Chapter 102
Nirma remained silent in her chair, her fully open left eye never leaving Leontios's movements, capturing every detail, every shift in the tone of his voice, every glimmer in his dark eyes that were wet with emotion.
Leontios continued, his voice trembling more and more, not out of fear, but because the memory of those moments had begun to haunt him again.
"The hot iron, Sir and Madam, the iron I had just taken from the furnace, the iron still glowing red like the sunset on the western horizon, almost slipped from my hand.
I instinctively caught it with my left hand, without thinking, without realizing it, because if that iron had fallen to the dirt floor it would have been ruined, bent, it would have lost its perfect shape, and I would have had to start everything from the beginning again.
And at that moment, at the moment I caught the hot iron with my left hand, the strap of my apron touched it.
Touched by iron still blazing, by fire not yet extinguished, by heat strong enough to melt metal.
The strap burned, half of it, from the tip to the middle, exactly as you see it now."
He pointed to the strap again, his index finger trembling in the air.
"I was angry, Sir and Madam, terribly angry.
That strap had accompanied me for ten years.
For ten years it held my apron while I worked.
For ten years it had been a silent witness to my struggle to build this workshop from nothing.
But I told myself then that it did not matter, that the strap could still be used, that it was still strong enough to bear the weight, that it could last until I had the money to buy a new one.
And now look at it.
This same strap, the strap that was damaged because I worked hard to finish his order, is now used as evidence that I killed him."
Nirma slightly raised an eyebrow, a small movement almost invisible, yet enough to show that she had noticed something in Leontios's explanation.
Arya picked up the strap from the table, turning it under the light of the oil lamp, examining the uneven burn marks, and for a moment he seemed to be comparing Leontios's explanation with what he saw before his eyes.
Leontios did not wait for a response.
He immediately continued to the fourth piece of evidence, and when he mentioned it his voice changed, becoming quieter, heavier, like someone about to confess the most shameful sin imaginable.
"The fourth piece of evidence, that sticky black ash, the mixture of charcoal, olive oil, and pine resin," he said, his voice almost a whisper, "that… that is what frightened me the most when I thought you might find it.
Not because it proves murder, Sir and Madam, not because it is connected to Étienne's death, but because it reveals how desperate I was that night, how foolish I was, how willing I was to do anything just to meet him and collect the debt that was rightfully mine."
He lowered his head, staring at the dirt floor still damp with spilled wine, and for a moment his broad shoulders trembled violently.
"Yes, Sir and Madam, I carried a pouch filled with charcoal and resin that night.
I carried it because… because after failing to meet Étienne at the Kapeleion, after my clothes tore and I retreated to the dark corner, I did not go home.
I stayed there, Sir and Madam.
I continued to wait, hoping he would come out again, hoping for a second chance to speak with him."
He lifted his head, his eyes now fixed directly on Nirma, and within those dark pupils lay a deep sorrow, the sorrow of a former slave who knew too well the feeling of being ignored, belittled, treated as if he did not exist.
"That night was cold, Sir and Madam.
A cold that pierced the bones.
A cold that made the teeth chatter.
A cold that could freeze tears before they even reached the ground.
I thought perhaps if I waited until he was drunk, until he came out half conscious, he would be easier to talk to.
Or perhaps, if necessary, I would follow him to his tent, to the Latin Soldiers' Hostel, to wherever he went, as long as I could speak to him, as long as I could demand the payment of that debt, as long as I could reclaim what was mine."
Outside, the night wind blew harder, making the leaves of the old olive tree on the eastern side of the forum rustle like secret whispers meant for no one else to hear.
Nirma remained silent, still seated with her left eye fixed upon Leontios, yet within her calm chest something had begun to shift, to change, to open new possibilities she had never considered before.
Leontios continued, his voice growing softer, deeper, like an underground river flowing through a cavern never touched by sunlight.
"I brought the charcoal and resin to make a small fire if I had to wait long outside the city, if he went somewhere far away, if the night grew later and the cold became unbearable. Not to kill, Sir and Madam. Not to harm. Not to commit the cruelty you accuse me of. Only to survive. Only to keep warm. Only so I could keep waiting until that chance came."
Tears began to flow down his wrinkled cheeks, wetting the soot clinging to his skin and leaving bright trails like small rivers across a desert.
"But when I heard someone shouting from inside the tavern, a shout that shattered the silence of the night, a shout that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, I panicked, Sir and Madam.
I was afraid. Not because I was guilty, but because I know what it feels like to be accused, what it feels like to be punished for something I did not do.
I am a former slave, Sir and Madam. Thirty years ago I was once accused of stealing bread in my master's kitchen. I was whipped fifty times. My back was destroyed. My blood flowed like a river. And the bread, as it turned out, had been eaten by my master's cat, which was never punished at all."
Arya closed his eyes for a moment and drew a long breath, and when he opened them again something had changed within them, something resembling understanding, or perhaps empathy, though he tried hard to hide it behind the mask of a professional investigator.
Leontios kept speaking, his tears continuing to fall, yet his voice never broke, never faltered, like someone who had buried too much for too long and had finally found listeners willing to hear him.
"I ran, Sir and Madam. I ran as fast as I could, without looking back, without caring that my pouch had spilled, without thinking about the charcoal and resin scattered on the ground. I ran because of that shout, a shout whose origin I never knew, a shout that may have had nothing to do with Étienne, a shout that may have been nothing more than drunken men fighting, yet it dragged me back into the past, back into the fear that has never truly left my bones.
I did not even dare to return and retrieve the pouch, Sir and Madam. I did not even dare to look back to see whether anyone had seen me. I only ran, ran, ran, until I reached this workshop, until I locked the door tightly, until I hid beneath my blanket like a child frightened by a storm."
Leontios drew a long breath, the breath leaving his chest like wind striking the torn sails of a battered ship, and when he began to speak about the fifth piece of evidence his voice changed again, softer, trembling, like a man about to step into the deepest abyss.
To be continued…