by Anne Perry
“Go on,” Anna whispered.
“All was well, until Giuliano was five. My husband became possessive, and even more … dogmatic, more boring. I …” She let out her breath in a sigh. “I was beautiful when I was younger, like Maddalena. We were so alike people sometimes mistook one of us for the other….”
Anna waited.
“I was lonely, both in mind and in body,” Eudoxia went on. “I took a lover—in fact, more than one. I behaved badly. My husband accused me of being a common whore, and said that he had witnesses to prove it.” She gave a deep, shuddering sigh. “Maddalena took the blame. She insisted it was she, and not I, who had been with the man. She did it for Giuliano’s sake—I know that—not mine. I could care for the boy, she couldn’t.”
Anna found she could barely swallow the pain choking her throat.
“Maddalena was found guilty, and suffered the penalty for being a whore. She died not long afterward, beaten and destitute. I think by then she wanted to die. She never stopped loving Giovanni Dandolo, and there was nothing else left for her.”
Eudoxia’s voice was choked with tears. “My husband knew it was I who had been in the tavern that night, and he knew why Maddalena had lied for me. He forced me to grant him a divorce, and to take the nun’s veil. But he refused to take Giuliano. He would put him on the street, or sell him to some dealer in children, for God knows what use.” She shivered. “I took him myself. I ran away from Nicea and begged and stole and prostituted my way to Venice with him. There I gave him to his father. A Dandolo, he wasn’t difficult to find. I thought of staying in Venice, even of dying there. But I hadn’t the courage. There was something in me which needed a better atonement than that. I came back and took the veil, as I had promised my husband I would. I have been here nearly forty years. Perhaps I have made my peace.”
Anna nodded, the tears wet on her own face.
“A human mistake, a loneliness and a hunger so easy to understand. Of course you have made your peace. Now may I bring Giuliano so you can tell him?”
“Please—please do!” Eudoxia cried. “I … I did not even know if he was still alive. Tell me, is he a good man, a happy man?”
“He is very good,” Anna replied. “And this will give him a greater gift of happiness than anything else possible.”
“Thank you.” Eudoxia sighed. “Don’t bother with the draft for sleep. I shan’t need it.”
Seventy-four
GIULIANO HAD GIVEN THE ICON TO THE POPE. HE WOULD have liked to give it back to Michael, but with reluctance he understood why that could not be. If he did, it would only necessitate Michael packing it up and sending it again. It could be lost at sea, especially at this time of year.
So when the pope’s envoy had approached him in Venice, he had produced the icon immediately and presented it to the man to take with him to Rome, a gift from the Venetian Republic, which had rescued it from pirates. No one believed that, but it did not matter. They split a good bottle of Venetian wine, laughed hard, and the envoy left with the icon, well guarded by a number of soldiers.
Giuliano left for Constantinople and arrived six weeks later, sailing up the Sea of Marmara against a heavy wind and glad to dock at last in the Golden Horn. The familiar outline of the great lighthouse, the warm red of the Hagia Sophia, were strangely pleasing to his mind, yet even as he thought of it, he was also aware that it was an illusion of safety.
As soon as he stepped ashore, the harbormaster gave him a letter with his name on it and the word urgent on the outside. It had already been there two days.
Dear Giuliano,
Through the good offices of my friend Avram Shachar, I have found a close relative of your mother. However, there is little time. She is old and very fragile. I have visited her, and I fear she has not long left.
She told me the truth of your parents, and I could repeat it to you myself, but it would be far better that you should hear it from her. It would also bring her great peace.
I promise you it is a story you will want to hear.
Anastasius
Giuliano thanked the harbormaster and returned to his ship. He handed over command to his lieutenant, and without even changing his sea clothes, he went straight to Anastasius’s house.
Anastasius stood at his doorway, talking to Leo. He turned and saw Giuliano, and his face lit with pleasure.
Giuliano strode forward and clasped his hand, forgetting for a moment how slender it was. He eased his grasp. “Thank you more than I can say.”
