The Sheen of the Silk

Michael was hastily dressed, but wide awake. His eyes burned black, intensely alive in spite of his haggard face and the hollows where the bones of his head seemed to strain the parchment-thin skin.

“Majesty,” Giuliano said quietly.

“Speak!”

Giuliano looked up and met Michael’s gaze as if they had been equals. “Charles of Anjou will never threaten Byzantium again, Majesty. His fleet lies burned at the bottom of the Bay of Messina. He is a finished man. Even Sicily will breathe free from his oppression.”

Michael stared. “You have seen this yourself?”

“Captain Dandolo set the torches, Majesty,” Nicephoras offered.

“You are Venetian,” Michael said incredulously.

“Half, Majesty. My mother was Byzantine.” He said it with pride.

Michael nodded slowly, the tension and pain easing out of his body, the smile spreading over this face, his eyes bright. He waved at Nicephoras, still looking at Giuliano. “Give this man everything he wants. Give him food, wine, rest, clean clothes.” He took the gold-and-emerald ring from his finger and held it out.

Giuliano looked at its burning beauty.

“Take it,” Michael told him. “Now we will hear the city rejoice. Nicephoras! Have the good news spread. Let there be dancing in the streets, wine and feasting, music, laughter. Put on our best clothes.” He stopped and looked again at Giuliano. “Zoe Chrysaphes is dead. It’s a pity. How she would have laughed at the irony of this. Byzantium thanks you, Giuliano Dandolo. Now go and eat, drink, take your ease. You will be paid in gold.”

Giuliano bowed and withdrew, dizzy with triumph.

But once in the corridor, he could think only of telling the people he cared for in the city, starting with Anastasius. He must tell him first; all the others could hear afterward. The news would be everywhere, but he must tell Anastasius himself, see his joy, his relief.

“Thank you, but I must tell my friends the news,” he said to Nicephoras beside him. “I want to do that myself. I must be there when they hear.”

Nicephoras nodded. “Of course. You will find Anastasius in Galata, in the house of Avram Shachar.”

“Not here? Not in his own house?” A chill touched Giuliano. “Why? Is something wrong?” Suddenly the news was hollow. He realized how intensely he had been looking forward to telling Anastasius.

“You will find him much… changed,” Nicephoras replied. “But quite well.”

“Changed? How?”

“Shachar lives in the Street of the Apothecaries. It will all explain itself. Go. Before they leave for the south. Leo and Simonis went from here yesterday already. You have little time.” He smiled. “Byzantium owes you much, and we will not forget.”

Giuliano clasped his hand again, the emperor’s ring digging into his flesh, then he turned and left.

• • •

As soon as Michael Palaeologus, Equal of the Apostles, was alone, he went to his own rooms and closed the doors. He was tired. The long battle had exhausted him, and there was a weakness inside him that he knew would not heal.

He bent in front of the locked cabinet and took the key from around his neck. He slipped it in the lock and opened it.

She was there, as always, her calm face in its sublime beauty, the Mother of God that St. Luke had painted and Zoe Chrysaphes had given him. He knelt in front of her, the tears sliding easily down his face.

“Thank you,” he said simply. “In spite of our weakness and our doubts, you have saved us from our enemies. And a greater miracle than that, you have saved us from ourselves.”

He crossed himself in the old Greek way, but he remained on his knees.

Giuliano found the Street of the Apothecaries, but it seemed to take an age, and all the way down the hill from the palace, into the docks, and on the quayside waiting for the water taxi, his mind was racing. What had Nicephoras meant? What sort of change? He did not want Anastasius different from the passion and the courage, the wit, and the gentleness that he remembered. He wanted the same warm, clever, and vulnerable person he had known and cared for so profoundly.

He strode up the Street of the Apothecaries in the hot summer sun, past the empty shops and markets, the deserted houses. The news would be here any moment, spreading like fire. He wanted to be the first to tell Anastasius.

“Where is the shop of Avram Shachar?” he called out to a man slowly opening his door and peering out.

The man pointed.

Giuliano thanked him and increased his pace.

He found the right door and banged on it, too hard, and realized with embarrassment that he was being rude.

“I’m sorry,” he said as soon as it was opened. “I’m looking for Anastasius Zarides. Is he here?”

Shachar nodded, but he did not step aside or invite him in.

“I’m Giuliano Dandolo, a friend of Anastasius. I have great good news. Charles of Anjou is fallen. His fleet is sunk-burned, and at the bottom of the sea. I want to be the one to tell him…” He realized he was gabbling and took a breath to steady himself. “Please.”

Shachar nodded slowly, his eyes searching Giuliano’s face. “That is true?”

“Yes. I swear. I have already told the emperor. But I want to tell Anastasius myself-and you.”

Shachar’s face split into a broad smile. “Thank you. You had better come in.” He pulled the door wide and pointed to a room at the farther end of the corridor. “The herb room is there. Anastasius will be working with them. No one will disturb you.” He seemed about to add something more, then changed his mind.

“Thank you.” Giuliano brushed past him and went down to the door. Then apprehension swept over him. What changes had Nicephoras meant? What had happened? Was Anastasius ill? Injured?

He knocked hard on the door.

It opened and a woman stood just inside. She was taller than average, with a slender throat, high cheekbones, and bright chestnut hair. There was something beautiful in her that tugged at him as if he had known her for as long as he could remember, yet he had never seen her before.

The color swept up her skin in a burning tide.

“Giuliano…” Her voice was husky, as if she found it difficult to speak.

He did not know what to say. He knew now. He felt a rage of embarrassment burst open inside him for all the things he had said, the emotions, the stories shared about which he could recall not the words, but the intense feeling of companionship, almost intimacy, as if nothing need be hidden.

Then he remembered the awakening of physical hunger in himself and the shame and confusion that had all but crippled him. He had struggled with such pain to stifle that.

It seared through him with shock. What had she felt?

He averted his eyes and saw the herbs and ointments packed away, as if to travel.

“Is Shachar leaving?” he asked impulsively. “Are you?”

She smiled, blinking rapidly as if to dispel tears. “The crusaders will come any day now. When they do, it will not be good for Jews to be here-or Muslims.”

“Is that why…” He looked at her woman’s tunic. It embarrassed him, and pleased him, to see how feminine her body was beneath it, as rich as Zoe’s.

“No…,” she said quickly. “Helena was going to ally with the invaders, to rule with them. She’s Michael’s illegitimate daughter. I found proof of her plans and I told the emperor. She told him I was a woman.”

He caught the pain in her voice, then looked up and saw it harsh and sad in her face. He could only imagine how it hurt.

“Anas-” He stopped. He did not know her name.

“A

He reached out his hand, not to touch her, just in a gesture. He thought of all his own disillusion, the dreams and the friendships failed, the long loneliness of it.

“It’s over now,” she said quietly. “The emperor allowed me to go, but I ca