Chapter 67
The three layers of troops who had blocked their path at the gate several hours earlier now merely stood at their respective posts, offering their salute as Nirma and Arya passed by, a salute born not of command but of acknowledgment that these two women had accomplished something few ever did, entering the residence of Konstantinos Dalassenos and emerging again safely, heads held high, with the evidence still intact in their hands.
When they reached the great gate where the horses were tethered, Arya helped Nirma mount the same horse that had carried them to Psamathia, then she leapt up and seated herself in front, her hand gripping the reins firmly.
The Prefect's soldiers mounted their respective horses with swift and coordinated movements, several of them ready to protect the young pair with their lives if necessary.
Nirma, seated behind Arya with her arms wrapped around her companion's waist, glanced once toward the residence of Konstantinos Dalassenos, casting a look at the iron gate carved with ships and waves that now stood tightly shut, then turned her gaze straight ahead toward the road that would carry them out of the District of Psamathia, back to Constantinople, restless with intrigue and secrets.
"Come, Arya," she whispered softly, just loud enough for her companion to hear.
"We still have several other pieces of evidence to examine, and time never favors those who seek the truth."
Arya nodded, pulled the reins steadily, and signaled her horse to move.
The horse stepped forward, followed by dozens of the Prefect's soldiers behind her, and the small procession began to leave the District of Psamathia, leaving behind the residence of Konstantinos Dalassenos that still harbored mysteries within, leaving behind a man who might be a murderer or perhaps merely a victim of intrigues greater than himself.
When they reached the end of the road, as the District of Psamathia began to fall behind them, Nirma felt the sea breeze blow stronger, carrying the scent of salt and fish and damp wood, the same scent as when they had first entered this district several hours earlier.
Yet now the scent felt different, no longer foreign, no longer frightening, but like a reminder that the sea always holds secrets deeper than anyone can reveal, that the waves continue to break upon the docks of Psamathia without concern for the human drama unfolding behind stone walls, that the truth will eventually be unveiled even if it must pass through long and exhausting twists and turns.
They left the District of Psamathia at a steady yet unhurried pace, leaving behind the fading scent of the sea replaced by the dust of city roads and the aroma of spices carried by the wind from hidden markets tucked between the old buildings of Constantinople.
Arya, seated in front with the reins in her hands, stared straight ahead, her sharp eyes reading every alley they passed, every intersection that appeared before them, ensuring that this small procession would not lose its way in the labyrinth of streets that had stood for centuries.
Behind her, Nirma remained silent with her own thoughts, her arms wrapped around Arya's waist warm, and in her mind a thousand possibilities spun about what they would discover at their next destination.
Dozens of the Prefect's soldiers followed behind them in neat formation, two on the left, two on the right, and the rest behind at a distance sufficient to anticipate attacks from any direction, their sturdy horses running in the same stride, creating a rhythm of hoofbeats almost like a war drum played softly.
The journey carried them northward from the shore, away from the coastline where the waves continued to break tirelessly, entering a part of the city more crowded with stone buildings rising high on both sides of the road.
They slowed precisely at the eastern edge of the Forum of Theodosius, which marked the boundary between the bustle of the market and the open space of the main square, and there the eyes of Nirma and Arya were met with a sight difficult to describe in simple words, a vast expanse that still preserved remnants of past grandeur yet no longer stood whole as it had when first erected centuries ago.
The forum stretched before them like an old king who had once ruled half the world, now seated upon his throne in worn garments yet with a posture that still revealed who he once was.
Its surface consisted of great stones carved with high precision in their time, yet now worn by millions of footsteps over hundreds of years, some cracked by earthquakes that had once shaken the city, others uneven from repairs carried out in different eras, visible in the uneven color of the stones and the slightly differing joining techniques here and there.
A thin gray dust rose each time the boots of the Prefect's soldiers struck the ground, lingering in the air for a moment before slowly settling again, dancing in the daylight as though the dust itself were the spirits of the past unwilling to abandon what had once been the center of the world.
On the western and northern sides of the forum, fragments of columns and triumphal arches still stood upright, though no longer perfect as when they were first inaugurated with grand ceremonies of thousands of torches and the cheers of the people of Constantinople.
Those marble columns rose with fine cracks running from top to bottom like old veins upon the skin of a grandfather, yet they remained standing, still supporting portico roofs that had partly collapsed and partly endured with clay tiles replaced countless times.
Long shadows began to form beneath the midday sun, stretching from the feet of the columns toward the center of the square, creating patterns of dark lines that shifted slowly as time passed, as though the forum possessed a colossal sundial that continually marked each second of history's passage.
The reliefs carved upon the marble adorning the portico walls and triumphal arches had been worn by wind, rain, and pollution over centuries, the faces of emperors once sculpted in astonishing detail now appearing only as faint silhouettes, their noses broken by iconoclasm or by the accidents of history, some raised hands once offering salute or blessing lost to time, yet the folds of their grand togas and the round shields they held remained clearly recognizable, speaking of the military glory that had once been the very breath of this empire.
Before Nirma and Arya could guide their horses deeper into the area of the Forum of Theodosius, from behind the western portico emerged a group of soldiers in the distinctive uniform of city guards, their steps firm upon the worn stones of the forum, round shields hanging on their left arms and short spears in their right hands, moving in neat formation though they numbered only about ten.
Nirma immediately recognized them as Skoutatoi, the city infantry tasked with maintaining order in the important districts of Constantinople, a force distinct from the imperial Tagmata because they dealt more often with market crowds and street thugs than with true battlefields.
Some of them wore light klibanion, leather vests reinforced with thin iron plates across the chest, while others wore only thick layered gambesons, cotton jackets sufficient to withstand knife slashes but not the strike of a true sword.
To be continued…