The Sheen on the Silk (35 page)

ANNA CHOSE HER TIME WITH CARE. FROM HER MANY visits to the Blachernae, she was familiar with Nicephoras’s routine. She went when she knew he would be alone and undisturbed, unless there was some crisis. She was uncharacteristically nervous climbing the palace steps, although she was now well-known, having attended most of the eunuchs at one time or another.

She passed the broken statues, the dark stains of fire, the passages blocked with rubble because the fabric of the building was dangerous. Perhaps Michael kept it this way so that neither he nor his servants would ever forget what being faithful to Orthodoxy cost.

She found Nicephoras in his usual room, open onto the courtyard. His servant went ahead and whispered that Anastasius had come, and a moment later she was shown in. Instantly she saw both the tiredness in his face and the sudden lift of pleasure at the sight of her.

“We are not falling ill often enough. It seems a long time since you have been here. What brings you? I have not heard of anyone needing your help.”

“It is I who need yours,” Anna replied. “But perhaps I can offer something in return? You look weary.”

He gave a little shake of his head. Anna was aware of the loneliness within him, the hunger to speak of things deeper in the heart than policy or the realities of diplomacy.

“That vase is new,” she observed, looking at a smoothly curved bowl sitting on one of the tables to the side. “Alabaster?”

“Yes,” he said quickly, his face brightening. “Do you like it?”

“It’s perfect,” she replied. “It’s as simple as the moon, as… as complete in itself, unconcerned with admiration.”

“I like that,” he said quickly. “You are quite right, many things try too hard. You hear the artist’s voice crying through the work for your attention. This has the supreme confidence of knowing exactly what it is. Thank you. I shall like it even more from now on.”

“Do I interrupt you reading?” she asked, seeing the manuscript on his desk.

“Ah! Yes, I was. It is about England, and I daresay it would be considered highly seditious here, but it is extraordinarily interesting.” His eyes were bright, watching her face carefully.

She was surprised. “England?” To her it meant only a barbarism beyond even the French, and she said as much.

“I thought so, too,” he admitted. “But they wrote a Great Charter in 1215, different from our laws of Justinian, because they were created by the barons, the aristocracy, and forced upon the king, whereas ours were codified by the emperor. Nevertheless, some of their provisions are interesting.”

She feigned interest, for his sake. “Really?”

His enthusiasm was too keen to be dampened by her lack of it. “My favorite is the dictum that justice delayed is justice denied. Do you not like that?”

“Yes, I do,” she said, to please him, then realized how profoundly she meant it. “Very much. It is certainly true. Is that what you were reading?”

“No. Much more recent, actually. Have you heard of Simon de Montfort, the Earl of Leicester?”

“No.” She hoped this was not going to be long. “Is he one of the barons who forced this charter?”

“No.” He turned the manuscript facedown deliberately. “But you have come about something in particular. I see it in your face. The murder of Bessarion again?”

“You know me too well,” she confessed, then felt as if with the words she had betrayed him. He knew nothing at all of her in reality. She could not meet his eyes and was surprised how much that hurt. She had planned in her mind exactly what to say, practicing the details.

“What is it?” he asked.

She plunged in, all her careful rehearsal abandoned. “I believe there was a plot to assassinate the emperor, and for Bessarion to take his place, in order to save the Church from union with Rome. Whoever killed Bessarion prevented that from happening. It was an act of loyalty, not treason. They should not have been punished for it.”

His face was filled with a sadness she did not understand.

“Who were the conspirators, apart from Justinian and Antoninus?”

She said nothing. She could not prove it, and in spite of what they had planned to do, it seemed such a betrayal to tell him. He would have to act. They would be arrested, tortured. Horrible pictures filled her imagination: Zoe stripped, humiliated, her body mocked and perhaps touched with fire again. And she could not prove it anyway.

“I did not think you would tell me,” Nicephoras said. “I might have been disappointed if you had. Justinian would not either, nor Antoninus.” His voice dropped even lower and was rough with pain. “Even under torture.”

She stared at him, new terror gripping her like a clenched fist inside her stomach, tightening.

“Is he…” She forced the words out between dry lips. She remembered John Lascaris’s blind face. Justinian… it was almost more than she could bear.

“We did not maim him.” Perhaps without meaning to, Nicephoras was taking part of the blame himself. He was the emperor’s man. “Justinian could not tell us that they wouldn’t try again. Can you?”

She thought about it, struggling, twisting this way and that in her mind, finding no escape. “No,” she said at last.

“What is Justinian Lascaris to you that you risk so much to save him?” he asked.

She felt the blood hot in her face. “We are related.”

“Closely?” he said in little more than a whisper. “Brother? Husband?”

