The Sheen of the Silk

by Anne Perry

  Hearing the rhythm and patterns of the Venetian tongue around her made it impossible not to think of Giuliano Dandolo. She had no idea why he had left so suddenly, but she was aware of missing him, although in a way his absence was also a relief. It was impossible that they should ever be more than occasional friends, people able to speak of dreams deeper than the surface, joys and sorrows that touched the bone, and laughing at the same moment at small absurdities.

  But he awoke something else in her that she could not afford.

  Yes, it was a relief that Giuliano Dandolo had gone back to Venice. Like Eirene Vatatzes, she needed a little numbing, a rest from the pain of caring.

  Forty-six

  ANNA RETURNED TO SEE EIRENE AS SOON AS HER venetian patient was sufficiently recovered. She found the ulcers noticeably improved. Eirene was up and dressed in a simple, almost severe tunic. Helena called when Anna was there, but she was not received.

  “I am in no mood to receive Helena when I look more like the Gorgon.” Eirene said it wryly, as if it were amusing, but there was pain behind it, and it showed in her eyes and in the tightness of her shoulders as she turned away.

  Anna forced herself to smile.

  “I wonder what Helen looked like, that they were willing to burn a city and ruin a civilization for her,” Eirene went on, pursuing the conversation as if there were nothing else to remark upon.

  “I was taught that their concept of beauty was far deeper than a mere matter of form,” Anna replied. “It needed to be of the mind as well, of the intellect and imagination, and of the heart. If all you want is a beautiful face, a statue will do. And you can own it completely. It doesn’t even need feeding.” She wondered if Eirene’s self-knowledge had created Gregory’s rejection. Was it possible that her belief in her own ugliness had made her seem so to others? Might they have forgotten it, had she allowed them to?

  Anna looked at her. The awkwardness of Eirene’s movement was no more than that of many other women her age. Time and intelligence had lent a distinction to her features that they would not have had in youth. Had Eirene not allowed herself to see it?

  She both loved and hated Gregory. The look in her eyes, the tension in her hands, gave her away. She believed she could not be loved, not with passion or laughter or tenderness, not with that desperate hunger for her to love in return that made passion a mutual thing.

  Later, as Anna stood in the main room receiving payment from Demetrios for the herbs, she was conscious of Helena in a pale tunic trimmed with gold, her hair elaborately dressed. Without intending to, Anna compared her with Zoe, and Helena was still the loser.

  “Thank you,” Anna said as Demetrios gave her the coins. “I shall return in a day or two. I believe she will continue to recover, and by then it may be time to change the treatment a little.” She did not add that she was concerned not to dose Eirene too heavily with the intoxicant she had used, in case she became dependent upon its artificial sense of well-being. She intended to use it only as long as it was necessary to face Gregory’s return.

  “Don’t change it,” Demetrios said hastily, his face puckered with concern. “It is working well.”

  Anna left and walked to her next patient and the one after. It was late and she was tired when she turned aside to climb the steps to her favorite place overlooking the sea.

  This place drew her because of its silence. The wind and the gulls were no disturbance to the flight of thought. She was not yet ready to answer Leo’s solicitous questions as to her welfare or see in Simonis’s eyes the slow dying of hope that they would one day prove Justinian’s innocence.

  Anna stood on the small, level surface at the top of the path, the wind fluttering the leaves above her. Slowly the color bled away on the horizon and dusk filled the air.

  She was annoyed when she heard footsteps on the path below her. Deliberately she turned her back and faced the east and the blurred coast of Nicea, already dark.

  She heard her name. It was Giuliano’s voice. It took her a moment to compose herself before she greeted him. “Are you back here for the doge again?” she asked.

  He smiled. “He thinks so. Actually I am back for the sunset, and the conversation.” He was flippant, but there was a rueful honesty there for a second. “Home is never quite the same when you go back.” He walked the last few paces and stood beside her.

