The Sheen on the Silk Read online

  Seventeen

  FROM THE EMPEROR,” SIMONIS SAID, HER EYES WIDE AS she stood in the doorway of the herb room. “They want you to go with them, immediately. He is ill.”

  “I expect someone is ill,” Anna replied, following after Simonis toward the outer room. “A servant, perhaps.”

  Simonis snorted with impatience and pushed open the door for Anna to go in.

  Simonis was right: It was Michael himself who wished to consult Anna. Almost lost for words, she gathered up her case of herbs and ointments and accompanied the servants out along the street and up toward the Blachernae Palace.

  Inside, she was met by a court official and together they were escorted by two of the Varangian Guard, the emperor’s personal troops. They led her through the magnificent, crumbling aisles and galleries to his private apartments. He was apparently suffering from some complaint of the skin that was causing him severe discomfort.

  It must have been Zoe who had spoken of her in such a way that the emperor would call her. What would she want in return? Without any doubt at all, it would be a large favor and probably dangerous. Yet it would never have been possible for Anna not to accept. One did not refuse the emperor.

  She would have liked to. Failing to cure him might be the end of her career, at least among the wealthy and influential. Zoe would certainly not favor her again. She would be fortunate if that were all the revenge she took for such an embarrassment to her own reputation. And not every ailment was curable, even with the Jewish and Arabic medicine Anna used, let alone Christian.

  Even though the great days of the court eunuchs were past, and the emperor no longer spoke to or listened to the world solely through them, there were still many here. She would have to deceive them with her imposture.

  She had tried so hard to mimic Leo that she was losing her own identity, pretending to dislike apricots when she loved them, to like sweet pastries full of honey when they made her gag. She had had to spit out a hazelnut because it revolted her, after she had seen him take one and copied without thinking. She was using his phrases, adopting his voice, and she despised herself for it. She did it because it was safe. Nothing of her old, female self must be left to betray her.

  How great a fool was she making of herself now, hurrying along the vast gallery behind a somber-robed official and the huge Varangian Guardsmen, hoping to practice the medicine her father had taught her—on the emperor, no less—because she thought she could rescue Justinian? Her father would have understood, and even approved her aims, but would he question her sanity in trying to put it into practice? What would he think of her if he knew the truth of what she owed Justinian? He had died before she had found the courage to confess to him.

  The official had stopped, and there was another man in front of Anna. He was tall and broad-shouldered, but with the smooth face of a eunuch, the long arms and slightly odd grace of movement. She could not judge his age, except that he was certainly older than her. The skin of a eunuch was like that of a woman, softer, more prone to fine lines, and a eunuch’s hair seldom receded as a whole man’s often did. When he spoke, his voice was low-pitched and his diction beautiful.

  “I am Nicephoras,” he introduced himself. “I will conduct you to the emperor. Is there anything you need that we may bring to you? Water? Incense? Sweet oils?”

  She met his eyes for an instant, then looked down. She must not forget that this eunuch was one of the most senior courtiers in Byzantium. “Water would be helpful, and whatever sweet oils the emperor most favors,” she replied.

  Nicephoras gave the order to a servant waiting in a farther doorway almost out of sight. Then he dismissed the official who had brought Anna, and the guards, and he himself led the way forward.

  Outside the emperor’s room, he stopped. Anna felt as if he must see through her disguise and was about to tell her so. She wondered for a hideous moment if they might actually search her before allowing her into Michael’s presence. Then she had an appalling thought as to where his skin rash might be, and after she looked at it she would never be forgiven for the intimacy. It even came to her in a wild instant to confess now, before it was beyond recall. The sweat broke out on her skin, and the blood beat so loudly in her ears that it almost deafened her.

  Nicephoras was speaking, and she had not heard him.

  He realized it.

  “He is in some pain,” he repeated patiently. “Do not ask him anything unless it is necessary for you to know it, and address him formally at all times. Do not stare. Thank him if you wish, but do not embarrass him. Are you ready?”