It was as if time stopped, frozen between one heartbeat and the next. He knew. It was perfectly clear in his face. To deny it would be idiotic.

He waited, his eyes so gentle that it made the tears spill over onto her cheeks for the shame of her deceit. Would he think her disguise mocked him? She kept her eyes down, unable to look at him and hating herself.

“My twin,” she whispered.

“Anastasia Lascaris?”

“Anna,” she corrected him, as if that tiny piece of honesty mattered. “Zarides now. I’m a widow.”

“Whoever the other conspirators are, they are still dangerous,” he warned. “I believe you know who they are. One of them betrayed Justinian, I don’t know which, and if I did, I would not tell you, for your own sake. They would betray you just as quickly.”

“I know-” The words caught in her throat. “Thank you.”

“By the way, you should lengthen your stride a little. You still take short steps, like a woman. Otherwise you are pretty good.”

She nodded, unable to speak, then turned slowly and walked away, her mind numb, finding it hard to keep her balance. She would have to correct her walk some other time.

A WEEK LATER, ANNA HAD JUST SEEN HER LAST PATIENT OF the morning and was standing in the kitchen when Leo brought her a letter from Zoe Chrysaphes.

Dear Anastasia,

I have just received news of a most important matter concerning the true faith which we both espouse. I need to inform you of the details as soon as possible. Please regard this as urgent, and call upon me today.

Zoe

The blurred writing of her name, using the feminine rather than masculine, was a veiled reminder to Anna of Zoe’s power over her. She dared not refuse.

There was no decision to make. “I have to call on Zoe Chrysaphes.” She did not want to frighten Leo by telling him that Zoe knew her secret. “It is something to do with the Church. It should be interesting.”

But interest was the emotion furthest from her mind when she was shown into Zoe’s room. The fear and the loss in their previous encounter seemed to close in on her as if she could never escape it. She felt as though Giuliano must be just out of the line of her sight, and any moment he would move and she would see the pain in his face.

Zoe came forward superbly, head high, back straight. The deep blue-gray silk of her tunic swirled around her ankles, unbroken by gold ornament, simple as the dusk sky.

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” she said. “I have remarkable news, but before I tell you I must swear you to secrecy. A promise to me is little: Promise to Mary the Mother of God that you will betray this secret to no one. I charge you!” Her golden eyes blazed with a sudden flare of passion.

Anna was astonished. “And if I will not do that?”

“We need not consider it,” Zoe replied, her smile not wavering. “Because you will. Betrayal of secrets can be a most painful thing. The outcome can even kill. But you know that. Give me your promise.”

Anna felt her face burn. She had walked directly into the trap. “I will promise Mary the Mother of God,” she said with a faint echo of sarcasm.

“Good,” Zoe responded immediately. “And most appropriate. Everyone knows that the Venetians stole the Shroud of Christ from the Hagia Sophia, and also a nail from the true Cross. It is the most holy relic on earth, and only God knows where it is now. Probably in Venice, or maybe Rome. They’re all thieves.” She tried to keep the fury from her voice and failed. “And the crown of thorns,” she added. “But I have word out of Jerusalem of another relic, nearly as good. It has just come to light, after more than twelve hundred years.”

Anna tried not to care. She should never forget that, above all, Zoe was a creature of revenge and deception. Only a fool would trust her. Yet she found herself asking, almost holding her breath for the answer.

Zoe’s smile widened. “The portrait of the Mother of God, painted by St. Luke,” she whispered. “Imagine it. He was a physician, like you. And an artist. He saw her, just as you and I can see each other.” Her voice was husky with excitement. “Perhaps she was older, but all the passion and the grief would be there in her face.” Her eyes were alight with wonder. “Mary-as an old woman, who had given birth to the Son of God, and stood at the foot of the Cross at his death, helpless to save Him. Mary, who knew He was risen, not by faith or belief, or the sermons of priests, but because she had seen Him.”

“Where is this painting?” Anna asked. “Who has it? How do you know it is genuine? There are more pieces of the true Cross sold to pilgrims than would furnish a forest.”

“Its existence has been confirmed,” Zoe said calmly, seeing victory.

“Why do you tell me?” She dreaded the answer.

Zoe’s eyes were unblinking. “Because I wish you to go to Jerusalem and purchase it for me, of course. Don’t pretend to be stupid, Anastasia. Naturally I will provide the money. When you return with the picture I shall give it to the emperor, and once again Byzantium will have one of the great relics of Christendom. She is our patron saint, our guardian, and our advocate with God. She will protect us from Rome, whether it is the violence of the crusaders or the corruption of popes.”

Anna was stunned. Another thought occurred to her. Zoe had said it was to give to the emperor, not the Church. Did Michael know perfectly well that it was Zoe who had been going to kill him, and this was a bargain for her freedom, even her life?

