The Sheen of the Silk

He was so stu

Then he smiled. Her envy was so highly visible. Zoe was gone, and now Helena could not taste her victory completely. Without Zoe to see, there was no flavor in it. But she could at least destroy Anastasius, the daughter Zoe had preferred.

Palombara met Helena’s eyes and saw the fury in them. “My condolences,” he repeated, then excused himself and walked away.

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 A

Dressed as a woman, she would be beautiful. Why did A

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, A

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 A

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.”

A

“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 stu

“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 pla

A

“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.