by Anne Perry
Day followed day. The scenery changed, limitless horizons giving way to lines of hills. Black desert changed to pale or even white with gray lines and shadows across it.
Then at last, on the fifteenth day, almost as if a cloud had cleared, in front of them, two towering summits appeared with a deep-clefted valley between, high and steep.
“The Mountains of Moses,” the caravan master announced with pride. “Horeb and Sinai. We will climb. We will be there before nightfall.” Anna thought they must already be several thousand feet above Acre and the sea.
At last they reached the outer walls of St. Catherine’s. The vast, square fortress towered above them thirty to forty feet high, crammed into the fork between the peaks of Horeb and Sinai. It was built out of smooth, dust-colored rock hewn into giant squares and placed together so one could barely get a knife blade between.
The only way in was to hail the watchtower and request entrance. If it was granted, a small door opened high above and a knotted rope was let down. The guest would place his foot in a loop at the end and, on command, be hauled up.
After only a short hesitation, Anna found herself clinging with desperate hands, numb and dizzy, while she was raised up the outer face of the great wall. The sun burned red and purple on the western horizon. She would have liked to look at the scene until every last vestige of light faded, but already her hands were locked and slipped on the rope. Her legs ached so fiercely, she found it difficult to keep them straight.
She scrambled a little awkwardly through the small door. An elderly monk greeted her civilly enough, but with little interest. Perhaps he was so used to seeing pilgrims that they had all melted into one for him. So many of them would come with impossible dreams, expecting miracles, here where Moses had seen a burning bush from which God had spoken to him.
Sixty-three
SHE PRESENTED THE LETTER THAT NICEPHORAS HAD GIVEN her and asked to see Justinian alone. The letter suggested, without directly saying so, that she was on the emperor’s business, and the monk did not question it. Nicephoras had been careful to word it ambiguously.
She was conducted into a small, irregular-shaped courtyard, and the monk leading her stopped. “Take your shoes off,” he whispered. “The place where you stand is holy ground.”
Anna bent to obey and suddenly found tears in her eyes. She looked up, boots in her hand, and saw in the lantern light a huge spread of leaves where a bush mounded higher than her head and seemed to pour over the stones. A wild thought came into her head. Was this Moses’s bush, which had once burned with the voice of God? She turned to the monk.
He nodded slowly, smiling.
“You may have a short time until the next call to prayer,” he said gently, but the warning was implicit in his voice. She should not forget that Justinian was a prisoner here and she was being granted a privilege in speaking alone with him.
She was left to wait in an airless stone cell barely large enough to pace back and forth more than a few steps. When she heard the door swing on its heavy hinges, she whirled around.
For the first instant, he looked as he always had: his eyes, his mouth, the way his hair grew from his brow. Her heart lurched, and she could hardly breathe. The years vanished, and all that had happened between ceased to be real.
He was staring at her, confused, blinking. There was a first stumbling of hope in his face and then fear.
The monk behind him was waiting.
She must explain quickly, before either of them betrayed themselves. “I am a physician,” she said clearly. “My name is Anastasius Zarides. The emperor Michael Palaeologus has given me permission to speak with you, if you will permit me to.”
Even though she had pitched her voice with the throaty quality of a eunuch, he recognized it instantly. Joy flared up in his eyes, but he stood perfectly still, his back to the monk still standing behind him. When he answered, his voice trembled a little.
“I will be happy to speak with you … as the emperor wishes.” He half turned to the monk behind him. “Thank you, Brother Thomas.”
Brother Thomas inclined his head and withdrew.
“Anna! What in the name of—” Justinian started.
She cut him off by stepping forward and putting her arms around him. He responded, holding her so tightly that she felt bruised, although the pain was welcome.
“We have only a few minutes.” His body was hard, far thinner than last time they had seen each other, so many years ago. He looked older, almost gaunt. The lines in his face were deeper, and there were hollows around his eyes.
“You look like a eunuch,” he replied, still holding on to her. “What on earth are you doing? For God’s sake, be careful! If the monks find out, they’ll …”
She pulled away a little and looked up at him. “I’m good at it,” she said ruefully. “I didn’t dress like this to get in here. Although I would have! I’m like this all the time….”
He was incredulous. “Why? You’re beautiful. And you can practice medicine as a woman!”
“It’s for a different reason.” She also could not bear to tell him that she was unmarriageable, and why. That was a burden he did not need. “I have a good practice,” she went on quickly. “Often at the Blachernae Palace, for the eunuchs there, and sometimes for the emperor himself.”
“Anna!” he cut across her. “Don’t! No practice is worth the risk you’re taking.”
“I’m not doing it for the practice,” she said. “I’m doing it to find out enough to prove why you killed Bessarion Comnenos. It’s taken me so long because at first I didn’t even know why anyone would, but now I know.”
“No, you don’t,” he contradicted her. His voice dropped, suddenly gentle. “You can’t help, Anna. Please don’t become involved. You have no idea how dangerous it is. You don’t know Zoe Chrysaphes….”
