by Anne Perry
“What is it?” he asked.
She plunged in, all her careful rehearsal abandoned. “I believe there was a plot to assassinate the emperor, and for Bessarion to take his place, in order to save the Church from union with Rome. Whoever killed Bessarion prevented that from happening. It was an act of loyalty, not treason. They should not have been punished for it.”
His face was filled with a sadness she did not understand.
“Who were the conspirators, apart from Justinian and Antoninus?”
She said nothing. She could not prove it, and in spite of what they had planned to do, it seemed such a betrayal to tell him. He would have to act. They would be arrested, tortured. Horrible pictures filled her imagination: Zoe stripped, humiliated, her body mocked and perhaps touched with fire again. And she could not prove it anyway.
“I did not think you would tell me,” Nicephoras said. “I might have been disappointed if you had. Justinian would not either, nor Antoninus.” His voice dropped even lower and was rough with pain. “Even under torture.”
She stared at him, new terror gripping her like a clenched fist inside her stomach, tightening.
“Is he…” She forced the words out between dry lips. She remembered John Lascaris’s blind face. Justinian… it was almost more than she could bear.
“We did not maim him.” Perhaps without meaning to, Nicephoras was taking part of the blame himself. He was the emperor’s man. “Justinian could not tell us that they wouldn’t try again. Can you?”
She thought about it, struggling, twisting this way and that in her mind, finding no escape. “No,” she said at last.
“What is Justinian Lascaris to you that you risk so much to save him?” he asked.
She felt the blood hot in her face. “We are related.”
“Closely?” he said in little more than a whisper. “Brother? Husband?”
It was as if time stopped, frozen between one heartbeat and the next. He knew. It was perfectly clear in his face. To deny it would be idiotic.
He waited, his eyes so gentle that it made the tears spill over onto her cheeks for the shame of her deceit. Would he think her disguise mocked him? She kept her eyes down, unable to look at him and hating herself.
“My twin,” she whispered.
“Anastasia Lascaris?”
“Anna,” she corrected him, as if that tiny piece of honesty mattered. “Zarides now. I’m a widow.”
“Whoever the other conspirators are, they are still dangerous,” he warned. “I believe you know who they are. One of them betrayed Justinian, I don’t know which, and if I did, I would not tell you, for your own sake. They would betray you just as quickly.”
“I know-” The words caught in her throat. “Thank you.”
“By the way, you should lengthen your stride a little. You still take short steps, like a woman. Otherwise you are pretty good.”
She nodded, unable to speak, then turned slowly and walked away, her mind numb, finding it hard to keep her balance. She would have to correct her walk some other time.
Fifty-seven
A WEEK LATER, ANNA HAD JUST SEEN HER LAST PATIENT OF the morning and was standing in the kitchen when Leo brought her a letter from Zoe Chrysaphes.
Dear Anastasia,
I have just received news of a most important matter concerning the true faith which we both espouse. I need to inform you of the details as soon as possible. Please regard this as urgent, and call upon me today.
Zoe
The blurred writing of her name, using the feminine rather than masculine, was a veiled reminder to Anna of Zoe’s power over her. She dared not refuse.
There was no decision to make. “I have to call on Zoe Chrysaphes.” She did not want to frighten Leo by telling him that Zoe knew her secret. “It is something to do with the Church. It should be interesting.”
But interest was the emotion furthest from her mind when she was shown into Zoe’s room. The fear and the loss in their previous encounter seemed to close in on her as if she could never escape it. She felt as though Giuliano must be just out of the line of her sight, and any moment he would move and she would see the pain in his face.
Zoe came forward superbly, head high, back straight. The deep blue-gray silk of her tunic swirled around her ankles, unbroken by gold ornament, simple as the dusk sky.
“Thank you for coming so quickly,” she said. “I have remarkable news, but before I tell you I must swear you to secrecy. A promise to me is little: Promise to Mary the Mother of God that you will betray this secret to no one. I charge you!” Her golden eyes blazed with a sudden flare of passion.
