invisible to most people.
Tension.
Several hammers stopped for a brief moment when she and her companion passed by.
The workers' gazes did not look directly at them but bounced toward the walls, the ground, or the furnace burning a little too brightly.
An apprentice boy dropped small nails, their clinking sound far too loud to be a simple coincidence.
In one workshop, a damp cloth hung over something too long to be a mere working instrument.
The evening light slipped through gaps in the rooftops, forming thin lines dancing among the smoke, revealing dust particles swirling like time unwilling to remain still.
Nirma noticed soot marks along the stone thresholds of several workshops they passed.
Darker than usual, as though something had been burned in haste.
A barrel of water at the corner of an alley rippled faintly, not because of wind but because a hand had just been dipped into it and withdrawn quickly.
The smell of hot metal left a bitter taste upon her tongue.
Not only iron.
There were traces of bronze and a hint of tin, a mixture commonly used for decorations or coverings meant to conceal something that was not meant to be recognized.
She did not speak.
She gave no signal.
She merely stored each of these irregularities in her memory, arranging them like pieces of a puzzle that one day would form a complete picture.
The Prefect's soldiers moved with the efficiency born from thousands of hours of training and experience in the streets of Constantinople, streets that were never truly safe.
Four of them immediately spread out to each corner of the Forum Tauri, standing alert yet unobtrusive, enough to observe every movement of the passing craftsmen without making them feel threatened.
Two others stood guard directly in front of Leontios's workshop, one on the left side of the door and one on the right.
Their hands rested casually upon the hilts of their swords, yet their eyes never stopped moving, observing every passing shadow, every curtain that stirred, every sound that did not belong.
The rest led the horses to a more shaded area on the eastern side of the forum, beneath the shelter of an old olive tree whose branches nearly touched the ground under the weight of unharvested fruit.
Nirma and Arya dismounted their horses with the same motion.
Without haste.
Without hesitation.
As though they had entered blacksmith workshops in the Chalkeus district a thousand times before and left them a thousand times with the information they needed.
Leontios Chalkeus welcomed them at the doorway with a smile that revealed uneven rows of teeth, two of them darkened from biting too often on the tip of a tobacco pipe not yet known in this century.
His body was sturdy despite his age having passed fifty years.
The muscles of his arms still bulged beneath skin decorated with small burn scars here and there, a geographical map of four decades spent working with fire and metal.
He invited them inside with a broad gesture of his hand, almost theatrical in its movement, then pointed toward two wooden chairs in the sitting room, which in truth was more an extension of the workshop than a separate space.
Here, the smell of charcoal and heated iron still lingered, yet it mixed with the aroma of freshly baked wheat bread and a hint of olive oil from clay lamps hanging from the ceiling.
Nirma sat first, choosing the chair that faced directly toward the door, a habit so deeply ingrained that she did it without thinking.
Arya sat beside her, slightly behind, a position that allowed him to observe the entire room without appearing too obviously to be observing.
Leontios took three clay cups from a dusty shelf and filled them with red wine from a jug in the corner of the room.
He offered them to his two guests before sitting on a short stool in front of them.
"This wine is not the best in Constantinople," he said with a laugh, a laugh that came from deep within his belly and shook his entire sturdy body.
"But at least it won't make you blind like the wine sold near that harbor."
He lifted his own cup, waiting until Nirma and Arya raised theirs as well, then drank until half of it was gone in a single breath.
Nirma smiled faintly and sipped her wine slowly.
Meanwhile Arya let out a small laugh, enough to show that he appreciated the joke, even though his eyes continued moving, scanning every corner of the room, every shadow behind the curtain separating the sitting area from the main workshop, every tool hanging upon the wall.
To be continued…