Chapter 113
Nirma nodded slowly, her eyes still fixed on Leontios's letter.
Arya continued, "Nikephoros wrote in an angry tone. He challenged you to come directly to his house if you dare. He said he was not afraid of any kind of investigation. He even wrote, 'Bring a hundred of the Prefect's soldiers if you wish. I will still stand here waiting for you.' This letter…"
Arya shook his head softly.
"…This is the letter of a man who feels he has been accused unfairly, Nirma. Or perhaps the letter of someone who is far too confident."
Nirma nodded again, this time a little deeper.
"Konstantinos," Arya finished his report, "wrote the shortest letter. Only three lines. He said he would come to the Kapeleion tonight, just as you asked in your letter. He asked nothing, denied nothing, only said he would come. That is all."
Nirma finally lifted her face from the three letters she had just finished reading.
Her faint smile was still there, but her eye—her one eye—shone with a new intensity, the intensity of a detective who had begun to see patterns behind the chaos.
She turned toward the Prefect's soldier who was still standing near the door, waiting patiently, not daring to interrupt even though curiosity must have been rising inside him.
"Soldier," Nirma called, her voice soft yet firm, "there is a task you must carry out."
The soldier immediately straightened his posture, ready to receive orders.
"Gather all the Prefect's soldiers who have been following our investigation from the beginning. All of them. Bring them here, to the Kapeleion, as quickly as possible."
Nirma raised her right index finger, pointing it toward the cracked ceiling of the Kapeleion, then rotated it at a moderate speed—a universal signal to gather, to prepare, to move.
The soldier nodded quickly, ran out of the Kapeleion, and within minutes the atmosphere around the market alley changed from quiet to bustling with the pounding of horse hooves and the clinking of metal war equipment.
Dozens of Prefect soldiers arrived, mounted on sturdy horses ready to run anywhere they were commanded.
Among the many soldiers present, one of them appeared to be leading two special horses—a black stallion that had earlier carried Nirma and Arya, and a white mare that had only recently been brought there.
Now they no longer shared a horse.
After Nirma thanked them for the white mare that had been gifted to her, everyone—including Nirma and Arya—took their positions beside their respective mounts, ensuring the saddles, reins, and supplies were properly secured.
One of the youngest Prefect soldiers, whose face still looked fresh despite having just completed a long journey, approached Nirma carefully and asked in a soft voice, almost like a whisper.
"Lady Nirma, forgive me for asking, but where are we heading this time? So that we may prepare and arrange our travel formation."
Nirma opened her mouth to answer, but suddenly Arya, who had been silent beside his black horse, spoke first. His voice was firm and clear, cutting through the soldier's question with an answer no one expected.
"We will split into two groups."
Arya stepped forward and stood beside Nirma, his eyes looking straight toward the soldiers who had begun gathering in a loose formation.
"I will lead half of you to the residence of Konstantinos Dalassenos. Lady Nirma will lead the other half to the residence of Nikephoros Melissenos."
He paused for a moment, allowing his words to sink in, then added in a quieter but equally firm tone.
"We do not have time for lengthy explanations. Trust that this is the right step. And remember—whatever happens, follow Lady Nirma's orders or mine without hesitation. Do not question, do not argue, do not think for yourselves. Just do it."
The soldiers nodded in unison. None dared to object, none dared to ask further questions.
They quickly divided themselves into two groups, counting their numbers and ensuring each group had balanced strength.
Nirma glanced briefly at Arya, and for a moment their eyes met—a short glance filled with meaning, a look that said, "Are you sure about this?"
Arya answered with a small nod that seemed to say, "I am."
Without another word, Nirma mounted her white mare, Arya mounted his black stallion, and within seconds the two groups moved in opposite directions, leaving the quiet Kapeleion behind, heading toward two noble residences that might hold the final key to this chain of murders.
Fuuuuh!
Fuuuuh!!
The dim candlelight in the living room of Leontios Chalkeus's residence flickered weakly over three clay cups that still carried the faint scent of wine and honey.
Leontios lifted the cups one by one with care, his rough and calloused hands—the hands of a blacksmith who had only gained freedom from slavery in the Forum Tauri a year ago—moving with surprising precision for a man of his size.
He poured the remnants of the drink into a small jug, rinsed the cups with water from a bucket he had deliberately set aside, and returned them to the dish rack in the corner of the room.
Occasionally his eyes glanced toward the door, toward the road that was now beginning to darken under the late-summer evening of Constantinople, where the two investigators sent by the Emperor had disappeared several hours earlier along with the Prefect's soldiers.
There was something stirring in his chest. Not fear, not dread, but a strange kind of relief—like someone who had just finished a long confession he had kept buried for years, even though he had confessed nothing at all.
After the living room returned to its usual tidiness, Leontios walked past the thick cloth curtain that separated the public area of his residence from his private workspace.
Here, in a room lit only by two oil lamps in its corners, Leontios pulled out a heavy wooden chair and sat facing his worktable, crowded with the tools that were both his pride and his livelihood.
On the right corner, a hardy or small anvil piece was still embedded in the hole of the table, ready to be used at any moment.
On the wall rack, dozens of clamps and tongs of various sizes hung like little soldiers resting after battle.
Two large buckets—one filled with murky water, the other with oil that had begun to darken from repeated use—stood side by side in the corner of the room.
Meanwhile, on the floor near Leontios's feet lay scattered piles of raw iron bars, scraps of used iron that could still be reforged, and several half-finished products waiting for their final touch.
A coal shovel and a small spade lay near the extinguished furnace, and on the table before him several hammers of different sizes and shapes were neatly arranged according to his own habits—habits only he understood, habits only he needed.
Amid the clamor of blacksmith tools filling his workspace, Leontios poured wine into the clay cup he had just washed.
The wine from the year 1101 flowed slowly, deep red like ripe pomegranate, leaving sticky trails along the inner wall of the cup.
He sipped it slowly—very slowly—until there was almost no sound of swallowing, only the movement of his Adam's apple rising and falling in his thick neck.
His eyes drifted toward an empty spot on the wall, where the shadows of the oil lamps created a calming abstract dance.
His thoughts wandered everywhere—to the Forum Tauri where he once worked with chains around his ankles, to the small workshops where he secretly learned to forge iron from craftsmen who pitied him, to the faces of the crusader soldiers, seventeen of whom were now cold corpses in the underground chamber of the City Prefect.
To be continued…