Chapter 64
After delivering all his rebuttals with calm precision, Konstantinos Dalassenos fell silent for a moment, allowing his words to settle within the room illuminated only by daylight.
He looked at Nirma and Arya with a gaze no longer defensive, but open, as though inviting them to see a larger picture beyond the physical evidence laid upon the table.
"I do not deny that these pieces of evidence indirectly mention my name, Sir and Madam.
Nor will I pretend not to know that the Dalassenos family and the Komnenos family have long been rivals, a rivalry that often makes it easy for people to suspect us whenever something unfortunate occurs.
But I ask you, do you truly believe that an admiral who has spent thirty years at sea, who has led hundreds of battles, who has watched thousands of sailors die before his eyes, would be foolish enough to leave behind such obvious traces?
Would I order an amphora under my own name, use it to kill someone, and then allow the record to remain?
Would I drink wine with the victim at a kapeleion, using a glass that bore the imprint of my distinctive glove, if I truly intended to kill him without leaving a trace?"
He shook his head slowly, a bitter smile appearing upon his hardened face.
"I may be flawed in many things, Sir and Madam, but I am not a foolish murderer.
If I had wanted Étienne d'Arques dead, he would have died in a way that could never be traced back to me.
He would have fallen from a ship in the midst of a storm, or been pierced by a sword during a battle against pirates, or succumbed to a strange illness unknown to physicians.
But he would not have died in a kapeleion, with a cup of wine in his hand, leaving trails that pointed so clearly to my door."
The wax tablets in Nirma's and Arya's hands moved swiftly, their styluses dancing across the soft surface without pause since Konstantinos Dalassenos began speaking, recording every core rebuttal that left the man's lips with the precision possessed only by those accustomed to assembling evidence and seeking truth beneath layers of words.
Nirma wrote in a style different from Arya's.
Her hand moved more slowly yet more firmly, as though each word she inscribed into the wax were a stone that would later become the foundation of their conclusion.
Meanwhile, Arya wrote with a speed that made his stylus nearly dance, his eyes occasionally glancing toward Konstantinos before returning to his tablet, ensuring not a single detail was missed.
In the corner of the room, shadows began to lengthen as the daylight grew warmer.
The large windows overlooking the Sea of Marmara now left only a streak of orange along the western horizon, while waves continued to break in the distance with the same sound they had made for thousands of years, a sound indifferent to the human intrigues unfolding behind these stone walls.
Konstantinos Dalassenos stood motionless in his place.
He did not move.
He did not speak.
Only occasionally did he shift his gaze from the two investigators toward the sea and back again, like a captain waiting for his ship to dock, patient because the sea had taught him that important things never happen in haste.
Five minutes passed in a silence filled only by the scratching of stylus upon wax, the quiet breathing of the three people standing in the room, and the constant murmur of waves from afar, a natural symphony that felt strangely calming after the tense exchange that had just taken place.
Nirma lifted her stylus, her remaining eye tracing once more what she had written, ensuring nothing had been overlooked.
Arya did the same, his lips moving silently as he reread the essence preserved upon the wax.
The first section recorded the rebuttal concerning the harbor soil, that the black earth mixed with volcanic sand was not exclusive evidence because the Theodosian Harbor was a public port visited by thousands each day, that the soil on the victim's shoes proved only that he had been at the harbor, not that he had met Dalassenos.
The second section recorded the matter of the wine glass with the oily stain, that mixing olive oil into wine was a common practice among sailors, that sea-leather gloves were worn by many, and that a faint imprint was not an identity that could be confirmed.
The third section recorded the small amphora of pine resin, that the substance was a standard necessity for fleet maintenance and maritime signals, and that an amphora so easily moved could become a trap for anyone wishing to frame him.
When Nirma and Arya finally set their styluses beside their wax tablets, when both lifted their faces and exchanged a glance, the room suddenly felt quieter than before, as though all of Constantinople were holding its breath in anticipation of what would come next.
Their gazes met in the air, and for twelve seconds that felt like eternity, no words were spoken.
No signals were given.
Only two pairs of eyes conversing in a language known solely to them, a language born of long days working side by side, of dangers faced shoulder to shoulder, of trust that needed no voice because it was already etched into their bones.
In Nirma's eyes, Arya saw calculation, analysis turning within her mind, comparing Konstantinos' rebuttals with the other evidence they had gathered from the Mangana Palace, from the alchemist's workshop, from the monastery, from the Latin soldiers' lodging house, searching for gaps, for consistency, for lies that might be hidden beneath words that sounded reasonable.
In Arya's eyes, Nirma saw appreciation, appreciation for Konstantinos' composure in presenting his rebuttals, appreciation for the fact that the man did not deny the evidence but instead offered perspectives that perhaps they had overlooked.
When those twelve seconds finally passed, when their eyes slowly released one another and turned toward Konstantinos Dalassenos, who still stood patiently waiting, the expressions upon their faces changed from analytical tension to genuine warmth, warmth that declared they had not come as enemies, but as seekers of truth who equally desired justice.
Nirma rose first, followed by Arya.
The young pair straightened their robes before looking at Konstantinos with a faint smile they had never shown previous suspects, a smile born of respect for a soldier capable of defending himself with facts rather than anger or intimidation.
"Commander Konstantinos Dalassenos," Nirma's voice emerged softer than before, utterly different from the tone she had used when reading the Emperor's warrant before three ranks of troops, "we thank you for your patience in explaining everything, for your composure in facing evidence that might have seemed incriminating.
Not everyone is capable of such conduct when their name is mentioned in a murder case."
Arya added at her side, his keen eyes now free of suspicion and instead filled with consideration.
"We will take into account all that you have said.
We will place it alongside the other evidence we have gathered from the Mangana Palace, from the alchemist's workshop, from the monastery, from the Latin soldiers' lodging house.
Truth is never simple, Commander.
It is like the sea you sail, filled with undercurrents unseen from the surface.
We will continue to dive until we find it."
To be continued…