The Sheen on the Silk (3 page)

AFTER ANASTASIUS ZARIDES HAD LEFT, CONSTANTINE remained standing in the ocher-colored room. This physician was interesting and could very possibly prove an ally in the upcoming battle to defend the Orthodox faith from the ambitions of Rome. He was intelligent, subtle, and clearly well educated. With its uncouth ideas and love of violence, Rome could offer nothing to someone like that. If he had a eunuch’s patience, suppleness of mind, and instinctive understanding of emotion, then the brashness of the Latins would be as revolting to him as it was to Constantine himself.

But the questions he had asked were troubling. Constantine had assumed that with Antoninus’s execution and Justinian’s exile, the matter of Bessarion’s murder was closed.

He walked back and forth across the colored floor.

Justinian had mentioned no close kinsmen. But then one did not often speak of cousins or those even further removed.

If Constantine were not careful, the questions could become awkward, but it should be easy enough to deal with them. No one else knew Constantine’s part, or why he had helped or asked for mercy, and Justinian was safely in Judea, where he could say nothing.

Anastasius Zarides might be useful, if in fact he was a skilled physician. Having come was from Nicea, a city known for its learning, he would have had even better opportunity to mix with Jews and Arabs and perhaps acquire a little of their medical knowledge. Constantine disliked admitting it even to himself, but such people were sometimes more skilled than the physicians who adhered strictly to Christian teaching that all illness was a result of sin.

If Anastasius had greater skills, sooner or later he would gain more patients. When people are ill, they are frightened. When they fear they are dying, sometimes they tell secrets they would otherwise keep.

He spent the rest of the afternoon on Church business, seeing priests and petitioners for one sort of grace or another, guidance or a leniency, an ordinance performed, a permission granted. As soon as the last one was gone, his mind returned to the eunuch from Nicea and the murder of Bessarion. There were precautions to take, in case the young man pursued his questions about Justinian elsewhere.

Constantine had imagined that there was no danger left, but he needed to be certain.

After donning his outdoor cloak over his silk tunic and brocaded and jeweled dalmatica, he went into the street. He walked quickly up the slight incline, raising his eyes to the massive two-tiered Aqueduct of Valens that towered up ahead of him. It had stood there for over six hundred years, bringing millions of gallons of clean water to the people of this region of the city. It pleased him just to look at it. Its great limestone blocks were held in place by the genius of its engineering rather than mortar. It seemed indestructible and timeless, like the Church itself, held upright by truth and the laws of God, bringing the water of life to its faithful members.

He turned left into a quieter street and went on upward, wrapping his cloak more tightly around himself. He was going to see Helena Comnena, Bessarion’s widow, just in case Anastasius Zarides should think to do the same. She could be the weak link among those left.

It had stopped raining but the air was damp, and by the time he reached her house he was spattered with mud and his legs ached. He was getting to an age, and a weight, when hills were no longer a pleasure.

He was shown through the large, austere entrance hall and on into an exquisitely tiled anteroom while the servant went to inform his mistress of the bishop’s arrival.

From the distance he heard the murmur of voices, then a woman’s rich laughter. Not a servant-it sounded too free for that. It had to be Helena herself. Someone else must be here. It would be interesting to know who.

The servant returned, conducted him along a passage to another door, announced him, and then stood back. On the way in, Constantine was passed by a woman servant leaving, carrying a magnificent perfume bottle. It was blue-green glass with gold around the rim, set with pearls-perhaps a gift from the caller who had made Helena laugh?

Helena herself stood in the center of the floor. She was beautiful in an unusual way: quite small and short-waisted. The curves of her bosom and hips were enhanced by the way her tunic was clasped at the shoulder and tied with its girdle. She wore few ornaments in her dark, luxurious hair, and no jewelry, since she was still officially mourning her husband. She had remarkably high cheekbones and a delicate nose and mouth. Under her winged eyebrows, her eyes brimmed with tears.

She came forward to meet him with somber dignity.

“How kind of you to come, Your Grace. It is a strange and lonely time for me.”

“I can only imagine how desolate you must be,” he replied gently. He knew exactly what she had felt for Bessarion, and far more of the details of what had happened to him than she had any idea. But none of that would ever be acknowledged between them. “If there is any comfort I can offer you, you have but to ask,” he continued. “Bessarion was a good man, and loyal to the true faith. It is a double blow that he should be betrayed by those he trusted.”

