by Anne Perry
“And you have come to tell the emperor?”
Her hands were clenched so tight, her muscles ached and her breathing was ragged. “I want something in return, because Helena will denounce me to the emperor, and he will not forgive me for having deceived him.”
Nicephoras bit his lip, and his face was bleak. “That is true. What do you want, Anna? Freedom for your brother?”
“Yes. A letter of pardon would still achieve that. Please.”
Nicephoras smiled. “I think that would be possible, but you must not lie to him, about anything. It is too late for that now. You must tell him that you are a woman, and that you deceived him in order to learn the truth and prove Justinian’s innocence.”
She felt herself go cold. She could not get enough air into her lungs. “I can’t. It would mean I had deceived you also. He can’t forgive you for that, because you should have told him, and had me imprisoned … at the very least.”
“I should have,” he agreed. “But I don’t think he will have us executed now. These are the last days, and I have served him since my childhood. As much as it is possible, we are friends. I do not think he can afford to cast aside a friend in these last few months before the midnight of our empire.”
“Then … then we had best do it,” she said, her voice cracking.
He looked at her steadily for several seconds; then, when she did not avert her eyes, he reached for a small gold-and-enamel bell and rang it.
A member of the Varangian Guard appeared almost immediately. Nicephoras gave him an order to bring Helena Comnena to the emperor, straightaway, on pain of death.
Startled, pale-faced, the man withdrew to obey.
“Anna,” he said, “we have much to say before Helena comes.”
He led her along the familiar corridors with the ruined statues. She found herself trembling, ridiculously close to weeping as she thought how all this would soon be smashed again, trodden through by people who did not love it, did not even imagine the beauty of mind and heart it had once been.
Too soon, Anna was in the formal room where the emperor received his subjects. Nicephoras went in ahead of her, then returned to conduct her in.
She followed, bowing low, not meeting the emperor’s eyes until commanded to do so. When he spoke, she looked up. What she saw chilled her. Michael Palaeologus was not yet sixty, but he was an old man. He had the hollow-eyed look of one whose days were numbered.
“What is it, Anastasius?” he asked, searching her face slowly. “Have you come to tell me anything I do not already know?”
“I’m not certain, Majesty.” She was trembling and her words stuck in her throat, all but stopping her from breathing.
Nicephoras plunged in for her. “Majesty, Anastasius has word of an act of betrayal you may choose to allow, or choose to prevent. Perhaps it will come to nothing in the end, anyway.”
“What betrayal, Anastasius? Do you imagine it matters now?”
“Yes, Majesty.” Her voice was trembling, her body was cold. “Helena Comnena has been in communication with Charles of Anjou.”
“Really? Telling him what? How to invade our city? How to break its walls so the crusaders of the pope can put us to fire and the sword again, in the name of Christ?”
“No, Majesty. So that when he has taken us, and killed those loyal to you, the empire, and the Church, he can crown a new emperor in your place, with a wife who can claim two royal names, and an inheritance sufficient to give him some hold on the people’s obedience.”
Michael leaned forward a little in his chair, his face pale, the lamplight catching the white in his hair and beard. “What are you saying, Anastasius? Be careful whom you accuse. We are not fallen yet. It may be only a few days, even hours, but I still hold life and death in Byzantium.”
Her body shook. “I know, Majesty. Helena is the widow of Bessarion Comnenos, and … and also she is your illegitimate daughter by Zoe Chrysaphes. She did not know this until Eirene Vatatzes died. Her mother never told her.”
He sat immobile for so long, she was afraid he had had some kind of seizure. “How do you know this, Anastasius?” Michael asked at length.
“Eirene told me,” she said in a whisper. “I cared for her at her death. She wanted Helena to know, so she would take her own vengeance on Zoe, because Gregory loved her and not Eirene.”
“That I can believe,” Michael said. “And why do you tell me now, on the eve of ruin?”
