Chapter 100
"This hair was found at the Pantokrator Monastery, Lord Leontios.
Not in just any place, but in the comb used by those confessing their sins after they finish looking at themselves in the mirror, after they tidy themselves before facing the priest.
Short hair, coarse, streaked with gray.
Clearly not the hair of a soldier, not the hair of a nobleman, not the hair of a wealthy merchant accustomed to applying perfume every morning."
He placed the glass container on the table, right beside the other pieces of evidence, completing the dreadful row that now numbered six, like six wounds that could never be healed, six truths that could never be denied.
"We asked the inhabitants of the monastery, the monks who live every day in prayer and silence, those who may care little for worldly matters yet still remember every face that comes seeking forgiveness. And they all said the same thing. A blacksmith from Chalkeus came to the monastery several hours after the murder occurred. Not to order candles, not to buy holy bread, but to confess his sins."
Leontios covered his face with both hands, his broad shoulders trembling violently, and for a moment he looked very small, very vulnerable, very different from the sturdy man who had greeted them on the threshold several hours earlier with a wide smile and amusing stories about a fish-stealing cat.
Arya continued mercilessly, without pause, like a judge reading a death sentence before a defendant who could no longer defend himself.
"Étienne d'Arques was killed around six to seven in the morning, Lord Leontios. The hour when the sun had just risen over Constantinople, when merchants were only beginning to open their stalls, when soldiers had just changed guard upon the city walls. And you, according to the testimony of the monks at Pantokrator, came to confess precisely between ten in the morning and noon. Three to five hours after the murder. Enough time to return to your workshop, dispose of the evidence, cleanse yourself, and then run to the monastery to beg forgiveness for the sin you had just committed."
He picked up the glass container and slowly rotated it so Leontios could see every strand of gray hair clearly.
"This hair matches yours. Its texture, its color, its thickness. There is no doubt. And when we asked the monks whether they remembered who used that comb on that day, they pointed toward this workshop. They pointed toward you, Lord Leontios Chalkeus, the freed slave, the specialist swordsmith near the Forum of the Bull."
For the first time since the interrogation began, Nirma rose from her chair.
Her movement was slow, unhurried, yet every inch of shifting weight felt significant, meaningful, like a mountain beginning to move after a thousand years of silence.
She stood before Leontios, her deep black left eye staring directly into the tear-filled eyes of the old blacksmith, and when she spoke, her voice echoed in the small room like distant thunder rolling across the sky.
"Lord Leontios Chalkeus," she said, pronouncing every word slowly and clearly, "the six pieces of evidence my companion has just presented are not coincidence. Nor are they a series of unfortunate destinies that befell you without reason. All of them are connected, all of them point toward a single conclusion that cannot be avoided."
She stepped closer, one step, two steps, until she stood directly before Leontios, who remained frozen upon his bench.
"You are a supplier of weapons for the Latin forces. You know their habits precisely, their schedules, their weaknesses. You know when they drink, when they stand guard, when they grow careless. And Étienne d'Arques, the unfortunate soldier who met his end behind the Kapeleion, was one of your customers.
He once ordered a sword from this workshop. A sword you forged with sweat and tears, with muscles drained of strength, with time and labor that could never return. And he refused to pay."
The room felt like a pit of mud dragging everyone within it deeper, darker, more hopeless with every passing moment.
Nirma did not stop; her voice continued flowing like an underground river that never runs dry, bringing filth and sin to the surface.
"Perhaps you bore a grudge. Perhaps you were angry. Perhaps you felt that what belonged to you had been stolen by a foreigner who came from across the sea with holy dreams yet forgot the most basic obligation.
To pay his debt.
And that grudge, that anger, that feeling of being robbed, brought you behind the Kapeleion at dawn that morning, brought you face to face with Étienne d'Arques for the last time, brought you to do something that can never be taken back."
She paused for a moment, drew a long breath, then added in a tone quieter yet sharper than before, like a blade slicing skin without being felt.
"You may have thought everything would end after you killed him. You may have thought no one would know, no one would care about the death of a Frankish soldier in a city as vast as Constantinople.
But you forgot one thing.
You forgot that even a dying man can still leave a message. You forgot that the imprint of your boots was clearly stamped upon the ground. You forgot that the fabric of your new clothing caught upon a nail. You forgot that the strap of your beloved apron burned and remained at the scene. You forgot that the fuel of your forge spilled when you fled. And you forgot that your gray hair remained in the monastery comb when you ran to beg forgiveness for the sin you had just committed."
Leontios raised both hands, his pale palms stretched straight toward Nirma and Arya like a white flag waving in the midst of battle, while sweat soaked his temples and slowly ran through the wrinkles of his aging face.
"Honored Sir and Madam," he said, his voice hoarse yet steady, unlike the voice of a man who had just been struck by six relentless pieces of evidence, "I will speak honestly, with the utmost sincerity and depth, because I know that if I lie now, if I hide even a single truth inside this weary chest of mine, then tonight I will sleep in a damp and dark dungeon cell, accompanied by rats hungrier than the wolves beyond the city walls."
He wiped the sweat from his brow with a sleeve blackened by soot, drew a long breath like a man preparing to dive into deep waters, and began his defense with a voice that did not falter even though his eyes were still wet from tears that had only just dried.
"This afternoon's heat is greater than usual, Sir and Madam. A heat that makes my bones feel shattered, a heat that makes my head throb as if struck by a blacksmith's hammer with every passing second. But I will not apologize for this sweat, because this sweat is proof that I am still alive, that I can still speak, that I still have the chance to explain everything before you take me away from the workshop I built with my own hands over the past thirty years."
Arya looked at Nirma, waiting for a signal, and when Nirma slowly nodded with her half-closed left eye, Arya stepped back half a pace and allowed Leontios to continue his defense.
To be continued…