The Sheen of the Silk Read online

  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.”

  Anna’s mouth was dry and she found it hard to draw breath. The Comneni had been emperors for generations, before the Lascaris, and now the Palaeologi.

  “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?”

  Anna swallowed, her mind made up. “If our faith then had been unblemished, I am mistaken,” she replied. “I would rather die faithful than live having betrayed my God to Rome.”

  “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.”

  “And you saved Justinian?” Her voice was hoarse, no more than a whisper.

  He nodded slowly, allowing his hands to fall. “I did. The sentence was exile in the desert.”

  She smiled at him, the warmth of her gratitude burning through. “Thank you, Your Grace. You give me great heart for the struggle to keep faith.”

  He smiled back and made the sign of the cross.

  She went out into the street in a turmoil of emotions: fear, gratitude, dread of what she might find in the future, and in them all a powerful awareness of Constantine, strong, generous, firm in a clean and absolute faith.

  Of course Justinian had not murdered this Bessarion Comnenos. Although there were marked physical differences between them, in coloring and balance of features, Justinian was her twin brother. Anna knew him as well as she knew herself. He had written to her in the last desperate moments before being taken into exile and told her that Bishop Constantine had helped him, but not why or in what way.

  Now her whole purpose was to prove his innocence. She quickened her pace up the incline of the cobbled street.

  Three

  AFTER ANASTASIUS ZARIDES HAD LEFT, CONSTANTINE remained standing in the ocher-colored room. This physician was interesting and could very possibly prove an ally in the upcoming battle to defend the Orthodox faith from the ambitions of Rome. He was intelligent, subtle, and clearly well educated. With its uncouth ideas and love of violence, Rome could offer nothing to someone like that. If he had a eunuch’s patience, suppleness of mind, and instinctive understanding of emotion, then the brashness of the Latins would be as revolting to him as it was to Constantine himself.

  But the questions he had asked were troubling. Constantine had assumed that with Antoninus’s execution and Justinian’s exile, the matter of Bessarion’s murder was closed.

  He walked back and forth across the colored floor.

  Justinian had mentioned no close kinsmen. But then one did not often speak of cousins or those even further removed.

  If Constantine were not careful, the questions could become awkward, but it should be easy enough to deal with them. No one else knew Constantine’s part, or why he had helped or asked for mercy, and Justinian was safely in Judea, where he could say nothing.

  Anastasius Zarides might be useful, if in fact he was a skilled physician. Having come was from Nicea, a city known for its learning, he would have had even better opportunity to mix with Jews and Arabs and perhaps acquire a little of their medical knowledge. Constantine disliked admitting it even to himself, but such people were sometimes more skilled than the physicians who adhered strictly to Christian teaching that all illness was a result of sin.

  If Anastasius had greater skills, sooner or later he would gain more patients. When people are ill, they are frightened. When they fear they are dying, sometimes they tell secrets they would otherwise keep.

  He spent the rest of the afternoon on Church business, seeing priests and petitioners for one sort of grace or another, guidance or a leniency, an ordinance performed, a permission granted. As soon as the last one was gone, his mind returned to the eunuch from Nicea and the murder of Bessarion. There were precautions to take, in case the young man pursued his questions about Justinian elsewhere.

  Constantine had imagined that there was no danger left, but he needed to be certain.

  After donning his outdoor cloak over his silk tunic and brocaded and jeweled dalmatica, he went into the street. He walked quickly up the slight incline, raising his eyes to the massive two-tiered Aqueduct of Valens that towered up ahead of him. It had stood there for over six hundred years, bringing millions of gallons of clean water to the people of this region of the city. It pleased him just to look at it. Its great limestone blocks were held in place by the genius of its engineering rather than mortar. It seemed indestructible
and timeless, like the Church itself, held upright by truth and the laws of God, bringing the water of life to its faithful members.

  He turned left into a quieter street and went on upward, wrapping his cloak more tightly around himself. He was going to see Helena Comnena, Bessarion’s widow, just in case Anastasius Zarides should think to do the same. She could be the weak link among those left.

