The Sheen on the Silk (56 page)

She tried to think of what had been good in him. It was difficult, until she thought first of what had been wounded also, and then the pity came, scouring deep with the awareness that she should have been gentler. If she had helped him, instead of lashing out from her own hurt, he might have found the best in himself.

She remembered his skill with animals, how he spoke softly to his horses, sat up all night with them when they were wounded or ill, his total joy at the birth of a foal, and how he had praised the mare, stroked her, loved her. She found the tears wet on her own face with regret that she had let that slip away from him, selfish with her own need.

She let go of her anger and in the darkness bowed her head.

I’m sorry. She said the words in her mind, humbly and passionately. Please God, forgive me. Help me to be whole in spirit, to give others the mercy I so desperately need myself.

Slowly she felt the burden dissolve, and absolution enfolded her like an embrace, easing out all the old pain and washing it away. The ache disappeared, and a sweet warmth filled the emptiness inside.

They reached the edge of the water. The barge was ready, knocking gently against the steps as the ripples carried it. It was time to go.

There was nothing more to say. She was dressed as a woman again; the only other time in nearly ten years had been in Jerusalem with Giuliano. This was difficult. She put her hand up and touched Nicephoras’s face, then kissed his cheek. Then, as his arm tightened around her for a moment, she slipped away and went down the steps into the boat.

It was dawn when she arrived at Avram Shachar’s house, by now long familiar to her. It was far too early to expect anyone to be up, but she dared not wait in the streets. A woman alone was more vulnerable than a eunuch would have been. Even with a fuller tunic and her figure unbound so the outline of her breasts and hips was clear, she had to keep reminding herself that now she looked utterly different. Beneath the minimal veil of decency, her bright chestnut hair was visible.

The heat was oppressive and would be worse when the sun rose. The streets were parched and dusty with summer drought.

She knocked on Shachar’s door and waited. After several minutes had gone by, she knocked again, and almost immediately he appeared, blinking a little, obviously woken from sleep.

“Yes?” He looked her up and down, puzzled but gentle as always. “Is someone in your house ill? You’d better come in.” He stepped back and pulled the door wide for her.

She followed him through to the room where he kept his herbs, treading softly to avoid disturbing the rest of the household.

He lit the candles and turned to look at her again, his face anxious, as if he knew he should know her and was embarrassed that he did not, searching his memory.

“Anna Zarides,” she said quietly.

His eyes widened in amazement when he realized who she was. “What has happened? Tell me. What can I do?”

“I have the emperor’s pardon for my brother,” she replied. “I have to leave Constantinople, but I need to go to Sinai anyway, before the city falls, so I can have Justinian freed while the emperor’s word still counts. Can you help me? I don’t know how I’m going to do it. I need to get a message back to Leo and Simonis, and have them come with what money I can raise. I dare not return to the city myself.”

He nodded slowly, beginning to smile.

“And I must see that they are taken care of. Leo might come with me, but Simonis should go back to Nicea.”

“Of course,” he said softly. “Of course. I will see to it. First you must eat, then rest.”

GIULIANO HAD LEFT SICILY IN HASTE, KNOWING THAT Charles would search for him and execute him if he was found. He had taken the first ship leaving and made his way east, stopping at Athens and Abydos only to change ships and go on again as fast as possible. Now at sunrise he was in the harbor of Constantinople at last. He went ashore immediately after he had washed, shaved, and made himself as tidy as possible. He had nothing but the clothes in which he had set fire to the fleet in the Bay of Messina. And what he had bought in haste in Athens.

He walked up the dockside into the narrow streets and made the climb up to the Blachernae Palace. With a stab of grief, he was aware of the pall of fear that hung over the city. No one could fail to notice the empty shops and houses, the unnatural silence, the sense of abandonment. It was as if they were already dying.

When he reached the palace, he was stopped by the Varangian Guard. They would be at their posts until they were mown down or hacked to pieces, but never with their backs to the foe.

“Giuliano Dandolo,” he said, pulling himself to attention. “Newly landed within the hour, from Messina. I bring good news to His Majesty. Please take me to Nicephoras.”

The first guard, a huge man with pale hair and sea blue eyes, looked amazed. “Good news?”

“Excellent news. Do you expect me to tell you before I tell the emperor?”

They found Nicephoras in his rooms alone. Bread and fruit lay on a small table. He was standing in the center of the floor. He looked older than when Giuliano had last seen him, and touched by a loneliness so sharp that even with good news bursting inside him, Giuliano could not be unaware of it.

“May I offer you food? Drink?” Nicephoras asked.

Giuliano knew he must look exhausted, even unkempt, but he could not take the smile from his face. He had such a gift to give.

“The crusader fleet is sunk,” he said, as if it were a reply. “Burned in Messina harbor. Charles of Anjou will never sail in it to Byzantium, or Jerusalem, or anywhere. It lies at the bottom of the sea.”

Nicephoras stared at him, his face slowly filling with wonder. “Are you… sure?” he whispered.