Anna was astonished. “And if I will not do that?”
“We need not consider it,” Zoe replied, her smile not wavering. “Because you will. Betrayal of secrets can be a most painful thing. The outcome can even kill. But you know that. Give me your promise.”
Anna felt her face burn. She had walked directly into the trap. “I will promise Mary the Mother of God,” she said with a faint echo of sarcasm.
“Good,” Zoe responded immediately. “And most appropriate. Everyone knows that the Venetians stole the Shroud of Christ from the Hagia Sophia, and also a nail from the true Cross. It is the most holy relic on earth, and only God knows where it is now. Probably in Venice, or maybe Rome. They’re all thieves.” She tried to keep the fury from her voice and failed. “And the crown of thorns,” she added. “But I have word out of Jerusalem of another relic, nearly as good. It has just come to light, after more than twelve hundred years.”
Anna tried not to care. She should never forget that, above all, Zoe was a creature of revenge and deception. Only a fool would trust her. Yet she found herself asking, almost holding her breath for the answer.
Zoe’s smile widened. “The portrait of the Mother of God, painted by St. Luke,” she whispered. “Imagine it. He was a physician, like you. And an artist. He saw her, just as you and I can see each other.” Her voice was husky with excitement. “Perhaps she was older, but all the passion and the grief would be there in her face.” Her eyes were alight with wonder. “Mary-as an old woman, who had given birth to the Son of God, and stood at the foot of the Cross at his death, helpless to save Him. Mary, who knew He was risen, not by faith or belief, or the sermons of priests, but because she had seen Him.”
“Where is this painting?” Anna asked. “Who has it? How do you know it is genuine? There are more pieces of the true Cross sold to pilgrims than would furnish a forest.”
“Its existence has been confirmed,” Zoe said calmly, seeing victory.
“Why do you tell me?” She dreaded the answer.
Zoe’s eyes were unblinking. “Because I wish you to go to Jerusalem and purchase it for me, of course. Don’t pretend to be stupid, Anastasia. Naturally I will provide the money. When you return with the picture I shall give it to the emperor, and once again Byzantium will have one of the great relics of Christendom. She is our patron saint, our guardian, and our advocate with God. She will protect us from Rome, whether it is the violence of the crusaders or the corruption of popes.”
Anna was stunned. Another thought occurred to her. Zoe had said it was to give to the emperor, not the Church. Did Michael know perfectly well that it was Zoe who had been going to kill him, and this was a bargain for her freedom, even her life?
Aloud she asked, “Why me? I know nothing of paintings.”
Zoe looked deeply satisfied. “I trust you,” she said smoothly. “You will not betray me, because to do so you would have to betray yourself… and Justinian. Do not forget how well I know you.”
“I can’t travel alone to Jerusalem,” Anna pointed out, although now her heart was racing at the thought. Jerusalem-so near Sinai. She might see Justinian. Did Zoe think of that, too? “Still less could I return without an armed guard if I am carrying a relic like that,” she added.
“I don’t expect you to.” Zoe gazed out of the window at the fading light of the sky. “I have already made inquiries
as to your passage, and arranged it where you will be perfectly safe. Except, of course, from the rigors of a voyage, but that is inescapable.” She was smiling. “There is a ship chartered and commanded by a Venetian about to leave Constantinople for Acre, and then its captain, with suitable guard, I imagine, will make his way to Jerusalem. They are willing, for a consideration which I will pay, to allow you to accompany them. The captain will be aware of your purpose, but no one else.”
“A Venetian?” Anna was appalled. “They’ll let me get the painting, then steal it, probably throw me overboard, and you’ll never see the painting again.”
“Not this captain,” Zoe said with secret amusement. “He is Giuliano Dandolo. I have told him only that it is the picture of a Byzantine Madonna, posed for by a merchant’s daughter, perhaps his mother. You would be wise not to tell him differently.”
Anna stood rigid. “And if I refuse?” she stammered.