“Yes, I do. I’m her physician.” She looked straight into his eyes. “I think she poisoned both Cosmas Kantakouzenos and Arsenios Vatatzes. I’m certain she killed Gregory Vatatzes face-to-face, with a dagger, and tried to have the Venetian ambassador arrested for it.”
He stared at her. “Tried to?”
“I prevented it.” She felt the heat burn in her face. “You don’t need to know now. But yes, I know Zoe. And Helena. And Eirene, and Demetrios,” she went on hastily. “And Bishop Constantine, of course.”
He smiled at Constantine’s name. “How is he? I get so little news here. Is he well?”
“Are you asking me as his physician?” It sounded lighthearted, but she said it because she suddenly realized that he had not seen the darker, weaker side of Constantine, the way he had changed under the desperate pressure of the union, of failure, the burden of leading so much of the resistance almost alone.
His eyebrows shot up. “You’re his physician, too?”
“Why not?” She bit her lip. “To him I’m a eunuch. Isn’t that appropriate?”
He paled. “Anna, you can’t get away with this. For God’s sake, go home. Have you any idea the risks you’re taking? You can’t prove anything. I …”
“I can prove why you killed Bessarion,” she replied. “And that you had no other choice. You were foiling a plot to usurp Michael, the only way possible. The emperor should thank you, reward you!”
He touched her face so gently she felt little more than the warmth of his hand. “Anna, it was a plot to usurp Michael, in order to save the Church from Rome. It was only when I finally realized that Bessarion had not the fire or the guts to succeed that I changed course. Michael knows that.
“I killed Bessarion,” he said in little more than a whisper. “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and I still have nightmares about it. But if he had usurped the throne, it would have been a disaster for Byzantium. I was a fool for it to take me so long to see that. I didn’t want to, and then it was too late. But I’m here because I wouldn’t tell Michael the names of the rest of the conspirators. I … I couldn’t. They were no more guilty than I—perhaps less. They
still believed it was the right thing to do for the city—and the faith.”
She dropped her head and leaned against him. “I know that. I know who they are, and I couldn’t tell him either. But there must be something I can do!”
“There isn’t,” he said softly. “Leave it be, Anna. Constantine will do what he can. He already saved my life. He’ll plead for me with the emperor, if there’s a chance.”
There was no one else except her to fight for Justinian. And she had more chance of the emperor’s ear than Constantine now.
“Who betrayed you to the authorities?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “And it doesn’t matter. There’s nothing you can do about it, even if you were certain. What do you want, vengeance?”
She looked at him, searching. “I don’t want revenge,” she admitted. “At least only when I’m not really thinking. Then I’d like to see them pay….”
“Leave it. Please,” he begged. “In the end, it isn’t worth anything.”
“It isn’t failure, not if Byzantium survives. And Michael will win that, if anyone can.”
“At the cost of the Church?” he asked with disbelief. “Go home, Anna,” he whispered. “Please. Be safe. I want to think of you healing people, living to be old and wise, and knowing that you did it well.”
The tears blinded her. He had paid so much to give her that chance. And she had made him a promise she knew she could not keep.
“You won’t, will you?” he said, touching the tears on her cheek.
“I can’t. I don’t know that they aren’t still planning to kill Michael. Demetrios is a Vatatzes, and a Doukas through Eirene. He could try for the throne. If Michael were dead, and Andronicus, he might have a chance, especially with crusaders at the gates.”
He gripped her harder, his hands tight on her shoulders. “I know that! I think he might have taken over once Bessarion had got rid of Michael for him anyway.”
“And you,” she added. “You’re a Lascaris!”
The key sounded in the lock.
Justinian pushed her away.
She wiped her hand across her cheek to get rid of the tears and forced herself to steady her voice.
“Thank you, Brother Justinian. I shall carry your message back to Constantinople.” She made the sign of the cross in the Orthodox fashion, smiled at him once, briefly. Then she followed the monk out into the corridor, feeling her way rather than seeing it.
Sixty-four
THE JOURNEY BY CARAVAN FROM ST. CATHERINE’S BACK to Jerusalem took fifteen days again. Apparently it always did, whatever one had negotiated.
This time, Anna stared at the stark magnificence of the desert around her with different emotions. It was still beautiful. The shadings ran from black through a hundred shades of umber and gray. In daylight the blue was scorched with the dull ocher of dust on the wind, sometimes raw-edged with cold. Now it was indelible in her heart with the terrible price Justinian had paid for his error, and then to put it right.
She ignored the physical exhaustion, the ache in her body from the hardness of the ground on which she slept.
Had she been in Justinian’s place, she might so easily have done exactly the same, if she had had the courage. Bessarion would have been a disaster as emperor, but he was too arrogant to see it, and the others were too far committed to accept such a bitter truth.
Except perhaps Demetrios. Was Justinian right, and he had planned to kill not only Michael and Andronicus, but perhaps Bessarion also? What irony that would have been! The archconspirator to turn against them as soon as the murder of Michael was accomplished, kill Bessarion and claim to restore order, then step into the breach himself, the hero of the hour!
And would he have got rid of Justinian as well? Because as a Lascaris, he was a threat. Then there would be nobody left but himself. Demetrios would console the widow, poor Helena, and in due course marry her and combine the families of Comnenos, Doukas, and Vatatzes in one glorious dynasty.
