Chapter 101
Outside, dusk still hung above Constantinople, not yet completely swallowed by night, as if the sky itself were holding its breath before surrendering to darkness.
The sunlight leaning toward the western horizon coated the city in a reddish-golden glow, making the stone walls and tiled rooftops reflect a warm shimmer that slowly faded with every passing moment.
The stars had not yet appeared.
Only layers of orange, violet, and deep blue stretched across the horizon, while thin smoke rising from the furnaces of craftsmen drifted upward and blended together, giving the evening sky soft, vein-like streaks.
Leontios drew a deep breath, his broad chest expanding like a ship's sail caught by a powerful wind, then fixed his gaze directly upon Nirma, choosing the woman with the covered eye as the main recipient of his confession, for somehow he felt that behind the white bandage covering her right eye lay a wisdom Arya and the soldiers behind them did not possess.
"The first piece of evidence, my shoeprints behind the Kapeleion," he said, his voice now calmer, like a river that had found its path after passing through dangerous rapids, "I admit it, yes, I went there. I will not lie, I will not deny it, I will not pretend to know nothing. But I did not go there to kill, Sir and Madam. I went there to collect a debt. Étienne d'Arques, that red-haired Frankish soldier, ordered a sword from my workshop a month ago. A long blade with a carved cross on its hilt, he said it was for the Crusade, he said it was for defending the Holy Land, he said it was for the glory of God and all His angels. I worked day and night to finish his order, sacrificing my sleep, sacrificing the rest I should have had after forty years of labor with fire and metal. And when the sword was finished, when he came to see it and praised its beauty, he left without paying. Only promises, only sweet words, only a pat on my shoulder as if I were still his slave who must obey every command of his master."
Nirma listened with her left eye never leaving Leontios's face, capturing every change in expression, every twitch at the corner of his eye, every tremor of his lips that were beginning to dry from heat and tension.
Leontios continued, his spirit burning brighter, like a fire that had just been fed fresh wood after nearly dying out.
"I am a former slave, Sir and Madam. I know very well what it feels like to have my rights taken away, to have the fruit of my sweat stolen, to be treated like a lifeless object without feelings. Every piece of silver means something to me, every copper coin I earn from this workshop is my own blood and tears. And when a foreign soldier comes and orders a sword, then simply leaves without paying, without guilt, without even turning back to look at the disappointed face of the man he cheated, I feel as if I have returned to the past, returned to Antioch, returned to being a slave who has no right to anything."
He paused for a moment, lowering his head, and for an instant his broad shoulders trembled, not out of fear, but because emotions long buried had finally found their way to the surface.
"I came very early in the morning to the Kapeleion, Sir and Madam. Not to kill, not to ambush, not to commit the cruelty you accuse me of. I came because I knew his habits, because as a weapons supplier for the Latin forces I know their schedules, their routines, their weaknesses. He used to stop by the Kapeleion every morning before heading to the barracks, drinking cheap wine, eating dry bread, then leaving through the back door so he would not meet merchants who might be waiting to collect other debts from him.
I waited behind the building, in a dark corner near a stack of firewood, hoping he would come out so I could demand my payment directly, face to face, without intermediaries, without anyone else interfering."
Arya glanced again at Nirma, and for a brief moment the two investigators exchanged looks in a silence that lasted only two seconds yet felt much longer, like a wordless dialogue understood only by two people who had worked together for a very long time.
Leontios did not notice the exchange, or perhaps he did but chose to keep speaking, continuing to release everything that had long been buried in his heart.
"My rebuttal to the second piece of evidence, Sir and Madam, the piece of cloth caught on the nail of that back door," he said, his voice steady again, full of conviction, "I know that cloth was there, I know you found it, I know you consider it proof that I fled after committing murder. But listen to my explanation, listen with open hearts and clear minds before you decide to shackle my hands and drag me into the underground prison."
He raised his still-extended hands, his pale palms trembling slightly in the air, then slowly lowered them onto his lap.
"That night, when I waited behind the Kapeleion, the back door was half open. Perhaps it was intentionally left open by the tavern owner to let in fresh air, perhaps it had simply not been shut properly by a careless servant.
I wanted to make sure whether Étienne was still inside, whether he was sitting in his favorite chair near the window, whether he was laughing with his companions as usual. So I slipped closer, just a little, enough to peek through the crack in the door. And at that moment, while I was peering inside, while I was trying to see whether the man who owed me money was still there, my clothes caught on the nail in that door.
I pulled, Sir and Madam, I pulled with all my strength because I was afraid of being discovered, afraid he would see me and escape through the front door before I could speak to him. And the cloth tore, leaving behind the small piece you found."
Leontios laughed bitterly, the sound that came from his throat like the rattling of rusty chains shaken by the wind, and for a moment his glassy eyes stared far into the past, into the days when he had still been a slave in Antioch, when even the smallest mistake could result in a whip across his bare back.
"The third piece of evidence, the half-burned strap of my apron," he said, his thick fingers pointing toward the black leather strap still lying on the table, "that is not proof of murder, Sir and Madam. It is proof of my own foolishness, proof of how hard I worked to complete the order of a man who in the end never paid me a single coin."
He drew a long breath, wiping the sweat from his brow which continued to pour down even though night had arrived and the air outside had begun to grow colder.
"Two days before the incident, two days before Étienne d'Arques was found dead behind the Kapeleion, I was forging the blade of his sword in this very workshop, right where I am standing now, upon the same ground that has absorbed my sweat and tears for the last thirty years.
My hands were slippery with sweat, Sir and Madam, sweat that came because I had been working without pause from dawn until late night, trying to finish his order on time, trying to carve the cross on its hilt as beautifully as possible, trying to satisfy an arrogant Frankish soldier who perhaps had never been satisfied with anything."
Arya leaned slightly forward, his eyes narrowing as he studied the charred leather strap, then returned his gaze to Leontios's face, which had begun to redden with emotion.
To be continued…