by Anne Perry
“They were close friends,” he said slowly, remembrance sharpening in his mind as he found the words. “Justinian cared about the Church more than he let on, I think.” He frowned. “Antoninus was different. When he was with Justinian, he was thoughtful, loved beautiful things. But when he was with Andronicus and Esaias, he was just like any other soldier, enjoying the moment. I never knew which was the real man.”
A shadow crossed his face. “We were going to have a great party the night after Bessarion was killed. Esaias and Andronicus were going to be there. Andronicus planned to have races first—that was Antoninus’s idea, like the old days, before the exile. Justinian loved horses, too. He always said we’d know we really had our city back when we opened the Hippodrome again.”
“Was Justinian going to be at the party?”
“No. Antoninus said he had to be somewhere else. But what the devil can this have to do with Maria?” Anger darkened his face again. “Just cure her! I’ll find out who did it.”
It was pointless to argue any further. Anna thanked him and walked away, leaving him staring out across the city toward the western headland and the old Hippodrome.
She turned over everything that he had said. Was the party important? It had been canceled because Antoninus was arrested that day. Had he betrayed Justinian? For what? They had executed him anyway. Or was Zoe right, and it had been someone else? Perhaps Esaias?
What was supposed to have happened at that party? Which was the real Antoninus—the partygoer, drunkard, and lover of horse races whom Georgios had described and she had heard about from others? Or the man of passion and intelligence whom Justinian would have wanted as a friend?
Anna discovered the nature of the poison afflicting Maria Vatatzes—it was administered through the stems and leaves of the flowers that arrived fresh every few days in Maria’s room.
Maria was recovering, but it was too late to save her reputation from the whispers about her virtue. Her marriage to John Kalamanos was canceled. His family would no longer countenance it, and he yielded to their wishes.
Maria was devastated. Even though she was almost in full health again, she threw herself onto her bed and sobbed. There was nothing Anna could do to help. It was unjust, but there was no recourse.
Anna had not been long home after what was her final visit to Maria when Simonis came in to say that there was a gentleman to see her. It was after dark, and Leo was still out on an errand. Anna could see the anxiety in Simonis’s face.
Anna smiled. “Show him in, please. I expect he has some matter to discuss which is urgent, if he calls at this hour.”
Georgios Vatatzes entered in a towering rage. His face was flushed and he stormed into the room, slamming the door behind him with Simonis barely through it.
Anna squared her shoulders and stood as tall as she could, but she was still several inches shorter than him and half his weight.
“Have you discovered something?” she said as stiffly as she could, but her voice wavered a little, giving her away. She sounded like a woman.
“No, I haven’t. In God’s name, what does it matter who poisoned her?” His voice was thick with rage. “The Kalamani have withdrawn their offer of marriage, as if our family were unclean. It stains all of us. They won’t remember it was some unknown poison, all they’ll think of was that the word went around Maria was a whore! You let the filthy gossips say whatever they wanted when you could have told them the truth.”
“You could have said it was poison,” she countered. “I was not free to.”
“Who’s going to believe us when you wouldn’t back us up?” He was drunk, slurring his words. “The poison worked, didn’t it? It didn’t kill her, but she might as well be dead.” He was standing so close to her that she could smell the acrid sweat on him and the odor of wine.
Her breath was ragged. “You could have told anyone you wished to that she was being poisoned.”
“You destroyed her with your sanctimonious silence as surely as if you’d poisoned her yourself,” he sneered. “She might as well be dead.”
“Because she didn’t marry John Kalamanos?” she said. “If he loved her, he would believe what she said and marry her anyway.”
Georgios lunged forward and struck Anna across the side of the face, sending her sprawling backward, arms flailing. She caught her left hand on the edge of a small table, and pain shot through her arm. He reached for her, pulling her up by the front of her tunic, and hit her again. She could hardly get her breath for the fear that seemed to paralyze her. She was dizzy and could taste blood. She knew he was going to go on beating her. Any moment her clothes would rip and expose the padding and her breasts. Then it wouldn’t matter if he killed her or not, it would all be ended anyway.
