The Sheen of the Silk

Fifty-six

ANNA CHOSE HER TIME WITH CARE. FROM HER MANY visits to the Blachernae, she was familiar with Nicephoras’s routine. She went when she knew he would be alone and undisturbed, unless there was some crisis. She was uncharacteristically nervous climbing the palace steps, although she was now well-known, having attended most of the eunuchs at one time or another.

She passed the broken statues, the dark stains of fire, the passages blocked with rubble because the fabric of the building was dangerous. Perhaps Michael kept it this way so that neither he nor his servants would ever forget what being faithful to Orthodoxy cost.

She found Nicephoras in his usual room, open onto the courtyard. His servant went ahead and whispered that Anastasius had come, and a moment later she was shown in. Instantly she saw both the tiredness in his face and the sudden lift of pleasure at the sight of her.

“We are not falling ill often enough. It seems a long time since you have been here. What brings you? I have not heard of anyone needing your help.”

“It is I who need yours,” Anna replied. “But perhaps I can offer something in return? You look weary.”

He gave a little shake of his head. Anna was aware of the loneliness within him, the hunger to speak of things deeper in the heart than policy or the realities of diplomacy.

“That vase is new,” she observed, looking at a smoothly curved bowl sitting on one of the tables to the side. “Alabaster?”

“Yes,” he said quickly, his face brightening. “Do you like it?”

“It’s perfect,” she replied. “It’s as simple as the moon, as… as complete in itself, unconcerned with admiration.”

“I like that,” he said quickly. “You are quite right, many things try too hard. You hear the artist’s voice crying through the work for your attention. This has the supreme confidence of knowing exactly what it is. Thank you. I shall like it even more from now on.”

“Do I interrupt you reading?” she asked, seeing the manuscript on his desk.

“Ah! Yes, I was. It is about England, and I daresay it would be considered highly seditious here, but it is extraordinarily interesting.” His eyes were bright, watching her face carefully.

She was surprised. “England?” To her it meant only a barbarism beyond even the French, and she said as much.

“I thought so, too,” he admitted. “But they wrote a Great Charter in 1215, different from our laws of Justinian, because they were created by the barons, the aristocracy, and forced upon the king, whereas ours were codified by the emperor. Nevertheless, some of their provisions are interesting.”

She feigned interest, for his sake. “Really?”

His enthusiasm was too keen to be dampened by her lack of it. “My favorite is the dictum that justice delayed is justice denied. Do you not like that?”

“Yes, I do,” she said, to please him, then realized how profoundly she meant it. “Very much. It is certainly true. Is that what you were reading?”

“No. Much more recent, actually. Have you heard of Simon de Montfort, the Earl of Leicester?”

“No.” She hoped this was not going to be long. “Is he one of the barons who forced this charter?”

“No.” He turned the manuscript facedown deliberately. “But you have come about something in particular. I see it in your face. The murder of Bessarion again?”

“You know me too well,” she confessed, then felt as if with the words she had betrayed him. He knew nothing at all of her in reality. She could not meet his eyes and was surprised how much that hurt. She had planned in her mind exactly what to say, practicing the details.

“What is it?” he asked.

She plunged in, all her careful rehearsal abandoned. “I believe there was a plot to assassinate the emperor, and for Bessarion to take his place, in order to save the Church from union with Rome. Whoever killed Bessarion prevented that from happening. It was an act of loyalty, not treason. They should not have been punished for it.”

His face was filled with a sadness she did not understand.

“Who were the conspirators, apart from Justinian and Antoninus?”

She said nothing. She could not prove it, and in spite of what they had planned to do, it seemed such a betrayal to tell him. He would have to act. They would be arrested, tortured. Horrible pictures filled her imagination: Zoe stripped, humiliated, her body mocked and perhaps touched with fire again. And she could not prove it anyway.

“I did not think you would tell me,” Nicephoras said. “I might have been disappointed if you had. Justinian would not either, nor Antoninus.” His voice dropped even lower and was rough with pain. “Even under torture.”

She stared at him, new terror gripping her like a clenched fist inside her stomach, tightening.

“Is he…” She forced the words out between dry lips. She remembered John Lascaris’s blind face. Justinian… it was almost more than she could bear.

“We did not maim him.” Perhaps without meaning to, Nicephoras was taking part of the blame himself. He was the emperor’s man. “Justinian could not tell us that they wouldn’t try again. Can you?”

She thought about it, struggling, twisting this way and that in her mind, finding no escape. “No,” she said at last.

“What is Justinian Lascaris to you that you risk so much to save him?” he asked.

She felt the blood hot in her face. “We are related.”

“Closely?” he said in little more than a whisper. “Brother? Husband?”

It was as if time stopped, frozen between one heartbeat and the next. He knew. It was perfectly clear in his face. To deny it would be idiotic.

He waited, his eyes so gentle that it made the tears spill over onto her cheeks for the shame of her deceit. Would he think her disguise mocked him? She kept her eyes down, unable to look at him and hating herself.

“My twin,” she whispered.

“Anastasia Lascaris?”

“Anna,” she corrected him, as if that tiny piece of honesty mattered. “Zarides now. I’m a widow.”

“Whoever the other conspirators are, they are still dangerous,” he warned. “I believe you know who they are. One of them betrayed Justinian, I don’t know which, and if I did, I would not tell you, for your own sake. They would betray you just as quickly.”

“I know-” The words caught in her throat. “Thank you.”

“By the way, you should lengthen your stride a little. You still take short steps, like a woman. Otherwise you are pretty good.”

She nodded, unable to speak, then turned slowly and walked away, her mind numb, finding it hard to keep her balance. She would have to correct her walk some other time.