Anastasius took a step backward, but he was still smiling. He regarded Giuliano’s disheveled clothes, the leather worn with use and still stained here and there by salt water. “We should go tonight. It will be a hard ride,” he said apologetically. “But we shouldn’t wait.”
Giuliano dismissed the inconvenience instantly but was glad to rest an hour or two.
Leo went to hire horses for the journey, and Anastasius himself prepared and served them a brief meal.
“Is Simonis ill?” Giuliano asked.
Anastasius smiled bleakly. “She has chosen to live elsewhere. She comes in during the day, now and then.”
He did not add any more, and Giuliano sensed that the subject was painful.
They set out at dusk, at first riding side by side. He was excited, longing to hear the story, afraid of what it would be, how it might damage the fragile defense he had built against the truth.
Rather than endure his own thoughts, he told her about the icon and how he had stolen it from Vicenze, replacing it with the other picture, and what he had heard of its unveiling in front of the pope and all the cardinals. They both laughed so hard that for several minutes they were breathless.
Then the road narrowed and they were obliged to go single file, and further conversation was impossible.
When at last they arrived at the monastery, they were tired and cold, but they did little more than take a hot drink and wash off the dirt of travel before Anastasius asked to see Eudoxia.
They found her pale, breathing shallowly, and close to death, but her joy at seeing Giuliano, knowing immediately who he was, transfigured her.
“So like your mother,” she whispered, touching his face with her fragile hand, cold when he clasped it in his. She told him the story, as she had told it to Anastasius. Giuliano was not ashamed to weep for his mother, for his own misjudgment of her, or for Eudoxia.
He stayed with her for most of the night, tiptoeing away to his own rough bed only toward dawn.
He rose late the following day and attended a service with the nuns. He could never thank his aunt enough. He sat with her again, helped her eat a little and drink, all the time telling her about his life, his travels at sea, and especially his journey to Jerusalem.
He found it hard to leave, but her strength was slipping away and he knew it was right to let her rest. There was a peace in her smile, a calmness in her, that had not been there upon their arrival.
And most profoundly, he marveled at the truth. His mother had loved him. All that had been broken inside him was healing. How could he ever thank Anastasius for that?
He and Anastasius set out, riding single file again, down the new pathway, and he was glad of the chance to be alone with his thoughts. In one day, what had been a feeling of abandonment and shame had become the deepest love imaginable. His mother had sacrificed every happiness she had so that he would survive and be loved.
Now his Byzantine heritage was rich with passionate, lifelong, and selfless love. Surely no child had been loved more? He was glad that in the darkness of the long ride, Anastasius could not see the tears on his face and that with the frequent need to pass single file on the rough road, there was little chance to speak.
Seventy-five
ANNA SAT WITH EIRENE VATATZES IN HER RICH, unfeminine bedroom with its somber colors and rigid patterns on the walls. It was at once beautiful and lonely. Now it smelled stale, of perspiration and decay. She did all she could for Eirene to lessen the pain, and simply b
y being there, by a touch, a word, to still some of her fear. She did not lie to her; it would have been pointless. She knew Eirene would not recover this time. Each day her strength lessened and her times of complete lucidity became briefer.
Anna dearly wished that she could ask Eirene some of the unanswered questions about the plot to usurp Michael.
Eirene tossed in the bed, turning over, dragging the sheet with her. She moaned in pain. Anna leaned over and straightened it where it was crumpled, then dipped a small cloth in a bowl of cool water and herbs and wrung it out, freeing the perfume of it into the air. She placed the cloth gently on Eirene’s brow, and for a few moments she was quiet.
Maybe only Demetrios’s intentions now were important. But Eirene was Anna’s patient, and she could not tax her with it. For nearly an hour she lay motionless on the bed, as if she were sinking into the last peace of death. Then she gasped and started turning again and again, tangling the covers.