Were they still plotting? That was something she needed to know, because she realized with some surprise that she was wholeheartedly behind Michael. He was the only hope the city had now.
She arrived back in Jerusalem windburned and exhausted, her bones aching, but she had no time to rest. She must take the next caravan back to Acre and meet Giuliano on the ship. Carefully she counted out what was left of Zoe’s money. She smiled. It must have hurt Zoe to change it from gold byzants into Venetian ducats. She could not afford to spend it all yet; she would need to wait in Acre if the ship was late. She would need food and lodging. But she knew that walking for another five days was beyond her physical strength.
She had learned a few tactics since last time and considerably sharper words since her stay in Jerusalem and her journey to Sinai and back. The deal was made, and she rode an awkward and highly ill-tempered mule all the way to Acre. Before they arrived there, the beast had discovered that she too could be stubborn and awkward if she chose. Secretly, she thought that they had gained some mutual respect and was quite sorry to part with it. She spent a few coins on buying it a treat of bread dipped in oil. The animal was most surprised but accepted the gift with something approaching grace.
She had one night to purchase poor lodgings, and she had no breakfast. Then she saw the ship come in, on precisely the day Giuliano had said he would return.
She boarded midmorning, not to betray how eager she was to see him.
He hid his relief in front of the crewmen. However, later, alone on deck as they pulled away in the darkening sky, he spoke to her alone, standing a little apart. His voice was gentle, although he looked not at her, but at the white wake of water behind them.
“Was the journey hard? They say it is.”
“I’m not used to riding an ass day after day. A patient little beast, but uncomfortable. The desert’s cold this time of year, especially at night. It’s beautiful—and terrible.”
“And Sinai?” he asked, turning to look at her now. In the stern, his back was to the light as they moved westward. She could not see his face.
“It’s over five thousand feet above the sea,” she began. “And yet the mountains around almost make it look insignificant, until you get to it, and realize the walls are thirty or forty feet high, and massive. Even if you could get a siege engine up there, nothing could break them. There are buttresses and towers, but no doors near the ground. The only way in is through a small opening near the top. You have to be winched up, standing in a rope stirrup.”
“That’s true?” he said, his voice hushed with wonder. “I heard it, but I thought it was imagination.”
“It’s true. Inside it’s beautiful, austere, and you can never forget the mountains that seem to be almost hanging over you, blocking out the sky behind, Mount Sinai and Mount Horeb. There is a pathway upward in the cleft between them, steep stairs now. That’s where Moses climbed up to meet God. I didn’t go. I didn’t have time, and I’m not sure if I wanted to. Maybe I would have met God, and I’m not ready.” She smiled and looked down. “Or maybe I wouldn’t, and I’m not ready to face that, either. But I saw the ‘burning bush.’ It’s still there. It looks like any other bush, but you know it isn’t.”
“How?” he asked.
“Probably because the monk told me I was standing on holy ground—to take my shoes off.”
He laughed, and the tension eased out of his shoulders. Only then did she realize how awkward he had been, without his usual grace. She thought of their parting in Golgotha, of his face when he had seen the painting of Mary—she chose to believe that was who it was. Other moments crowded her mind, and she knew that something had changed. She did not want to understand what it was because it included a hurt she could not reach.
Sixty-five
“WELL?” SIMONIS DEMANDED WHEN ANNA WAS HOME AT last, washed and rested and sitting in clean clothes at the table, hot soup and fresh bread in front of her. “What did you learn of Justinian? I can see by your face that he is al
ive. What else? When will he be home?” Anna had told Simonis and Leo nothing of Zoe’s picture. They had both assumed her entire journey was to gain news of Justinian. Leo had cautioned her against going, saying she would endanger herself for little purpose. Simonis had been furious with him and praised Anna for at last taking the step that she had hoped of her from the beginning. “I saw him,” Anna began. “He is thinner, but he seemed well.”
“Drink your soup,” Simonis directed. “What did he say?” Anna felt the knot of disappointment tighten inside her. “He told me what happened,” she replied, beginning the soup because its fragrance tempted her and eating would not make what she had to say better or worse. “It was almost what I had believed, from what I learned myself….”
“You didn’t tell us!” Simonis accused, her face darkening again. Leo touched her arm gently, with a small, restraining gesture. She shook him off, still staring at Anna. “So how are you going to prove his innocence?” she repeated.
“I’m not,” Anna said bluntly. “He killed Bessarion….”
“He couldn’t!” Simonis said furiously. “Not Justinian. You, perhaps! You could have—”
“Stop it,” Leo said sharply. “You exceed yourself.”
Simonis blushed hotly.
Anna too was caught by surprise. “Thank you, Leo,” she said to him gravely. “The story is simple, and now that I know from Justinian that it is true, I shall tell you, but if you value your lives, or mine, you will not repeat it.” She waited for their word. “This is as Justinian wishes.”
Simonis nodded reluctantly, her face still hot and angry.
“Of course,” Leo promised.
Briefly she told them, not elaborating any of the details.