The Sheen of the Silk

Fifty-eight

ANNA STOOD AT THE RAILING OF THE SHIP IN THE LATE afternoon sun. It was already low on the horizon, the wind was cold on her face, and the sharp, salt air filled her lungs. They were several days out of Constantinople, having sailed through the Sea of Marmara and into the Mediterranean, and she had begun to find the pitch and slight roll of the deck more natural. She had even grown accustomed to the seaman’s britches she had been lent, a tunic and dalmatica being awkward garments in which to climb steps and move easily in narrow spaces. There was no room to hold on to skirts, and they were more immodest than she had previously considered. Giuliano had suggested the change, and after a few hours she had found it agreeable.

Giuliano was busy most of the time. It took all his skill to command men he knew little and to work south at this time of the year, against the current sweeping up from Egypt past Palestine and then westward. Even when they were with the wind, they still had to tack and veer precisely.

She heard his footsteps across the deck behind her. She did not need to turn to know it was he.

“Where are we?” she asked as he stepped beside her.

He pointed. “Rhodes is there, ahead of us. Cyprus over there, farther to the south and east.”

“And Jerusalem?” she asked.

“Farther still. Alexandria’s that way.” He swung around and extended his arm south. “Rome there, to the west. Venice is to the north of that.”

This was the first time they had had more than a few moments in which to talk without being overheard by the crew. Zoe and the death of Gregory crowded her mind, but she did not want to say anything that would tear scabs off the wounds and prevent the fragile healing.

She thought of the great rock that was reputed to guard the other end of the Mediterranean from the ocean, which, as far as anyone knew, stretched out to the edge of the world.

“Have you been out through the Gates of Hercules into the Atlantic?” she asked, her imagination fired at the thought.

“Not yet. One day I’d like to.” He narrowed his eyes against the sun, smiling. “If you could go anywhere at all, where would you choose?”

She was taken by surprise. Her mind raced. She did not want to talk about old dreams that did not matter anymore. “Venice? Is it very beautiful?” She wanted to hear the urgency and the tenderness in his voice.

He smiled, indulging her. “It’s like nowhere else,” he answered. “So beautiful you think it must be a city of dreams, an idea floating on the face of the water. Touching it would be like trying to catch moonlight with a net. And yet it is as real as marble and blood, and as brutal as betrayal.” There were passion and regret in his eyes. “It has the ephemeral loveliness of music in the night, and yet it stays in the mind as great visions do, coming back again and again, just when you think it has finally left you in peace.”

He looked at the darkening horizon. “But I don’t think I could forget Byzantium, either, now. It is subtle, wounded, more tolerant than the West, and perhaps wiser.” He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

The wind was rising from the north, whitening the wave crests as the current buffeted them. Anna waited for him to speak, happy in the sounds of the water and the creaking of wood.

“I know we want to retake Jerusalem for Christianity,” he went on. “But I wonder if we’ve thought beyond that, to the cost.” He gave a hard little laugh. “We sacrifice Byzantium to gain Jerusalem-and lose the world. I don’t know. But I’ve got a decent red wine-”

“Venetian, of course,” she interrupted lightly, tearing the thread of tension that was tightening inside herself.

He laughed. “Of course. Come and we’ll share it over dinner. Ship’s rations, but not bad.” He spoke easily, without hesitation.

Banishing thought for anything beyond the moment, she accepted, rising to her feet and having to steady herself to the slight pitch of the deck.

It was a good meal, although she was barely aware of what she ate or of anything beyond the sweetness and the fire of the wine. They spoke easily, of all manner of things, places they had been to, people they had met or known. He described the funny and the absurd with pleasure and, she noticed, without cruelty. The more she listened to him, the more irrevocably she felt bound to the good in him. And the less could she ever tell him the truth. He saw her as a man, but one from whom he need fear no rivalry. She knew that something of his gentleness with her was because he was a whole man, able to taste the physical pleasures of life in a way Anastasius never would, and she was startled by the delicacy he exercised in never overtly mentioning such things.

She left at about two in the morning, when duty called him up to the deck because the weather was worsening. She had drunk more wine than usual, and she felt so close to weeping as she closed the door of her own cabin that the tears actually spilled over her cheeks, hot and painful. Had she been less exhausted, she might have given in and sobbed until she had nothing left inside her. But when would she stop? What end was there, except to treasure friendship, or laughter, trust, tolerance, and the will to share? She would not sacrifice that for some momentary indulgence in self-pity or grief for what she herself had closed the door against.

The following day the weather was bad, a storm driving down from the north forcing them to stand farther out than they would otherwise. Giuliano was fully occupied with navigation and keeping the ship from drifting onto the dangerous troughs where she could lose sails or even a mast.

The next time they spoke it was the morning watch as dawn was rising from the east, where Cyprus lay far beyond view. The sea was calm and there was a slight breeze, smelling sweet and exquisitely clean, the pale light barely tipping the crests of the water, too delicate to be touched with foam. In the silence, they could have been the first humans to see the earth or breathe its air.

For a long time they stood at the rail almost a yard apart, staring across at the radiance spreading over the sky, melting the shadows between one wave and another. She did not need to look at him; she was certain his thoughts were also filled by the enormity of it. It was not frightening to be alone on the ocean’s face; in fact, there was a curious comfort in it.

On other occasions snatched in moments here or there, she and Giuliano spoke of memories, experiences good and bad, sometimes matching tall stories. She pulled many from the tales her father had told her that she could identify with well enough. At times when she was embroidering rather a lot, he would realize it and they laughed together. It was a joke with no ill will. She had no need to explain her inventions.

One night when they were on deck, watching the sun sink, squandering fire beyond the black outline of Cyprus, the wind cold in their faces, the conversation turned toward religion and the union with Rome.

“Pride and history apart,” he said seriously, “is separation from Rome really worth dying for? Do you think it is?” He was direct, a personal question, not a general one.

She stared at the fading light, changing even as she watched. No two sunsets were ever the same. “I don’t know. I’m not sure how much I am prepared to have anyone else tell me what to think. But I also know for certain that I am not prepared to demand anyone else sacrifice their lives, or the lives of those they love, because I’m certain of the differences between the Roman and Byzantine faiths.

“Maybe any Church can only take us so far, provide a framework in which we can climb far enough to see just how much farther there is to go, and that the journey is infinitely worth it. Sooner or later we outgrow it, and it becomes a shackle to the spirit.”

“Then how do we do the rest?” There was no banter in his voice. She could hardly see the outline of his head and shoulders against the darkness of the sky, but she felt the warmth of him near her.

“Maybe we have to want it with such a passion of hunger that no one can hold us back from reaching it,” she said quietly. “We cannot be led, or commanded. We must labor with our own strength, seeing with the light of the mind, even if it’s only a short space ahead. That’s enough.”

“That’s hard.” He let out his breath slowly. “I would like to believe it, difficult and lonely as it sounds. Your heaven would be worth looking for, and creating out of my own mistakes, building out of forgiveness, and seeking in every new place.”

He leaned back a little and looked up at the sky. “We had better weave some ladders, Anastasius.”