“Zoe!” she said suddenly. Her eyes were closed, but there was such an expression of ferocity in her face that it was hard to believe she was not conscious. “Soon you’ll be all alone,” she whispered. “We’ll be dead. What will you do then? Nobody to love, nobody to hate.”
Anna stiffened. She knew what Eirene was thinking—Zoe and Gregory. The jealousy still corroded her inside; nothing could take that away. Anna put out her hand and laid it gently on Eirene’s wrist.
“He had to die,” Eirene began again, shaking her head abruptly from side to side. “Deserved it.”
Anna was startled. Was Eirene’s unforgiveness for her husband really so deep that she had wanted Gregory dead, his throat torn out and his body left bleeding on the stones of some street he did not know?
“No, he didn’t deserve it,” Anna said aloud, not knowing if Eirene still remembered what she had said or even if she could hear anything at all outside her own head.
Eirene’s voice came back so strongly, it startled her. “Yes, he did. He kept the icons his father stole when they were leaving the burning city. He should have given them back. I could have killed him myself, if I’d dared. I should have.”
Anna looked at her and saw her eyes were open and clear, the anger burning hot in them. “You knew that Gregory had the icons from the sack of 1204?” Anna asked.
“Not Gregory, you fool!” Eirene said witheringly, now fully conscious. “His cousin Arsenios. That’s why Zoe killed him.” She closed her eyes again, as if too weary to be bothered with anyone so stupid. “Gregory knew that,” she added as if it were an afterthought. “Revenge. Always revenge.” She sighed and seemed to drift into sleep again.
Anna pieced it together. Zoe had killed Arsenios in revenge for his keeping the icons, and Gregory knew it. He would have felt compelled to retaliate for his cousin’s death, and knowing that, Zoe had struck first.
But Zoe’s revenge had not been only Arsenios’s death, it was his daughter’s humiliation and his son’s death as well. And unwittingly, Anna had contributed to that in her medical treatment of the daughter. She was cold now at the thought. No wonder Eirene hated Zoe. How could she not?
She looked down now at her lying on the bed. Eirene’s face was not so much at peace as totally empty of passion or even intelligence. Had Gregory ever loved her? Did he care about her ugliness, or had she cared about it so much that in the end she had forced him to care also?
For another two days, Eirene seemed to remain much the same. She was often asleep, but apparently easier in her mind, the pain less acute. Then quite suddenly she became worse. She woke in the night barely able to move, her body drenched in sweat. Anna treated her with herbs and drugs as much as she dared. But sometime after midnight of the third day, Anna was standing close to the bed looking at Eirene, and she saw that even in the warm glow of the candlelight her face was haggard and there was a gray pallor to her skin.
Eirene opened her sunken, clouded eyes and stared at Anna.
Anna ached with pity for her, but Eirene was beyond physical help. “Would you like me to send for Demetrios?”
“Given up at last?” Eirene’s lips were dry and her throat tight. “Give me some more of that herb that tastes like gall.” She blinked and stared at Anna. She must know she had not long, and the breaking of her body consumed her.
Anna ached to help her, but if she gave Eirene another dose of the poppy, it might kill her. She decided to do it anyway.
Anna nodded and turned aside to reach for the small bottle. She would put it with a lot of water—in fact, mostly water. The illusion of opium might help as much as the reality. After Eirene took three or four sips, Anna laid her back as gently as she could, straightened the covers, then went to the door and called the servant.
“Fetch Demetrios,” she told him. “I think she has not long left.”
The servant went away, footsteps rapid on the tiled floor. He returned ten minutes later to say that Demetrios had gone out earlier and not yet returned. Apparently, he had not expected to be needed so soon.
“If he returns, tell him his mother is dying,” Anna answered, then turned away and went back into the room.
The candle guttered. She lit another.
Suddenly Eirene opened her eyes again, and her voice was quite clear. “I’m going to die before morning, aren’t I.”
“I think so,” Anna replied honestly.
