The Sheen of the Silk

Fifty-one

ANNA WOKE IN THE NIGHT TO FIND SIMONIS STANDING over her with a candle in her hand.

Simonis’s voice was sharp with irritation. “It’s a man from the Venetian Quarter, on horseback. Says you’re to come right away. There’s been an accident and they need help. He wants you to go on his horse. They’re mad people. I’ll go and tell him to get one of their own.” She half turned away.

“Tell him I’ll be there in a minute,” Anna ordered.

She went with the Venetian, accepting his hand to haul her up into the saddle behind him, clutching her bag.

“You won’t need it,” he told her. “He’s dead. We… we need your help to get rid of the body so it won’t be found and we won’t get the blame for his murder.”

She was stunned. “Why on earth would I help you?” she demanded, preparing to slide off and return to her bed.

He urged the animal forward, gathering speed too quickly for her to do such a thing. They clattered down the hill and along the level. If he replied to her question, she did not hear his words. It was a quarter of an hour of clinging to him awkwardly in the hazy darkness, her bag slapping against her legs, before they came to a halt in an alley. A little knot of people had gathered outside the doorway of a small shop. At their feet was sprawled the body of a man. One of the group produced a lantern and held it up. In its wavering light, she could see the fear in his face and the scarlet of blood on the stones.

“We found him in our doorway,” the man said quietly. “We didn’t do it. He’s not one of us, he’s a nobleman, and Byzantine. What shall we do?”

Anna took the lantern from him and lowered it to look at the body. She saw straightaway that it was Gregory Vatatzes. His throat had been cut in a terrible, jagged wound, and scarlet with gore on the road beside him was a fine dagger with the Dandolo crest on the hilt. She had seen it before, less than a week ago, in Giuliano’s hands. He had cut a ripe peach with it, offering her half. They had laughed together over something trivial. There had been only the one peach. It had been his, and he had shared it with her.

She ran her hands over the body, searching to see if he was armed, if there had been a fight. She was cold with fear that Giuliano could have been injured as well.

She found a weapon, another jeweled knife, this one with a different shape of blade, still in its sheath at his belt and unstained. Gregory had not even drawn it. There was a piece of paper in his pocket: an invitation to meet about three hundred yards from here, signed by Giuliano.

With stiff hands, she tore the paper into tiny pieces and put the Dandolo dagger in her own bag, then turned to the man who had come for her. “Help me move him into the middle of the road. Somebody get a horse with any kind of cart. As many of you as can, climb into it and drive over the body, just once, over his neck, so we can hide the wound. Go on! Quickly!”

Anna bent down, forcing herself to grip Gregory’s body. It was heavy. It was hard work to drag it into the middle of the street where the traffic had worn the stones concave over the years. The sweat broke out on her body, yet she was shivering so violently that her teeth chattered. She tried not to think of what she was doing, only what it would cost Giuliano if she failed, and these people who had trusted her and would pay a terrible price to the authorities if it was thought to be murder.

When the task was completed, in swaying, jerking lantern light, the women helped her find the place where Gregory had been killed so that in daylight the blood would not make it obvious he had been moved. They worked hard, with lye and potash and brushes to get rid of every trace, scrubbing, swilling, scraping between the stones.

By the time they were satisfied, the man had returned with the cart, drawn by a swaybacked horse. He did not say where he had got it, and no one asked.

It was a fearful job. The horse was frightened by the smell of blood and death, and it did everything it could to avoid treading on the corpse. It had to be led, talked to softly, encouraged against its will, in order to draw the wheels over Gregory’s neck and shoulders.

“It’s not good enough,” Anna told them, staring at the mangled flesh and hideously exposed bone. She could not leave it looking so obviously like a murder. “Do it once more. No one will believe it an accident if it’s clear the cart went over him several times. They might accept that the horse was frightened and backed once. Be careful.” The cart began to move, the man dragging at the halter of the reluctant animal, which was sweating, its flanks lathered, its eyes rolling.

“To the left!” she said urgently, waving her arm. “More!… That’s it. Now forward.”

She forced herself to look. The body looked terrible. Anyone seeing it would assume he had been knocked down and then dragged until the wheels finally went over him as the animal panicked. She turned away.

“Thank you,” the man said. His voice cracked with emotion. “I’ll take you back home.”