She raised her eyes to his. “I still can hardly believe it,” she said huskily. “I keep hoping that something will arise to prove that neither of them was really guilty. I cannot believe it was Justinian. Not on purpose. There is some mistake.”

“What could that be?” He asked because he needed to know what she might say to others.

She gave a tiny, delicate shrug. “I have not even thought so far.”

It was the answer he wanted.

“Other people may ask,” he said quite casually.

Helena lifted her head, her lips parted as she drew in her breath. The fear was there in her eyes only long enough for him to be certain of it, then she masked it. “Perhaps I am fortunate in not knowing anything.” There was no lift of question in her voice, and try as he might, he could not read her face.

“Yes,” he agreed smoothly. “I will be comforted knowing that you are quite safe from that added distress in your time of mourning.”

There was understanding bright in her eyes, and then it was gone again, replaced by the calm, almost blank stare. “You are so kind to have called, Your Grace. Remember me in your prayers.”

“Always, my child,” he promised, raising his hand piously. “You will never be far from my thoughts.”

He felt certain that Helena was not foolish enough to speak too freely to the Nicean eunuch, should Anastasius call and seek further knowledge from her. But as Constantine went out into the brightening sun and the slight wind off the sea, he was equally sure that she knew more than he had supposed and that she would be willing to use it for her own ends.

Who had made Helena laugh so freely and given her the exquisite perfume bottle? Constantine wished he knew.

ANNA WENT OUT OF HER WAY TO SPEAK TO NEIGHBORS, prepared to waste time in conversation about the weather, politics, religion, anything they wanted to discuss.

“Can’t stand here any longer,” one man said finally. It was Paulus, a local shopkeeper. “My feet are so sore I can hardly get them in my shoes.”

“Perhaps I can help?” Anna offered.

“Just let me sit down,” he said, grimacing.

“I’m a physician. Perhaps I can offer a more permanent solution.”

With his face reflecting disbelief, Paulus followed her, walking gingerly along the uneven stones until they covered the fifty yards to her house. Once inside, she examined his swollen feet and ankles. The flesh was red and obviously painful to the touch.

She filled a bowl full of cold water and put an astringent herb in it. Paulus winced as he put in his feet, then she saw his muscles slowly relax and the sense of ease come into his face. It was more the chill than anything else taking the burning out of his skin. What he really needed was to change his diet, but she knew she must be diplomatic about telling him so. She suggested he might care for rice, boiled with seasoning, and should abstain from all fruit, except apples, if he could find some that had been stored and were fit to eat at this time of year.

“And plenty of spring water,” she added. “It must be spring, not lake, river, well water, or rain.”

“Water?” he said with disbelief.

“Yes. The right water is very good for you. Come back any time you wish to, and I will bathe your feet in herbs again. Would you like some herbs to take with you?”

Paulus accepted them gratefully and paid from the purse he carried with him. She watched him hobble away and knew he would return.

Paulus recommended her to others. She continued to visit the shops within a mile or so of her house, always speaking to the shopkeeper and to other customers as the opportunity arose.

She did not know how far to indulge her own tastes. As a woman, she had loved the feel of silk next to her skin, the soft way it slid through her fingers and pooled on the floor as if it were liquid. Now she held up a length, letting it slither through her hands, watching the colors change as first the warp caught the light, then the weft. Blue turned to peacock and to green; red turned to magenta and purple. Her favorite was a peach burning into flame. In the past, she had worn silks to complement the tawny chestnut of her hair. Perhaps she could still wear them. Vanity was not specifically feminine, nor was the love of beauty.

The next time she had a new patient and earned more than two solidi, she would come back and buy this one.

She stepped out into the brisk wind blowing up from the shore. Walking along the narrow street, she moved aside for a cart to pass. The cool touch of silk had brought back the past with a rush.

She measured her steps carefully on the incline. The street was one of the many still unmended after the return from exile. There were broken walls and windowless houses still dark from the fires. The desolation made her own loneliness overwhelming.

