by Anne Perry
And then there was Helena. She had changed since Eirene’s death. She had always been arrogant, but there was a self-confidence in her now that was disturbing, as if nothing frightened her anymore.
Did she think that now Eirene was dead, Demetrios would marry her? That made no sense. He would have to observe a decent period of mourning.
But as Zoe thought back on Helena’s mood, her behavior, there was certainly no new warmth toward Demetrios; if anything, rather the opposite. She seemed consumed in herself. It was something far more powerful than security or status; something, perhaps, like a glimpse of the throne!
Could there be another attempt at usurpation, one that this time might succeed? The situation was vastly changed, and this time Zoe would have no part in it. But could she betray it to Michael? She could not. Her part in the last plot had been too close. If Helena attempted and failed, Zoe would be ruined.
Michael was their only hope. His overthrow would bring chaos to the empire, and to her personally, a whole new balance of relationships. Worst of all, Helena would exercise her long-hoped-for revenge.
In the end, survival was all. Byzantium must not be raped again. Whatever was paid to prevent that, it was not too much.
Seventy-seven
THE MAN WHO BROUGHT THE MESSAGE FROM THE POPE WAS obviously tired and profoundly unhappy. Courtesy required that Palombara offer him refreshment, but as soon as the servant had gone to prepare it, he pleaded to know the news.
“God knows we tried to create a union, but we have failed,” the man said miserably. “The king of the Two Sicilies is gathering more ships and more allies with every passing week, and we can no longer pretend that the Orthodox Church is one with us in spirit and intent. It is only too obvious that their acceptance of our hand of friendship is a farce, a convenience to protect their physical safety, no more.”
Palombara’s mind was heavy with the terrible inevitability of it. Yet he had hoped that somehow the passion for survival would overcome.
“If you wish to return to Rome, my lord, the Holy Father gives you leave to do so.” The messenger’s voice dropped. “The Holy Father has recognized that he no longer has any control over the actions of the king. There will be another crusade, perhaps as soon as 1281, and it will be an army such as we have not seen before.” He met Palombara’s eyes. “But if you wish to remain in Constantinople, at least for the time being, there may be some Christian work to do here.” He made the sign of the cross, naturally in the Roman way.
After the man had gone, Palombara remained alone in the great room, watching the afternoon sun sink over the ferries and water taxies and the distant business of the harbor. Rome saw Constantinople’s tolerance of ideas as a moral laxity, its patience with even the most ridiculous or abstruse idea, rather than suppression of it, to be a weakness. They did not see that blind obedience eventually ended in the suffocation of thought.
Palombara did not want to return to Rome and work at some timeserving job shuffling papers, delivering messages, playing at the politics of office. He faced the window, and the light came in on his face. He closed his eyes and felt its warmth on his eyelids.
The darkness was closing in, but he was not yet ready to give up. If Charles of Anjou landed here, Palombara might save something from the wreckage. Definitely he could not simply walk away.
He found the words quite clear in his mind. “Please, dear Lord, do not let all this be destroyed. Please do not let us do that to them-or to ourselves.”
He stood silent for a moment.
“Amen,” he added.
Seventy-eight
GIULIANO DANDOLO RETURNED TO VENICE WITH A SHIP filled with gold from all over Europe. In England, Spain, France, and the Holy Roman Empire, men were preparing for a great crusade. Some of the ships were built already. The shipyards worked night and day. Charles of Anjou had paid his share of the contract; he would receive what he had ordered.
Nevertheless, Giuliano was not happy as he stood on the balcony and stared at the splendor of the dying sun over the Adriatic.
The doge had told him that Venice had abrogated the treaty it had made with Byzantium. It had lasted just two years. Giuliano had had nothing to do with it, neither its creation nor its destruction, yet he felt racked with shame for the betrayal of it.
He stared at the light on the water, watching it change. The translucency of it, the moving shadows, were so subtle that one nameless tone vanished into another. It was like the Bosphorus.
What would happen to Constantinople when the crusaders landed?
The whole issue of fighting over faith was absurd. How far from the teachings of Christ were all these quarrels as to who had power or rights over what. He remembered the conversations he had had with Anastasius at sea and in that desolate site that might, or might not, have been Golgotha.
The thought of Anastasius cut to the heart of his pain. How would the crusaders treat him? How could he protect himself? The thought of it was too terrible to allow into Giuliano’s mind. It was the whole city that mattered, and all the lands around it, but in the end, as perhaps with everyone, it all came down to those you knew, the faces, the voices, the people you broke bread with and who trusted you.
The shadows were stronger. The light was fading rapidly.
Seventy-nine
ANNA HAD BEEN CALLED YET AGAIN TO THE HOUSE OF Joanna Strabomytes, even though the servants did not know if there was money left to pay her. It did not matter. Payment was not part of Anna’s decision to come. She was here not to prolong her suffering, only to ease the pain of her letting go.
Joanna was wasted by disease so that she looked far more than her forty-odd years, and now she had little time left. The draft Anna had given her had afforded an hour or so of peace, and she was no longer troubled by needless pain of body or the torment of mind that twisted inside her. She had said little about it. It had wounded her so deeply, it had robbed her of words, other than the same question over and over-couldn’t her husband have waited?