“You stay here. Clean the cart and the horse’s hooves. Do that very carefully or they’ll find it if they look. I’ll tell the authorities you called me to an accident.” She gulped again, her head swimming. “It’s easy to explain. Dark night, frightened horse, a man returned from a long exile in Alexandria who didn’t know the Venetian Quarter well. Bad accident, but they happen. Don’t add to it.” She felt her stomach churning. “You found him. You called me because you knew me. You didn’t see in the dark how bad it was.”

She walked away quickly, and as soon as she was around the corner, she retched. It took her several minutes before she was well enough to stand up and go on. She was less than a mile from the house where Giuliano lodged, and he should have returned by now. The time of his appointment with Gregory was long past. Before she could report Gregory’s death to the night watch, she must give Giuliano back the dagger.

She reached the door he used at the side of the house and rapped on it hard. There was no answer. She tried again and waited. She had tried a third time and was about to walk away, but then she heard a brief noise, and the door swung open to show light and the bulk of a man behind it.

“Giuliano?” she said urgently.

He pulled it wider, his face stunned with surprise in the upward glow of the lantern. “Anastasius? What’s happened? You look terrible. Come in, man.” He pulled the door wide. “Are you hurt? Let me…”

She had forgotten how filthy she was, stained with dirt from the street and with Gregory’s blood. “I’m not hurt!” she said sharply. “Close the door… please.”

He was standing in a nightshirt, his hair tousled as if he had already been back in bed. She felt her face burning.

She took the bloody dagger out of her bag and showed it to him, gripping it by the handle, but so that he could see the Dandolo crest. The blade was scarlet with blood-congealing but not yet dry.

Giuliano’s face went white. He stared at her in horror.

“I found it in the street a mile from here,” she told him. “Beside the body of Gregory Vatatzes. His throat had been torn out.”

He started to speak but choked on the words.

She told him briefly how she had been sent for and what she had done. “They’ll assume it was an accident. Clean your knife. Soak it until there isn’t a smear of blood on it anywhere, even in the crevices of the handle. Did you go to meet him?”

“Yes,” Giuliano said hoarsely, having to clear his throat to force out the word. “He wasn’t there. That’s my knife. Zoe Chrysaphes gave it to me, because it has the Dandolo crest on it. But it was stolen a couple of days ago.”

“Zoe?” she said incredulously.

He still did not comprehend. “She’s helping me… to find my mother’s sister, who may still be alive. That’s why I went to meet Gregory. He wrote to me, saying he had word of her.” He walked over toward a chest by the wall, carrying the lantern with him so he could find the paper. He held it out to her, the light high for her to read it.

It was almost immaterial what it said. It was Zoe’s writing. The slant of the letters was different from her usual-bolder, more masculine-but Anna recognized the characteristic capitals. She had seen Zoe’s script often enough on letters and instructions, lists of ingredients.

“Zoe Chrysaphes,” she said softly, her voice rasped with fury. “You fool!” She was shaking in spite of the effort to control herself. “She’s Byzantine to the soul, and you are not only a Venetian, you’re a Dandolo! You let her give you a dagger anyone would recognize? Where were your wits?”

He stood frozen to the spot.

She closed her eyes. “Please God, no one will ask you, but if they do, stick to the truth that you were out. Someone may have seen you. I shan’t tell you where it happened because you shouldn’t know. Don’t mention the dagger. I think I’m the only one who really saw it. Just clean the damn thing!” Without giving him more than a glance, Anna opened the door and went out into the corridor and then the street again. Quickly, stumbling and shivering, she hurried to the nearest watch point of the civil authority of the city. Thank heaven it was in the Venetian Quarter still, and the watchmen had no willingness to consider it anything more than the accident it appeared to be.

“And what were you doing there?” the watchman asked her.

“I have several patients in the quarter,” she replied.

“At that hour of night?”

“No, sir. I was just a physician they had consulted. They knew that I would come.”

“The man was dead, you say. What could you do for him?” The man frowned at her.

“Nothing, I’m afraid. But they were very distressed, especially the women. They needed help… treatment.”

“I see. Thank you.”

She stayed only a little longer, leaving her name and address for them to find her again if necessary. Then, still shaking with horror and fear, still wretched with nausea, the sweat cold on her skin, she began the long walk back up the hill homeward.