  She would never be ready, but it was too late to run away. She must have courage. Whatever lay ahead, it would not be as terrible as turning back. “Yes … I am.” Her voice came out as a squeak. This was ridiculous. Suddenly she wanted to giggle. It welled up inside her like hysteria, and she had to pretend to sneeze to hide it. Nicephoras must think she was a simpleton.

  Nicephoras led the way into the bedchamber. It was huge, and unlike the official room, this was barely refurnished even after more than eleven years. Michael lay on the bed with a loose tunic on the upper part of his body and linen bedding over his thighs up to the waist. He looked flushed, his face and neck mottled red. His mane of black hair, threaded with gray, was damp and bedraggled.

  “Majesty, the physician, Anastasius Zarides,” Nicephoras said distinctly, but keeping his voice lowered. He gestured for Anna to approach the emperor. She obeyed as confidently as she could. The more afraid you were, the more important it was to carry yourself with courage. Her father had told her that over and over.

  “Majesty, may I be of service?” she asked.

  Michael looked her up and down curiously. “The Jews don’t have eunuchs, yet Zoe Chrysaphes said you know Jewish medicine.”

  The room swam in her vision, heat burning up her cheeks. “Majesty, I am Byzantine, from Nicea, but I have learned as much as I could of all forms of medicine.” She almost added, “from my father,” and realized just in time that that might be a fatal error. She bit her tongue, hoping the pain would remind her of her lapse.

  “Born in Nicea?” he asked.

  “No, Majesty, Thessalonica.”

  His eyes widened fractionally. “So was I. If I wanted a priest, I’d send for one. I have hundreds at my beck and call, all of them more than willing to tell me my sins.” He smiled bleakly and winced. “And give me due penance, I’m sure.” He pulled his tunic apart at the neck, showing the red, blistered weals across his chest. “What is wrong with me?”

  She saw the anxiety in his eyes and the sweat beading his brow.

  She studied the rash, memorizing the pattern of it, the frequency of the blisters, and the degree to which they were raised. “Please cover yourself again, in case you get chilled,” she requested. “May I touch your brow to gauge your fever?”

  “Do it,” he responded.

  She did so and was unhappy with how hot he seemed. “Does the rash burn?”

  “Don’t they all?” he said tersely.

  “No, Majesty. Sometimes they only itch, sometimes they ache, others are very painful, like lots of little stings. Does your head ache? Have you any difficulty in breathing? Does your throat hurt?” She wanted to ask him also if his belly hurt, if he had vomited or suffered diarrhea or constipation, but how could she ask an emperor such things? Perhaps she could ask Nicephoras later.

  He answered all her questions, mostly in the affirmative. She asked for permission to withdraw and spoke privately with Nicephoras.

  “What is it?” he asked her with deep concern. “Is he poisoned?”

  She realized with a jolt of horror how realistic was that suspicion. She had never considered what it must be like to live forever in the shadow of envy and hate such that you never know which of your servants, or even your family, might wish you dead passionately enough to connive at bringing it about.

  “I don’t know yet,” she said aloud to Nicephoras. “Wash gently wherever the rash has come. Make
sure the water is clean. I will prepare medicines, and unguents to relieve the pain.”

  She took a bold step. Timidity would cause even greater fear. “Then I will learn what it is, and prepare an antidote,” she said. A hideous thought flashed through her mind that it could be Zoe herself who might have poisoned him. She was highly skilled in beauty preparations; her own superbly preserved appearance was testimony to that. Possibly she knew poison just as well.

  “Nicephoras!” she called as he moved away.

  He turned, waiting for her to speak, his dark eyes anxious.

  “Use new oils, ones that you have purchased yourself,” she warned. “Nothing that is a gift from anyone at all. Purify the water. Give him nothing to eat that you have not prepared, and has not already been tasted.”

