Chapter 122
As the horses passed through the gate, as the shadow of the massive walls loomed over them for a moment, Arya felt something strange in his chest, a mixture of relief at finally leaving Thrace with its bitter memories, and anxiety because soon they would face Emperor Alexios, a ruler not easily deceived even though they had prepared everything meticulously.
The streets of Constantinople were already bustling even though morning had only just broken, merchants opening their stalls, housewives hurrying to the market, and children beginning to play in the narrow alleys.
As the mounted procession sped along the main road, the people quickly stepped aside to give way, some of them pointing toward the false Leontios walking with his head lowered among the soldiers, whispering to one another about who the prisoner under such tight guard might be.
An elderly woman dropped her basket as the horses passed, startled by the sudden arrival of the group, yet no one dared to speak, no one dared to protest, because in this city, the Prefect's soldiers were a symbol of authority that could not be challenged.
Nirma rode forward without turning her head, her eyes fixed ahead toward the Blachernae Palace that was beginning to appear at the end of the road, while Arya behind her felt each pounding hoofbeat like a racing heartbeat, racing toward a meeting with a destiny whose shape they had yet to understand.
Shaaaah!
Shaaaah!!
From behind the crest of the barren hill, Nirma and Arya froze within the shadows of dry shrubs, syncing their breaths with the drifting dust.
The sun of Heraclea Cybistra hung high, scorching their crowns, turning the sweat at their temples into grains of salt.
Arya blinked repeatedly, ensuring that what he saw was real, not a mirage born from heat and exhaustion.
Below them, along the ancient road cutting through Anatolia, thousands of people moved like a river of iron flowing slowly yet surely.
Worn banners fluttered weakly, bearing lions, eagles, and crosses he recognized from history books, now transformed into flesh and bone that breathed, that sweated, that perhaps in a few days would be drenched in blood on battlefields yet unnamed.
Nirma lowered the small telescope from her eye, a cylindrical object from the future that no one in the year 1101 would recognize, then let out a long breath.
Her single eye narrowed, capturing every detail of the endless procession.
"This is them," she whispered, her voice nearly carried away by the wind.
"The crusader army heading to cross toward Jerusalem. Bohemond of Taranto must be among them, or at least one of his commanders."
Arya nodded slowly, his tongue dry in his mouth.
He could almost smell iron and sweat from this distance, or perhaps it was only suggestion, knowing what would happen to these people.
History recorded that they would fight, win, lose, and many would never return home to Europe.
And here, on this barren hill, he and Nirma watched that history move within a relentless current of time.
The knights at the front marched with upright posture despite the dust thickening on their faces, as if honor were the only provision that must not fade in this harsh journey.
Their spears gleamed faintly under the sun, their steel tips like thousands of needles ready to pierce the sky.
Arya noticed a young knight in the third row, perhaps in his early twenties, whose face was clean yet whose eyes stared blankly ahead, like someone suppressing fear behind a mask of steel.
A large horse beside him shook its head, the faint clinking of its reins carried by the wind.
Arya imagined that the young knight might have left behind a new wife or fiancée in a small village in Normandy, carrying promises of holy land and absolution that he might never receive.
Nirma touched Arya's arm, signaling him to remain silent, to stay low, because even at such distance, spies could come from anywhere.
Behind the line of knights, logistical carts creaked endlessly, carrying supplies that would never be enough for the thousands of mouths to feed.
Thin donkeys pulled wagons filled with flour, wine stored in clay amphorae, and large chests that might contain medical tools or spare weapons.
Several women walked beside the carts, camp followers unrecorded in official history, with worn cloth covering their heads and small children either carried or led at their sides.
Nirma watched them for a long time, those women, who might be wives, might be camp prostitutes, yet all bore the burden of war on their shoulders without ever holding a sword.
Arya was still staring intently at the endless line of crusaders when suddenly he heard a long, rough exhale beside him.
He turned and found Nirma lying back on the dry ground of the hill, the telescope from the year 2200 placed carelessly on her chest rising and falling slowly, her face directed straight at the nine o'clock sun with her eyes tightly shut.
There was a kind of discomfort reflected on her face, not from heat or dust, but something deeper, more unsettling.
"Annoying," Nirma muttered without opening her eyes.
"We've disappeared for three months, Arya. Three months without news, without farewell, without accepting a single banquet from the nobles whose names we saved. Adrianos Komnenos must have prepared a lavish feast for us, Nikephoros Melissenos may have already ordered his finest chefs, Konstantinos Dalassenos might even intend to match us with his niece. And us? We chose to time-jump here, to this barren hill, watching a crusader army that doesn't even know we exist."
Arya shifted his gaze from the thousands below, then slowly sat beside Nirma, feeling the heat of the ground seep through his clothes, yet he did not care.
"You're right," he said quietly, his eyes on the pale blue sky now streaked with thin clouds.
"Emperor Alexios must be wondering where we went. The letter we sent from Heraclea Cybistra may have only arrived a few days ago, which means for three months they thought we vanished from the face of the earth. Or worse, that we were killed by remnants of Abnormals still wandering."
He let out a long breath, wiping his face now sticky with sweat and dust.
"But what else can we do, Nirma. We weren't sent here to dine with the Megas Domestikos or dance at noble banquets. We have a duty, and that duty requires us to be here, at this exact time, when the crusader army begins its journey to Jerusalem."
Nirma opened her eyes briefly, squinting against the sunlight, then closed them again.
"I know," she replied, her voice softer now, though traces of discomfort still lingered.
"I was just imagining how nice it would be to lie on silk-covered beds in Blachernae Palace, with servants feeding me grapes and figs, instead of being here, on this hill that smells like horse sweat."
Arya gave a faint smile, barely visible.
"You can go back anytime, Nirma. Use that portal, jump to Constantinople, enjoy the nobles' banquets, then return here. I'll hold the position."
Nirma snorted, her eyes still closed.
"Of course not. We do this together or not at all. I just need to complain for a bit, that's all."
To be continued…