  It had stopped raining but the air was damp, and by the time he reached her house he was spattered with mud and his legs ached. He was getting to an age, and a weight, when hills were no longer a pleasure.

  He was shown through the large, austere entrance hall and on into an exquisitely tiled anteroom while the servant went to inform his mistress of the bishop’s arrival.

  From the distance he heard the murmur of voices, then a woman’s rich laughter. Not a servant-it sounded too free for that. It had to be Helena herself. Someone else must be here. It would be interesting to know who.

  The servant returned, conducted him along a passage to another door, announced him, and then stood back. On the way in, Constantine was passed by a woman servant leaving, carrying a magnificent perfume bottle. It was blue-green glass with gold around the rim, set with pearls-perhaps a gift from the caller who had made Helena laugh?

  Helena herself stood in the center of the floor. She was beautiful in an unusual way: quite small and short-waisted. The curves of her bosom and hips were enhanced by the way her tunic was clasped at the shoulder and tied with its girdle. She wore few ornaments in her dark, luxurious hair, and no jewelry, since she was still officially mourning her husband. She had remarkably high cheekbones and a delicate nose and mouth. Under her winged eyebrows, her eyes brimmed with tears.

  She came forward to meet him with somber dignity.

  “How kind of you to come, Your Grace. It is a strange and lonely time for me.”

  “I can only imagine how desolate you must be,” he replied gently. He knew exactly what she had felt for Bessarion, and far more of the details of what had happened to him than she had any idea. But none of that would ever be acknowledged between them. “If there is any comfort I can offer you, you have but to ask,” he continued. “Bessarion was a good man, and loyal to the true faith. It is a double blow that he should be betrayed by those he trusted.”

  She raised her eyes to his. “I still can hardly believe it,” she said huskily. “I keep hoping that something will arise to prove that neither of them was really guilty. I cannot believe it was Justinian. Not on purpose. There is some mistake.”

  “What could that be?” He asked because he needed to know what she might say to others.

  She gave a tiny, delicate shrug. “I have not even thought so far.”

  It was the answer he wanted.

  “Other people may ask,” he said quite casually.

  Helena lifted her head, her lips parted as she drew in her breath. The fear was there in her eyes only long enough for him to be certain of it, then she masked it. “Perhaps I am fortunate in not knowing anything.” There was no lift of question in her voice, and try as he might, he could not read her face.

  “Yes,” he agreed smoothly. “I will be comforted knowing that you are quite safe from that added distress in your time of mourning.”

  There was understanding bright in her eyes, and then it was gone again, replaced by the calm, almost blank stare. “You are so kind to have called, Your Grace. Remember me in your prayers.”

  “Always, my child,” he promised, raising his hand piously. “You will never be far from my thoughts.”

  He felt certain that Helena was not foolish enough to speak too freely to the Nicean eunuch, should Anastasius call and seek further knowledge from her. But as Constantine went out into the brightening sun and the slight wind off the sea, he was equally sure that she knew more than he had supposed and that she would be willing to use it for her own ends.

  Who had made Helena laugh so freely and given her the exquisite perfume bottle? Constantine wished he knew.

  Four

  ANNA WENT OUT OF HER WAY TO SPEAK TO NEIGHBORS, prepared to waste time in conversation about the weather, politics, religion, anything they wanted to discuss.

  “Can’t stand here any longer,” one man said finally. It was Paulus, a local shopkeeper. “My feet are so sore I can hardly get them in my shoes.”

  “Perhaps I can help?” Anna offered.

  “Just let me sit down,” he said, grimacing.

  “I’m a physician. Perhaps I can offer a more permanent solution.”

  With his face reflecting disbelief, Paulus followed her, walking gingerly along the uneven stones until they covered the fifty yards to her house. Once inside, she examined his swollen feet and ankles. The flesh was red and obviously painful to the touch.

