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Another consideration, of less importance but still heavy in her mind, was that she did not want the pressure to marry again. She was a widow, and even though she could sometimes think of Eustathius without rage or pain, it would be impossible to take another husband.
“You try too hard to be like a man,” Leo said. “There are many kinds of eunuchs, depending on the time of castration, and the degree. Some of us castrated late are nearly men, but with your slender build and soft skin and voice, you are pretending to be one castrated in childhood. You must get it exactly right, or you will draw attention to yourself.”
She watched him as he moved about the room. He was tall and slight, a little stooping as the years caught up with him, but surprisingly strong. His thin hands could break wood she could not even bend. He walked with a peculiar grace, neither male nor female. She must copy that gait.
“The way you bend,” Leo was saying to her. “Like this…” He demonstrated, moving easily. “Not like that.” He bent a trifle sideways, like a woman. She immediately saw the difference and cursed her own carelessness.
“And your hands. You don’t use them enough when you are speaking. Look… like this.” He gestured eloquently, his fingers graceful and yet oddly not feminine.
She copied experimentally.
Simonis was watching, her dark, once handsome face creased with anxiety. Was she also afraid? She must see the differences between A
“Your food will spoil,” she said dryly, her call for them to eat the meal she had prepared so carefully.
Afterward, A
An elderly servant let her in. He informed her gravely that Bishop Constantine was presently occupied, but he was expecting her and would receive her as soon as he was free. The servant’s face was bland, smooth, and beardless. He regarded her completely without interest.
She waited in a great room with a mosaic-tiled floor and ocher-colored walls; two magnificent icons were almost luminous in the somber light. One was of the Virgin Mary, all in blues and golds inside a jeweled frame, the other of Christ Pantocrator, in warm ochers and browns and dark burnt umber.
A slight movement caught her eye and she turned from the icons’ quiet, intense beauty and looked through the archway to a brighter room and, beyond it, an inside court. The large, pale-robed figure of the bishop stood in the reflected sun. There was a smile on his face as he extended his hand to the woman who knelt before him, her dark cloak pooling on the floor around her, her hair caught up in an elaborate coil. Her lips touched his fingers, almost covering the gold ring with its jewel. For a moment the scene was like an icon itself, an image of forgiveness stamped on eternity.
The peace of it gripped A
The woman rose and the vision splintered and fell apart. She was A
Constantine made the sign of the cross and said something that was inaudible from this distance. The woman turned and went out by another doorway. A
Constantine welcomed her, smiling.
“Anastasius Zarides, Your Grace,” she said deferentially. “Physician, lately come from Nicea.”
“Welcome to Constantinople,” he replied warmly. His voice was deeper than that of most eunuchs, as if he had been castrated well after puberty. His face was smooth and beardless, his strong jaw becoming a trifle jowly. His light brown eyes were sharp. “How may I be of help to you?” He was courteous, but as yet without interest.
She had the lie well practiced. “A distant kinsman of mine, Justinian Lascaris, wrote to me that you had been of great help to him in a time of difficulty,” she began. “Then I did not hear from him again, and there are disturbing rumors of some tragedy, but I do not dare to pursue them, in case I bring him further trouble.” She shivered in spite of the warmth in the room. He was looking at her face and the way she stood, her hands loosely at her sides, as a woman would stand, deferentially. She raised her hands in front of her and then did not know what to do with them and let them fall again. How much did the bishop know about Justinian? That his parents were dead? That he was a widower? She must be careful. “His sister is anxious.” That, at least, was true.
Constantine’s large face was grave, and he nodded slowly. “I am afraid I have not good news for her,” he replied. “Justinian is alive, but in exile in the desert beyond Jerusalem.”
She contrived to look shocked. “But why? What has he done to warrant such a punishment?”
Constantine compressed his lips. “He was accused of complicity in the murder of Bessarion Comnenos. It was a crime that shocked the city. Bessarion was not only of noble birth, but regarded by many as something of a saint. Justinian was fortunate not to be executed.”
A
“That was the difficulty with which you helped him?” she said, as if it were a deduction. “But why would Justinian be accomplice to such a thing?”
Constantine considered for a moment. “Are you aware of the emperor’s intention to send envoys to mediate with the pope in little more than a year’s time?” he asked, unable to conceal the edge from his voice that betrayed his emotions. They clearly lay harsh and close to the surface, like a woman’s feelings, as a eunuch’s were said to be.
“I have heard whispers here and there,” she answered. “I hoped that it was not true.”
“It is true,” he rasped, his body stiff, his pale, strong hands half-raised. “The emperor is prepared to capitulate on everything in order to save us from the crusaders, whatever the blasphemy involved.”
She was aware that in spite of his passion, Constantine was watching her intently. “The Blessed Virgin will save us, if we trust in her,” she replied. “As she has done in the past.”
Constantine’s fine eyebrows rose. “Are you so new to the city you have not seen the stains of the crusaders’ fires seventy years ago?”
A
“You are a man of conviction,” Constantine said, a slow, sweet smile lighting his face.
She returned to her first question. “Why would Justinian assist anyone to kill Bessarion Comnenos?”
“He did not, of course,” Constantine replied regretfully. “Justinian was a fine man, and as much against the union with Rome as Bessarion was. There were other suggestions, the truth of which I don’t know.”
“What suggestions?” She remembered her deference just in time and lowered her eyes. “If you can tell me? Who is Justinian suspected of helping, and what happened to him?”
Constantine lifted his hands higher. It was an elegant gesture and yet disturbing in its lack of masculinity. She was sharply aware that he was not a man, but not a woman, either, yet still a passionate and highly intelligent being. He was what she was pretending to be.
“Antoninus Kyriakis.” His voice cut across her thoughts. “He was executed. He and Justinian were close friends.”