The Sheen of the Silk

by Anne Perry

  The answer came to Zoe with the scorching heat of the Greek fire she planned to use. If Charles wanted to hold Byzantium with a hand of peace, to free his armies to go on to Jerusalem, what better than to marry his puppet emperor to a legitimate heir of the Palaeologi? Murder Michael and Andronicus, and who was left? Helena!

  Zoe’s mind raced, horrified. It was betrayal beyond imagining.

  She sat with her arms around herself, shivering in spite of the fire. Before it came anywhere near that, she must raise the money Palombara had suggested, buy all the trouble, anger, and rebellion she could. And she knew now exactly where that money was coming from.

  Her power had always lain in knowledge of other people’s secrets and the proof that could ruin them. The man to help her now was Philotheos Makrembolites. She had heard only last week that he was on his deathbed. Perfect! In pain, frightened, and with nothing to lose.

  Zoe went to her herb room and prepared various mixtures for the relief of different kinds of pain. She also collected sleeping powders, sweet-smelling oils, and restoratives that would give a short-lived clarity to the mind, even if after that there was only the slipping away into the last silence.

  She bathed and dressed, perfuming herself but wearing rich, sober colors, as befitted one going to visit the dying. She did not worry that Philotheos would not receive her. He had a withered arm from the fires of 1204 and a bitter heart. He would want to relive old wrongs and would not be unwilling to help her exact a vengeance that was beyond his own reach. Secrets were worth nothing in the grave.

  He received her in his dim, overhot room with as much curiosity as she had hoped. He hoisted himself onto his elbows, wincing with pain and screwing up his face into a snarl, drawing his lips back from stained teeth. “Come to gloat at my death, Zoe Chrysaphes?” he said, his breath wheezing out of his lungs with a sound like tearing cloth. “Make the most of it. Your turn will come, and you’ll likely see the city put to blood and fire again before that happens.”

  She put down the leather satchel in which she had brought the herbs and ointments. They knew each other far too well for pretenses. She would not have come except for good reasons of her own.

  “What’s in there?” he asked, eyeing it suspiciously.

  “Relief from pain,” she answered. “Temporarily, of course. It will all be finished when God wishes it.”

  “You are little younger than I am, for all your paint and perfume. You smell like an alchemist’s parlor,” he responded.

  She wrinkled her nose. “You don’t. Rather more like a charnel house. Do you wish a little ease or not?”

  “What’s the price?” His eyes were yellowing, as if his kidneys were failing him. “Have you spent all your money? No more charms to get men to give it to you?”

  “Keep your money. You can bury it with you, for all I care,” she replied. “Better that than let it fall into crusader hands. They’ll probably dig you up anyway, just to see if there’s anything worth taking.”

  “I’d rather they ravaged my corpse than my living body,” he retorted, looking her up and down. His gaze lingered on her breasts and then her belly. “Perhaps you’d better kill yourself before they come.”

  “Not before I’ve finished what I mean to do.” She would not be distracted by his spite.

  Interest flared up in his face. “What’s that?”

  “Revenge, of course. What else is there left?”

  “Nothing,” he answered. “Who is there to pay anything now? The Kantakouzenos are all gone, and the Vatatzes, the Doukas, Bessarion Comnenos. Who’s left?”

  “Of course they’re gone,” she said impatiently. “But there are new traitors who would sell us again. Let us begin with the Skleros, then perhaps the Akropolites, and the Sphrantzes.”

  He breathed out with a harsh rattle in his throat, and a little more of the color drained from his face.

  She was seized by a fear that he would die before he could tell her what she needed to know. There was a jug of water on the table. She rose, took a small glass, and measured a portion of liquid into it from one of the vials she had brought, then added a little water. She returned to the bed and held it for him.

  He drank the potion and choked. It exhausted him for several minutes, but when he finally opened his eyes again, there was a touch of color in his cheeks and his breathing was easier.

  “So what is it you want, Zoe Chrysaphes?” he asked. “Charles of Anjou will burn all of us. The only difference is that I shall not feel it, and you will.”