“Then I shall no longer feel bound to be discreet about your… identity. To the emperor, the Church, or to Dandolo. Be sure that that is what you want before you provoke it to happen.”
“I’ll go,” she said quietly.
Zoe smiled. “Of course you will.” She picked up a package lying on the table at her side and held it out to Anna. “Here is the money, and your instructions, a letter of safe conduct for you, with the emperor’s signature. Godspeed, and may the Blessed Virgin protect you.” She crossed herself piously.
At the teeming dockside, Anna came to a three-masted Venetian round ship with lateen sails and a high stern. It was broad-beamed, hence the name, and she judged it to be at least fifty paces from end to end. She made inquiries of the sailor at the bottom of the gangway, stating her name and Zoe’s, and was permitted to board. She found Giuliano on deck. He was dressed in a leather coat and britches, nothing like the courtly tunic and robes he’d worn in the city. Suddenly he looked Venetian, and alien.
“Captain Dandolo,” she said firmly. Whatever the cost, there was nowhere to retreat. “Zoe Chrysaphes told me that you had agreed to take me as passenger on your voyage to Acre, and then afterward to Jerusalem with you. She said she had paid you the price you considered fair.” Anna’s voice was cold with the tension that knotted inside her.
He turned around slowly, surprise in his face, then a quick flame of recognition suffocated the moment after by memory of the last time they had met.
“Anastasius Zarides.” His voice was quiet, not audible twelve feet away where sailors were working on the ropes and rigging. “Yes, Zoe made arrangements for a passenger. She did not say it would be you.” His face darkened. “Since when were you her servant?”
“Since she has the power to hurt me,” she replied, not flinching from his gaze. “But the commission on which she sends me is good: to bring back a picture which belongs in Constantinople.”
“A picture? Did she tell you of whom?”
Anna longed to be able to answer him honestly. Lying was like deliberately staking out a space between them, but the gulf was there already.
“A Byzantine lady of good family,” she answered. “But apparently the victim of some tragedy or other.”
“Why does Zoe care?”
“Do you think I asked her?” she said with an attempt at light sarcasm.
“I think you might have guessed,” he replied. She was not sure if there was gentleness in his voice or sadness.
Now it was her turn to look away, over the choppy waters of the harbor. “I think it is a picture she wants because it will give her power,” she answered. “But it could be merely one whose beauty she likes. She has a passion for beauty. I’ve seen her stare at the sunset till the sight of it should be printed on her soul.”
“She has a soul?” he said with sudden bitterness.
“Surely a soul twisted is far worse than no soul at all?” she asked. “It is the loss of what could have been which tortures, the fact that something was within your reach and you let it slip away. I don’t think hell is fire and torn flesh and the smell of sulfur choking you. I think it is the taste of heaven remembered-and lost.”
“God preserve us, Anastasius!” Giuliano exclaimed. “Where on earth do you come up with things like that?”
He put his hand on her back, swiftly, in a companionable gesture, far from a caress. A moment later he took it away, and it was as if she had lost the warmth of the sun on her.
“You’d better come to Jerusalem with us and get this picture for Zoe,” he said cheerfully. “We sail tomorrow morning. But I daresay you know that.” He gave a brief laugh, but the smile remained in his eyes. “We’ve never had a ship’s physician before.”
Fifty-eight
ANNA STOOD AT THE RAILING OF THE SHIP IN THE LATE afternoon sun. It was already low on the horizon, the wind was cold on her face, and the sharp, salt air filled her lungs. They were several days out of Constantinople, having sailed through the Sea of Marmara and into the Mediterranean, and she had begun to find the pitch and slight roll of the deck more natural. She had even grown accustomed to the seaman’s britches she had been lent, a tunic and dalmatica being awkward garments in which to climb steps and move easily in narrow spaces. There was no room to hold on to skirts, and they were more immodest than she had previously considered. Giuliano had suggested the change, and after a few hours she had found it agreeable.
