by Anne Perry
With all she had used in her own practice, and the extra needed for assisting the poor, she was running short of herbs. It was time she replenished her supply.
She walked down the hill to the dockside in the warm light, the sun still well above the hills to the west, the breeze blowing and smelling a little salt. She had to wait only twenty minutes, listening to the shouts and laughter of fishermen, before a water taxi came, and she shared it with a couple of other passengers going across the Golden Horn to Galata.
She relaxed in the taxi; the slight rocking of the boat and the steady slap of the water were soothing, and the other passengers seemed to feel the same. They smiled but did not disturb the evening with unnecessary conversation.
Avram Shachar welcomed her as always, taking her into the back room with its shelves and cupboards full of supplies.
She made her purchases and then was happy to accept his invitation to stay and dine with his family. They ate well, then the two of them sat in the small garden late into the evening, discussing some of the physicians of the past, especially Maimonides, the great Jewish physician and philosopher who had died in Egypt the same year the crusaders had stormed Constantinople.
“He is something of a hero to me,” Shachar said. “He also wrote a guide to the entire Mishnah, in Arabic. He was born in Spain, you know.”
“Not Arabia?” she asked.
“No, no. His name was really Moses ben Maimon, but he had to flee when the Muslim overlord, Almohades, gave people no choice except to convert to Islam or be put to death.”
Anna shivered. “They’re to the south and to the west of us. And they seem to be getting more powerful all the time.”
Shachar made a gesture of dismissal. “There is enough evil and pain to fight today, don’t look for tomorrow’s. Now tell me about your medicine.”
It was with pleasure and some surprise that she realized he was interested in her growing practice. She found herself answering his questions about her treatment of Michael, although she was discreet enough to say only that she was afraid for him because of the anger among the people regarding the union with Rome.
“That is something of an honor for you to attend him,” he said gravely, but he looked more anxious than happy.
“It was Zoe Chrysaphes’s recommendation that earned it,” she assured him.
“Ah … Zoe Chrysaphes.” He leaned forward. “Tell her nothing you do not have to. While I know her only by repute, I cannot afford to be ignorant of where the power lies. I am a Jew in a Christian city. You would do well to be careful also, my friend. Do not assume that everything is as it seems.”
Why did he warn her? Surely she had been discreet enough with her inquiries. “I’m Byzantine, and Orthodox Christian,” she said aloud.
“And a eunuch?” he added softly, a question in his eyes. “Who uses Jewish herbs and practices medicine on both men and women, and who asks a lot of questions.” He touched her arm where her robe covered it, very lightly, barely enough for her to feel, and not on her skin, just as he would if she were a woman. Then he withdrew it and sat back.
She felt the horror surge through her and bring the sweat out on her body. Somewhere she had made mistakes, perhaps many. Who else knew she was a woman?
Seeing her fear and understanding it, he shook his head fractionally, still smiling. “No one,” he said gently. “But you cannot hide everything, especially from an herbalist.” His nostrils flared slightly. “I have a keener sense of smell than most men. I had sisters, and I have a wife.”
She knew with a rage of embarrassment what he was referring to. It was her time of the month; in spite of her injuries it still came, and with it, of course, the warm, intimate odor of blood. She thought she had masked it.
“I will give you herbs which will keep you safe from others’ suspicion, and perhaps ease the pain a little,” he offered.
She could only nod. In spite of his kindness, she felt humiliated and deeply afraid.
Twenty
WHEN ANNA NEXT VISITED CONSTANTINE, HIS SERVANT conducted her into the room with the icons, apparently unaware that Constantine himself was in the next room, deep in conversation with someone.
Anna walked to the farther end, hoping to be out of earshot, because whatever it concerned, confession or simply the arrangement of some ceremony, it was being said in the belief that it was private.
But as Constantine and the man walked slowly from the courtyard closer to the archway into the room, she could actually see the other man, whom she knew because she had once treated his mother. His name was Manuel Synopoulos; almost thirty, he was a rather brisk, confident young man of unusually plain appearance, but the family possessed great wealth, and he could at times be charming.
Now he pulled out of his dalmatica a soft leather pouch fat with coins and passed it to Constantine.
“For the feeding of the poor,” he said quietly.
Constantine’s reply was gentle, but there was a high, sharp note of excitement underneath it.
“Thank you. You are a good man and will be a noble addition to the Church, a great warrior in the cause of Christ.”
“A captain,” Synopoulos said, and as he turned he smiled.
Anna wouldn’t admit to herself what had happened. It could not be that Constantine had just sold an office in the Church in return for money, even though he gave it all to the poor and more besides, just as Synopoulos had directed.
Manuel Synopoulos was no more a worthy priest, a man of God, than any young man who studied nothing, bought his way out of his mistakes, and took his pleasures where he wished and as his right.
His family would be grateful, and as long as the Greek Church stayed independent of Rome, a high office would bring in even more wealth. But far above money was the pride and the respect.
When Constantine did come to her, he looked elated, his face a little flushed.