“Fetch Demetrios. I have something I need to give him.”
“I already sent for him. He’s not in the house, and the servant cannot tell me where he is.”
Eirene was silent for a few moments. “Then I suppose you’ll have to do,” she said at last. “Gregory thought Zoe loved him, but she betrayed him with Michael,” she said. “You didn’t know that, did you?” There was satisfaction in her. “Michael is Helena’s father. Imagine that! That would have given Bessarion a double right to the throne, don’t you see?”
A chill thought struck Anna. This could alter more than she could imagine. It explained Helena’s part in the usurpation totally. “How do you know that Helena is really Michael’s child?” she asked.
“I have letters,” Eirene said, biting her lip as the pain washed over her again. “From him to Zoe.”
Anna was skeptical. “How did you get them?”
Eirene smiled, although it was more a baring of the teeth. “Gregory took them.”
“Does Zoe know you have these letters?”
“She knows Gregory did. She didn’t know I took them from him. He never dared challenge me for them back.”
Anna’s mind was in turmoil, racing from one new meaning to another. “Helena doesn’t know?” she asked yet again.
“It is better she doesn’t,” Eirene repeated wearily. “She would become impossible to manage.”
“Why should I believe all this?”
“Because it is true,” Eirene replied. “I bequeathed some of the letters to Helena. My cousin will give them to her in time But the rest are there in my safe box. The key is under my pillow. Give them to Demetrios.” She smiled slightly. “Once Helena knows, then she’ll have the power. That’s why Zoe has never told her.” She took a long, shuddering breath. “But now I don’t care. It’ll be hell for Zoe … every day.” A faint smile parted her lips, as if to taste something sweet.
She closed her eyes, and gradually all expression emptied out of her face. She slept for perhaps half an hour.
There was a noise in the corridor outside, and the door swung open. Demetrios came in, dalmatica swirling, wet from the rain, his eyes dark and angry.
“Mother?” he said quietly. “Mother?”
Eirene opened her eyes, taking several moments to focus. “Demetrios?”
“I’m here.”
“Good. Get Anastasius to give you … the letters. Don’t lose them! Don’t throw …” She took a long, deep breath and let it out with a sigh, a little gasp in her throat. Then silence.
Demetrios waited for several more minutes and then stood up. “She’s gone. What letters was she talking
about? Where are they?”
Anna took the key from under the pillow and went to the box behind the icon on the wall, as Eirene had told her. The letters were in a neatly tied bundle.
“Thank you,” he said, taking them from her hand. “You can go. I would rather be alone with her.”
There was nothing for Anna to do but obey.
Seventy-six
ZOE HEARD OF EIRENE’S DEATH WITHOUT SURPRISE; SHE had been ill for some time. It was not exactly grief Zoe felt, for they had been both friends and enemies. What troubled her was that they had also been co-conspirators against Michael, when Zoe had believed that Bessarion could have usurped the throne and led a resistance against the union with Rome and that such a thing would have saved both Constantinople and the Church.
Now she knew that that could never have succeeded. Justinian had realized it and done what Zoe should have done herself. His action had had the advantage that it was he who had paid the price for it, not she.
The thought that gnawed at the back of her mind as she paced the floor in her marvelous room was that Anastasius, inquisitive and unpredictable, was the one who had treated Eirene in her last days. Sometimes when people are ill, frightened, and realizing that death cannot be held at bay any longer, they tell secrets they never would have were they going to face the results.
And then there was Helena. She had changed since Eirene’s death. She had always been arrogant, but there was a self-confidence in her now that was disturbing, as if nothing frightened her anymore.
Did she think that now Eirene was dead, Demetrios would marry her? That made no sense. He would have to observe a decent period of mourning.
But as Zoe thought back on Helena’s mood, her behavior, there was certainly no new warmth toward Demetrios; if anything, rather the opposite. She seemed consumed in herself. It was something far more powerful than security or status; something, perhaps, like a glimpse of the throne!
