The Sheen on the Silk (20 page)

IN THE YEAR AFTER THE DEATH OF GREGORY X, ANNA HAD little chance to pursue any further information about Justinian or his disillusionment with Bessarion, or even the courage or strength of the Church. There was little rain in the spring, and the summer’s heat came early.

Disease started in the poorer quarters where there was insufficient water. Rapidly the outbreak spread, and the situation spiraled out of control. The stench of sickness filled the air, clogging mouth and nose.

“What can you do?” Constantine said desperately as he stood in his beautiful arcade, gazing at Anna. His pained eyes were hollow with exhaustion, red-rimmed, his face pasty gray. “I have done all I know, but it is so little. They need your help.”

There was no possible answer but to make arrangements for someone else to see her regular patients and for Leo to turn away new ones until this fever and flux were past. If afterward she had to begin again and build up a new practice, it was the price that must be paid. She could not walk away from Constantine, and deeper and more lasting than that, she could not leave the sick without help.

When she told Leo he shook his head, but he did not argue. It was Simonis who did.

“And what about your brother?” she said, her face tight, eyes angry. “While you’re tending to the poor night and day, running yourself into the ground, risking your own health, who’s going to work to save him? He waits in the desert, wherever he is, for another summer?”

“If we could ask him, wouldn’t he say that I should help the sick?” Anna asked.

“Of course he would!” Simonis snapped, her voice sharp with frustration. “That doesn’t mean it’s what you should do.”

Anna worked night and day. She slept only in snatches here and there as exhaustion overtook her. She ate bread and drank a little sour wine, cleaner than water. She had no time to think of anything but how to get more herbs, more ointments, more food. There was no money. Without the generosity of Shachar and al-Qadir, all real help would have ceased.

Constantine worked also. She saw him only as he called on her because he knew of someone in need so desperate that he was willing to interrupt whatever she was doing or even to waken her when she slept.

Sometimes they ate together or merely spent the last hours of a dreadful day in wordless comfort, each knowing that the other had had experiences equally harsh and also ending in death.

Then as the year waned, at last the infection ebbed. The dead were buried, and the business of ordinary life slowly took over again.

AS WAS INEVITABLE, POPE JOHN XXI ALSO BECAME bitterly aware of the reality in Byzantium with regard to the faith. He was not inclined to be as lenient as his predecessors. He sent letters to Constantinople demanding a public and unqualified acceptance of the filioque clause about the nature of God, of Christ, and of the Holy Spirit, the Roman doctrine of purgatory, the seven sacraments as held by Rome, and papal primacy over all other princes of the Church, with the right of appeal to the Holy See and submission of all churches to Rome.

All Michael’s appeals for the Greek Church to retain its ancient rites, as before the Schism, were refused.

Palombara was present at the great ceremony in April 1277 when this new document was signed by Emperor Michael, his son, Andronicus, and the new bishops whom he had created because the established bishops would not yield their faith or their old allegiances. Of course, in that sense it was a farce. Michael knew it, and so did the new bishops. Their calling existed only on the condition of their abject and public surrender.

Palombara also knew it, and he watched the splendor of the ritual with no sense of victory. He stood in the magnificent hall and wondered how many of these men in their silks and gems felt any passion at all, and if they did, what it was. Was such a prize of any worth? Indeed, was it a service to God or to any kind of morality?

What was the difference between the whisper of the Holy Spirit, the hysteria born of the need for God to exist, and the terror and isolation of seeking Him alone? Was the darkness too big to look at? Or had they seen some light in it that he had not?

He turned slightly sideways to watch Vicenze, a couple of feet away. He stood upright, his eyes bright, his face totally unmoving. He reminded Palombara of nothing so much as a soldier at a victory parade.

How was Michael going to control his people after this? Was he realist enough to have some plan? Or was he shortsighted and utterly lost as well? All shorn lambs, struggling alone through the same gale, not seeing one another.

If only the monk Cyril Choniates would sign, then his followers would. It would be a giant step toward pacifying the opposition. Perhaps it could be brought about? But Palombara must do it, not Vicenze; at all costs, not Vicenze.