Giuliano was busy most of the time. It took all his skill to command men he knew little and to work south at this time of the year, against the current sweeping up from Egypt past Palestine and then westward. Even when they were with the wind, they still had to tack and veer precisely.
She heard his footsteps across the deck behind her. She did not need to turn to know it was he.
“Where are we?” she asked as he stepped beside her.
He pointed. “Rhodes is there, ahead of us. Cyprus over there, farther to the south and east.”
“And Jerusalem?” she asked.
“Farther still. Alexandria’s that way.” He swung around and extended his arm south. “Rome there, to the west. Venice is to the north of that.”
This was the first time they had had more than a few moments in which to talk without being overheard by the crew. Zoe and the death of Gregory crowded her mind, but she did not want to say anything that would tear scabs off the wounds and prevent the fragile healing.
She thought of the great rock that was reputed to guard the other end of the Mediterranean from the ocean, which, as far as anyone knew, stretched out to the edge of the world.
“Have you been out through the Gates of Hercules into the Atlantic?” she asked, her imagination fired at the thought.
“Not yet. One day I’d like to.” He narrowed his eyes against the sun, smiling. “If you could go anywhere at all, where would you choose?”
She was taken by surprise. Her mind raced. She did not want to talk about old dreams that did not matter anymore. “Venice? Is it very beautiful?” She wanted to hear the urgency and the tenderness in his voice.
He smiled, indulging her. “It’s like nowhere else,” he answered. “So beautiful you think it must be a city of dreams, an idea floating on the face of the water. Touching it would be like trying to catch moonlight with a net. And yet it is as real as marble and blood, and as brutal as betrayal.” There were passion and regret in his eyes. “It has the ephemeral loveliness of music in the night, and yet it stays in the mind as great visions do, coming back again and again, just when you think it has finally left you in peace.”
He looked at the darkening horizon. “But I don’t think I could forget Byzantium, either, now. It is subtle, wounded, more tolerant than the West, and perhaps wiser.” He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.
The wind was rising from the north, whitening the wave crests as the current buffeted them. Anna waited for him to speak, happy in the sounds of the water and the creaking of wood.
“I know we want to retake Jerusalem for Christianity,” he went on. “But I wonder if we’ve thought
beyond that, to the cost.” He gave a hard little laugh. “We sacrifice Byzantium to gain Jerusalem-and lose the world. I don’t know. But I’ve got a decent red wine-”
“Venetian, of course,” she interrupted lightly, tearing the thread of tension that was tightening inside herself.
He laughed. “Of course. Come and we’ll share it over dinner. Ship’s rations, but not bad.” He spoke easily, without hesitation.
Banishing thought for anything beyond the moment, she accepted, rising to her feet and having to steady herself to the slight pitch of the deck.
It was a good meal, although she was barely aware of what she ate or of anything beyond the sweetness and the fire of the wine. They spoke easily, of all manner of things, places they had been to, people they had met or known. He described the funny and the absurd with pleasure and, she noticed, without cruelty. The more she listened to him, the more irrevocably she felt bound to the good in him. And the less could she ever tell him the truth. He saw her as a man, but one from whom he need fear no rivalry. She knew that something of his gentleness with her was because he was a whole man, able to taste the physical pleasures of life in a way Anastasius never would, and she was startled by the delicacy he exercised in never overtly mentioning such things.
She left at about two in the morning, when duty called him up to the deck because the weather was worsening. She had drunk more wine than usual, and she felt so close to weeping as she closed the door of her own cabin that the tears actually spilled over her cheeks, hot and painful. Had she been less exhausted, she might have given in and sobbed until she had nothing left inside her. But when would she stop? What end was there, except to treasure friendship, or laughter, trust, tolerance, and the will to share? She would not sacrifice that for some momentary indulgence in self-pity or grief for what she herself had closed the door against.
The following day the weather was bad, a storm driving down from the north forcing them to stand farther out than they would otherwise. Giuliano was fully occupied with navigation and keeping the ship from drifting onto the dangerous troughs where she could lose sails or even a mast.