“I have just received a new donation to the poor. We are gathering strength, Anastasius. Men are repenting of their sins, confessing and putting the past away. They will not join Rome but will fight beside us for the truth.”
She forced an answering smile. “Good.”
He heard the effort in her voice. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” she lied, then knew he would not believe her. “It is simply that there is so far to go.”
“We are gaining allies all the time. Now the Synopoulos are with us, and the Skleros have always been.”
She wanted to ask at what cost, but she was not yet ready to challenge him. “I came about another matter, a patient I am concerned for….” And she addressed the cause of her visit.
He listened patiently, but it was clear to Anna that his mind was still in the exhilaration of his achievement.
Anna found Zoe in her bedroom, lying on the great bed. Its tightly laced sheep-fleece mattress was covered with further goose-down ones and then clean, embroidered linen. It was so soft, Zoe had sunk into the depths in great comfort; still, she was tired and bad-tempered. Her lungs were congested, and she complained that it kept her from sleeping. She blamed Helena for having brought the affliction into the house.
“Then she is ill, too,” Anna said. “I am sorry. Shall I take some herbs to her, also? Or does she prefer a … a more traditional physician?” It was a delicate way of asking if she would accept medicine rather than a priest’s treatment by prayer and confession.
Zoe laughed harshly. “Don’t mince words around me, Anastasius!” she snapped, sitting up a little farther against the pillows. “Helena is a coward. She will confess to anything trivial, and take the herbs if she likes them well enough, which I think you already know perfectly well. Isn’t that what you do for most people—comfort their guilty consciences with the doctrine they expect, and then give them the medicine that actually treats the illness?”
It gave Anna a chill to realize Zoe saw through her so easily. She struggled for an answer. “Some people are more honest, others less,” she equivocated.
Lies would never work with Zoe. “Yes, I have,” Anna said boldly. “From what I have heard, he was fervently against the union with Rome, and he was murdered for it. I care very strongly that we do not lose ourselves and all that we believe to what is in effect a conquest by deception. This seems to be surrender. I would rather be conquered still fighting.”
Zoe propped herself up on her elbows. “Well, well. Such spirit! You would have been disappointed in Bessarion, I promise you.” Her voice was laced with disgust. “He had less manhood than you have, God help you!”
“Then why bother to murder him?” Anna asked. “Or was it to replace him with someone better?”
Zoe stopped, remaining motionless on one elbow, even though it must have been uncomfortable. “Such as whom?” she asked.
Anna took the plunge. “Antoninus?” she said. “Or Justinian Lascaris? Some people are saying he was man enough for it. Did he not have the courage?” She was trying to sound casual, although her body was stiff and her hands rigid. She had said it to begin with merely as a spur to make Zoe deny it and perhaps give away more. Now the idea danced wildly in her mind as a possibility.
“You think I know?” That was a demand, and the edge of Zoe’s voice was razor-sharp.
Anna held her gaze. “I would be very surprised if you didn’t.”
Zoe leaned back against her pillows, her rich, bright hair fanning out. “Of course I do. Bessarion was a fool. He trusted all sorts of people, and look where it got him! Esaias Glabas is charming, but a player of games, a manipulator. Only a fool needs to be loved, although it is pleasant, of course, and useful—but it is not necessary. Antoninus was loyal, a good right hand. Yes, Justinian was the only one with the brains, and the steel in his bones, to do it. Pity Bessarion was such a damn fool to drop his amulet in the cisterns. God knows what he was doing there anyway! I wish I did.”
“In the cisterns?” Anna repeated, playing for time. “I thought Bessarion was supposed to have died at sea? Did someone steal the amulet?”
Zoe shrugged. “Who knows? It wasn’t found until several days later, so perhaps the thief put it there.”
“An amulet?” Anna asked. “What was it like?”
“Oh, it was Bessarion’s,” Zoe assured her. “Very Orthodox, but unimaginative. Rather a graceless thing, really. Justinian had one far better, and he wore it all the time. Still had it when they took him away.”
“Really?” Anna could not control the wavering in her voice. “What was his like?”
Zoe stared at her. “St. Peter walking on the waves, and Christ holding out his hands to him,” she answered, and for a moment there was emotion in her voice as well, a mixture of pain and wonder.
Anna knew it. It was the one Catalina had given him. It was a joke between them, gentle and very deep: a reference to the ultimate faith, the weakness it mastered, the love it extended. So Justinian still wore it. She must not cry in front of Zoe, but tears choked her throat.
“Justinian was dining with friends half a mile away,” Zoe explained. “I presume that is why they suspected him of complicity. That, and the fact that it was the nets from his boat that Bessarion was found caught in and drowned.”
“Bessarion’s amulet could have got into the cisterns at any time,” Anna argued. “When was it stolen?”
Zoe settled a little more against her pillows. “The night he was killed,” she replied. “He wore it that day. Not only Helena said so, but his servants as well. She might lie, but they have not the sense to do so consistently, not all of them.”
“Justinian! I thought …” Anna stopped, not knowing what to say. She was betraying herself. None of it was what she had wanted to hear. “What … what was this Justinian like?” She did not wish to know, but she could no longer avoid asking. She remembered him as he had been, how they had shared so much, in thought and passion almost mirror images.