  “Probably. But you know many secrets about the old families of Constantinople.”

  “You want to damage them?” He was surprised. “Why?”

  “Of course I don’t, you fool!” she snapped. “I want them to crush the rebellions and back Michael. You want my herbs. You may roast in the flames of hell tomorrow, like a pig on a spit, but tonight you can be a lot easier, if you tell me what I want to know.”

  “All the shabby and fraudulent secrets of the dissenters to union?” he said, turning the idea over in his mind. “I could tell you those. There are plenty of them.” His smile was cruel and sharp with pleasure.

  She remained with Philotheos three long days and nights, portioning out the medicine, keeping him alive using all the skills she had. Little by little, laced with viciousness, he told her the secrets that she could use to bleed the Skleros dry of money, and the Sphrantzes and the Akropolites. It would be worth thousands of gold byzants. Used with skill and care, as she would, it might just foment enough doubt and rebellion in the West to weaken even the strength of Charles of Anjou.

  The day after Philotheos died, Zoe was at the Blachernae Palace and told some of her plan to Michael as they walked together along one of the great galleries. The light streaming in through the long, high windows showed cruelly the chipped marble of pillars, the broken hands of a porphyry statue.

  The emperor looked at her wearily, and the defeat in his face frightened her. “It’s too late, Zoe. We must think of defense. I tried everything I know, and I couldn’t carry the people with me. Even now, they don’t see the destruction awaiting them.”

  “Not from Charles of Anjou, maybe.” She leaned closer to him, ignoring all the rules of etiquette. “But they will understand shame in the eyes of their peers, the men they see every week, the men they talk to in business and government. The men they will do business with, even in a new exile. They will pay to avoid that.”

  He looked at her more closely, his eyes narrowing. “What shame, Zoe?”

  She smiled. “Old secrets.”

  “If you know them, why didn’t you use them before?” he asked.

  “I’ve only just learned them,” she replied. “Philotheos Makrembolites is dead. Did you know that?”

  “Even so, it is too late. This pope is France’s creature. Spain and Portugal will ally with him. They can’t afford not to. All the gold in Byzantium won’t change that.”

  “He’s pope for as long as he lives,” she replied softly. “What does he need the King of the Two Sicilies for now? Are you saying he will honor all his debts?”

  “He’ll pay them only if there is something he still wants,” Michael agreed.

  “Think of your own people,” she urged. “Think of their suffering in the long years of exile, and of those who never came back. We have been here a thousand years, we have built great palaces and churches. We have created beauty to the eye, the ear, and the heart. We have imported spices, colored silks like the sun and the moon, jewels from the corners of the earth, bronze and gold, jars, urns, bowls, statues of men and beasts.”

  She spread her hands. “We have measured the skies and traced the paths of the stars. Our medicine has cured what no one else could even name.” She spoke with intense intimacy. “But more than any of these, our dreams have lit fire in the minds of half the world. Our lives have brought justice to rich and poor, our literature has furnished the minds of generations of people, and made the world sweeter than it would ever
have been without us. Don’t let the barbarians kill us again! We will not rise a second time.”

  “You don’t know when you are beaten, do you, Zoe?” he said with a soft, sweet smile.

  “Yes, I do,” she answered. “I was beaten the first time, seventy years ago. I saw the fires of hell consume everyone I loved. This time, if it happens, I will go with it.” She took a breath. “But in the name of the Holy Virgin, I will not die without a fight. If we fail, Michael, history will not forgive us.”

  “I know,” he admitted quietly. “Tell me, Zoe, Cosmas Kantakouzenos is dead, and Arsenios Vatatzes, and Georgios, and Gregory, and now Eirene. Why is Giuliano Dandolo still alive?”

  She should have known he would have understood all along and allowed her to take her revenge only if it suited him.

  He was waiting. “He is still useful to me,” she replied. “He is courting enemies of Charles of Anjou, awakening trouble in Sicily. I will have Scalini kill him when we don’t need him. I would have liked something more elegant, but we no longer have time,” she added.