  “Everything is smaller,” she agreed lightly. She must not allow her burning emotions to show. She was glad to have her back to the last of the light.

  He looked at her, and something of the tension in his face smoothed away. The smile became wider, easier. “The cafés on the waterfront here haven’t changed. Neither have the arguments. That’s another kind of home.”

  “We Greeks are always arguing,” she told him. “We can’t be bothered with subjects about which there is only one valid opinion.”

  “I noticed,” he said wryly. There was still enough light reflected up from the water to see the sheen on his skin, the faint pucker around his eyes. “But the emperor has sworn his loyalty to Rome. Doesn’t that end some of your freedom to argue?”

  “Not as much as an invasion would,” she said dryly. “There’ll be another crusade, sooner or later.”

  “Sooner,” he said, a sudden tightness in his voice.

  “Have you come to warn us?”

  He looked down at his hands resting on the rough wood that formed a kind of railing. “There’s no point. You know as much of its coming as anyone does.”

  “We’ll still argue about God, and what He wants of us.” She changed the subject. “Someone asked me the other day, and I realized I had never seriously considered it.”

  He frowned. “I think the Church would say that nothing we could do would be of much value to Him, but He requires obedience, and I suppose praise.”

  “Do you like to be praised?” she asked.

  “Occasionally. But I’m not God.” The smile flickered across his face.

  “Neither am I,” she agreed seriously. “And I like to be praised only if I have done something well, and I know the person speaking is sincere. But once is enough. I would hate it all the time. Just words? Endless ‘you are wonderful,’ ‘you are marvelous’…”

  “No, of course not.” He turned around, his back half to the sea, his face toward her. “That would be ridiculous, and… unbelievably shallow.”

  “And obedience?” she went on. “Do you like it if people do what you tell them to, never because they have thought of it themselves? Not because they care, and want to do it? Without growth, without learning, wouldn’t eternity be… boring?”

  “I never thought of the possibility of heaven being a bore,” he said, half laughing now. “But after a hundred thousand years, yes, terrible. In fact, maybe that’s hell…”

  “No,” she said. “Hell is having had heaven and then let it slip from your grasp.”

  He put his hands up to his face and pushed the heels of his palms hard against the skin. “Oh God, you are being serious.”

  She felt self-conscious. “Should I not be? I’m sorry…”

  “No!” He looked at her. “You should be! Now I know what I missed most when I was away from Byzantium.”

  For a moment, tears filled her eyes and her vision swam. Then she took one hand in the other and twisted her fingers until the pain reminded her of reality, limits, the things she could have, and those she could not. “Maybe there’s more than one hell,” she suggested. “Maybe one of them is to repeat the same thing over and over again until you finally realize that you are dead, in every sense that matters. You have ceased to grow.”

  “I’m tempted to joke that that is pure Byzantine, and probably heretical,” Giuliano answered. “But I have an awful feeling that you are right.”

  Forty-seven

  OF COURSE, HELENA HAD TOLD ZOE OF GREGORY VATATZES’S return from Alexandria. She had stood to the middle of the glorious room overlooking the sea and said it quite casually, as if it were of no more meaning th
an the price of some new luxury in the market: entertaining, but of no matter. How much did Helena know, or worse than that, was there something Zoe did not know?

  She stared at the great gold cross. Poor Eirene. She had sought refuge in her intelligence and her anger, instead of using both to win what she wanted.

  And Gregory was on his way back at last. He would arrive any day now. Zoe remembered him as vividly as if he had gone only a week ago, not more years than she wanted to count. Would his hair be gray? But he would still be as tall, towering even over her.

  Perhaps it was as well they had not married. The edge of danger might have gone; they could have become bored with each other.

  Arsenios had been his cousin in the elder branch of the family. He had kept the money and the gorgeous stolen icons, sharing nothing, so his sin had not tainted Gregory. In fact, Gregory had hated Arsenios for it. If he hadn’t, Zoe could never have loved him.

