Chapter 33
A veteran with a scar across his temple stepped forward, placing his fist against his chest in salute.
"We understand, Madam. No one will enter while you are inside. We will guard this door with our lives."
Nirma gave the same faint smile she always wore, then turned back to face the magnificent teak door.
Beside her, Arya drew a long breath, straightened his robe, and made sure his Wax Tablet was still securely tucked at his waist.
They exchanged a brief glance, one filled with thousands of unspoken words, and together they pushed the door open, its heavy sound echoing throughout the corridor.
Inside the vast chamber, illuminated by dozens of oil lamps hanging from the ceiling and large candles placed in every corner, sat a man behind an ebony desk covered with scrolls of parchment and war maps.
Megas Domestikos Adrianos Komnenos, Supreme Commander of the Byzantine Army.
Nirma and Arya froze at the threshold, their bodies like statues carved from the hardest marble, unmoving, unblinking, only their eyes alive as they stared with a focus that was almost painful.
A slow blink, very slow, came once every few seconds, as if they were measuring, assessing, attempting to read every detail of the figure seated before them on the iron folding chair.
Megas Domestikos Adrianos Komnenos was no ordinary conversational opponent, no low-ranking soldier who could easily be subdued with a sharp gaze or trapping questions.
He was the supreme commander of the Byzantine army, a man who had led tens of thousands of soldiers into battle, who had witnessed death on a scale unimaginable to most, who had learned from a young age that in situations like this, the most dangerous ones were not those who moved quickly, but those who could remain perfectly still.
Seated upon the iron folding chair draped in dark purple cloth, Adrianos carried himself in a posture that reminded Nirma of statues of ancient Roman generals she had once seen in museums in the twenty-first century.
His faded bluish-purple sagion fell to his knees, not the imperial porphyry reserved for the Emperor, yet deep enough in hue to distinguish him from an ordinary senator, firm enough to declare to the world that he was not to be underestimated.
A golden fibula shaped like an eagle clutching a sapphire was fastened perfectly upon his right shoulder, an ornament that was not merely an accessory but a symbol of authority that spoke louder than thousands of words.
The narrow sleeves wrapped around arms lean yet still strong despite his advancing age, muscles forged from decades of gripping a sword and leading wars, not from idle exercises within palace gymnasiums.
Red kampagia covered his calves just below the knees, military boots that had traveled thousands of miles across dusty and bloodstained roads, and resting upon his lap lay a sword sheathed in leather, its pommel protruding slightly, ready to be seized in a single motion practiced thousands of times.
Behind him on the wall hung an icon of Christ Pantokrator, its eyes seeming to watch every movement within the chamber, eyes that judged, eyes that reminded all present that no sin could be hidden from the ruler of the universe.
Beside it hung a worn labarum, a relic of his father's campaign, an old banner that had witnessed too many battles and too many deaths, a banner that might have spoken had it possessed a mouth.
The entire room, every detail from chair to icon, from sword to labarum, was designed to create an oppressive atmosphere, one that made anyone who entered feel small, insignificant, as though they stood before something far greater than themselves.
Adrianos did not move when they entered.
His eyes, gray like the sky before a storm, unblinking, followed their every step from the doorway to the center of the chamber.
There was no warm greeting, no pleasantries, no false smile of the sort nobles often offered unwanted guests.
There was only heavy silence and an unwavering stare, a stare that declared he was measuring them, evaluating them, deciding whether they were worthy of conversation or would be brushed aside like flies disturbing his peace.
Nirma felt that gaze, felt how those gray eyes traced every inch of her face, every movement of her hands, every detail of her attire, searching for weakness, searching for a gap, searching for something he could use to dominate the conversation about to begin.
"You ask about the dead man at the Kapeleion."
When Adrianos finally spoke, his voice was no ordinary one.
He did not ask a question, did not seek confirmation, did not display the slightest doubt.
He stated a fact, a fact he knew with certainty, a fact that revealed his network of information had functioned flawlessly even before they set foot in this palace.
The sentence hung in the air between them, heavy as a tombstone, clear as noon in the desert.
Nirma did not respond, did not react, only met his gaze with eyes just as sharp, showing that she would not be easily intimidated by such simple psychological tactics.
One of Adrianos' hands rose, pointing toward two empty chairs deliberately placed before him, chairs far simpler than the iron folding chair draped in purple upon which he sat, chairs designed to make anyone seated upon them feel inferior, feel as though they were confronting someone of an entirely different level.
"Sit."
Another single word, another command, leaving no room for refusal, no space for negotiation.
Nirma and Arya did not feel fear, did not feel intimidated, did not feel diminished before the supreme commander of the Byzantine army seated arrogantly upon his purple-draped iron chair.
Instead, they offered the same faint smile they had shown to merchants in the marketplace, to the loyal Prefect's soldiers who had accompanied them, to everyone they had encountered in Constantinople in the year 1101.
A smile that conveyed neither submission nor fear, nor false humility, but one born of certainty that they stood exactly where they were meant to be, that they held control over this situation even as they physically occupied lower chairs before a man who could destroy them with a single order.
"We thank Your Excellency for the courtesy of allowing us to sit," Nirma said in a sweet yet measured tone, a perfect diplomatic smile upon her lips, before she and Arya took their seats upon the simple wooden chairs provided, feeling the cold wood unpadded by cushion or cloth, a deliberate contrast meant to remind them of their place within the hierarchy of this room.
Silence settled once more within the chamber after they sat, a heavy and dense silence, one that could be felt upon the skin like the air before a storm.
Megas Domestikos Adrianos Komnenos did not move, did not avert his gaze, did not show any reaction to their presence.
To be continued…