Chapter 97
Arya and Nirma's eyes met in silence that lasted only six seconds, yet within that brief span of time the entire room seemed to lose its voice.
The ticking of the water clock in the corner sounded clearer, the fine dust drifting between them appeared to stop spinning, and Leontios, who sat on his bench, felt something pass from one woman to the other without a single word being spoken.
Nirma's fully opened left eye stared at Arya with the same intensity as when she had looked at Leontios moments earlier, yet there was a subtle difference there—an unspoken permission, an agreement given without words that the time had come to reveal what they had been hiding all along.
Arya nodded slowly, a small nod that was almost imperceptible, then turned his face and fixed his gaze directly upon Leontios Chalkeus, who had begun to look uneasy on his bench, his hands unconsciously clutching the soot-stained edge of his tunic.
"Master Leontios," Arya's voice broke the silence, his tone shifting into something more formal, almost like that of a judge about to read a verdict in court, "we found six pieces of evidence in six different locations that, intentionally or not, draw your name into this murder case."
He paused for a moment, letting his words settle, then continued in a tone that allowed no interruption.
"The first location is the Kapeleion, the place where Étienne d'Arques was last seen alive before his body was found the following morning.
The second is the warehouse at the Port of Theodosius, where merchants store goods from newly docked ships.
The third is the workshop of an alchemist, a weary-eyed Greek physician who lives not far from here.
The fourth is around the Mangana Palace, where nobles and elite soldiers often gather.
The fifth is a quiet monastery, with monks who walk silently through its long corridors.
And the final location is the Latin Soldiers' Hostel, where the crusader soldiers reside while staying in Constantinople."
Leontios opened his mouth, perhaps wanting to ask something or perhaps to defend himself, but Arya raised his hand with a firm gesture that made the old blacksmith close his mouth again immediately.
Arya reached into his robe and pulled out a small cloth pouch that did not look very large but appeared rather heavy, then untied it with a deliberately slow motion.
He took out the first item—a thin black slab that turned out to be a footprint cast made of wax, still intact with every detail of nail patterns and wooden fibers clearly imprinted on its surface.
"This," Arya said as he placed the wax cast on the table before Leontios, "is the footprint we found behind the Kapeleion. Not in front of the tavern, not at the side, but exactly at the back door, a door used only by the tavern owner and certain people who know of its existence. This footprint differs in size from the others around it, and after our investigation we discovered it came from the work boots of a blacksmith. Boots with nailed wooden soles, typical of the workshops in Chalkeus."
He pointed to the nail patterns neatly embedded in the wax—patterns identical to those on the shoes Leontios was currently wearing.
"The size is 42, or 43 by European standards. When we asked the Prefect's soldiers to gather information about the foot size of every blacksmith in this district, they all reported the same thing: the size matches yours, Master Leontios."
The air in the room seemed to change, becoming heavier, harder to breathe.
Leontios stared at the wax cast before him with widened eyes, the face that had earlier been filled with determination to help now turning pale beneath the light of the oil lamp that was beginning to dim.
Arya continued his explanation with a voice that showed no emotion, like a lecturer explaining undeniable facts to his students.
"This footprint does not walk normally, Master Leontios.
It leads to the back door of the Kapeleion, then stops.
It does not enter, it does not retreat—it simply stops there, as though someone were waiting.
Waiting for the right moment, waiting for something to happen, waiting for someone to come out or go in.
And behind that door, only a few hours later, Étienne d'Arques was found dead with an unrecognizable wound on his back."
He lifted the wax cast, turning it slowly so Leontios could see it from different angles, then placed it back down with a soft sound that strangely resembled a verdict.
"We are not accusing you of committing the murder—at least not yet. But we need to know why your shoeprint could appear at a place and time so closely connected to the death of a crusader soldier."
Arya did not hurry to take out the second piece of evidence.
He allowed the wax cast to remain on the table, letting Leontios stare at it with increasingly restless eyes, letting the silence creep into every corner of the room like invisible smoke.
Outside, the sounds of craftsmen returning to their homes gradually faded, replaced by the chirping of crickets singing from the cracks in the stone walls, and occasionally the footsteps of the Prefect's soldiers still guarding outside could be heard, their shadows passing behind the window like tireless sentinel ghosts.
Nirma sat motionless in her chair, her fully opened left eye never leaving Leontios's face, catching every change in expression no matter how small—every twitch at the corner of his lips, every flicker of panic that appeared and vanished in an instant within the old blacksmith's dark eyes.
The oil lamp in the corner of the room began to dim, making the shadows on the walls dance in a strange rhythm, as though the entire room were holding its breath waiting for what would come out of Arya's mouth next.
"Master Leontios," Arya's voice finally broke the silence, unchanged—flat and emotionless like a judge reciting a list of sins, "we found something else at the same place. Not on the floor, not on the ground, but caught on a nail of the Kapeleion's back door. A small object—so small that anyone could have passed by without noticing it, yet important enough to completely change the direction of this investigation."
He reached into the cloth pouch again, his fingers moving slowly as he searched for a specific item among the other pieces of evidence, and when his hand emerged again, he held a small piece of fabric placed inside a clear glass container to prevent it from being damaged.
The cloth was rough, its color a sea-blue that had faded in several places, and most striking of all, its weave was entirely different from the fabrics usually produced in the workshops of Constantinople.
"This is coarse linen from Southern Italy," he said as he placed the glass container on the table beside the wax cast, "a material commonly used for the work robes of sailors, dock laborers, and people who work with sweat and grime every day. Not cloth for nobles, not cloth for wealthy merchants, but cloth for ordinary people who must work hard just to survive in this city."
Leontios swallowed, the movement of his Adam's apple rising and falling clearly visible on his neck wrinkled by age, and for a moment his eyes were fixed on the small cloth inside the glass container, as though he were staring at his own future shattered into pieces.
To be continued…