The Sheen of the Silk

Sixty-five

“WELL?” SIMONIS DEMANDED WHEN ANNA WAS HOME AT last, washed and rested and sitting in clean clothes at the table, hot soup and fresh bread in front of her. “What did you learn of Justinian? I can see by your face that he is alive. What else? When will he be home?” Anna had told Simonis and Leo nothing of Zoe’s picture. They had both assumed her entire journey was to gain news of Justinian. Leo had cautioned her against going, saying she would endanger herself for little purpose. Simonis had been furious with him and praised Anna for at last taking the step that she had hoped of her from the beginning. “I saw him,” Anna began. “He is thinner, but he seemed well.”

“Drink your soup,” Simonis directed. “What did he say?” Anna felt the knot of disappointment tighten inside her. “He told me what happened,” she replied, beginning the soup because its fragrance tempted her and eating would not make what she had to say better or worse. “It was almost what I had believed, from what I learned myself…”

“You didn’t tell us!” Simonis accused, her face darkening again. Leo touched her arm gently, with a small, restraining gesture. She shook him off, still staring at Anna. “So how are you going to prove his innocence?” she repeated.

“I’m not,” Anna said bluntly. “He killed Bessarion…”

“He couldn’t!” Simonis said furiously. “Not Justinian. You, perhaps! You could have-”

“Stop it,” Leo said sharply. “You exceed yourself.”

Simonis blushed hotly.

Anna too was caught by surprise. “Thank you, Leo,” she said to him gravely. “The story is simple, and now that I know from Justinian that it is true, I shall tell you, but if you value your lives, or mine, you will not repeat it.” She waited for their word. “This is as Justinian wishes.”

Simonis nodded reluctantly, her face still hot and angry.

“Of course,” Leo promised.

Briefly she told them, not elaborating any of the details.

Simonis looked crushed. She stared in miserable silence.

“Anna, you must obey Justinian’s wishes,” Leo said with concern. “You can’t let anyone know that you are aware of all this, or they will destroy you.”

Simonis was looking at her, too, but she expected action. “You’ll go to the emperor and tell him who the other conspirators were,” she said as if it were a conclusion they had all agreed. “You’ll say you saw Justinian, and he told you who they were. Then the emperor will free him.”

“No, I can’t,” Anna said. “They tortured Justinian to make him tell, and he didn’t. You want me to do it now, after the price he has paid…”

Simonis shouted at her, “Men are fools. They keep to people who betray them when there’s no sense in it. You must do it for him. That way his hands are clean-”

“Not if she says that it was Justinian who told her,” Leo interrupted her.

“It doesn’t matter!” Anna said desperately. “He doesn’t want it done, by me, or himself, or anyone.”

“Of course he does,” Simonis contradicted her witheringly. “Why else would he tell you?”

“He didn’t need to tell me, I already knew,” Anna pointed out. She did not mention her conversation with Nicephoras.

“Oh, so it’s your honor now, is it?” Simonis almost choked on her words. “He sits in prison in the desert, beaten and tortured, and you increase your practice here in Constantinople and grow fat, wearing silks, but you don’t want to stain some honor you imagine you have. You didn’t mind sacrificing his whole future over your mistakes in Nicea, did you? Or have you chosen to forget that? None of this would ever have happened if you’d owned up then. He’d be a doctor and you wouldn’t! Where was your precious honor then, you… you coward…” Sobbing, gasping for breath, she blundered out of the room and they heard her feet down the passageway.

Anna found the tears were hot in her eyes. “He begged me not to,” she whispered. “It’s not for me… it’s for him.”

“I will speak to her,” Leo said quietly. “Perhaps you should send her back to Nicea…”

“No.” She shook her head. “I can’t do that.”

“You can’t excuse what she said,” he replied. “It was unforgivable.”

“Very little is unforgivable,” she said wearily. “And anyway, I can’t afford to have a stranger here in her place, not in the house.”

“Are you afraid she will betray you?” he asked.

“No, of course not,” she denied too quickly. “She would never do that. Justinian wouldn’t forgive her.”

Anna took the picture to Zoe Chrysaphes the following day. There were no servants present, simply the two of them in the silent room. It was filled with sharp, pale spring sunlight. She handed over the package, quite small, heavily wrapped, just as Giuliano had passed it back to her.

Zoe did not pretend to be interested in Anna. She cut the fastenings with a small, thin-bladed knife, then undid them and stared at the wooden panel. For a long time she did not speak, her face transfixed with crowding emotions: awe, amazement, overwhelming joy. Strangely, there was no open victory in it-rather the opposite: a sense of sudden humility. Finally she looked up at Anna, and her eyes were totally without guile.

“You did well, Anastasia,” she said quietly, as one woman might speak to another who was an equal-possibly, for a moment, even her friend. “I could pay you in gold for your skill and your hardship, but that seems crass. There is a jeweled candlestick on the table. It is yours. Take it, and set your taper in it to carry the light.”

Anna turned and saw it. It was exquisite: small-not more than a few inches high-but set with rubies and pearls that burned softly even in the harsh morning light. She picked it up and turned to thank Zoe, but Zoe’s head was bent and she was totally absorbed in the picture.

Anna left without breaking the silence.