“I did not know of Helena’s plan until I saw her in the Hagia Sophia, wearing blue that was almost purple, then I sought for the proof.” She swallowed. “Now I have it. May it please Your Majesty, I would like a last act of mercy from you, while you can give it, because you have the power of death, and also of life. Please give me a letter of pardon for my brother, Justinian Lascaris, who is imprisoned at St. Catherine’s in Sinai, for his part in the murder of Bessarion Comnenos.”
“He is in prison for his part in the plot to usurp the throne,” Michael corrected her.
“The plot failed because he could not dissuade them, so he killed Bessarion,” she argued. She had little to lose now.
He spread his hands slightly. “So Justinian was your brother. Why do you call yourself Zarides? Is Lascaris too dangerous a name for you? Or are you ashamed of it?”
Looking at Michael’s eyes, she knew he would not forgive her. “It is not Justinian’s fault,” she whispered. “He knew nothing of it.”
“Of what?”
Michael was waiting. In a few days they might all be dead, and it would be too late. She thought of Giuliano, whom she would never see again. Perhaps that was just as well. He would not forgive her either.
“I am a good physician, Majesty, but I am not a eunuch,” Anna said huskily.
The emperor did not understand.
“I am a woman. Zarides was my husband’s name, so it is mine. I was born Anna Lascaris, and gave it up only reluctantly.” She could feel the hot tears stinging her eyes and her throat so tight that it ached almost too much to breathe.
There was such silence in the room that when one of the Varangian Guard at the far end shifted the position of his feet on the floor, the rustle of it was audible.
Michael sat back, staring at Anna. Then suddenly he burst into laughter, a rich, jubilant sound of sheer, hilarious delight.
Anna could not believe it.
Then the Varangian Guard at the end of the room, obedient as always, laughed as well.
Nicephoras joined in, a note of relief near hysteria.
The tears spilled over Anna’s eyes and she laughed as well, although it was closer to sobbing. She did it only because she had to. If the emperor laughed, then everyone must, too.
Then just as suddenly Michael was sober again, the sound cut off instantly. He stared at Nicephoras. “You knew this, Nicephoras?”
Nicephoras flushed deeply. “Not in the beginning, Majesty. By the time I did, I also knew that she would not hurt you. Indeed, I trusted her more than any other physician, both for her skill, which is great, and for her loyalty, which I knew I could rely on.”
“I imagine you could,” said Michael. “You are highly fortunate that I have the humor of despair, or I might not find this so amusing.”
“Thank you, Majesty.”
“Why tell me, Nicephoras? If you had said nothing, I would not have known. Why risk my anger?”
“Helena Comnena knows, Majesty. And in revenge for Anna Lascaris telling you of her plan, she will understandably in time betray Anna’s secret to you.”
“I see.” He leaned back in his seat again. “Of course she will.”
Michael turned to look at Anna, a look of fascination in his black eyes. “You would make a handsome woman. I can imagine Helena hates you. Zoe liked you, you know. Did she know you are a woman?”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“That explains much that I found curious. How Byzantine—” His voice choked suddenly in emotion, and the words died in his throat.
Anna
looked away. To watch him now was intrusive. She stood still, because she had not been excused, but she kept her eyes downcast.
There was a disturbance outside, and the door opened. Two of the Varangian Guard appeared, with Helena between them. As in the Hagia Sophia, she was dressed in blue that bordered on purple.
“Come!” Michael ordered.
The Varangian Guard marched her forward, half dragging her, her feet stumbling. They stopped in front of the emperor, still holding Helena by both wrists. Her face was flushed, her hair half pulled undone from its elaborate coil, as if she had struggled hard. For once, in her fury, she had an echo of Zoe’s magnificence.
One of the guards opened his fist and let fall in Michael’s lap a ring, a locket, and a small box.
The calm leached out of Helena’s face.
“Your pact with Charles of Anjou,” Michael said quietly.
Her face twisted in a sneer. “You believe that … liar?” She jerked her head toward Anna, stopping short only as the bindings caught her wrist. “That physician of yours is a woman, Majesty! Did you know that? A woman, as much as I am, poking and prying at your body, without shame. You take her word over mine?”