Leonicus had left Joanna as she was dying, because he was in love with Theodosia, whose own husband had so cruelly abandoned her. Leonicus would not wait until he was free; he wished his own happiness now, this week, this month. Or perhaps Theodosia wanted it, and he had not had the courage or the honor to deny her.
For once, the hot, still room was silent as Anna stood at the end of the bed making certain Joanna was really asleep before she turned and walked away. She went out briefly into the courtyard, where in spite of the summer heat she could at least escape from the odor of herbs and the bodily functions of the dying.
Theodosia had been a religious woman all her life. Anna pictured her at prayer, kneeling before Constantine in devout gratitude for the sacrament of repentance and absolution. Theodosia knew the bitterness, the shock, of being rejected. How could she, of all people, do this to another woman? What sweetness was there in taking any man at such a price?
Would Anna have wanted even Giuliano this way?
Theodosia had been in good health when her husband had gone, and it had hurt her almost beyond bearing, bringing her to the edge of suicide. Anna remembered it still with pity. Joanna was ill and dying. Could Theodosia really mean to do this? Was Joanna suffering some kind of delusion, a despair that was part of her illness? Perhaps it was Anna’s judgment that was hasty, partial in knowledge and therefore completely unfair?
During one of Joanna’s better spells, Anna gave careful instructions to the servants. Then, after returning to her own home to collect more herbs, she went to Theodosia’s house and requested to see her.
“I am sorry, but the lady Theodosia is unable to receive you,” the servant said some moments later.
Anna insisted upon the urgency and importance of her errand. The servant took the request again. The second time, it was Leonicus who came to the entrance himself. There was a sadness in his eyes as well as a certain anger when he faced Anna.
“I am sorry, but Theodosia does not wish to speak wit
h you,” he said. “She has no need of your services, and there is really nothing further to add. Thank you for coming, but please do not do so again.” He turned and walked away, leaving the servant to close the door in Anna’s face.
Anna returned to complete her care for Leonicus’s wife and ease her pain of mind and body as well as she could. She mixed herbs for her, sat with her when she could not sleep, spoke to her of anything and everything she could think of that was funny, kind, or offered any beauty. And then she held her hand as her consciousness slipped away, and then finally her life.
By September, much of the overt anger at Rome’s demands upon the Church was swept away by the more urgent anxieties of news about the gathering armies to the west.
Anna was in the Blachernae Palace, having attended various eunuchs who were indisposed with minor illnesses, when she was sent for to go to Nicephoras’s rooms. She found him unusually grim, his face dark with anxiety.
“I have just received news from Bishop Palombara,” Nicephoras said. “The pope is dead.”
“Again? I mean… another pope?” She could scarcely believe it. “So we have no leader in Rome to argue with, even if we wanted to?”
“It’s far worse than that,” he said quickly, no longer even attempting to mask his fear. “Pope Nicholas exacted from Charles of Anjou an oath not to attack Byzantium. Nicholas’s death frees him from that. Apparently oaths do not carry from one pope to another.” Bitter humor flashed in his eyes for an instant, then was gone.
Anna was stunned. “What does the emperor say?” She heard her voice wavering.
“I am about to tell him.” Nicephoras drew in his breath deeply, then let it out in a sigh. “He will find it very hard. I would like you to come with me… in case he is… ill.”
She answered only with a nod, and as he turned to lead the way to the emperor’s rooms, she followed him with a heavy sense of foreboding.
Michael was sitting at a table writing when she entered behind Nicephoras. The strong sunlight slanted across the chair, the papers spread across the tabletop, and the assorted pens. It was a cruel light, and it laid bare his weariness. The heavy gray was not only in his hair, but in his beard; but more than that, there were shadows around his eyes, and his skin had a thin, papery texture. Even the iron will that had carried him to military victory was fading. Perhaps harder than that of arms was the victory of the mind over the fractiousness of his people, the ceaseless threats to his power, his life, his family, the quarrels over every conceivable issue arising from union with Rome. And every year there was at least one ugly suggestion that this person or that had more right to the throne than he. He was never safe from the threat of a usurper.
“Yes?” he asked, looking up at Nicephoras. Reading bad news in the man’s face, he tensed, a tightening of expression that was barely perceptible to Anna.
Briefly, Nicephoras told the emperor that Pope Nicholas III was dead. There was no need to add that there was now nothing to prevent Charles of Anjou from sacking Constantinople as he wanted to and in time conquering what was left of the Byzantine Empire.
Michael sat perfectly still, absorbing the shock. Anna saw the exhaustion in him, the fight not to crumple under the blow. He had preserved his people in the city for eighteen long, difficult years, and now she was seeing clearly at what cost it had been to himself.
Was it surprising if he felt beaten, even by fate, now that yet another pope was dead? Anna felt it, too, a gathering of dread. She was afraid of a future without him.
Constantine was ill again and sent for Anna. She took the herbs she thought she would need and followed his servant along the busy street and finally up the steps into Constantine’s increasingly handsome house. Every time she went there, there was some new ornament or embellishment, always the gift of a grateful petitioner that the bishop explained he could not refuse.