  But he was still Arsenios’s cousin, and he would be concerned by his death, and of course the ruin of his daughter, and the death of his son, which Zoe had so brilliantly contrived. Would he deduce what had happened and how she had brought it about? He had always been as clever as she, or very nearly.

  She shivered, although the air from the open window was still warm. Would he look for revenge? He had had no love for Arsenios, but family meant something, pride of blood.

  She dressed in dark blue one day, crimson and topaz the next, used oils and unguents, perfumes, had Thomais brush her hair until it gleamed, the sheen bronze and then gold as she moved, like the warp and weft of silk.

  The days went by. Word spread that he was home. Her servants told her. Helena told her. He would come, he would not be able to resist it. Zoe could outwait him, she had always been able to do that, whatever it cost her. She paced the floor, lost her temper with Thomais and threw a dish at her, catching her on the cheek in a curving gash, seeing the sudden blood run scarlet on the black skin. She sent for Anastasius to stitch it up, telling him nothing.

  When Gregory finally came, he still caught her by surprise. All the pictures in her mind did not match the shock of seeing him come into the room. She had been reading, with the lights high so she could see. Too late to dim them now.

  He walked in slowly. His hair was winged with gray but still thick, his long face sunken below the cheekbones, eyes black as tar. But it was his voice that always reached deepest into her: the careful diction, as if he loved the roll of the words; the dark, bass resonance of it.

  “It doesn’t look very different,” he said softly, his eyes gazing around before resting on her. “And you still wear the same colors. I’m glad. Some things shouldn’t change.”

  She felt a flutter inside her, like a trapped bird. She thought of Arsenios dying on the floor, spewing blood, his eyes glittering with hate.

  “Hello, Gregory,” she said casually. She moved a step or two toward him. “You still look Byzantine, in spite of your years in Egypt. Did you have a good voyage?”

  “Tedious,” he replied with a slight smile. “But safe enough.”

  “You’ll find the city changed.”

  “Oh, yes. Much is rebuilt, but not all. The seawalls are largely repaired, but you have no games, no chariot races at the Hippodrome,” he observed. “And Arsenios is dead.”

  “I know.” She had prepared for this moment. “I feel for your loss. But Eirene is well, and Demetrios, although I know they missed you.” That was a formality.

  He shrugged. “Perhaps,” he acknowledged. “Demetrios speaks much of Helena.” A slight smile touched his lips. “I thought she would tire of Bessarion. In fact, it took longer that I had expected.”

  “Bessarion is dead,” she replied.

  “Really? He was young, at least young to die.”

  “He was murdered,” she told him, keeping her voice perfectly level.

  A razor-sharp amusement crossed his face and vanished as quickly. “Indeed? By whom?”

  Zoe had not intended to meet Gregory’s eyes, but the impulse was irresistible. She saw the fire of intelligence there, and a bottomless understanding. To look away would be a defeat. “A young man called Antoninus, I believe, assisted by a friend, Justinian Lascaris. He disposed of the body.”

  Gregory looked surprised. “Why? If ever a man were totally ineffectual, it was Bessarion. Surely not over Helena? Bessarion wouldn’t have given a damn if she had affairs, as long as she was discreet.”

  “Of course not over Helena,” she said tartly. “Bessarion was leading the battle against union with Rome. He had gained a considerable reputation as a religious hero.”

  “How interesting.” He sounded as if he meant it. “And these other men, Antoninus and Justinian, were for the union?”

  “Not at all, especially Justinian,” she replied. “They were profoundly against it. That is the part of it which does not make sense.”

  “This really is interesting,” he murmured. “What about Helena? Did she wish to be a hero’s wife? Or might a hero’s widow suit her better? Bessarion sounds extremely tedious.”

  “He was. Someone tried to kill him before Antoninus did. Three times. Twice with poison, once with a knife in the street.”

  “Not Antoninus?”

  “Definitely not. He was not incompetent. Far from it. Justinian Lascaris even less so.”