“Justinian?” Zoe rolled the name over on her tongue. “Sometimes he made me laugh. He could be abrupt and single-minded, but he wasn’t weak.” Her wide mouth tightened. “I hate weakness! Never trust a weak person, Anastasius, man or woman—or eunuch. Never trust someone who needs to be approved of. When things get hard, they’ll go with the winner, whatever they stand for. And don’t trust someone who needs to be praised. They’ll buy approval, regardless of the price.” She lifted one long, slender finger. “Above all, don’t trust someone who has no belief bigger than the comfort of not being alone. He’ll sell his soul for what looks like love, whatever it really is.” In the torchlight her face was hard and full of pain, as if she had stared at the first great disillusion.
“So whom do I trust?” Anna asked, forcing the same harsh humor into her own voice.
Zoe looked at her, taking in every line of her face, her eyes, her mouth, her hairless cheeks and soft throat. “Trust your enemies, if you know who they are. At least they’ll be predictable. And don’t look at me like that! I’m not your enemy—or your friend. And you will never predict me, because I’ll do whatever I need to, of God or of the devil, to get what I want.”
Anna believed her, but she did not say so.
Zoe saw it in her face and laughed.
Twenty-one
ANNA PUT AWAY THE HERBS INTO HER CASE, SAID A FEW last words of advice to the patient, then excused herself.
“Thank you,” Nicephoras said sincerely as she came out into the hallway. He had obviously been waiting for her. “Will Meletios recover?” The concern was apparent in the slight strain in his voice. He was sending for her more and more often lately.
“Oh yes,” she said confidently, praying she was right. “His fever’s broken. Just get him to drink, and then start him eating again soon, perhaps tomorrow.”
Nicephoras was clearly relieved. She had found him to be both compassionate and highly intelligent. She had become increasingly aware of a loneliness in him to share the excitement of his knowledge. He not only collected works of art, especially from antiquity, but even more he loved the treasures of the mind and hungered to share them.
They walked together from the anteroom to one of the great galleries. He guided her a little to the left. “Have you met John Beccus, the new patriarch?”
“No.” She was interested and knew that it showed in her voice. This was the calling that Constantine had wanted, even though he was obliged to hide it.
“He is with the emperor now. If you wait a short while, I shall introduce you,” Nicephoras offered.
“Thank you,” she accepted quickly. They fell into conversation about art, moving into history and the events that had inspired certain styles, and from that into philosophy and religion. She found his views more liberal than she had expected, teasing her mind with new and broader ideas.
“I have just been reading some works by an Englishman named Roger Bacon,” he said with intense enthusiasm. “I have never discovered a mind like his. He writes of mathematics, optics, alchemy, and the manufacture of a fine black powder which can explode”—he jerked his hands apart to demonstrate—“with great force, when it is ignited. The thought is exciting and terrifying. It could be used for immense good, and perhaps even greater evil.” He looked at Anna’s face to judge her appreciation of what he had said, the sheer intellectual excitement of it.
“He is an Englishman?” Anna repeated. “Did he discover this stuff, or invent it?”
“I don’t know. Why?” Then he understood. “He is a Franciscan, not a crusader,” he said quickly. “He has many practical ideas, such as how lenses could be ground and then assembled into a machine so that the tiniest objects could appear enormous, and you could see them quite clearly.” His voice lifted again with the love of pure knowledge. “And other lenses so that objects miles distant could seem to be only yards away. Consider what that could
do for the traveler, especially at sea. He is either one of the greatest geniuses in the world, or he lives in an ecstasy of madness.”
She looked down, hating what she was thinking. “Perhaps he is a genius, and can see all these things, but is he wise? The two are not the same.”
“I have no idea,” Nicephoras answered gently. “What is it you are afraid of? Would it be bad to see things in the distance more clearly? He writes of being able to fix some of these lenses in a contraption so you could wear them on your nose, and those who cannot now see would be able to read.” His voice rose with his excitement. “And he studies also the size, position, and paths of celestial bodies. He has worked out great theories on the movement of water, and how it could be used in machines to lift and carry things, and to create an engine that transforms steam into power which could drive ships across the sea, regardless of the wind or the oar! Imagine it.”
“Can we make these things that explode?” she asked softly. “Machines that create steam to drive ships across the sea, without the wind in the sails, or men at the oars?” She could not rid herself of the fear of such things, the power it would give the nation that possessed them.
“I expect so.” He frowned slightly, as if at the first touch of a chill. “Then we need not be prisoners of the wind.”
She looked up at him. “The kings and princes of England come on crusade, don’t they?” It was a statement. Everyone knew of Richard, known as the Lionheart, and of course more recently Prince Edward.
“You think they will use these things in war?” Nicephoras was pale now, his excitement bled away, leaving horror like an open wound.
“Would you trust them not to?”
“Bacon is a scientist, an inventor, a discoverer of the miracles of God in the universe.” He shook his head. “He is not a man of war. His religion is one of wonder, the conquest of ignorance, not of lands.”