“Perfectly.” His voice was vibrant, cracking with excitement. “I saw it myself. I was one of those who set the torches. I shall never forget it as long as I live. When the Greek fire in the holds exploded, the sea was like the floor of hell.”

Nicephoras put out his hand and grasped Giuliano’s with a strength that almost crushed it, a power Giuliano would never have believed him to possess. There were tears in his eyes.

“We must tell the emperor.”

This time there was no waiting for Michael to receive them, no formal admission to the throne room. They strode in past the Varangian Guard as if it were any other room in the world.

Michael was hastily dressed, but wide awake. His eyes burned black, intensely alive in spite of his haggard face and the hollows where the bones of his head seemed to strain the parchment-thin skin.

“Majesty,” Giuliano said quietly.

“Speak!”

Giuliano looked up and met Michael’s gaze as if they had been equals. “Charles of Anjou will never threaten Byzantium again, Majesty. His fleet lies burned at the bottom of the Bay of Messina. He is a finished man. Even Sicily will breathe free from his oppression.”

Michael stared. “You have seen this yourself?”

“Captain Dandolo set the torches, Majesty,” Nicephoras offered.

“You are Venetian,” Michael said incredulously.

“Half, Majesty. My mother was Byzantine.” He said it with pride.

Michael nodded slowly, the tension and pain easing out of his body, the smile spreading over this face, his eyes bright. He waved at Nicephoras, still looking at Giuliano. “Give this man everything he wants. Give him food, wine, rest, clean clothes.” He took the gold-and-emerald ring from his finger and held it out.

Giuliano looked at its burning beauty.

“Take it,” Michael told him. “Now we will hear the city rejoice. Nicephoras! Have the good news spread. Let there be dancing in the streets, wine and feasting, music, laughter. Put on our best clothes.” He stopped and looked again at Giuliano. “Zoe Chrysaphes is dead. It’s a pity. How she would have laughed at the irony of this. Byzantium thanks you, Giuliano Dandolo. Now go and eat, drink, take your ease. You will be paid in gold.”

Giuliano bowed and withdrew, dizzy with triumph.

But once in the corridor, he could think only of telling the people he cared for in the city, starting with Anastasius. He must tell him first; all the others could hear afterward. The news would be everywhere, but he must tell Anastasius himself, see his joy, his relief.

“Thank you, but I must tell my friends the news,” he said to Nicephoras beside him. “I want to do that myself. I must be there when they hear.”

Nicephoras nodded. “Of course. You will find Anastasius in Galata, in the house of Avram Shachar.”

“Not here? Not in his own house?” A chill touched Giuliano. “Why? Is something wrong?” Suddenly the news was hollow. He realized how intensely he had been looking forward to telling Anastasius.

“You will find him much… changed,” Nicephoras replied. “But quite well.”

“Changed? How?”

“Shachar lives in the Street of the Apothecaries. It will all explain itself. Go. Before they leave for the south. Leo and Simonis went from here yesterday already. You have little time.” He smiled. “Byzantium owes you much, and we will not forget.”

Giuliano clasped his hand again, the emperor’s ring digging into his flesh, then he turned and left.

• • •

As soon as Michael Palaeologus, Equal of the Apostles, was alone, he went to his own rooms and closed the doors. He was tired. The long battle had exhausted him, and there was a weakness inside him that he knew would not heal.

He bent in front of the locked cabinet and took the key from around his neck. He slipped it in the lock and opened it.

She was there, as always, her calm face in its sublime beauty, the Mother of God that St. Luke had painted and Zoe Chrysaphes had given him. He knelt in front of her, the tears sliding easily down his face.

“Thank you,” he said simply. “In spite of our weakness and our doubts, you have saved us from our enemies. And a greater miracle than that, you have saved us from ourselves.”

He crossed himself in the old Greek way, but he remained on his knees.

Giuliano found the Street of the Apothecaries, but it seemed to take an age, and all the way down the hill from the palace, into the docks, and on the quayside waiting for the water taxi, his mind was racing. What had Nicephoras meant? What sort of change? He did not want Anastasius different from the passion and the courage, the wit, and the gentleness that he remembered. He wanted the same warm, clever, and vulnerable person he had known and cared for so profoundly.

He strode up the Street of the Apothecaries in the hot summer sun, past the empty shops and markets, the deserted houses. The news would be here any moment, spreading like fire. He wanted to be the first to tell Anastasius.

“Where is the shop of Avram Shachar?” he called out to a man slowly opening his door and peering out.

The man pointed.

Giuliano thanked him and increased his pace.

He found the right door and banged on it, too hard, and realized with embarrassment that he was being rude.

“I’m sorry,” he said as soon as it was opened. “I’m looking for Anastasius Zarides. Is he here?”

Shachar nodded, but he did not step aside or invite him in.

