The Sheen of the Silk

“Really? Why?” She stood perfectly still; only the flames of the fire in the great hearth gave an illusion of movement in the room.

“Because if Byzantium falls, then the rest of Christendom will not be far behind it,” he replied. That was not the whole truth. Part of Palombara’s motivation was anger at the hollowness of the papacy, the departure from the passion and the honor that it should have had. And part of it was, to his surprise, that he had come to admire the subtlety and the intricate, devious beauty of Byzantine culture. If it was ruined, the world would lose.

She nodded slowly. “Why are you telling me? It is the pope who needs to know. He is shortsighted, and worldly. Why do you suppose we in the Orthodox Church hate the idea of owing him allegiance?”

“I came to suggest a different course of action.”

Her eyes widened. “Different from what?”

“From pouring Greek fire over the walls onto the heads of the invaders,” he replied with a smile. “Not that I have anything against that. I would just like to strike a little sooner.”

He had her complete attention.

“At his support in Europe, before he sets sail,” he continued. “Particularly in Spain, Portugal, possibly parts of France. To foment trouble, insurrection, to appeal to self-interest, trade, to make very clear indeed some of the disadvantages if Charles of Anjou succeeds.”

“Trouble costs money,” she pointed out, but the flame was back in her eyes. “Michael’s Treasury is fully engaged in armaments for defense.”

Palombara knew that Michael’s Treasury was all but empty, but he did not say so. “What about the great merchant houses of Constantinople?” he asked instead. “Could they not be persuaded to contribute-handsomely?”

Very slowly, she smiled. “You know, my lord bishop, I think they could. I am sure there are… ways to convince them.”

He kept his eyes on hers. “If I can be of assistance, please tell me.”

“Oh, I will. May I offer you wine? Almonds?”

He accepted, as if to eat and drink together sealed a bargain.

Eighty-six

THE WINTER SEEMED TO ZOE UNNATURALLY DARK, BUT after Palombara’s visit the cold no longer touched her bones. She knew what she was going to do, it merely required a little thought as to exactly how.

She knew from Scalini and other men like him that the forces of the new crusade were gathering in the West. He had brought her word of siege engines, catapults, horse armor and trappings ready for the foot soldiers and the mounted knights that would mass in Sicily. They would storm Constantinople, then ride in triumph into Jerusalem, with Charles of Anjou at their head. Anyone in their path would be trampled. A road stained with blood had never troubled crusaders.

Also of great concern to Zoe was the change in Helena. It dated since soon after Eirene’s death-so soon, in fact, that it was hard to believe they were unco

Zoe stood warming herself by the fire. The thought of Helena kept returning to her mind, so sharp that it was as if someone had left a window open, letting in a knife cut of ice-laden air from outside.

Helena would not stand on the walls with her mother and pour fire on the invaders, then die in her own funeral pyre. She was a survivor, not a martyr. She would find a way to escape and start again somewhere else. And she would certainly escape with money.

Michael would never yield. He would die before he accommodated Charles. Not that Charles would leave him alive anyway. He would destroy all royal claimants, and if Helena did not know that, then she was a fool. Her birth would be her death sentence. Charles would leave his puppet emperor without a rival of any sort.

The answer came to Zoe with the scorching heat of the Greek fire she pla

Zoe’s mind raced, horrified. It was betrayal beyond imagining.

She sat with her arms around herself, shivering in spite of the fire. Before it came anywhere near that, she must raise the money Palombara had suggested, buy all the trouble, anger, and rebellion she could. And she knew now exactly where that money was coming from.

Her power had always lain in knowledge of other people’s secrets and the proof that could ruin them. The man to help her now was Philotheos Makrembolites. She had heard only last week that he was on his deathbed. Perfect! In pain, frightened, and with nothing to lose.

Zoe went to her herb room and prepared various mixtures for the relief of different kinds of pain. She also collected sleeping powders, sweet-smelling oils, and restoratives that would give a short-lived clarity to the mind, even if after that there was only the slipping away into the last silence.

She bathed and dressed, perfuming herself but wearing rich, sober colors, as befitted one going to visit the dying. She did not worry that Philotheos would not receive her. He had a withered arm from the fires of 1204 and a bitter heart. He would want to relive old wrongs and would not be unwilling to help her exact a vengeance that was beyond his own reach. Secrets were worth nothing in the grave.

He received her in his dim, overhot room with as much curiosity as she had hoped. He hoisted himself onto his elbows, wincing with pain and screwing up his face into a snarl, drawing his lips back from stained teeth. “Come to gloat at my death, Zoe Chrysaphes?” he said, his breath wheezing out of his lungs with a sound like tearing cloth. “Make the most of it. Your turn will come, and you’ll likely see the city put to blood and fire again before that happens.”

She put down the leather satchel in which she had brought the herbs and ointments. They knew each other far too well for pretenses. She would not have come except for good reasons of her own.

“What’s in there?” he asked, eyeing it suspiciously.

“Relief from pain,” she answered. “Temporarily, of course. It will all be finished when God wishes it.”

“You are little younger than I am, for all your paint and perfume. You smell like an alchemist’s parlor,” he responded.

She wrinkled her nose. “You don’t. Rather more like a charnel house. Do you wish a little ease or not?”

“What’s the price?” His eyes were yellowing, as if his kidneys were failing him. “Have you spent all your money? No more charms to get men to give it to you?”

“Keep your money. You can bury it with you, for all I care,” she replied. “Better that than let it fall into crusader hands. They’ll probably dig you up anyway, just to see if there’s anything worth taking.”

“I’d rather they ravaged my corpse than my living body,” he retorted, looking her up and down. His gaze lingered on her breasts and then her belly. “Perhaps you’d better kill yourself before they come.”

“Not before I’ve finished what I mean to do.” She would not be distracted by his spite.

Interest flared up in his face. “What’s that?”

“Revenge, of course. What else is there left?”

“Nothing,” he answered. “Who is there to pay anything now? The Kantakouzenos are all gone, and the Vatatzes, the Doukas, Bessarion Comnenos. Who’s left?”

“Of course they’re gone,” she said impatiently. “But there are new traitors who would sell us again. Let us begin with the Skleros, then perhaps the Akropolites, and the Sphrantzes.”

He breathed out with a harsh rattle in his throat, and a little more of the color drained from his face.

She was seized by a fear that he would die before he could tell her what she needed to know. There was a jug of water on the table. She rose, took a small glass, and measured a portion of liquid into it from one of the vials she had brought, then added a little water. She returned to the bed and held it for him.