  He nodded, his eyes sad. “A pity. I liked him.”

  “So did I,” she agreed. “What has that to do with it? He is a Dandolo.”

  “I know,” he said softly. “It’s still a pity.”

  Eighty-seven

  ZOE STOOD AT THE OPEN WINDOW AND STARED AT THE FAR light on the sea. The wind stinging her face was sharp off the water; it still carried the smell of ice from the east, but also present in the breeze was the promise of spring. Zoe’s plans were maturing nicely. She had the money, albeit under bitter protest. Yesterday the Skleros had yielded. And she had exacted an extra price, just as a surety, that they should cease their opposition to the union with Rome. Constantinople needed every shred of power or influence it had with the West. Survival depended on it.

  And Zoe’s efforts would thwart Helena, which compared with the survival of Byzantium was trivial, but there was still a dark sweetness to it.

  Thomais was at the door. She looked frightened. “Bishop Constantine is here to see you, my lady. He is very angry.”

  Zoe had expected Constantine to be angry. “Let him wait a few minutes, then send him in.”

  Thomais looked cornered. “Are you well?” she asked. “Shall I bring you an infusion of camomile? I can tell the bishop to come another day.”

  Zoe smiled at the thought. It was almost worth doing simply for the satisfaction of it. She was still considering her answer when she saw the large figure of Constantine, magnificently robed, in the passage behind Thomais; obviously he was intending to come in, with or without permission.

  Thomais turned to face him.

  “Get out of my way, woman.” His face was white and his eyes blazing. Now that he was closer, Zoe could see the gleaming silk of his dalmatica, in spite of the inclement weather. It flowed around him, fluttering wide with his movement, making him appear even larger.

  His arrogance was intolerable to Zoe. She had a wild idea to wait until Thomais had retreated and closed the door, then take off her tunic and stand naked before the bishop. It would appall him so terribly, he would never exercise such high-handedness again. And it would be funny.

  Thomais was waiting for her to give the order.

  “Send Sabas to wait outside the door,” Zoe told her. “I doubt His Grace will continue with such ill manners, but if he does, I would like you and Sabas to be within call.”

  Thomais obeyed. Constantine came in and shut the door, almost catching the end of his tunic between it and the jamb.

  “You seem to have lost control of yourself,” Zoe observed coolly. “I would offer you wine, but you appear to have had more than sufficient already. What is it you wish?”

  “You have betrayed the Orthodox Church,” he replied through clenched teeth, the muscles of his smooth, beardless jaw bulging.

  Theodosia Skleros would have told him. No doubt she had asked absolution again for the sins of her brothers.

  Constantine’s eyes glittered with a fanatic anger, and there was sweat beading his skin. “You have foresworn all that you professed to believe and broken the covenants of your baptism.” His voice trembled. “You have abandoned the faith, blasphemed God and the Holy Virgin, and you are excommunicated from the fellowship of Christ. You are no longer one of us.” He flung out his arm, fingers pointing at her almost as if he would jab her. “You are denied the body and blood of Christ. Your sins are upon your own head, and in the Day of Judgment He will not atone for you. The Holy Virgin will not intercede for you before God, her prayers will not speak your name, nor will she hear your words at the hour of your death. Among the company of saints, you no longer exist.”

  She stared at him. It could not be true. He was standing in the light, alone, the rest of the room blurring around him so she could not see it. There was a strange, fuzzy sound in her ears. She tried to speak, to tell him he was wrong, but she could not find any words, and the pain in her head was unbearable.

  She put up her hands to block it out, and then suddenly she was on the floor. Darkness and light splintered into each other in total and incomprehensible silence. Then nothing at all.

  Constantine had expected her to be terrified. Zoe had committed the ultimate sin. But he had not thought that she would be so affected that she would be struck speechless and fall to the ground unable to move.