He smiled at himself and at his own weakness for victory.

But the main document was already signed. What he needed was an addendum. At first he saw it as a setback that Cyril Choniates was apparently quite seriously ill. Then he thought of Anastasius, the eunuch physician.

A few inquiries elicited the information that he was willing to treat anyone who needed his skills, Christian, Arab, or Jew. He would not rant on about sin or foolish talk of penitence, but would treat the illness, whether provoked by the mind or not.

The next thing for Palombara to do was have Anastasius recommended to whoever was caring for Cyril in his captivity. Who was powerful enough to do that and could be persuaded to?

The answer to that question was undoubtedly Zoe Chrysaphes.

Two days later, he called upon her, bringing with him as a gift this time a small but very beautiful Neapolitan cameo, carved with amazing delicacy. He had chosen it himself and was reluctant to give it away, although that was why he had bought it in the first place.

He saw in her eyes that it pleased her. She turned it over in her fingers, feeling the surface, smiling, then looked up at him.

“Exquisite, Your Grace,” she said softly. “But I am past the days when men give me such gifts for my favors, and you are a priest anyway. If that was what you wanted, you would have to be much subtler. I think far more to the issue is the fact that I am Byzantine and you are Roman. What is it you are looking for?”

He was amused by her directness and forbore from telling her that he was not Roman but Aretino, to him an important difference, but not to her.

“You are right, of course,” he conceded, looking her up and down slowly, with candid appreciation. “As for your favors, I would rather earn them than buy them. What is purchased is of little worth, and has no taste to linger in the mind.”

He was delighted to see the color in her cheeks and realized that he had momentarily disconcerted her. He met her eyes boldly. “What I want is for you to recommend a good physician for the deposed and now exiled subpatriarch Cyril Choniates, who is presently quite seriously ill in the monastery at Bithynia. I have Anastasius Zarides in mind. I believe your influence would be sufficient to have the abbot send for him.”

“It would,” she agreed, her golden eyes quickening with interest. “And why do you care in the slightest what happens to Cyril Choniates?”

“I wish the union with Rome to proceed with as little bloodshed as possible,” he answered. “For Rome’s sake-as you wish it for Byzantium’s. I have an addendum to the treaty of union which I believe Cyril will sign, even though he has refused the main agreement. If he did, then the many monks loyal to him would do so as well. It will be a break in the resistance, perhaps sufficient to bring peace.”

She thought for several minutes, turning away from him to stare at the window and the magnificent view across the rooftops toward the water.

“I assume that this addendum will never be added to the agreement,” she said at last. “At least the main body of it will not. Perhaps a sentence or two, with Cyril’s name, and those of as many of his followers as you may obtain?”

“Precisely,” he agreed. “But it will bring peace. We do not want any more martyrs to a cause which cannot succeed.”

She measured her words very carefully. “There are two of you, are there not? Legates from the pope in Rome?”

“Yes…”

“Is your companion aware that you have come to me with this?”

She might already have the answer, and to affirm it would be an unnecessary lie. “No. We are not allies. Why do you ask?” He kept the irritation out of his voice.

Her smile widened, vivid with amusement. “Cyril will not sign anything for you.”

He felt a chill and a sudden awareness that she was playing, manipulating him far more than he was her. “Have you some other suggestion?” he asked.

She turned to face him, looking up at last, her gaze steady. “What you need is Cyril’s silence, and word that he agreed, which he cannot contest.”

“Why would he not contest it, if as you say he will not agree?”

“He is ill. He is also old. Perhaps he will die?” She raised her superbly arched brows.

Was she really suggesting what he thought? Why would she? She was Byzantine to the core and against anything and everything Roman.

“I shall recommend Anastasius,” she went on. “He is known to be a clever physician, and still resolutely Orthodox. In fact, he is a good friend and something of a disciple of Bishop Constantine, the most Orthodox of all the bishops. I myself will provide him with a medicine to help poor Cyril.”

