The Sheen of the Silk

by Anne Perry

  Outside in the street, the sense of triumph wore off within moments, replaced by fear. If Anastasius was actually a woman and Helena knew it, then she was in the most intense danger. If Helena chose to expose her, he did not know what punishment Anastasius would face, but it would be savage.

  Zoe had known and had not betrayed Anastasius’s secret. That too was a mystery. She must, in her own way, have had a great respect, even a kind of affection, for her.

  He walked along the busy street with the crowd jostling around him. News of the fleet having left for Messina had reached Constantinople with the ship on which Palombara arrived. Fear spread like fire on the wind, sharp and dangerous, edged with panic, quick to violence as the threat became suddenly no longer a nightmare, but a reality.

  He walked more rapidly, facing into the wind. The more he considered what Helena had said, the more it frightened him. Should he find Anna Zarides and warn her? But what use would that be? There was nothing she could do, except perhaps flee, like so many others. But would she do that? It led him to the question of why she had ever begun such a desperate course in the first place.

  Dressed as a woman, she would be beautiful. Why did Anna Zarides not use that? What could have compelled her to such an act, and over the space of years? Who or what did she care about to this cost?

  To find out, he began with a man he knew quite well who had been a patient of Anastasius’s for some time. From him, Palombara learned of people she had treated without charge in her work with Bishop Constantine.

  The picture emerged of a woman dedicated to medicine, absorbed in its practice but also fascinated by its details, its art, its curiosities, and the endless learning it inspired. Yet she was not without fault. She made errors of judgment, and she had a temper. Palombara became increasingly aware of a sense of guilt within her, although he had no idea what caused it. The more he learned, the more he was fascinated by her, the more intense became his need to protect her.

  Over and over again, Anna Zarides appeared to have asked about the murder of Bessarion Comnenos.

  Had she had some relationship with him? But she had not been to Constantinople before, and he had never left it since the return now nearly twenty years ago. It must be someone else. The obvious candidate was Justinian Lascaris, the man exiled for Bessarion’s murder.

  Justinian Lascaris was in exile near Jerusalem; this much he also learned. Her husband? Then she was a Lascaris as well, at least by marriage, a member of one of the imperial families with a passionate vengeance to wreak against the Palaeologi.

  It was imperative Palombara see Anna Zarides where Vicenze would not know of it. His curiosity was cruel, endless, and still fueled by his need for revenge over the substitution of the nude painting for the icon of the Virgin.

  So Palombara made his inquiries obliquely, as if they were of interest rather than importance, and it was three days before he finally presented himself at her house.

  He noticed that she looked tired. There were fine lines around her eyes and a pallor to her skin. She had to be even more aware than he of the fear in the city and how short a time they had left before the end.

  “How can I help you, Bishop Palombara?” she asked, looking at his eyes, his face, then at the way he stood. She could have seen no signs of illness in him, because there were none.

  “I was grieved to hear of the death of Zoe Chrysaphes,” he replied. He saw the answering emotion in her, a sharper sadness than he would have expected, and he liked her for it. “I went to convey my sympathies to Helena Comnena.”

  “That was gracious of you,” she responded. “How does that reflect on your health?”

  “It doesn’t.” He did not alter his steady gaze. “She told me that in her mother’s papers she discovered something… startling. It is a piece of information which I fear Helena will use to her advantage, unless she can be prevented.”

  Anna clearly had no idea what he was referring to. He hated what he had to do, but her ignorance compelled him to act.

  “Is Justinian Lascaris your husband or your brother?” he asked bluntly.

  She stood completely motionless, the remnants of color draining from her skin. At first there was nothing in her eyes, as if she were too stunned to react at all; then the fear came, violent, all but consuming her. She breathed slowly, her chest heaving.

  “My brother,” she said at last. “My twin brother.”

  “I came to warn you, not to threaten you,” he said gently. “You might prefer to leave the city.”

