Chapter 116
Blow after blow landed on Leontios's body, kick after kick struck his legs that still tried to struggle, until finally, after some time, the strong frame collapsed weakly onto the ground, his breath coming in short gasps, his face beginning to swell in several places as blood trickled from the torn corner of his lips.
When the soldiers finally stepped back, panting with satisfaction evident on their sweat-covered faces, Nirma and Arya moved forward together.
Without needing to speak, they simultaneously bent down, placed their palms on Leontios's head, and forced it hard against the ground until his cheek scraped against the rough stone surface, leaving reddish streaks across his bruising skin.
Leontios groaned softly, but no longer resisted, no longer struggled, as if all his strength had been drained by the blows and kicks he had just endured.
In that position, with his face half-buried in dust and gravel, Leontios Chalkeus finally surrendered completely.
His ragged breathing slowly began to steady, yet his body did not move in the slightest, only occasionally twitching from the pain that spread through his battered form.
Nirma stared at the man for a long time—very long—her left eye glinting under the fading torchlight.
Within her chest, something warm slowly expanded, a deep sense of gratitude so profound that it almost made her want to laugh in the cold Thracian night.
The man lying before her, with a bruised face and a body covered in wounds, was the killer of Étienne d'Arques, a thirty-four-year-old crusader whose hand had also taken the lives of seventeen other crusaders.
In the Thracian night that had begun to cool after the explosion and the chase, Nirma sat leaning against the trunk of an old olive tree not far from where Leontios lay.
Arya approached with two water skins, handing one to Nirma before sitting beside her, gazing at the sky where new stars were beginning to appear along the eastern horizon.
"You know," Nirma began, her voice soft like wind rustling through dry leaves, "a few hours before all this happened, I thought we might fail."
Arya turned, his brows lifting in curiosity, but he did not interrupt.
Nirma continued, her gaze still fixed on a distant point.
"When we parted at the Kapeleion, I went to Nikephoros Melissenos's residence with half the troops, while you went to meet Konstantinos Dalassenos. Many soldiers thought we would arrest one of them that very night, but you and I both knew that wasn't true. We were never searching for the killer among them."
Arya nodded slowly, recalling how he had entered the grand residence of Konstantinos Dalassenos behind the Hippodrome, carefully explaining that his purpose was not to accuse, but to free.
Konstantinos, who had initially sat tensely in his marble chair, gradually relaxed when Arya explained that all the evidence against him had been a trap, that he, Nikephoros, and the other suspects were merely pawns in a scheme orchestrated by the real perpetrator.
The nobleman had even laughed in relief—a laughter drawn from the depths of his heart—before quickly writing a travel permit, which he handed to Arya with both hands.
"Go to the Balkans, Investigator Arya," he had said at the time, his voice trembling with barely concealed relief, "and bring that killer back alive or dead—it is up to you. I will pray to the saints that your journey is protected."
Nirma smiled faintly upon hearing Arya's account, then continued her own story.
"Nikephoros Melissenos was even more expressive than Konstantinos. When I arrived at his residence in the aristocratic district, he was already prepared with a glass of wine and ten personal guards stationed at every corner of the room. I thought he would challenge me to a fight, but after hearing my explanation, he embraced me like a long-lost sibling."
Nirma let out a small laugh, shaking her head.
"He said, 'Nirma, you have saved my name from ruin. All this time I lived in fear that one day the Prefect's soldiers would come and drag me to prison without trial. And now you bring me this news. Thank you, thank you.' He even offered a pouch of gold for the journey, which I politely refused, but he insisted until I finally accepted half of it."
After obtaining the two travel permits, Nirma and Arya separately gave the same instruction to their respective forces: gather all the soldiers who had faithfully accompanied the investigation from the beginning, then move toward the Forum Tauri, to the residence of Leontios Chalkeus.
There, in front of the modest home of the former slave, the two groups reunited in neat formation, though fatigue was evident on the soldiers' faces.
Nirma stood on the highest step of Leontios's house, Arya beside her, and before them dozens of Prefect soldiers waited, holding their breath.
"Soldiers," Nirma began, her voice raised just enough to be heard by all, "the killer we have been searching for—the one who has slain seventeen crusaders, including Étienne d'Arques—is not the nobles we suspected all along. The culprit is Leontios Chalkeus, a blacksmith and former slave from the Forum Tauri, and at this very moment, he is fleeing toward the Balkan territories."
Arya continued in a firmer tone.
"We do not have much time. Every second that passes carries Leontios farther into Thrace, into Macedonia, perhaps even to Thessaloniki, Sofia, or Serbia. Therefore, we ask those of you who have faithfully accompanied this investigation from the beginning, who have never complained despite sleepless nights and endless pursuit across Constantinople, to follow us once more. This time, we are not merely chasing within the city walls—we will pass through the Gate of Charisius, through Rhegion, Athira, Selymbria, and onward to the heart of Macedonia if necessary."
The soldiers exchanged glances for a moment, but not a single one stepped back.
One by one, they nodded, striking their chests in readiness, and within minutes dozens of horses stood prepared with full equipment, awaiting the command to depart in pursuit of Leontios Chalkeus to whatever corner of the Balkans he might flee.
On the dusty Thracian ground, still stained with blood from his wounds, Leontios Chalkeus lifted his battered face.
Though his cheeks were swollen, though his lips were torn and blood still slowly seeped from the corner of his mouth, his eyes remained wide open, still able to stare sharply at the Prefect's soldiers and the two imperial investigators now standing around him like wolves surrounding a wounded sheep.
With a hoarse voice forced from his dry throat, he suddenly shouted—loud and full of anger—a voice no one would have expected from a former slave who had just been brutally beaten by dozens of soldiers.
"What is the meaning of this? Why do you hunt me like hounds chasing a rabbit, then beat me like this? Who am I to you? I am only a former slave who gained freedom just a year ago, a man with no power, who only wants to start a new life in the Balkans. What is my crime? What have I done? Explain it to me before you kill me here, on this silent road of Thrace!"
To be continued…