  “I will,” he promised, and then added wryly, “and for my own safety, I will have a companion watch my every move, and we will both touch and taste everything.” His features were powerful, though they had no beauty, except for his mouth. But when he smiled, even ruefully as now, it lit his entire face.

  Anna realized with a shiver one small shadow of what she had stepped into.

  When she returned to the palace the following day, she saw Nicephoras first. He looked anxious, and he made no pretense at conversation.

  “He is no worse,” he said immediately they were alone. “But he still finds eating painful, and the rash has not subsided. Is it poison?”

  “There is accidental poison, as well as intentional,” she prevaricated. “Some foods spoil, or are poisonous if unripe, or if they are touched by things unclean. One may cut an apricot with a knife, one side of which has been smeared with poison, the other not. Eat one half—”

  “I see,” he interrupted. “I must be more careful.” He caught her flash of understanding. “For my own sake,” he added with an ironic curl of his lip.

  “Do you fear anyone in particular?” she asked.

  “There are factions all over the city,” he replied. “Mostly those who feel passionately against the union with Rome; or who are exploiting those who do. You’ve seen the riots yourself.”

  She felt the sweat prickle her skin, acutely conscious of Constantine’s part in the unrest and now her knowledge of it. “Yes.”

  “And of course there are always those who have their own ambitions to the throne,” he added, his voice lower. “Our history is full of usurpation and overthrow. And there are those who harbor desires of revenge for what they see as past wrongs.”

  “Past wrongs?” She swallowed hard. This was getting painfully close to Justinian, and if she was honest, to herself. “You mean personal enmity?” she said softly.

  “There are those who feel that John Lascaris should have remained emperor, regardless of his youth, inexperience, and profoundly contemplative nature.” His face creased with pain for that old, terrible mutilation. “There was a man in the city until recently—Justinian Lascaris,” he said quietly. “Presumably a kinsman. He came to the palace several times. The emperor spoke with him out of our hearing, and I don’t know what about. But he was involved in the murder of Bessarion Comnenos, and he is now exiled in Palestine.”

  “Could he have returned and done this?” Her voice shook, and she did not know what to do to control her hands. She pushed them half under her robes, twisting the cloth.

  “No.” The idea brought a flicker of bleak humor to his eyes. “He is locked in a monastery in Sinai. He will never leave it.”

  “Why did he collude in killing Bessarion Comnenos?” She had to ask, in spite of the danger to herself and her fear of the answer.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Bessarion was one of many who hated the union with Rome, and he was gathering a considerable following.”

  “And was this Justinian Lascaris for union with Rome, then?” Surely that could not be?

  “No.” Nicephoras smiled with a surprising softness. “He was profoundly against it. Justinian’s arguments were less theological, but more telling than Bessarion’s.”

  “Then it couldn’t have been a religious disagreement,” she said, grasping at straws of hope.

  “No. The enmity, if it was such, seems to have been born of his friendship with Antoninus, who appears to have been the one actually to have killed Bessarion.”

  “Why would he? Was he not a soldier, a very practical man?” She felt she must explain herself. “I have treated men, soldiers, who knew him.”

  He looked at her directly. “There was a suggestion that Antoninus and Bessarion’s wife were lovers.”

  “Helena Comnena? She’s very beautiful….”

  “Do you think so?” He seemed interested, even puzzled. “I find her empty, like a painting whose colors are flat. There is no passion in her, and little ability to know the pain of high dreams one cannot grasp.”

  “Did Antoninus see that in her? Why else would he kill Bessarion?”

  “I don’t know,” Nicephoras admitted. “I keep coming back to the union with Rome and his passion against it, his attempt to stir up the people to resist. Which leads me nowhere, because both Justinian and Antoninus were against it also.”

  She sensed a complexity of emotions in him and wondered what Nicephoras’s own feelings were about the union.

  “Does Bessarion still have followers alive?” She dragged his attention back to the present issue. “Not just admirers, but people who would continue his cause?”