She knew why Justinian had come to Constantinople and had been helpless to stop him. But what passions and entanglements had he become involved in that led him to being blamed for murder? That was what she needed to know. Could it have been love? Unlike her, he had been happy in his marriage.

A small part of Anna had envied him that, but now she had to swallow the hard, choking grief that all but closed her throat. She would give anything she possessed if she could get that happy life back for him. All she had had was medical skill, and it had not been enough to save Justinian’s wife, Catalina. The fever had struck, and two weeks later she was dead.

Anna mourned because she had loved Catalina, too, but for Justinian it was as if his wife had taken the light from him with her when she departed. Anna had watched him and ached for his pain, but all the old closeness of heart and mind they shared was insufficient to touch his loss with healing.

She had seen him change, as if he were slowly bleeding to death. He looked for reasons and answers in the intellect. As if he dared not touch the heart, he combed the doctrine of the Church, and God eluded him.

Then two years ago, on the anniversary of Catalina’s death, he had announced that he was going to Constantinople. Unable to reach his pain, Anna had stood by and let him leave.

He had written frequently, telling her of everything but himself. Then had come the last terrible letter, scrawled in haste as he was leaving in exile, and after that, only silence.

It was the beginning of June, and she had been in the city two and a half months when Basil first came to her as a patient. He was tall and lean, with an ascetic face, now pinched with anxiety as he stood in her waiting room.

He introduced himself quietly and said that he had come on Paulus’s recommendation.

She invited him into the consulting room and inquired after his health, watching him carefully. His body was curiously stiff when he spoke, and she concluded that his pain was more severe than he was admitting.

She invited him to sit and he declined, preferring to remain standing. She concluded that his pain was in the lower stomach and groin, where such a change in position would increase it. After asking his permission, she touched his skin, which was hot and very dry, then tested his pulse. It was regular but not strong.

“I recommend that you abstain from milk and cheese for several weeks, at least,” she suggested. “Drink as much spring water as you are able to take. It’s all right to flavor it with juice or wine if you prefer.” She saw the disappointment in his face. “And I will give you a tincture for the pain. Where do you live?”

His eyes opened in surprise.

“You can come back every day. The dose must be exact. Too little will do no good, and too much will kill you. I have only a small amount in supply, but I will find more.”

He smiled. “Can you cure me?”

“It is a stone in your bladder,” she told him. “If it passes it will hurt, but then it will be over.”

“Thank you for your honesty,” he said quietly. “I will take the tincture and come back every day.”

She gave him a tiny portion of her precious Theban opium. Sometimes she mixed it with other herbs such as henbane, hellebore, aconite, mandragora, or even lettuce seed, but she did not wish him to fall into unconsciousness, so she kept it pure.

Basil returned regularly, and if she had no other patients, he often remained for a little while and they talked. He was an intelligent man of obvious education, and she found him interesting and likable. But beyond that, Anna hoped to learn something from him.

She broached the subject at the beginning of the second week of his treatment.

“Oh yes, I knew Bessarion Comnenos,” he said with a slight shrug. “He cared very much about this proposed union with the Church of Rome. Like everyone else, he hated the thought of the pope taking precedence over the patriarch here in Constantinople. Apart from the insult and our loss of self-governance, it is so impractical. Any appeal for permission, advice, or relief would take six weeks to get to the Vatican, however long it required for the matter to reach the pope’s attention, and then another six weeks to get back. By that time it could be too late.”

“Of course,” she agreed. “And there is the question of money. We can ill afford to send our tithes and offerings to Rome.”

He groaned so sharply that for a moment she was afraid his pain was physical.

He smiled with apology. “We are in our own city again, but we balance on the brink of economic ruin. We need to rebuild, but we cannot afford to. Half our trade has gone to the Arabs, and now that Venice has robbed us blind of our holy relics, the pilgrims scarcely bother with us anymore.”

They sat in the kitchen. She had made an herbal infusion of mint and camomile, and they were sipping it because it was still hot.

“Added to which,” he went on, “there is the major issue of the filioque clause, which is the real sticking point. Rome teaches that the Holy Spirit proceeds from both the Father and the Son, making them both equally God. We believe passionately that there is only one God, the Father, and to say otherwise is blasphemy. We cannot condone that!”

“And Bessarion was against it?” she asked, although it was barely a question. Why would anyone think Justinian had killed him? It made no sense. He had always been Orthodox.