  He looked where she lay, her eyes half-open but apparently sightless. Was she dead? He moved closer and stared. He could see her chest rise and fall with her breathing. No, he had not killed her. Better than that, she was sightless and dumb, but still alive to know it.

  Victory soared up inside him, as if he were suddenly without weight. He turned on his heel and walked to the door. He pulled it open and saw the servants standing in a huddle. He drew in his breath and let it out slowly. “Be warned,” he said, measuring each word. “The Holy Church of Christ will not be mocked. Your mistress made light of her oaths and betrayed her promises. I have delivered God’s message to her, and He has struck her down.” He gestured behind him to where Zoe lay. “Call a physician if you wish, but he cannot undo the work of God, and he would be a fool to try.”

  Eighty-eight

  ANNA HAD BEEN SENT FOR AND ACCOMPANIED THE white-faced messenger to Zoe’s home. Sabas was waiting for her and took her immediately to where Zoe was lying on her bed, Thomais at her side, her face impassive.

  “Bishop Constantine excommunicated her from the Church,” Sabas informed Anna. “God has stricken her, but still she lives. Please help her.”

  Anna moved forward and looked down at Zoe. Her tunic was crumpled and she lay awkwardly, as if placed there by someone who dared not touch her with any more intimacy. Her eyes were almost closed, but she was breathing quite regularly. Without thinking, Anna smoothed Zoe’s dress over her stomach and thighs, then she felt her pulse. It was weak but quite regular.

  “Is it not the bishop’s doing?” Thomais asked.

  Anna hesitated. Constantine would not have poisoned her or struck her. He might have frightened her into an apoplectic fit if he had invoked the deep terror inside her of the punishment of God, the abandonment of all light and hope.

  She touched Zoe’s hand, gently. It was warm. She was not dead or even dying. “We must not let her get cold. And put a little ointment on her lips to stop them drying. I will fetch herbs and come back.”

  Thomais stared at her, her face filled with doubt, perhaps fear.

  “God may have struck her,” Anna said gently. “If He takes her life, that is His judgment. It’s not mine.”

  She did all she could for Zoe, waiting and watching to see if her condition changed. On the fifth night, she was sitting in the corner of Zoe’s room next to a painted and inlaid screen, half asleep. The room was almost dark. One small candle burned on the table about seven feet from Zoe, just enough to see her outline, not enough to shine on her face.

  She still had not opened her eyes or stirred more than to move one hand a few inches. Anna did
not know if she ever would again. Thinking of the destruction Zoe had caused, Anna should have been glad. It confused her that she felt instead a sense of loss and a troubling pity.

  She was almost asleep when she was suddenly, terrifyingly aware that there was someone else in the room. He was moving soundlessly, no more than a shadow passing across the floor. He couldn’t be a servant or he would have spoken.

  She froze, her breath caught in her throat. She watched as he crept toward the bed, a small man, dressed not in a tunic but a shirt and britches. He had a pointed beard, and as he came closer to Zoe the candlelight touched his face and she saw that he had sharp features, thin and clever. His hands were empty.

  Her mind raced. She knew from the awkward way the man’s jacket lay over his hip that he had a knife at his belt, and Zoe was defenseless. If Anna called out, there was no one near enough to hear or come in time to help. Anna herself would be dead before then.

  She must move silently or the intruder would hear her and strike, probably Zoe first and then her. She had nothing near her, no heavy bowl, no candlestick. But there was the tapestry. If she threw that over him, it might confuse him for long enough to reach for the candlestick on the table.

  “Zoe,” he said quietly. “Zoe!”

  Could he not see she was not asleep but senseless? No, thank God the candle was small and far enough from her that her face was in the shadow.

  “Zoe!” he said more urgently. “It is going well. Sicily is like a tinderbox. One spark, one wrong word or move, and it will burn like a forest fire. Dandolo has worked well, but he has just about served our purposes. Give me the word, and I’ll kill him myself. One quick thrust and it will be over. I’ll use the Dandolo dagger you gave him.” He gave a low, soft laugh. “Then he’ll know the message of death comes from you.”