  “Then perhaps it was Helena after all,” he said thoughtfully. “You said ‘Lascaris’? A good name.”

  She did not answer. She could feel her heart pounding and her breath tight in her chest.

  Gregory smiled. His teeth were still white, still strong. “That is something you never did, Zoe.” He said it softly, as if with approval. “If you were going to kill someone, you would do it yourself. More efficient, and safer. Although even with the greatest care, the utmost secrecy, there is always a way to find out.”

  “But not to prove it,” she said with barely a flutter in her breath.

  He moved another step, closing the distance between them. He touched her cheek with his fingers, then kissed her, slowly, intimately, as if he had all the time in the world.

  She decided to attack. If in doubt, always attack. She answered him with equal intimacy, her lips, her tongue, her body. And it was he who stepped back.

  “You do not need to prove anything,” he said. “If what you want is revenge. All you need is to be sure.”

  “I understand revenge,” she answered him, her voice caressing the words. “Not for myself-no one has wronged me deeply enough for that-but for my city, for its rape and the spoiling of its holy relics. I understand it, Gregory.”

  “I shall never think of Byzantium without thinking of you, Zoe. But there are other loyalties, such as that of blood. One day we will all die, but Byzantium will not be the same after you do. Something will have gone, and I shall regret that!” He looked once more around the room, then quickly turned on his heel and left.

  He knew she had killed Arsenios. That was what he had come to tell her. He would let her wait, wondering when he would do it and how. Gregory never rushed his pleasures, either physical or emotional. She remembered that about him. He tasted every bit, slowly.

  She stood in her room holding her arms around herself. The rape of Constantinople could not be forgiven until all of it was paid for, not ever put to the back of the mind and allowed to heal.

  High among those from whom she must wring the last drop was Giuliano Dandolo, the great-grandson of that monstrous old man who had led the ruinous crusade.

  She walked to the window, gazed across at the rising moon spilling silver over the Horn, and began to plan the destruction of Gregory. She regretted it.

  She remembered him passionately, with both pleasure and regret. Maybe she would lie with him one last time? She would mourn him, perhaps even more than Eirene would.

  Forty-eight

  FOR ZOE, TOWERING OVER SUCH RELATIVELY SMALLER considerations as how to destroy Gregory was the fact that he was forewarned.

  Poison wa
s her weapon, either of the mind or of the body. She could anger, tempt, or provoke people, even mislead them into destroying themselves. Every quality that was power could become a weakness, if carried to excess. Even the gold byzant, that most exquisite of coins, had two sides.

  She stared at herself in the glass. In this dim room, shaded from the sunlight, she was still beautiful. She had never been indecisive, never a coward. Would he use those things against her? Of course he would, if he could find a way.

  How? By baiting her to attack him. That is what she would have done. Use her courage to tempt her to seize the chance, recklessly, and then trap her. Should she do the same? Bluff? Double bluff? Triple bluff? Abandon them all and act simply? Nothing Byzantine, nothing Egyptian-just crude as a Latin and therefore unexpected from her.

  What if she just waited and watched, to see what he did? How soon would he decide to act? After all, it was Gregory who wanted revenge for Arsenios’s death; she could afford time.

  Care, always the utmost care.

  Even so, three days later, after a trip to the baths and eating fruit afterward, she was dreadfully ill. By the time she got home, she was nauseated and filled with stabbing pains. Already she was beginning to grow dizzy. How had he reached her? She had eaten only what she had seen others eat: harmless things, apricots and pistachios from a common dish.

  She staggered into her bedroom, Thomais supporting her.

  “No!” she gasped as Thomais tried to help her lie down. “I have been poisoned, you fool! I must mix an emetic. Fetch me a bowl, and my herbs. Be quick! Don’t stand there like an idiot!” She heard the fear in her own voice as the room swayed and blurred around her, darkening as if the candles were burning down.

  Thomais returned with a bowl and a jug of water in the other hand. She set them down and waited, gray-faced, to be told what to do next.