He let out his breath slowly. “I see.”

“Possibly you do,” she agreed skeptically. “Are you sure you would not prefer that Bishop Vicenze should take this document to Cyril after all? I shall suggest it to him, if you wish.”

“Perhaps that would be a good idea,” Palombara said slowly, the blood roaring in his ears. “I would owe you much.”

“Yes.” Her smile widened. “You would. But peace is in both our interests, even in that of Cyril Choniates, if he were but well enough to see it. We must do for him what he cannot do for himself.”

ANNA ENTERED ZOE’S ROOM EXPECTING TO FIND HER ill and was surprised when Zoe walked toward her with all the grace and vitality of a woman on the verge of a huge endeavor.

“I am obliged you came so quickly,” she said to Anna, regarding her with a slight smile. “Cyril Choniates is very ill indeed. He is a man I used to know, before his banishment, and for whom I had the greatest admiration.”

She regarded Anna with a sudden solemnity. “He needs a far better physician than his current exile affords him.” She frowned. “One who will disregard his sins, which I doubt are many, and anyway, sin is largely a matter of opinion. One man’s virtue may be another man’s vice.” She looked grave. “Anastasius, you can treat him with herbs and tinctures, medicines which will actually help his illness, or at the very least, if he is ill unto death, ease his distress. He deserves that. Do you take deserving into account?”

“No,” Anna replied with a faint gleam of humor herself. “You know that. As you say, it is often only a point of view anyway. I despise hypocrisy, which would place me against half of the most pious people I know.”

Zoe laughed. “Your frankness could prove your undoing, Anastasius. I advise you to watch your tongue. Hypocrites have absolutely no sense of humor at all, or they would see their own absurdity. Will you go and do what you can for Cyril Choniates?”

“Will I be allowed to?”

“I shall see to it,” Zoe replied. “He is at a monastery in Bithynia. And the papal legate Bishop Niccolo Vicenze will accompany you there. He has business with Cyril, which means he will organize and pay for the travel and the lodging. That seems a good arrangement. The weather is pleasant. The journey on horseback will take you a few days, but it will not be over-arduous. You know Bithynia better than he can. You will leave tomorrow morning. There is no time to waste.”

She moved slowly back across the room toward the table and smooth, comfortable chairs. “I have an herbal mixture I would like you to take for Cyril. He used to enjoy it when I knew him in the past. It is a simple restorative, but it will give him pleasure, and perhaps it will give him also an increase in strength. I will take a little myself. Perhaps you would like some also?”

Anna hesitated.

“As you please,” Zoe said lightly, reaching for the door of a carved wooden cabinet and opening it. Inside were many drawers, each only a few inches square. She pulled one open and took out a silk pouch full of fragments of leaves, crushed so finely as to be almost a powder. “One takes it in a little wine,” she said, suiting the action to the words. She poured two goblets of red wine and sprinkled a little powder into each. It dissolved almost immediately.

Her eyes met Anna’s as she picked up one of them and put it to her lips. “To Cyril Choniates,” she said softly, and drank.

Anna picked up the other and sipped. There was no alteration to the flavor; even the scent of the herb had vanished.

Zoe emptied her goblet and offered a honey cake, taking one herself and biting into it with pleasure.

Anna drained her goblet as well.

“Honey cake?” Zoe offered. “I recommend it. It will take the aftertaste away.”

Anna accepted and ate.

Zoe gave her the rest in the silk pouch.

“Thank you.” Anna took it. “I will offer it to him.”

Anna made the short journey across the Bosphorus to the Nicean shore, where she found Bishop Niccolo Vicenze waiting for her somewhat impatiently. He was pacing back and forth on the quayside, his pale hair gleaming in the cool, early light, his face set in harsh lines of displeasure. He was dressed for traveling, as she was, in shorter robes and soft leather boots covering his lower legs. Even so, he managed to look severely clerical, as if his office were part of himself.

Their greeting was brief, no more than an acknowledgment, then they mounted the waiting horses and began the long journey inland through country she already knew.