  The ghost of a smile crossed her face. “But there will certainly be work enough for a physician when the city falls.” Her voice was thick with emotion, as if she found the words hard to say at all.

  “Helena hates you,” he said urgently. “She’s changed since Zoe’s death. It’s almost as if it has freed her. I’m sure she’s planning something. If she has access to Zoe’s papers, then she may have taken up funding the rebellion against Charles in the West.” Had he said too much?

  Anna smiled. “I’m sure she has something planned,” she agreed bitterly.

  “Then go!” he argued. “While you can.”

  “I’m Byzantine, and I should run while you, a Roman priest, will stay?” she asked.

  He did not answer. Perhaps in the end there was nothing else to say.

  Ninety-two

  CONSTANTINE WAS DESPERATE. IT WAS THREE WEEKS SINCE he had killed Zoe Chrysaphes and then a few days later conducted the funeral service for her in the Hagia Sophia. He had offered the Mass and given a eulogy almost fit for a saint.

  Now in the solitude of his courtyard, the euphoria had passed and he was dogged by nightmares. He fasted, he prayed, but still they haunted him. Of course it was the work of God that he had destroyed Zoe. He had only ever allied with her in her plot to overthrow Michael so that Bessarion, a true son of the Church, could defy the union with Rome and save the faith.

  And then Justinian Lascaris had killed Bessarion, so it had never come to fruition. Should he have agreed with Michael to help Justinian escape death? Perhaps Justinian had been right, and Bessarion would never have had the passion or the skill to defend them, or on the other hand, maybe Justinian had intended to take the throne himself?

  Constantine had not pleaded for Justinian’s life. Far from it. He was afraid that if Justinian had lived, he might have betrayed them all. But Michael wanted to save him and had used Constantine’s name to do it, saying he had yielded to his pleas for mercy.

  Now Zoe still plagued his dreams: She lay on her back, a lush, full-breasted woman, thighs apart in a mockery of his own emptiness. It was a humiliation, an obscenity, yet he could not look away.

  Everything was sliding out of control. The emperor had betrayed the entire nation by selling out to Rome, and worse than that, he had done it so publicly that there was hardly a man, woman, or even child in Constantinople who did not know of it.

  Now was the time for a miracle. Another month, two months, and it would be too late.

  Yet Constantine was startled when his servant informed him that Bishop Vicenze was here and wished to speak with him. He disliked the man intensely, not only for his calling to undermine the Church in Byzantium and the fact that he came from Rome, but personally as well. Vicenze lacked any kind of humility. Still, Constantine had prayed for a miracle, and he must not stand in the way of its occurrence, if in some way Vicenze was part of it.

  Constantine set aside the text he was reading and stood up. “Have him come in,” he instructed.

  Today Vicenze was dressed very plainly, almost as if he wished to pass unnoticed, whereas usually he was self-important.

  They exchanged formal greetings: Constantine guardedly, Vicenze with uncharacteristic ease, as if keen to reach his purpose for having come.

  Constantine offered him wine, fruit, and nuts. Vicenze accepted his hospitality, making light conversation of irrelevances until the servant had left. Then he turned straight to Constantine, his eyes brilliant with urgency.


  “The situation in the city is very serious,” he said, his voice sharp. “Fear is mounting every day, and we are on the brink of civil unrest, which could be disastrous for the well-being of the poor and the most vulnerable.”

  “I know,” Constantine agreed, taking a handful of almonds from the exquisite porphyry bowl. “They are terrified of the army that Charles of Anjou will bring. They grew up on tales of crusader murders and destruction.” He could not resist saying that, reminding Vicenze that because he was Roman he was partisan in the atrocity.

  Vicenze bit his lip. “They need something to restore their faith in God, and in the Blessed Virgin,” he said firmly. “Faith is greater than all the fear in the world. Brave men, giants in the cause of Christ, have faced crucifixion, lions, the fires of torture, and not flinched. They have gone to martyrdom because their faith was perfect. We are not asking that of the people, only belief, so God can work the miracle that will save not only their souls, but their bodies as well, maybe even their homes, their city. Has not the Blessed Virgin done it before, when the people trusted in her?”