The next time he came forward, she managed to roll over sideways, away from him, and reached for the small stool half under the table. His blow landed on her shoulder, numbing her arm. She grasped the stool with her other hand and swung it back toward his face as hard as she could.
She heard him roar with surprise and pain. Then there was a scream that was not hers—and surely was too high-pitched to be his?
There were other people in the room, more shouting and banging, the heavy thud of bone against flesh, and bodies swaying and lashing, weight hitting the floor, finally heavy breathing and no more movement. She was half-blinded and all she could feel was her own pain.
Someone reached for her and she clenched, trying to think how to strike back. She would have only one chance.
But the hands were gentle, lifting her up. A cold, wet cloth touched the throbbing wound in her cheek and jaw. She opened her eyes and saw a man’s face, someone she knew, but she could not think from where.
“Nothing is broken,” he said with a rueful smile. “I am sorry. We should have been here sooner.”
Why could she not remember him? He put the wet cloth to her face again. There was blood on it.
“Who are you?” She wanted to shake her head, but with the slightest movement pain shot through her like a knife blade.
“My name is Sabas,” he replied. “But I expect you have never heard it.”
“Sabas …” It meant nothing.
“Zoe Chrysaphes was afraid for you,” he said. “She knew that Georgios Vatatzes had a violent temper, and overbearing family pride.”
Her breath caught in her throat, all but choking her. “Had?”
Sabas shrugged. “I am afraid he attacked us also, and in order to subdue him, it was necessary …” He left the sentence unfinished.
She sat up a little farther and looked past him. Georgios lay on the floor, blood on his face and his head at an angle that made it clear his neck was broken. Another man stood by him.
“Don’t worry,” Sabas said hastily. “We’ll take him away. Perhaps you should say a burglar attacked you. If anyone asks, you frightened him off.”
She laughed abruptly, close to hysteria. “Well, if they look at me, and reckon I made an even worse mess of him, no one will try to rob me again.”
Sabas smiled, softening the hard lines of his face. “Bought at a high price, but a good thing.” He helped her to stand, guiding her to a chair. “Can your own servants assist you, or would you like us to send for another physician?”
“They can assist me, thank you,” she replied. “Would you be kind enough to thank Zoe Chrysaphes for her concern, and your courage? If ever you need any help, it is yours, or your friend’s.”
He bowed, and then the two of them picked up Georgios and carried him out, leaving Simonis to come in, her face blanched with shock. While she did what she could to clean Anna’s cuts and apply ointment to the bruises, Anna’s mind raced. She should have known Georgios Vatatzes would take his sister’s rejection badly. Or was it more complex than that?
Bessarion’s murder again, old fear, old vengeance? And how had Zoe’s servants known what to expect and from whom? The answer to that was only too obvious, once Anna faced the facts. Zoe had poisoned Mari
a, knowing it would ruin the family and intending it to. She had sent Sabas and his fellow servant, not so much to rescue Anna as to make certain that Georgios was killed.
But what had they done to earn Zoe’s hatred to such a depth?
Thirty-six
WHEN ANASTASIUS WAS SHOWN INTO ZOE’S magnificent room, the physician was clearly angry, but quietly so, his eyes hard as stones on the shore. He looked appalling; his face was swollen and dark with bruises, and he limped. He dropped herbs on the table as if she had ordered them, but presumably they were to explain to the servants why he was here.
“What are they?” Zoe inquired with interest, as if she had no concern at his appearance, no sudden welling up of fear that he was really hurt.
“The antidote to the poison you used on Maria Vatatzes,” Anastasius replied icily. “I brought it so that you know I have it, and other antidotes. And that Arsenios knows I have it.”
Zoe raised her eyebrows. “It seems to have taken you rather a long time to find it. I assume you learned nothing about Bessarion’s death from Georgios, before he attacked you? Unfortunately you will learn nothing now.”