  “Justinian and Antoninus are gone,” he replied with an edge of sadness. “I think the others have drifted back to their own concerns, other loyalties. Bessarion was a dreamer, like Bishop Constantine, imagining Byzantium can be saved by faith rather than diplomacy. We have never relied on great armies or navies. We have always pitted our enemies against each other, and stood apart from their battles ourselves. But that takes skill, willingness to compromise, and above all the nerve to hold on and wait.”

  “A rare kind of courage,” she conceded, while thinking of Constantine’s passionate belief in the Virgin’s power to protect them, if they kept the Orthodox faith. Constantine’s way of defending the city was surely what God wanted; the emperor’s was the intellectual way of man trusting to himself and the arm of flesh—or, more accurately, of cunning.

  She wondered what Justinian had really believed rather than what it was politic to say.

  A servant had come to call them, and she followed Nicephoras into the emperor’s presence.

  Michael was still a little feverish, but the rash was definitely improved and no longer spreading. This time, she had brought leaves to make an infusion—a different sort that would reduce fever and pain—and also more ointment of frankincense, mastic, and elder bark, mixed with oil and white of egg.

  Two days after that when she came again, the emperor was up and dressed. He had sent for her to thank her for her skill and to pay her handsomely. She did not allow him to see the intensity of her relief.

  “Was I poisoned, Anastasius Zarides?” Michael asked, his black eyes searching her face.

  She had expected the question. “No, Majesty.”

  His arched eyebrows rose even higher. “Then I have sinned, but you did not tell me?”

  She had expected that also. “I am not a priest, Majesty.”

  He considered a moment. “Nicephoras says you have intelligence, and that you are honest. Is he wrong, then?”

  “I hope not.” She made her voice as pious as she could and avoided his eyes.

  “Do I sin in seeking union with Rome, and you have not the courage or the faith to tell me?” he persisted.

  This question she had not foreseen. There was laughter in his eyes, and impatience. She had only seconds to think. “I believe in medicine, Majesty. I do not know enough about faith. It did not save us in 1204, but I don’t know why not.”

  “Perhaps we had not enough?” he suggested, looking her up and down slowly, as if he might read her answer in the way she stood or the hands knotted together in front of her. “Is lack of faith a si
n, or is it an affliction?”

  “To know whether to have faith or not, one has to understand what it is that God has promised,” she replied, searching her mind frantically. “To have faith that God will give you something merely because you want it is foolish.”

  “Will He not protect His true Church, because He wants it?” he responded. “Or does it depend upon us observing every detail, and then standing against Rome?”

  He was playing with her. Nothing she said would change his mind, but it might decide her fate. Perhaps he would know if she was lying about her beliefs to please him, and then he would not believe her medical opinions as honest, either.

  “I think our blind trust dissolved in blood and ashes seventy years ago,” she said. “Maybe God expects us to find a way to use both our intelligence and our faith this time. We will never all be just, or all be wise. The strong must defend the weak.”

  He appeared satisfied and changed the subject.

  “So how did you cure me, Anastasius Zarides? I wish to know.”

  “With herbs to reduce the fever and the pain, Majesty, ointment to heal the rash, and care to make sure you were not infected by spoiled food, or cloth or oils that were not clean. Your other servants would take care you were not deliberately poisoned. You have tasters. I advised them to be careful of all knives, spoons, and dishes for themselves also.”

  “And prayer?”

  “Most profoundly, Majesty, but I did not need to tell them that.”

  “For my health, and your survival, no doubt.” This time there was quite open laughter in his face.

  On the way home, she still wondered if he had been poisoned and if Zoe had had anything to do with it. To be subject to Rome might feel like rape to her. Had she convinced herself that this time blind, passionate faith would save them?

  Suddenly Anna was aware of the depth of her own doubt, and perhaps the weight of sin that might have caused it. Were the differences between one church and another of any importance to God, or were they only matters of philosophy, rituals of men adapted to suit one culture or another?