Chapter 114
When the last sip of wine felt sticky in his throat, he set the empty cup beside the pile of hammers, then rose with a movement that was heavy yet certain.
In the backyard of his residence, a dark brown mule had been saddled and fitted with two large wooden chests on either side of its body.
One chest was already filled with clothes and personal necessities, while the other was still half empty, waiting.
Leontios opened the wooden chest, retrieving the final item from his workshop—a small box made of olive wood that he had long hidden behind a pile of scrap iron.
He placed it carefully atop the stack of supplies inside the chest, then shut it tightly.
His hand stroked the mule's neck for a moment, a soft whisper echoing in the animal's ears.
"We leave tonight," he said, his voice hoarse and deep, like the rumble of a furnace that had just gone out.
"Before dawn, before they realize, before everything is too late."
Leontios gazed at the sky of Constantinople, now adorned with the first stars, then turned back toward his house to retrieve a thick cloak and a short sword tucked behind the bed.
The heavy iron key turned twice in its lock, producing a dry click that echoed through the silent corridor of Leontios Chalkeus' residence.
Leontios drew a long breath, placing his rough palm against the surface of the teakwood door, feeling the cold of Constantinople's night seep through the grain and into his fingertips.
He pushed the door once, ensuring it was truly locked, then turned toward his dark brown mule that had faithfully waited with two heavily laden wooden chests on either side of its body.
There was a whisper in his heart, a kind of quiet promise spoken only to himself.
That one day, when the lands of the Balkans had come under his grasp, when his dream workshop stood firm in Thessaloniki or Sofia or perhaps even farther in Serbia, he would return to this Constantinople.
Not as Leontios the former slave, not as Leontios the lowly blacksmith, but as Leontios Chalkeus, a name known throughout the Balkans.
The night of Constantinople stretched silently before him as he mounted the mule with slow, careful movements, adjusting his seat between the two wooden chests packed with the remnants of his life in this city.
He urged the mule forward at a deliberately slow pace, not out of hesitation, but because he wanted to memorize every corner of the streets he passed—the stone roads he once walked every morning with chains on his feet toward the Forum Tauri, the small market where he used to buy warm bread after a day of forging iron, the humble tavern at the bend of an alley that served as the only cheap comfort for newly freed slaves.
He stored it all in his memory, carrying everything as provisions for the long journey toward foreign lands.
At the Forum Tauri, although he had proven his skill as a capable blacksmith many times over, his earnings had grown thinner by the day, like a candle melting under the weight of time.
Merchants preferred to order iron tools from the grand workshops owned by nobles, soldiers trusted swords forged by renowned smiths whose names had already risen high, while Leontios could only accept small orders whose returns were barely enough to meet his daily needs.
He wished to begin his life anew, to build a small workshop far from the bustle of Byzantium, in the Balkan cities that might value the hard work of a former slave rather than look down upon him.
It was a desire he had planned for decades, since the days of his youth when chains still wrapped around his ankles, when he secretly learned the craft of forging from artisans who pitied him and whispered, "One day, Leontios, you will be free. And when that day comes, leave—never look back."
The mule walked slowly, very slowly, as if it too understood that its master was bidding farewell to the city that had silently witnessed his long journey from a slave to a free man.
Above him, the sky of Constantinople was adorned with thousands of dimly flickering stars, and from afar, the faint sound of a flute from a tavern by the harbor drifted through the air—a farewell melody unasked for, yet ever present.
Leontios did not cry, nor did he smile.
He simply sat upright upon his mule, his eyes fixed straight ahead, toward the road leading to the city gates that would carry him out of Byzantium, toward Thessaloniki that existed only as a point on the map of his mind, toward Sofia known only through merchants' tales, toward Serbia that might become his new home.
The night wind whispered past his ears, carrying a voice only he could hear: that this journey had only just begun, that at the end of this road—whether near or far—a new life awaited, one to be forged by his own hands, just like the iron he once shaped in the small workshop behind the Forum Tauri.
The night wind of Thrace rustled past the ears of Leontios Chalkeus as his dark brown mule continued its slow steps along the silent stone road stretching before him.
He had left the Gate of Charisius hours ago, passing the mighty Theodosian Walls with a mixture of relief and regret, and now his body began to ache from the steady jolts of his mount.
He had memorized the route by heart.
From Thrace to Rhegion, which awaited only time to be reached, then Athira, Selymbria, Herakleia, and onward until Eastern Macedonia stretched before him with the legendary valley of the Hebrus River and ancient cities like Traianoupolis and Didymoteicho, known to him only through the stories of merchants in the Forum Tauri.
This journey had only reached forty percent, he thought—still long, still far, still thousands of steps away before Thessaloniki would welcome him as the heart of Macedonia he had long dreamed of.
But suddenly, without any clear reason, Leontios turned his head back.
Perhaps it was the instinct of a former slave, ever wary of the sound of galloping hooves behind him, or perhaps it was a premonition creeping into his chest uninvited.
And there, in the distance beneath a night sky veiled by thin clouds, he saw moving points of fire—not one or two, but dozens, perhaps a hundred or more, torches dancing in the darkness like giant fireflies in orderly formation.
Leontios narrowed his eyes, trying to count, trying to understand, and the longer he stared, the clearer it became that the procession was no ordinary group.
Its formation was neat, structured—distinctly characteristic of Byzantine nobles or high officials traveling at night under heavy guard.
He could imagine, at the center of that line of torches, an important figure seated upon the finest horse—perhaps a megas domestikos, perhaps a protospatharios, perhaps even an imperial envoy on a secret mission.
"No, no, this isn't right."
Leontios muttered to himself as his unease hardened into certainty, the certainty that the group behind him could not merely be passing through Rhegion by coincidence on a night like this.
He had lived in Constantinople long enough, long enough as a slave who constantly heard whispers of noble movements and high officials, and never once had he heard of a night journey toward Thrace accompanied by a hundred soldiers.
To be continued…