Temper flared in Anastasius’s eyes. “It won’t take so long if it happens again,” he retorted, entirely ignoring the question about Georgios and Bessarion’s death. “Because I shall know where to look. Of course, should you be the victim, that would be different. You might find it yourself first, if you are well enough to get out of bed.”
Zoe was stunned. Was he threatening her? “How ungrateful of you, Anastasius. After I had the forethought to send Sabas to your rescue.” She regarded him up and down carefully. “You look awful. Not that I doubted Sabas, he never lies.”
Anastasius’s face tightened. “He told the truth. Had he not come, I would be dead. Were I not grateful for that, I would have made it public that you had poisoned Maria. I know that from the flower seller, and she will say nothing, but if harm comes to her, then I will speak. You can’t poison everyone. But in case you have a mind to, Arsenios is perfectly aware that it was you who destroyed his daughter, and who caused his son to be killed in disgrace. I have no idea why you hate him, but he knows, and has taken steps to protect himself.”
“You’re threatening me!” Zoe said in amazement. Perversely, she was pleased.
“That amuses you?” Anastasius said, disgust twisting his mouth. “It shouldn’t. People are at their most dangerous when they have nothing left to lose. If you hate Arsenios, you should have left him something worth surviving to save. That was a mistake.” He turned and walked out, still limping, but with dignity.
Of course, the question of allowing Arsenios to continue spreading the rumors was settled. Zoe could not. She must deal with him, but the question was how?
Again, poison was the obvious weapon. It was her supreme skill. Of course, Arsenios would never take food or drink from her, even in a public place. She would have to find another way to administer it.
Another hundred candles to the Virgin.
She selected the poison carefully, something to which there was no antidote. It had no color and no odor, and it acted rapidly enough that Arsenios would have no chance to call for help or to attack her before he was incapacitated. It was ideal. This would look like a hemorrhage. No one would ever trace it back to her, either from its nature or because she was known to have purchased it. She had possessed it for years and had never needed it until now.
A further hundred candles to light. The priest smiled at her, knowing her now.
Zoe arrived at Arsenios’s home carrying her own most precious and beautiful icon, the dark blue sloe-eyed figure in the frame inset with smoky citrine and river pearls. She wrapped it in silk first, then over that oiled silk, to protect it from the weather should it suddenly rain. The sky was overcast and there was a light wind from the west, but she did not feel the chill in it, even now at dusk. He had agreed to see her only because she was bringing the icon. He sensed she was afraid, at a disadvantage, and his lust for revenge mounted higher. It was what she counted on, but it was a dangerous game.
Sabas was barred from entering and told to wait outside. She was shown into Arsenios’s presence. That was what she had expected. She trusted Sabas, but she did not want him to see her kill Arsenios. That might strain his loyalty. He was a good man, but his willing blindness would go only so far.
Arsenios dismissed the servants, telling them the matter was private. He smiled as the door closed, leaving them alone in the room with its walls inlaid with porphyry and its tessellated floor. It seemed he had no more desire to have servants present than she did. Her pulse quickened.
“The icon?” he asked, looking at it as she laid it on the table. “Gorgeous, I trust?”
She allowed herself to flinch, confirming what he already believed. He must not think she was in control, acting.
“From my own collection,” she replied huskily. Then she lowered her eyes. “But you know the real from the false.” It was time to let him know that she understood his anger and that it was justified. She should seem afraid to anger him further.
“Why do you bring it to me, Zoe Chrysaphes? What are you looking for in return? You never trade except for advantage.”
“Trade?” She allowed the tension in her to show in the trembling hand, the uncertain words. “Yes, of course I want something, but not money.”
He did not answer her but pulled on a pair of fine, soft leather gloves, so light in weight that he could move his fingers easily in them, and then carefully he unwrapped the icon from its silks.