  In spite of his loathing for the man, Constantine was drawn into his vision. He spoke the truth, pure and lovely as the first light of dawn in a blemishless sky. “Yes… yes, she has, in the face of the impossible,” he agreed.

  “The invaders are coming by sea,” Vicenze countered. “Has not God power over the wind and the waves? Could Christ not walk upon the water, and calm the storm-or cause one?”

  Constantine felt his breath tighten. “But it would be a miracle. We have not the passion of faith to bring such a thing to pass.”

  “Then we must gain it!” Vicenze said, his eyes gleaming. “The faith of the people could save them, and surely there is nothing else left that will?”

  “But what can we do?” Constantine said in a whisper. “They are too frightened to believe anymore.”

  “All they need is to see the hand of God in something, and they will believe again,” Vicenze replied. “You must perform a smaller miracle for them, not only to the saving of their bodies, and your city and all it has been in the world, but to the saving of their souls. They are your charge, your holy responsibility.”

  “I thought you wanted their loyalty to Rome?” Constantine said.

  Vicenze gave what passed for a smile. “Dead they are lost to all of us. And perhaps it has not occurred to you, but I do not want the souls of the crusaders stained with Christian blood either.”

  Constantine believed him. “What can we do?” he asked.

  Vicenze took a deep breath and let it out softly. “There is a fine man, a good man, one who has helped his fellows, given of his means to the poor, and is deeply loved by all who know him. He is a Venetian living here, by the name of Andrea Mocenigo. He is aware of the situation-that we stand on the brink of destruction-and he will help.”

  Constantine was lost. “How? What can he do?”

  “Everyone knows Mocenigo is ill,” Vicenze said. “He is prepared to take a poison which will make him collapse. I will carry an antidote to it, and when you come to bless him, in the name of God and the Holy Virgin, I will give it to him, discreetly, and he will recover. People will see a miracle, dramatic and unmistakable. Word will spread, and faith will leap up again as a fire. Hope will be restored.” He did not add that Constantine would be seen as a hero, even a saint.

  A sharp whisper of doubt stabbed Constantine’s mind. “Then why do you not do it yourself? Then the people would give Rome the credit.”

  Vicenze’s mouth turned down at the corners. “The people mistrust me,” he said simply. “It must be someone they have seen in the service of God all their lives. I know of no one else with that reputation in Constantinople.”

  All this was true, Constantine knew. This was what he had worked and waited for all his life.

  “Who knows?” Vicenze went on. “Maybe God will grant you a real miracle. Is this not the purpose for which you have lived?”

  It was. Whatever Vicenze did, whatever that loathsome Palombara said to him, Constantine would be unshakable, without doubt or fear, his mind as clear as a burning light. He would not fail.

  But he still would use his mind, his experience, and his own safeguards. He would say nothing of them to Vicenze, who for all his unwitting usefulness was still the enemy.

  “I do not want a theological debate about it!” Constantine said furiously to Anastasius when asking for his help and receiving in return a passionate argument against the whole idea. “I want you there as a physician to attend Mocenigo, in case Vicenze is not to be trusted.”

  “Of course he is not to be trusted,” Anastasius said bitterly. “What on earth can I do?”

  “Carry another dose of the antidote,” Constantine retorted. “You cannot refuse to do that. If you do, you are turning your back on Mocenigo, and on the people.”

  Anastasius sighed. He was caught, and they both knew it. If he spoke out against the plot or betrayed its nature to the people, it would shatter the belief they were clinging to, perhaps even provoke the final panic that could crush them all.

  Ninety-three

  ANNA ENTERED THE HOUSE OF MOCENIGO WITH ONLY A faint thought in the back of her mind that this was where Giuliano had lived for so long. All her conscious thought was for Mocenigo’s distress. She could feel the anxiety and the fear as soon as she entered. There was that peculiar, tense hush that comes with awareness of profound suffering that is expected to end in the death of someone who is deeply loved.

