The Sheen of the Silk

Fifty-seven

A WEEK LATER, ANNA HAD JUST SEEN HER LAST PATIENT OF the morning and was standing in the kitchen when Leo brought her a letter from Zoe Chrysaphes.

Dear Anastasia,

I have just received news of a most important matter concerning the true faith which we both espouse. I need to inform you of the details as soon as possible. Please regard this as urgent, and call upon me today.

Zoe

The blurred writing of her name, using the feminine rather than masculine, was a veiled reminder to Anna of Zoe’s power over her. She dared not refuse.

There was no decision to make. “I have to call on Zoe Chrysaphes.” She did not want to frighten Leo by telling him that Zoe knew her secret. “It is something to do with the Church. It should be interesting.”

But interest was the emotion furthest from her mind when she was shown into Zoe’s room. The fear and the loss in their previous encounter seemed to close in on her as if she could never escape it. She felt as though Giuliano must be just out of the line of her sight, and any moment he would move and she would see the pain in his face.

Zoe came forward superbly, head high, back straight. The deep blue-gray silk of her tunic swirled around her ankles, unbroken by gold ornament, simple as the dusk sky.

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” she said. “I have remarkable news, but before I tell you I must swear you to secrecy. A promise to me is little: Promise to Mary the Mother of God that you will betray this secret to no one. I charge you!” Her golden eyes blazed with a sudden flare of passion.

Anna was astonished. “And if I will not do that?”

“We need not consider it,” Zoe replied, her smile not wavering. “Because you will. Betrayal of secrets can be a most painful thing. The outcome can even kill. But you know that. Give me your promise.”

Anna felt her face burn. She had walked directly into the trap. “I will promise Mary the Mother of God,” she said with a faint echo of sarcasm.

“Good,” Zoe responded immediately. “And most appropriate. Everyone knows that the Venetians stole the Shroud of Christ from the Hagia Sophia, and also a nail from the true Cross. It is the most holy relic on earth, and only God knows where it is now. Probably in Venice, or maybe Rome. They’re all thieves.” She tried to keep the fury from her voice and failed. “And the crown of thorns,” she added. “But I have word out of Jerusalem of another relic, nearly as good. It has just come to light, after more than twelve hundred years.”

Anna tried not to care. She should never forget that, above all, Zoe was a creature of revenge and deception. Only a fool would trust her. Yet she found herself asking, almost holding her breath for the answer.

Zoe’s smile widened. “The portrait of the Mother of God, painted by St. Luke,” she whispered. “Imagine it. He was a physician, like you. And an artist. He saw her, just as you and I can see each other.” Her voice was husky with excitement. “Perhaps she was older, but all the passion and the grief would be there in her face.” Her eyes were alight with wonder. “Mary-as an old woman, who had given birth to the Son of God, and stood at the foot of the Cross at his death, helpless to save Him. Mary, who knew He was risen, not by faith or belief, or the sermons of priests, but because she had seen Him.”

“Where is this painting?” Anna asked. “Who has it? How do you know it is genuine? There are more pieces of the true Cross sold to pilgrims than would furnish a forest.”

“Its existence has been confirmed,” Zoe said calmly, seeing victory.

“Why do you tell me?” She dreaded the answer.

Zoe’s eyes were unblinking. “Because I wish you to go to Jerusalem and purchase it for me, of course. Don’t pretend to be stupid, Anastasia. Naturally I will provide the money. When you return with the picture I shall give it to the emperor, and once again Byzantium will have one of the great relics of Christendom. She is our patron saint, our guardian, and our advocate with God. She will protect us from Rome, whether it is the violence of the crusaders or the corruption of popes.”

Anna was stunned. Another thought occurred to her. Zoe had said it was to give to the emperor, not the Church. Did Michael know perfectly well that it was Zoe who had been going to kill him, and this was a bargain for her freedom, even her life?

Aloud she asked, “Why me? I know nothing of paintings.”

Zoe looked deeply satisfied. “I trust you,” she said smoothly. “You will not betray me, because to do so you would have to betray yourself… and Justinian. Do not forget how well I know you.”

“I can’t travel alone to Jerusalem,” Anna pointed out, although now her heart was racing at the thought. Jerusalem-so near Sinai. She might see Justinian. Did Zoe think of that, too? “Still less could I return without an armed guard if I am carrying a relic like that,” she added.