“I’m Giuliano Dandolo, a friend of Anastasius. I have great good news. Charles of Anjou is fallen. His fleet is sunk-burned, and at the bottom of the sea. I want to be the one to tell him…” He realized he was gabbling and took a breath to steady himself. “Please.”

Shachar nodded slowly, his eyes searching Giuliano’s face. “That is true?”

“Yes. I swear. I have already told the emperor. But I want to tell Anastasius myself-and you.”

Shachar’s face split into a broad smile. “Thank you. You had better come in.” He pulled the door wide and pointed to a room at the farther end of the corridor. “The herb room is there. Anastasius will be working with them. No one will disturb you.” He seemed about to add something more, then changed his mind.

“Thank you.” Giuliano brushed past him and went down to the door. Then apprehension swept over him. What changes had Nicephoras meant? What had happened? Was Anastasius ill? Injured?

He knocked hard on the door.

It opened and a woman stood just inside. She was taller than average, with a slender throat, high cheekbones, and bright chestnut hair. There was something beautiful in her that tugged at him as if he had known her for as long as he could remember, yet he had never seen her before.

The color swept up her skin in a burning tide.

“Giuliano…” Her voice was husky, as if she found it difficult to speak.

He did not know what to say. He knew now. He felt a rage of embarrassment burst open inside him for all the things he had said, the emotions, the stories shared about which he could recall not the words, but the intense feeling of companionship, almost intimacy, as if nothing need be hidden.

Then he remembered the awakening of physical hunger in himself and the shame and confusion that had all but crippled him. He had struggled with such pain to stifle that.

It seared through him with shock. What had she felt?

He averted his eyes and saw the herbs and ointments packed away, as if to travel.

“Is Shachar leaving?” he asked impulsively. “Are you?”

She smiled, blinking rapidly as if to dispel tears. “The crusaders will come any day now. When they do, it will not be good for Jews to be here-or Muslims.”

“Is that why…” He looked at her woman’s tunic. It embarrassed him, and pleased him, to see how feminine her body was beneath it, as rich as Zoe’s.

“No…,” she said quickly. “Helena was going to ally with the invaders, to rule with them. She’s Michael’s illegitimate daughter. I found proof of her plans and I told the emperor. She told him I was a woman.”

He caught the pain in her voice, then looked up and saw it harsh and sad in her face. He could only imagine how it hurt.

“Anas-” He stopped. He did not know her name.

“Anna Lascaris,” she whispered.

He reached out his hand, not to touch her, just in a gesture. He thought of all his own disillusion, the dreams and the friendships failed, the long loneliness of it.

“It’s over now,” she said quietly. “The emperor allowed me to go, but I cannot stay in the city. Simonis will go home to Nicea. If that falls, too-”

“It won’t!” he cut across her urgently. “None if it will. Byzantium is safe, at least from Charles of Anjou. His whole fleet is at the bottom of Messina harbor. I saw it myself. The crusade will never happen.” The joy and relief welled up inside him. He wanted to take her in his arms and hug her so hard that he lifted her off her feet, whirled her around. He ached to do it with an almost physical pain. But it would not end there.

“You don’t have to leave…,” he said.

She met his gaze, studying him. “Yes, I do. Helena had friends, allies. They will know I was responsible for her betrayal to Michael. They killed her in the palace. Broke her neck. They won’t forgive me for that.”

He tried to imagine it, the passion and violence.

“And I have Michael’s letter of pardon for my brother,” she went on. “I must take it…”

“To Jerusalem?”

“And then Sinai.”

If she was not here, what use was Byzantium without her?

“Are you going back to Venice?” Her voice caught on the words.

“No.” He shook his head fractionally. “I was one of those who set the fleet on fire.” Why the sudden modesty in front of her? Because boasting was shallow and in the end without meaning. What he wanted above anything and everything else was to go with her to Jerusalem, not only the Jerusalem of the world, but the destination of the heart.

“Shachar doesn’t have to leave Byzantium,” he said softly. “He’ll be safe here. I’ll go with you-if I may?”

The color swept up her face again, but this time she did not look away. “I’m… I’m not a eunuch anymore…”

“I know.”

“Do you?” It was a question. He saw the fear in her eyes. Something hurt her almost more than she could bear. Her body was stiff, as if pain filled her and ran out of control.

What did she believe he meant? “As your husband,” he said quickly.

She wanted to look away, but this was the moment when the last deceit must go, whatever it cost. “I cannot have children,” she whispered. “It’s my own fault. I’ve regretted it with all my time and my strength, but it changes nothing. I hated my husband, and I provoked him until he beat me-” She stopped, the grief inside choking her. She wanted passion, the giving and the taking, with a fierceness that consumed her, but the lie could destroy everything.

“I can live without children,” he said quietly, touching her cheek with his fingers. “But I cannot be fully alive without you. I should be alone, always alone, and that is to be shut out of heaven. Marry me, and we shall travel to Jerusalem. We’ll find that pathway of the spirit that goes always upward, or make it. There will be people to defend, and to heal.”