The sun rose in a clear sky and the day was warm with only the slightest breeze. But it was a long time since Anna had ridden a horse for more than a couple of miles, and she quickly grew both sore and tired, although Bishop Vicenze was the last person to whom she would have displayed any weakness.

She had ridden in this land before, years earlier, with Justinian. If she closed her eyes and felt the sun on her face, the strength of the animal beneath her, she could imagine it was he riding ahead of her.

But it was Vicenze who was there now along the track between the bracken, the wild blackberries, and the gorse, and he shared nothing. He never even looked back to see if she was keeping up.

It was familiar territory to her, at least to begin with. After that they followed Vicenze’s guidance from a map, which appeared to be perfect. It was fortunate, but somehow it gave her little pleasure. She had fully expected he would be infallible in such technical skills. Nevertheless, she thanked him, because she did not wish to be at fault in courtesy. It would be a sign of weakness, and although he was a priest, she sensed no mercy in him.

They arrived at the massive, fortresslike monastery after dark, on the third day, having found wayside lodging each night.

They were made welcome. Zoe’s messenger had arrived and left before them, and Anna at least was eagerly awaited. As soon as she had been given the barest food and water, and had washed her hands and face from the dust of the journey, she was taken to see Cyril.

With gratitude and anxiety, a young monk took her along the silent corridors to Cyril’s cool stone cell. It was a simple room, no more than five paces by five, the walls bare except for a large crucifix. He lay on a narrow cot, pale-faced and exhausted from the pain in his chest and entire abdominal area. That was not unusual with a long-term fever. The normal functions do not occur, and pain is natural.

She greeted him gently, introducing herself and expressing sorrow for his illness. He was not an old man as she considered age, certainly not over seventy, but his body was wasted from years of self-denial and now also from illness. His hair was thin and white and his face sunken; his skin felt like old paper to her touch.

She asked him the usual questions and heard the answers she had expected. She had brought herbs that were pleasant tasting but purgative. To begin with, what she wanted most was to give him some ease, a better chance to sleep for a length of time, and to restore the balance of fluid in his body.

“Drink as much as you can of this I have brewed for you,” she told him. “It will ease your pain considerably. I shall make a jug full every few hours, and bring it to you. By tomorrow this time, you will be less distressed.” She hoped that was true, but belief was a large part of recovery, Christian or not.

“It would be more comfortable if you were to be attended by someone you know well,” she said to him. “But I shall be as close by as your brethren will permit, and will come at a moment’s notice if you call.”

“Should I fast?” he inquired anxiously. “With Brother Thomas’s help I will pray. I have already confessed my sins and received absolution.”

“Prayer is always good,” she agreed. “But be brief. Do not weary God with what He already knows. And no, do not fast,” she added. “Your spirit is strong enough. In order to continue in service to God and man, you need to regain the strength of your body. Take a little wine, mixed with water, and honey if you wish.”

“I abstain from wine.” He shook his head fractionally.

“It’s not important.” She smiled at him. “Now I shall make the herbal infusion for you, and come back with it.”

“Thank you, Brother Anastasius,” he said weakly. “God be with you.”

She sat up most of the night with him. He was feverish and restless, and she began to fear she would not be able to save him. By morning he was very weak, and she found it difficult to persuade him to drink the stronger herbs she had prepared. He was in much distress, and she became concerned that he had an internal obstruction rather than merely the natural effects of fever and ill diet. She increased the strength of the purgative, feeling she had little to lose. This time she added sandalwood for the liver, aloeswood to treat blockage in the liver and urinary system, and again more calamint.

By nightfall he was in even greater distress, but he had passed a large amount of water and seemed less pinched and his eyes less sunken.

Sometime in the middle of the night, the monk who was with him reported to her that Cyril had passed a quantity of waste and seemed relieved in his pain. He was now asleep.

She did not disturb him in the morning but looked at him closely and felt his brow. He was no more than warm, and he stirred vaguely at her touch without wakening. She allowed herself to hope he might recover.