  Mocenigo’s wife, Teresa, met her at the door of his room. Her face was pale and hollow-eyed from lack of sleep, and her hair was pinned back simply to keep it out of the way, with no thought for beauty.

  “I am glad you have come,” she said simply. “The last medicine seems to have made him worse. We rely entirely upon Bishop Constantine. God is our last refuge. Perhaps He should have been the first?”

  Anna realized that Mocenigo himself might be party to the miracle, but his wife was not. It was too late to matter now. Anna followed her into Mocenigo’s room.

  It was stifling. The sun beat on the roofs and the windows were closed. The air smelled of body fluids, of pain and disease.

  Mocenigo himself was lying on top of the bed. His face was scarlet and bloated, sheened with sweat, and there were blisters around his mouth. The small vial of liquid in the pocket of Anna’s robe did not seem much remedy for this terrible distress.

  Mocenigo opened his eyes and looked at her. He smiled, even through the pain that all but consumed him. “I think it will take a miracle to bring me back from this,” he said, dry humor lighting his face for an instant, then vanishing. “But even for a day or two, it would be worth it, if it strengthens the people’s faith. Byzantium has been good to me. I would like to repay… a little.”

  She said nothing. The deceit of it saddened her, and she hated Constantine for forcing her to be part of it. Yet perhaps Mocenigo was right, and the people would be richer for it. It was his last gift to those he loved.

  There was a faint noise from outside, as if the crowd were growing larger. Word had spread that Mocenigo was dying and that Constantine would shortly come to see him. Was it grief or hope that brought them? Or both?

  There was a roar and then a cheer. Anna knew that Constantine had arrived. A moment later, one of his servants came to the sickroom door and requested that Mocenigo be brought out where his well-wishers could see him.

  Anna stepped forward to refuse him. “You can’t-”

  But she was overridden. Constantine’s servant was giving orders, and other people were coming in, solemn-faced, preparing to put him on a litter and lift him out. No one was listening to Anna. She was merely a physician, where Constantine spoke for God.

  She followed outside. Mocenigo was in such distress that he said nothing, too weak to protest. His wife, ashen-faced, simply obeyed Constantine’s servant.

  There were now more than two hundred people in the street, and soon it would be thre
e hundred and then four.

  Constantine stood on the top step, holding up his hands for silence. “I have not come to give this good man the last rites or prepare him for death,” he said clearly.

  “You’d better prepare us all!” a voice shouted. “We’re just as done for as he is!”

  There was a roar of agreement, and several people waved their arms.

  Constantine raised his hands higher. “The threat is real, and terrible,” he cried loudly. “But if the Holy Mother of God is with us, what can it matter if all men are against us, or the legions of darkness either?”

  The noise subsided. Several people crossed themselves.

  “I come to seek the will of God,” Constantine went on. “And if He grants me, to beseech the Holy Virgin to allow this man to be healed of his affliction, as a sign that we too will be healed of ours, and saved from the abominations of the invaders.”

  There was a moment’s incredulity. People turned to one another, puzzled, daring to hope. Then the cheer went up even more loudly than before, a little hysterical, hundreds willing themselves to believe, they knew the strength of faith to make such a miracle possible, and all the wild hope that went with it.

  Constantine smiled, lowered his hands, and turned to Mocenigo. The sick man was now lying on the pallet in front of him, breathing shallowly, but seeming to be at ease.

  The crowd fell into an almost paralyzed silence. No one even shuffled a foot.

  Constantine lowered his hands and placed them on Mocenigo’s head.

  Anna searched with increasing panic for sight of Vicenze in the crowd; then she saw him, close by but not to the fore, as if he were here only to witness. Better it were so.

  Constantine’s voice rose clear and charged with emotion. He called on the Holy Virgin Mary to heal Andrea Mocenigo, as a blessing to him for his faith and as a sign to the people that she still watched over them and would keep and preserve them in the face of all adversity.