Aloud she asked, “Why me? I know nothing of paintings.”

Zoe looked deeply satisfied. “I trust you,” she said smoothly. “You will not betray me, because to do so you would have to betray yourself… and Justinian. Do not forget how well I know you.”

“I can’t travel alone to Jerusalem,” Anna pointed out, although now her heart was racing at the thought. Jerusalem-so near Sinai. She might see Justinian. Did Zoe think of that, too? “Still less could I return without an armed guard if I am carrying a relic like that,” she added.

“I don’t expect you to.” Zoe gazed out of the window at the fading light of the sky. “I have already made inquiries as to your passage, and arranged it where you will be perfectly safe. Except, of course, from the rigors of a voyage, but that is inescapable.” She was smiling. “There is a ship chartered and commanded by a Venetian about to leave Constantinople for Acre, and then its captain, with suitable guard, I imagine, will make his way to Jerusalem. They are willing, for a consideration which I will pay, to allow you to accompany them. The captain will be aware of your purpose, but no one else.”

“A Venetian?” Anna was appalled. “They’ll let me get the painting, then steal it, probably throw me overboard, and you’ll never see the painting again.”

“Not this captain,” Zoe said with secret amusement. “He is Giuliano Dandolo. I have told him only that it is the picture of a Byzantine Madonna, posed for by a merchant’s daughter, perhaps his mother. You would be wise not to tell him differently.”

Anna stood rigid. “And if I refuse?” she stammered.

“Then I shall no longer feel bound to be discreet about your… identity. To the emperor, the Church, or to Dandolo. Be sure that that is what you want before you provoke it to happen.”

“I’ll go,” she said quietly.

Zoe smiled. “Of course you will.” She picked up a package lying on the table at her side and held it out to Anna. “Here is the money, and your instructions, a letter of safe conduct for you, with the emperor’s signature. Godspeed, and may the Blessed Virgin protect you.” She crossed herself piously.

At the teeming dockside, Anna came to a three-masted Venetian round ship with lateen sails and a high stern. It was broad-beamed, hence the name, and she judged it to be at least fifty paces from end to end. She made inquiries of the sailor at the bottom of the gangway, stating her name and Zoe’s, and was permitted to board. She found Giuliano on deck. He was dressed in a leather coat and britches, nothing like the courtly tunic and robes he’d worn in the city. Suddenly he looked Venetian, and alien.

“Captain Dandolo,” she said firmly. Whatever the cost, there was nowhere to retreat. “Zoe Chrysaphes told me that you had agreed to take me as passenger on your voyage to Acre, and then afterward to Jerusalem with you. She said she had paid you the price you considered fair.” Anna’s voice was cold with the tension that knotted inside her.

He turned around slowly, surprise in his face, then a quick flame of recognition suffocated the moment after by memory of the last time they had met.

“Anastasius Zarides.” His voice was quiet, not audible twelve feet away where sailors were working on the ropes and rigging. “Yes, Zoe made arrangements for a passenger. She did not say it would be you.” His face darkened. “Since when were you her servant?”

“Since she has the power to hurt me,” she replied, not flinching from his gaze. “But the commission on which she sends me is good: to bring back a picture which belongs in Constantinople.”

“A picture? Did she tell you of whom?”

Anna longed to be able to answer him honestly. Lying was like deliberately staking out a space between them, but the gulf was there already.

“A Byzantine lady of good family,” she answered. “But apparently the victim of some tragedy or other.”

“Why does Zoe care?”

“Do you think I asked her?” she said with an attempt at light sarcasm.

“I think you might have guessed,” he replied. She was not sure if there was gentleness in his voice or sadness.

Now it was her turn to look away, over the choppy waters of the harbor. “I think it is a picture she wants because it will give her power,” she answered. “But it could be merely one whose beauty she likes. She has a passion for beauty. I’ve seen her stare at the sunset till the sight of it should be printed on her soul.”

“She has a soul?” he said with sudden bitterness.

“Surely a soul twisted is far worse than no soul at all?” she asked. “It is the loss of what could have been which tortures, the fact that something was within your reach and you let it slip away. I don’t think hell is fire and torn flesh and the smell of sulfur choking you. I think it is the taste of heaven remembered-and lost.”

“God preserve us, Anastasius!” Giuliano exclaimed. “Where on earth do you come up with things like that?”

He put his hand on her back, swiftly, in a companionable gesture, far from a caress. A moment later he took it away, and it was as if she had lost the warmth of the sun on her.

“You’d better come to Jerusalem with us and get this picture for Zoe,” he said cheerfully. “We sail tomorrow morning. But I daresay you know that.” He gave a brief laugh, but the smile remained in his eyes. “We’ve never had a ship’s physician before.”