“I don’t expect you to.” Zoe gazed out of the window at the fading light of the sky. “I have already made inquiries as to your passage, and arranged it where you will be perfectly safe. Except, of course, from the rigors of a voyage, but that is inescapable.” She was smiling. “There is a ship chartered and commanded by a Venetian about to leave Constantinople for Acre, and then its captain, with suitable guard, I imagine, will make his way to Jerusalem. They are willing, for a consideration which I will pay, to allow you to accompany them. The captain will be aware of your purpose, but no one else.”

“A Venetian?” Anna was appalled. “They’ll let me get the painting, then steal it, probably throw me overboard, and you’ll never see the painting again.”

“Not this captain,” Zoe said with secret amusement. “He is Giuliano Dandolo. I have told him only that it is the picture of a Byzantine Madonna, posed for by a merchant’s daughter, perhaps his mother. You would be wise not to tell him differently.”

Anna stood rigid. “And if I refuse?” she stammered.

“Then I shall no longer feel bound to be discreet about your… identity. To the emperor, the Church, or to Dandolo. Be sure that that is what you want before you provoke it to happen.”

“I’ll go,” she said quietly.

Zoe smiled. “Of course you will.” She picked up a package lying on the table at her side and held it out to Anna. “Here is the money, and your instructions, a letter of safe conduct for you, with the emperor’s signature. Godspeed, and may the Blessed Virgin protect you.” She crossed herself piously.

At the teeming dockside, Anna came to a three-masted Venetian round ship with lateen sails and a high stern. It was broad-beamed, hence the name, and she judged it to be at least fifty paces from end to end. She made inquiries of the sailor at the bottom of the gangway, stating her name and Zoe’s, and was permitted to board. She found Giuliano on deck. He was dressed in a leather coat and britches, nothing like the courtly tunic and robes he’d worn in the city. Suddenly he looked Venetian, and alien.

“Captain Dandolo,” she said firmly. Whatever the cost, there was nowhere to retreat. “Zoe Chrysaphes told me that you had agreed to take me as passenger on your voyage to Acre, and then afterward to Jerusalem with you. She said she had paid you the price you considered fair.” Anna’s voice was cold with the tension that knotted inside her.

He turned around slowly, surprise in his face, then a quick flame of recognition suffocated the moment after by memory of the last time they had met.

“Anastasius Zarides.” His voice was quiet, not audible twelve feet away where sailors were working on the ropes and rigging. “Yes, Zoe made arrangements for a passenger. She did not say it would be you.” His face darkened. “Since when were you her servant?”

“Since she has the power to hurt me,” she replied, not flinching from his gaze. “But the commission on which she sends me is good: to bring back a picture which belongs in Constantinople.”

“A picture? Did she tell you of whom?”

Anna longed to be able to answer him honestly. Lying was like deliberately staking out a space between them, but the gulf was there already.

“A Byzantine lady of good family,” she answered. “But apparently the victim of some tragedy or other.”

“Why does Zoe care?”

“Do you think I asked her?” she said with an attempt at light sarcasm.

“I think you might have guessed,” he replied. She was not sure if there was gentleness in his voice or sadness.

Now it was her turn to look away, over the choppy waters of the harbor. “I think it is a picture she wants because it will give her power,” she answered. “But it could be merely one whose beauty she likes. She has a passion for beauty. I’ve seen her stare at the sunset till the sight of it should be printed on her soul.”

“She has a soul?” he said with sudden bitterness.

“Surely a soul twisted is far worse than no soul at all?” she asked. “It is the loss of what could have been which tortures, the fact that something was within your reach and you let it slip away. I don’t think hell is fire and torn flesh and the smell of sulfur choking you. I think it is the taste of heaven remembered-and lost.”

“God preserve us, Anastasius!” Giuliano exclaimed. “Where on earth do you come up with things like that?”

He put his hand on her back, swiftly, in a companionable gesture, far from a caress. A moment later he took it away, and it was as if she had lost the warmth of the sun on her.

“You’d better come to Jerusalem with us and get this picture for Zoe,” he said cheerfully. “We sail tomorrow morning. But I daresay you know that.” He gave a brief laugh, but the smile remained in his eyes. “We’ve never had a ship’s physician before.”