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Zoe propped herself up on her elbows. “Well, well. Such spirit! You would have been disappointed in Bessarion, I promise you.” Her voice was laced with disgust. “He had less manhood than you have, God help you!”
“Then why bother to murder him?” A
Zoe stopped, remaining motionless on one elbow, even though it must have been uncomfortable. “Such as whom?” she asked.
A
“You think I know?” That was a demand, and the edge of Zoe’s voice was razor-sharp.
A
Zoe leaned back against her pillows, her rich, bright hair fa
“In the cisterns?” A
Zoe shrugged. “Who knows? It wasn’t found until several days later, so perhaps the thief put it there.”
“An amulet?” A
“Oh, it was Bessarion’s,” Zoe assured her. “Very Orthodox, but unimaginative. Rather a graceless thing, really. Justinian had one far better, and he wore it all the time. Still had it when they took him away.”
“Really?” A
Zoe stared at her. “St. Peter walking on the waves, and Christ holding out his hands to him,” she answered, and for a moment there was emotion in her voice as well, a mixture of pain and wonder.
A
“Justinian was dining with friends half a mile away,” Zoe explained. “I presume that is why they suspected him of complicity. That, and the fact that it was the nets from his boat that Bessarion was found caught in and drowned.”
“Bessarion’s amulet could have got into the cisterns at any time,” A
Zoe settled a little more against her pillows. “The night he was killed,” she replied. “He wore it that day. Not only Helena said so, but his servants as well. She might lie, but they have not the sense to do so consistently, not all of them.”
“Justinian! I thought…” A
“Justinian?” Zoe rolled the name over on her tongue. “Sometimes he made me laugh. He could be abrupt and single-minded, but he wasn’t weak.” Her wide mouth tightened. “I hate weakness! Never trust a weak person, Anastasius, man or woman-or eunuch. Never trust someone who needs to be approved of. When things get hard, they’ll go with the wi
“So whom do I trust?” A
Zoe looked at her, taking in every line of her face, her eyes, her mouth, her hairless cheeks and soft throat. “Trust your enemies, if you know who they are. At least they’ll be predictable. And don’t look at me like that! I’m not your enemy-or your friend. And you will never predict me, because I’ll do whatever I need to, of God or of the devil, to get what I want.”
A
Zoe saw it in her face and laughed.
Twenty-one
ANNA PUT AWAY THE HERBS INTO HER CASE, SAID A FEW last words of advice to the patient, then excused herself.
“Thank you,” Nicephoras said sincerely as she came out into the hallway. He had obviously been waiting for her. “Will Meletios recover?” The concern was apparent in the slight strain in his voice. He was sending for her more and more often lately.
“Oh yes,” she said confidently, praying she was right. “His fever’s broken. Just get him to drink, and then start him eating again soon, perhaps tomorrow.”
Nicephoras was clearly relieved. She had found him to be both compassionate and highly intelligent. She had become increasingly aware of a loneliness in him to share the excitement of his knowledge. He not only collected works of art, especially from antiquity, but even more he loved the treasures of the mind and hungered to share them.
They walked together from the anteroom to one of the great galleries. He guided her a little to the left. “Have you met John Beccus, the new patriarch?”
“No.” She was interested and knew that it showed in her voice. This was the calling that Constantine had wanted, even though he was obliged to hide it.
“He is with the emperor now. If you wait a short while, I shall introduce you,” Nicephoras offered.
“Thank you,” she accepted quickly. They fell into conversation about art, moving into history and the events that had inspired certain styles, and from that into philosophy and religion. She found his views more liberal than she had expected, teasing her mind with new and broader ideas.
“I have just been reading some works by an Englishman named Roger Bacon,” he said with intense enthusiasm. “I have never discovered a mind like his. He writes of mathematics, optics, alchemy, and the manufacture of a fine black powder which can explode”-he jerked his hands apart to demonstrate-“with great force, when it is ignited. The thought is exciting and terrifying. It could be used for immense good, and perhaps even greater evil.” He looked at A
“He is an Englishman?” A
“I don’t know. Why?” Then he understood. “He is a Franciscan, not a crusader,” he said quickly. “He has many practical ideas, such as how lenses could be ground and then assembled into a machine so that the tiniest objects could appear enormous, and you could see them quite clearly.” His voice lifted again with the love of pure knowledge. “And other lenses so that objects miles distant could seem to be only yards away. Consider what that could do for the traveler, especially at sea. He is either one of the greatest geniuses in the world, or he lives in an ecstasy of madness.”
She looked down, hating what she was thinking. “Perhaps he is a genius, and can see all these things, but is he wise? The two are not the same.”