Chapter 103
"This… this is the one thing I cannot explain, Sir and Madam. This is what frightens me the most, what has haunted my dreams ever since that night."
He pointed at the broken stylus still lying on the table beside the other pieces of evidence that had formed a grim row. For a moment, his eyes grew moist again—not from tears, but from a fear so deep that it seemed to grind against his eyeballs like sand.
"I didn't know he wrote that. I didn't see it, Sir and Madam. I swear by all the gods of heaven and earth, by all the angels guarding Constantinople, by the soul of my mother who died long ago in Antioch without ever seeing me become a free man. When I ran from behind the Kapeleion, when I heard the shout and the sound of something falling and then the suffocating silence that followed, I didn't know what was happening inside.
I only knew that I was afraid—that I had to leave—that if I stayed there any longer, I would be accused of something I had not done."
Arya looked at Nirma, and for a moment the two investigators exchanged glances in silence—a wordless dialogue that only two people who had worked together for a long time could understand.
Nirma nodded slowly, a nod so subtle it was almost invisible, yet enough to signal that she wanted Leontios to continue his defense, that she was not ready to reach any conclusion yet.
Leontios lowered his head, staring at the dirt floor damp with spilled wine. When he spoke again, his voice was nearly a whisper, almost like a prayer offered in a silent church.
"But perhaps, Sir and Madam, perhaps Étienne wrote 'ΛΕΩΝ' not because of my name. Perhaps he meant to write 'ΛΕΩΝΤΙΟΣ,' my full name—the name my master gave me when he freed me—the name that means 'little lion' in their language. But he didn't have time, Sir and Madam. His breath was fading, his hand trembling, his stylus broken, and he could only carve four letters before darkness claimed him."
He raised his head, his eyes now staring directly at Nirma with a painful intensity.
"Or perhaps, Sir and Madam, perhaps he meant to write 'ΛΕΩΝ,' which means 'lion.' Perhaps it was some kind of code, perhaps the name of a place, perhaps a call to a friend with the head of a lion—I do not know.
I am only a blacksmith, Sir. A former slave who learned to forge metal from the age of seven, not someone who studied the writings of thick books. I can read a little, I can write my own name, but beautiful Greek script like that, with those elegant ship-shaped letters—that is not for someone like me."
Nirma observed Leontios with her dark left eye, and for a moment she saw something she rarely saw in the eyes of suspects she had faced before.
Not the despair of a trapped man, not the anger of someone falsely accused, but genuine confusion—the confusion of a simple man suddenly confronted with a puzzle far too complex for him to understand.
Outside, the night wind grew stronger, making the workshop door creak like a long lament rising from the lungs of a weary city. In the distance, church bells rang twelve times, signaling that midnight had arrived in Constantinople.
Leontios took another breath—the last breath before opening the most secret box within his chest, a box he had kept tightly sealed from the outside world all this time.
"The sixth piece of evidence—my hair found in the comb at the Pantokrator Monastery," he said, his voice now steadier, calmer, like a man who had accepted his fate whatever it might be. "This is the most embarrassing one, Sir and Madam. The thing I am most ashamed to admit before you, before the Prefect's soldiers standing outside, before the whole world that might laugh at my foolishness. But I will say it, because if I am not honest now—if I hide even a single truth within this tired heart of mine—I will never sleep peacefully for the rest of my life, even if you release me today."
He wiped his face with his rough hands, brushing away the tears that still dampened his cheeks, then continued in a voice that did not waver despite the heaviness of what he had to reveal.
"I went to that monastery not after the murder, Sir and Madam. I went there before going to the Kapeleion. Very early in the morning, around five or six, when the sun had just begun peeking over the Theodosian walls, when the monks had just finished their matin prayers and were beginning to prepare bread for breakfast, I stopped by the Pantokrator.
I often go there, Sir and Madam. I am a former slave. I have many sins since childhood. The sin of envy, the sin of anger, the sin of wishing someone dead, the sin of hating the master who once treated me like an animal, the sin of hating the Frankish soldiers who came to my city and behaved like new lords even though they never paid me a single coin for the swords I forged with my own sweat and tears."
Tears began flowing down his cheeks again, yet he did not care. He kept speaking, pouring out everything that had long been buried within his heart.
"I confessed my sins that morning, Sir and Madam, because I knew I was going to the Kapeleion to collect a debt from an arrogant Frankish soldier. I was afraid my anger would explode—afraid I would speak harshly—afraid I would start a fight—afraid I would do something I would regret for the rest of my life.
I asked forgiveness before committing a sin, Sir and Madam. Not after it. I asked for the strength to control my anger, to speak politely, to obtain what was rightfully mine without hurting anyone."
Arya nodded slowly, a nod so faint it was nearly invisible, yet enough to show that he was beginning to understand the logic behind Leontios's confession.
Nirma remained silent, sitting in her chair with her left eye never leaving Leontios's face. Yet at the corner of her thin lips—almost imperceptible—there was a slight change, a small easing that might mean she was beginning to believe the old man's words.
Leontios continued, his voice growing steadier and more confident, like a man who had passed through the worst storm of his life and was beginning to see land in the distance.
"My hair fell onto that comb, yes—that is normal. Every time I go to the monastery, every time I look into the mirror before facing the priest, some strands of my hair fall and remain on the comb. I am old, Sir and Madam. My hair is not as thick as it once was, not as plentiful as before, and every strand that falls is a reminder that my time in this world is not much longer."
He pointed at the glass container holding those gray hairs, then looked back at Nirma with hopeful eyes.
"But if you ask the priest who heard my confession that morning—if you find Father Methodios, the old priest with a white beard reaching his chest—he will tell you what I confessed. He will say that I came very early, that I spoke of my plan to collect a debt, of my anger toward a Frankish soldier, of my fear that my anger might explode.
He will not say that I confessed to murder, Sir and Madam, because I did not kill anyone. I am only a desperate old blacksmith who wanted to reclaim what was his—an unfortunate man whose fate turned against him."
To be continued…