She found him lying in his bed, his face pale. From the position of his heavy body, he was apparently in some discomfort. She considered it was probably caused largely by anxiety, a stomach too clenched with emotion to digest his food.
“I must be well in two weeks’ time,” he told her with some concern, his eyes narrowed, his lips tight.
“I will do all I can,” she promised. “You would greatly improve your health if you were to rest more.”
“Rest!” His body flinched as if she had hurt him. “Every hour is precious. Do you not know the peril we are in?”
“I know, but your health still demands that you rest. What is happening in two weeks’ time?”
He smiled. “I am going to perform the marriage ceremony for Leonicus Strabomytes and Theodosia. It will be in the Hagia Sophia-a truly splendid occasion. An example to the people of the blessing and mercy of God. It will uplift everyone and fire a new piety in them.”
Anna assumed she must have misunderstood. “Theodosia Skleros?”
He looked at her steadily. “Does your largeness of heart not extend to her, Anastasius? I have given Theodosia a special icon of the Blessed Virgin Mary as a token of her absolution.”
Anna was amazed. “Theodosia and Leonicus committed real sin, and they did it knowingly, and with choice. They deliberately took what was not theirs, and they kept it. They haven’t repented a jot!” She said so to him harshly, her words tearing out of her all the loneliness and her own weight of guilt that she had carried through the years, knowing the fault was still in her. “It is a mockery of those who are truly sorry, and have paid long and bitterly.”
“I asked no payment of her, except humility and obedience to the Church,” he retorted. “You have sins also, Anastasius. It ill becomes you to judge when you yourself have neither confessed nor repented. I don’t know what your sins are, but they are heavy and deep. I know that, because I see it in your eyes. I know you ache to confess and find absolution, but your pride holds you prisoner, and you cling to it rather than to the Church.”
She said nothing, almost breathless with the accuracy of his blow, deep as the bone, shocking her with pain.
He sat up, his hand on her wrist, his face close to hers. “You are in sin, Anastasius. Come to me and confess, in humility, and I will give you pardon.”
She was frozen inside, as if he had in some profound way assaulted her. She could only remove his fingers from her arm and straighten the bottles on the table, then turn and leave, walking in a daze of misery and wild, twisting confusion. Never in her life had she felt more absolutely alone.
Eighty
IT WAS AUTUMN OF 1280, A MONTH AFTER THE WEDDING, before Anna saw Theodosia again. They passed in the street without speaking, and Anna felt strangely snubbed, while being quite aware that it was foolish of her. They had not been friends; they had shared an experience of deep pain in Theodosia’s life, and it was easy to understand why she would avoid someone who had seen her at her most vulnerable.
She stood in the street, the wind harsh in her face. Perhaps Constantine was right. Did Anna fail to forgive Theodosia because she could not forgive herself, for Eustathius and the child she had not wanted because it would have been his? It was she who was wrong, not Theodosia. She should go to her and apologize. It would be galling, bitter to swallow, but nothing less would make it right.
She started to walk again, urgently, even up the steepening incline, needing to have the apology made before her resolve weakened.
Theodosia received her reluctantly. She stood looking toward the window. Anna barely noticed that the room was more ornate than before, the floor newly tiled in marble, larger torch brackets gilded at the top.
“Thank you for coming,” Theodosia said politely. “But I believe I told you last time you called that I have no need of your services.” She turned and looked momentarily at Anna, and there was a curious emptiness in her eyes.
“I came to apologize to you,” Anna said. “I presumed to think that you could not have been absolved for taking Joanna’s husband from her when she was dying. That was arrogant of me to the point of absurdity.
It is none of my business, and I have no right even to think it.”
Theodosia shrugged slightly. “Yes, it is arrogant, but I accept your apology. I have the Church’s absolution, and that is really all that counts.” She half turned away.
Anna contradicted her. “Your face, your eyes, say that it doesn’t count at all, because you don’t believe it.”
“It isn’t a matter of belief, it’s fact. Bishop Constantine said so,” Theodosia replied tartly. “And, as you say, it is not your concern.”
“The Church’s absolution, or God’s?” Anna refused to be dismissed.
Theodosia blinked. “I am not sure that I believe in God, or resurrection and eternity in your Christian sense. Of course I can’t imagine time ending, no one can. It will go on, what else could it do? A kind of endless desert stretching without purpose into the darkness.”
“You don’t believe in heaven,” countered Anna, “but surely what you have described is hell? Or one kind of hell, if not the deepest.”
Theodosia’s voice was tinged with sarcasm. “Is there deeper than that?”
“The deepest would be to have held heaven in your hands and let it slip away, to have known what it was and then lost it,” Anna replied.
“And would the God you believe in do that to anyone?” Theodosia challenged. “It’s bestial.”
“God doesn’t do it,” Anna answered her without hesitation.
Theodosia’s voice was harsh with pain. “Are you saying I did that to myself?”
Anna opened her mouth to deny it, then realized it was dishonest. “I have no idea,” she said. “Did you have heaven, or only something that was good, and at least a belief in joy in some reachable future?”