She watched, listened to the sudden intake of his breath with admiration as the last wrapping fell away and he saw the glowing beauty of the Virgin’s face and felt the weight of gold in the frame. She saw the lust for it in his eyes and the delicate movement of his finger as it traced the lines of the frame and moved it so the light caught the gems.
She stood motionless, watching.
He turned and looked at her, studying her face, the rigidity of her body, the power of emotion in her, savoring it. This was what he wanted—her fear.
She started to speak and then stopped.
He smiled slowly and turned back to the icon. “It’s exquisite,” he said, his voice filled with awe in spite of himself. “But it is rather similar to one I already have.”
It did not matter. She had no intention of giving it to him, but she tried to appear crushed and, even more than that, afraid. Again she started to speak and stopped. She looked at him, imagining his cousin Gregory, perhaps the only man she had loved for himself, years ago, and made her eyes plead with him.
Arsenios fingered the front of the icon, picked it up, and examined the back, his heavy-lidded eyes flicking up at her and down at the frame. He saw the small tack she had left projecting, and his smile widened.
Deliberately, she shuddered. She would have gone pale were it within her power.
“Careless,” he whispered. “Not up to your usual standard, Zoe.” His voice was a hiss, anger flaring in his eyes.
“I’m s-sorry,” she stammered, reaching into the folds of her tunic for the dagger in its jeweled sheath, crystals blazing in the light. She pulled it forward enough for him to see it.
He saw it and lunged forward, his fingers grasping her wrist like a vise. She did not need to pretend in order to cry out in pain. She was a tall woman, his height, but she was no match for him in strength. He wrenched the sheath from her easily, bruising the slender bones of her wrist and bending the arm back until it was twisted, bringing tears to her eyes.
He was close to her; she could smell the sweat of anger on him and see the pores of his skin.
“Just a little scratch,” he said between his teeth. “An accident with a careless tack, and I would have been dead. Why, Zoe? Because Gregory would not marry you? You fool! Eirene was a Doukas. Do you imagine he would have given that up for you? Why bother? You lay with him whenever he wanted anyway. One doesn’t marry a whore.”
She did not have to pre
tend anger, or pain. She let it blaze up in her eyes and tried to snatch back the dagger, but deliberately aiming to the left, as if misjudging.
He laughed, a harsh, ugly sound, and grasped the handle to yank it free. It did not come, and he pulled harder. “You tried to stab me,” he said jubilantly. “That’s what you came for, to murder me. We struggled, and tragically, in spite of all I could do, you slipped and the knife turned on you—fatally.” His lips drew back from his teeth in triumph; he pulled again on the knife hilt, his other hand on the sheath to free it, and felt the tiny needle in his flesh.
It was seconds before he knew what it was; then, as the pain flooded through him, his eyes widened and he stared at her in sudden, terrible understanding.
She stood straight now, shoulders back, head high, but far enough away from him that even if he fell forward, he could not reach her. She smiled, a slow, sweet taste of victory.
“It was nothing to do with Gregory,” she told him as he fell forward onto his knees, his face purple, his hands clutching at his stomach. “I had all I wanted from him.” That was almost true. “It was your father’s theft of the icons when the city was burning. You took our family relics, and you kept them. You betrayed Byzantium, and for that you must pay with your life.” She stepped backward as he crawled a few inches toward her. His throat was closing and his eyes bulged in his head. Saliva dribbled from his mouth and there was a terrible hacking, rasping sound in his chest, then he vomited blood in a scarlet tide. He screamed and almost instantly choked as more blood spewed out. His eyes rolled in terror, and he gagged and choked, swallowing, drowning.
She watched a few moments longer until his face turned purple and he lay still. She walked around him and picked up her icon and the knife, rewrapping both carefully in the silk. She walked to the door and opened it silently. There was no one in the hall or the room beyond. She moved soundlessly over the marble and out the great carved front door. Sabas was watching for her and appeared out of the shade. Servants would find Arsenios and suppose he had died of a hemorrhage; perhaps too much wine had ulcerated his stomach.