  She filled a bowl full of cold water and put an astringent herb in it. Paulus winced as he put in his feet, then she saw his muscles slowly relax and the sense of ease come into his face. It was more the chill than anything else taking the burning out of his skin. What he really needed was to change his diet, but she knew she must be diplomatic about telling him so. She suggested he might care for rice, boiled with seasoning, and should abstain from all fruit, except apples, if he could find some that had been stored and were fit to eat at this time of year.

  “And plenty of spring water,” she added. “It must be spring, not lake, river, well water, or rain.”

  “Water?” he said with disbelief.

  “Yes. The right water is very good for you. Come back any time you wish to, and I will bathe your feet in herbs again. Would you like some herbs to take with you?”

  Paulus accepted them gratefully and paid from the purse he carried with him. She watched him hobble away and knew he would return.

  Paulus recommended her to others. She continued to visit the shops within a mile or so of her house, always speaking to the shopkeeper and to other customers as the opportunity arose.

  She did not know how far to indulge her own tastes. As a woman, she had loved the feel of silk next to her skin, the soft way it slid through her fingers and pooled on the floor as if it were liquid. Now she held up a length, letting it slither through her hands, watching the colors change as first the warp caught the light, then the weft. Blue turned to peacock and to green; red turned to magenta and purple. Her favorite was a peach burning into flame. In the past, she had worn silks to complement the tawny chestnut of her hair. Perhaps she could still wear them. Vanity was not specifically feminine, nor was the love of beauty.

  The next time she had a new patient and earned more than two solidi, she would come back and buy this one.

  She stepped out into the brisk wind blowing up from the shore. Walking along the narrow street, she moved aside for a cart to pass. The cool touch of silk had brought back the past with a rush.

  She measured her steps carefully on the incline. The street was one of the many still unmended after the return from exile. There were broken walls and windowless houses still dark from the fires. The desolation made her own loneliness overwhelming.

  She knew why Justinian had come to Constantinople and had been helpless to stop him. But what passions and entanglements had he become involved in that led him to being blamed for murder? That was what she needed to know. Could it have been love? Unlike her, he had been happy in his marriage.

  A small part of Anna had envied him that, but now she had to swallow the hard, choking grief that all but closed her throat. She would give anything she possessed if she could get that happy life back for him. All she had had was medical skill, and it had not been enough to save Justinian’s wife, Catalina. The fever had struck, and two weeks later she was dead.

  Anna mourned because she had loved Catalina, too, but for Justinian it was as if his wife had taken the light from him with her when she departed. Anna had watched him and ached for his pain, but all the old closeness of heart and mind they shared was insufficient to touch his loss with healing.

  She had seen him change,
as if he were slowly bleeding to death. He looked for reasons and answers in the intellect. As if he dared not touch the heart, he combed the doctrine of the Church, and God eluded him.

  Then two years ago, on the anniversary of Catalina’s death, he had announced that he was going to Constantinople. Unable to reach his pain, Anna had stood by and let him leave.

  He had written frequently, telling her of everything but himself. Then had come the last terrible letter, scrawled in haste as he was leaving in exile, and after that, only silence.

  It was the beginning of June, and she had been in the city two and a half months when Basil first came to her as a patient. He was tall and lean, with an ascetic face, now pinched with anxiety as he stood in her waiting room.

  He introduced himself quietly and said that he had come on Paulus’s recommendation.

  She invited him into the consulting room and inquired after his health, watching him carefully. His body was curiously stiff when he spoke, and she concluded that his pain was more severe than he was admitting.

  She invited him to sit and he declined, preferring to remain standing. She concluded that his pain was in the lower stomach and groin, where such a change in position would increase it. After asking his permission, she touched his skin, which was hot and very dry, then tested his pulse. It was regular but not strong.

  “I recommend that you abstain from milk and cheese for several weeks, at least,” she suggested. “Drink as much spring water as you are able to take. It’s all right to flavor it with juice or wine if you prefer.” She saw the disappointment in his face. “And I will give you a tincture for the pain. Where do you live?”

  His eyes opened in surprise.

  “You can come back every day. The dose must be exact. Too little will do no good, and too much will kill you. I have only a small amount in supply, but I will find more.”

  He smiled. “Can you cure me?”