“Profoundly,” Basil agreed. “Bessarion was a great man. He loved the city and its life. He knew that union with Rome would pollute the true faith and eventually destroy everything we care about.”

“What was he going to do about it?” she said tentatively. “If he had lived…”

Basil shrugged slightly. “I’m not sure that I know. He spoke well, but he did little enough. It was always ‘tomorrow.’ And as you know, tomorrow did not come for him.”

“I heard he was murdered.” She found it difficult to say the words.

Basil looked down at the table and his bony hands holding the cup of mint infusion. “Yes. By Antoninus Kyriakis. He was executed for it.”

“And Justinian Lascaris, too?” she prompted. “Was there a trial?”

He looked up. “Of course. Justinian was sent into exile. The emperor himself presided. It appears Justinian helped Antoninus dispose of the body so it might look like an accident. Actually I imagine they thought it would never be found.”

She swallowed. “How did he do that? How can a body not be found?”

“At sea. Bessarion’s body was discovered tangled in the ropes and nets of Justinian’s boat.”

“But that could have been without his knowledge!” she protested. “Perhaps Antoninus didn’t have a boat, and simply took one!”

“They were close friends,” Basil replied quietly. “Antoninus would not have implicated a man he knew so well when there were any number of other boats he could have taken.”

It made no sense to Anna. “Was Justinian a man to leave evidence like that, condemning himself?” She knew the answer. She would never have made such a mistake, and neither would he. “Are they even sure Antoninus was guilty? Why would he kill Bessarion?”

Basil shook his head. “I have no idea. Perhaps they quarreled; he fell overboard and panicked. It can be difficult trying to help someone who is thrashing around; they become as much a danger to others as they are to themselves.”

Anna had a vision of Justinian losing his temper, striking more forcefully than he had intended. He was strong. Bessarion could have overbalanced. He would flail around in the water and be pulled down, gasping, crying out, drowning. Had Justinian panicked? Not unless he had changed beyond all recognition from the man she had known. He had never been a coward. And if he had intended to kill Bessarion, then he would not have cut the ropes, he would have stayed all night and found the body, then tied weights to it and rowed far out in the Bosphorus and let it sink forever.

She felt a sudden sense of release. It was the first tangible evidence to grasp. She had facts, and even if she could not use them yet, they showed her brother’s innocence irrefutably to her. “It sounds like an accident,” she pointed out.

“It’s possible,” Basil conceded. “Perhaps if it had been anyone else, they would have taken it as such.”

“Why not for Bessarion?”

Basil made a slight gesture of distaste. “Bessarion’s wife, Helena, is very beautiful. Justinian was a handsome man, and while he was religious, he was also imaginative, articulate, and had a dry and sharp sense of humor. He was a widower, and therefore free to follow his inclinations where they led him.”

“I see…” Anna was a widow and held a hollow pain of loss inside her, too, but it was different. Eustathius’s death had been both a guilt and a release. He had been of good family, wealthy, a soldier of courage and skill. His lack of imagination bored her and eventually made her find him repugnant. And he had been brutal. She still felt nausea rise inside her at the memory. The emptiness within seemed as if it would fill her until it burst through her skin. She was incomplete, maybe as much as the eunuch she pretended to be.

“You think that Justinian cared for Helena?” she asked incredulously. “Is that what people are saying?”

“No.” Basil shook his head. “Not really. I should think a quarrel that got out of hand is more likely.”

After he had gone, she examined her herb and general medicine store. She needed more opium. Theban was the best, but it was imported from Egypt and not easily obtained. She might have to settle for second quality. She also needed more black hyoscyamus, mandragora, juice of climbing ivy. She was low in such ordinary herbs as nutmeg, camphor, attar of roses, and a few other of the common remedies.

The following morning, she set out to find a Jewish herbalist whose name she had heard recommended. Like all Jews, he lived across the Golden Horn in district thirteen, Galata. She took as much money as she could afford to spend and set out for the shore. Since having Basil as a patient, she was much better off than previously.

It was hot already, even this early in the day. It was not a long walk, and she enjoyed the sound and bustle as people unloaded donkeys from the day’s trade. There was a pleasant smell of baking in the air and the salt breath up from the water.