Chapter 21
Only silence remained—deep silence, the kind she had learned over years of wandering through the corridors of time, the kind that always made enemies misstep because they could not read what lay behind it.
Arya beside her was also silent, his body tense yet showing no sign of attack, his eyes moving slowly as they observed each soldier, calculating distances, estimating possibilities.
Yet within Nirmala's heart, chaos was unfolding.
Not the kind of chaos that provoked panic, but the kind that set questions spinning endlessly in her mind, searching for patterns, searching for explanations, searching for a point of clarity within the sudden fog that had enveloped this mission.
Why were they here?
How did they know about this house?
What had truly happened outside while she had been sitting, writing and circling words on that leaflet?
Her thoughts worked swiftly, weaving scenario after scenario, connecting points that seemed unrelated into a whole that might make sense.
A murder.
Arya had just spoken of the murder of a crusader before the door was forced open.
The problem was… something in his words had remained unfinished.
And now the Byzantine captains stood before them, flanked by fully armed soldiers ready to strike at any moment.
What was the connection?
Could there have been a witness who saw Arya near the scene of the murder?
Could their attire—almost perfectly imitating the style of Constantinople yet not entirely flawless—have drawn the wrong kind of attention?
Or perhaps…
Nirmala's murmur turned slowly within the depths of her heart, unheard by anyone but herself.
What connection was there between the murder of a crusader about to depart and the fact that she and Arya were inside this house?
Was it merely coincidence, or was another hand moving behind the curtain?
Silence settled in the room like a thick fog unwilling to disperse.
Ten minutes passed in the rhythm of racing heartbeats, in breaths held, in locked gazes where no one dared blink first.
Nirmala remained seated with a calmness that was almost unsettling, a living statue amid the crowd of fully armed soldiers.
Arya beside her was still silent, his body tense yet his face displaying a well-practiced indifference, as though the arrival of this armed entourage were nothing more than a minor interruption in his morning routine.
The soldiers surrounding them began to grow restless, some exchanging glances, unaccustomed to detainees who showed neither fear nor resistance.
Only the two Byzantine captains remained unmoving, their eyes never leaving the two time investigators stranded in the wrong era.
Then, precisely when the imaginary clock in Nirmala's mind marked ten minutes and ten seconds, one of the captains finally spoke.
His voice was heavy, echoing in the narrow stone-walled room, making each word feel as though it were spoken twice.
He began with a ritual not unfamiliar to Nirmala's ears, a ritual she had heard thousands of times throughout her journeys across ages.
Praise to the ruler, tribute to those in power, acknowledgment that all that occurred in this world was by the will and permission of those who sat upon the throne.
"All praise and gratitude be to Emperor Alexios I Komnenos, who with his wisdom safeguards Constantinople from chaos, who with his strong hand protects us all from threats that come from east and west."
The words flowed from the captain's lips smoothly, like a prayer memorized since childhood, like a mantra that must be uttered before entering serious discourse.
Nirmala remained silent, betraying no reaction, though in her mind she noted every detail.
The way the captain stood, the position of one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the direction of his gaze that occasionally flicked toward Arya before returning to her.
He was measuring, evaluating, attempting to read two strangers who had suddenly appeared in his city wearing nearly perfect attire that nevertheless carried an oddity he could not quite identify.
And Nirmala allowed him to do so, for the longer he tried to read them, the more information he unknowingly revealed about what was truly happening beyond these walls.
"There has been a case of murder involving a crusader," the captain continued, his voice dropping half an octave, more serious, more confidential.
"This information must not be spread.
Only a few Byzantine officials and concerned parties are aware of it.
If this news reaches the other soldiers, if they learn that one of them can be murdered in a city that is supposed to be a safe place of transit before departing for the Holy Land…."
He did not finish the sentence, but the meaning was clear.
Chaos.
Unrest.
Perhaps even the cancellation of a departure planned for months.
In this year of 1101, stability was everything, and one unresolved murder could become the spark that brought down the grand design of Emperor Alexios and the popes in Rome.
Nirmala grasped the direction of the conversation, yet she still did not understand where they stood within all this.
Then the captain continued, and this time his eyes fixed sharply on Arya.
"Because your companion here," he jerked his chin toward Arya, "has informed every individual within the crusader infantry that the two of you are the finest investigators, that you are capable of resolving even the most complex cases with ease, that you are willing to do so without demanding tribute beyond food, drink, and temporary lodging…."
The captain paused briefly, savoring the silence that suddenly felt heavier, before completing his statement in a tone that allowed no refusal.
"Therefore, the supreme command of the crusader forces has decided.
You will investigate this murder.
You will find the perpetrator.
And you will resolve it before the army departs in seven days."
Within the depths of Nirma, the unspoken message settled like a stone cast into the deepest well, sending ripples slowly spreading through every corner of her awareness.
She understood what Arya was conveying without words, understood that the strange rumor he had deliberately spread was not foolishness but a strategy born of years traversing time's corridors—a way to draw the right attention in the right direction, or at least that was what Nirma chose to believe for now.
Manuel Botaneiates, the Prefect of the Byzantine City whose name she had heard for the first time only hours ago, had now suddenly become the focal point of a vortex slowly pulling them deeper into the secrets of Constantinople that no recorded history had ever preserved.
And when Nirma finally emerged from her brief reverie, when her thoughts were still busy weaving together threads that seemed unrelated, her single eye blinked very slowly—a blink whose meaning only Arya understood, an ancient code they had created between the corridors of time as a way of saying "I understand, but let me think" without uttering a sound.
The second captain, who from the beginning had stood silent like a statue at a church gate, finally moved, stepping forward with the creak of boots upon the hardened earth floor, positioning himself level with the first captain in a formation that reflected the intricate hierarchy between them.
When he finally spoke, his voice was deeper than the first's, like the echo of a bronze bell struck in an underground chamber, carrying authority that required no questioning.
To be continued…