Michael looked Anna up and down. “Are you sure he is a woman?” he asked curiously.
Helena gave a bark of laughter. “Of course I’m sure. Rip off her tunic, and you’ll see!”
“How long have you known?” he asked.
“Years!”
“And you did not think to tell me before today? Why is that, Helena Palaeologa?”
Too late she realized her mistake. Her eyes were wild, like those of an animal scenting blood and death.
Michael continued, “She is Anna Lascaris. Of imperial blood, like yours—or mine. She told me herself. But she is an excellent physician, and that is what I required of her. That—and loyalty.”
Helena drew in her breath as if to speak, then understood that it would change nothing, and she let it out again soundlessly.
Michael made a small, quick gesture with his hand, and the Varangian Guard tightened their grip on Helena and turned, pulling her away. She sagged a little, as if the strength had left her legs and she had difficulty holding herself up.
“I never trusted Zoe,” Michael said, his voice soft with regret. “But I liked her. She was a magnificent woman, all fire and passion, and within her own dreadful code, a kind of honor.” He turned to Anna. “You will have your letter. You had best hurry, while my word is good. When the city falls, it may mean nothing.” He smiled bleakly. “But Helena has friends. You would be advised to leave here as a woman. It would be best for you that as far as they know, both you and Helena came into the palace—and neither of you left.”
It was a moment before Anna’s voice would come, and even then it was husky, a little tremulous. “Yes, Majesty. Thank you.”
Nicephoras reached out his hand and took her elbow, guiding her backward, out of Michael’s presence.
As soon as they were alone, in a corridor beyond the great hall, she turned to him. “Will they imprison Helena? What happens when the city … falls?”
“The Varangian Guard will break her neck,” he told her. “With Charles’s fleet on the horizon, no one will care. Come. I will find women’s clothes for you, and while you are changing, I will write the letter and the emperor will sign it. Then you must go.” He smiled. “I will miss you.”
She touched his hand. “I will miss you, too. There is no one else with whom I can talk as we have.” Then she looked away, in case he found the loneliness in her too much an echo of his own.
Nicephoras went with her down to the quayside. The summer night was brilliant with stars, but it was too late for the water taxis. Instead there was one of the emperor’s barges waiting to take her across the Golden Horn to Galata. This was the last time she would set foot in Constantinople. She was glad it was too dark for him to see the grief in her face, the love of all that was over and on the brink of destruction.
“You cannot come back,” he warned. “I will send messages to your servants. It is better if they stay here for a few days, at the very least. Helena’s friends and allies will be watching. Esaias and whoever else, Demetrios, perhaps, and others. Helena was like her mother in one thing: Come victory or despair, triumph or ruin, she never forgot a vengeance. You do, sometimes easily, and Zoe thought that was a weakness in you. It kept you from being truly like her.”
She was surprised. “Like her?”
“She saw in you her own passion for life, but weakened by the power to forgive. But I think in the end she realized it was really your strength. It made you whole, where she was not.”
A tide of guilt swept over Anna that she was not worthy of this praise. Certainly she had forgiven many things, small and unimportant. But she had kept the greatest ones, where the injury had wounded her where no healing was possible. She had never forgiven her husband, Eustathius. She had hidden the revulsion she had felt, the guilt because she could not love him, could not bear to carry his child, or for the hunger that had burned inside her, unanswered. She had never let go of blaming him for her own act of provoking that terrible searing, debasing fight. She remembered the shame even more than the pain and the blood.
Was she blaming him because he had allowed all his frustration, his fury of helplessness, confusion, and defeat, to explode in violence? Or was it her own guilt because she had half wanted him to descend so far?
Yes, he had been brutal, but that was a burden on his soul that she could not reach or help now. The time when perhaps she could have was past, and she had wasted it. That was something else for which she needed forgiveness.
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.”
Ninety-seven
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.