Later in the day, Vicenze insisted on obtaining his audience. As far as the monks were concerned, it was he who had brought the physician under whose care Cyril had begun to recover, even though he was still desperately weak. In gratitude, the abbot could not refuse. Anna was kept from the room.

When finally she was allowed in again, Cyril was exhausted and he looked as if his fever were returning. The young monk who had attended him all through his illness looked anxiously at Anna but did not speak.

“I will not,” Cyril said hoarsely. “Even if it costs me my life. I will not sign a paper which swears away my faith and leads my people into apostasy.” He gulped, his eyes fixed on Anna’s face, frightened and stubborn. “If I do, I will lose my soul. You understand that, don’t you, Anastasius?”

“I am not always sure what is right,” she began slowly, choosing her words and watching his eyes. “But of course, like everyone else, I have thought very hard about loyalty to our faith, and also the terrible danger of the Latin crusaders storming the city again. They will kill and burn everything in their path. We have a duty to the lives of the people who trust us to care for them, and for those they love, their children, their wives, and their mothers. I have heard stories of the sack in 1204, of a child who watched her mother raped and murdered in front of her…”

He winced and the tears filled his eyes, rolling down his tired cheeks.

“But to deny our faith is a destruction even worse,” she went on, hating herself for distressing him. “If you have the light of the Holy Spirit of God to tell you what is right, then you can never deny it, whatever the cost. Denial is not merely death, it is hell.”

He nodded slowly. “You are wise, Anastasius. Wiser, I think, than some of my own brethren. Certainly wiser than that cold-hearted priest from Rome.” He smiled weakly, a flash of light in his eyes. “The only wisdom is to trust God.” He made the sign of the cross, conspicuously in the Orthodox way, then lay back on his pillows and drifted into sleep, a slight smile still on his face.

The next time she went to him, he was awake and feverish, his fingers trembling so it was difficult to hold the cup with the herbal infusion in it. She had to put her own hands around his to help him. This was the time to offer Zoe’s restorative. Normally she would not give any herbs but those she had brought and mixed herself, but she had already tried everything else she had.

She told him she was going to mix something more, sent for him by Zoe Chrysaphes, and left him with the young monk while she did so. When she returned he looked tired, and she offered him the new drink.

“It may be bitter,” she warned. “I drank some myself, as did Zoe, but we took it with wine, and I know you do not wish for that.”

He shook his head. “No wine.” He reached for the cup, and she gave it to him. He drank and pulled his mouth into a grimace. “It’s most unpleasant,” he said ruefully. “For once I wish I-” He stopped abruptly, his face pale, his eyes wide. He gasped and clutched at his throat, struggling for breath.

“It’s poison!” the young monk cried out in terror. “You’ve poisoned him!” He scrambled to his feet and ran to the door. “Help! Help! Cyril is poisoned! Come quickly!”

There were footsteps clattering along the corridor, loud with panic. The young monk was still shouting. In front of her Cyril was gasping, his eyes wild, his skin drained of even the last vestige of color and turning blue as he choked.

But she herself had drunk exactly the same! She had seen Zoe take it out of the same silk purse, and she had given Cyril no more than a pinch. She had not tasted bitterness, but then she had taken it with wine and immediately after had cakes with honey.

Was that it? Wine? Did Zoe know Cyril did not drink it?

She leapt up and ran to the door. “Wine!” she shouted almost into the face of the monk only feet away from her. “Get me wine and honey now! This second, for his life!”

“You poisoned him!” the monk accused, his face contorted with loathing.

“Not I!” She said the first thing that would make any sense. “The Roman! Don’t stand there like a fool, fetch wine and honey, or do you want him dead?”

That accusation moved him. He swiveled on his heel and ran back down the corridor, his sandals slapping on the stone.

She waited in an agony of fear, dashing back into the room to hold Cyril up in her arms, trying to ease his breathing. His throat had closed up and his chest heaved with the effort to fill his lungs. It seemed to be endless, one long, dreadful breath after another, rasping in pain.