The Sheen of the Silk

Seventy-four

GIULIANO HAD GIVEN THE ICON TO THE POPE. HE WOULD have liked to give it back to Michael, but with reluctance he understood why that could not be. If he did, it would only necessitate Michael packing it up and sending it again. It could be lost at sea, especially at this time of year.

So when the pope’s envoy had approached him in Venice, he had produced the icon immediately and presented it to the man to take with him to Rome, a gift from the Venetian Republic, which had rescued it from pirates. No one believed that, but it did not matter. They split a good bottle of Venetian wine, laughed hard, and the envoy left with the icon, well guarded by a number of soldiers.

Giuliano left for Constantinople and arrived six weeks later, sailing up the Sea of Marmara against a heavy wind and glad to dock at last in the Golden Horn. The familiar outline of the great lighthouse, the warm red of the Hagia Sophia, were strangely pleasing to his mind, yet even as he thought of it, he was also aware that it was an illusion of safety.

As soon as he stepped ashore, the harbormaster gave him a letter with his name on it and the word urgent on the outside. It had already been there two days.

Dear Giuliano,

Through the good offices of my friend Avram Shachar, I have found a close relative of your mother. However, there is little time. She is old and very fragile. I have visited her, and I fear she has not long left.

She told me the truth of your parents, and I could repeat it to you myself, but it would be far better that you should hear it from her. It would also bring her great peace.

I promise you it is a story you will want to hear.

Anastasius

Giuliano thanked the harbormaster and returned to his ship. He handed over command to his lieutenant, and without even changing his sea clothes, he went straight to Anastasius’s house.

Anastasius stood at his doorway, talking to Leo. He turned and saw Giuliano, and his face lit with pleasure.

Giuliano strode forward and clasped his hand, forgetting for a moment how slender it was. He eased his grasp. “Thank you more than I can say.”

Anastasius took a step backward, but he was still smiling. He regarded Giuliano’s disheveled clothes, the leather worn with use and still stained here and there by salt water. “We should go tonight. It will be a hard ride,” he said apologetically. “But we shouldn’t wait.”

Giuliano dismissed the inconvenience instantly but was glad to rest an hour or two.

Leo went to hire horses for the journey, and Anastasius himself prepared and served them a brief meal.

“Is Simonis ill?” Giuliano asked.

Anastasius smiled bleakly. “She has chosen to live elsewhere. She comes in during the day, now and then.”

He did not add any more, and Giuliano sensed that the subject was painful.

They set out at dusk, at first riding side by side. He was excited, longing to hear the story, afraid of what it would be, how it might damage the fragile defense he had built against the truth.

Rather than endure his own thoughts, he told her about the icon and how he had stolen it from Vicenze, replacing it with the other picture, and what he had heard of its unveiling in front of the pope and all the cardinals. They both laughed so hard that for several minutes they were breathless.

Then the road narrowed and they were obliged to go single file, and further conversation was impossible.

When at last they arrived at the monastery, they were tired and cold, but they did little more than take a hot drink and wash off the dirt of travel before Anastasius asked to see Eudoxia.

They found her pale, breathing shallowly, and close to death, but her joy at seeing Giuliano, knowing immediately who he was, transfigured her.

“So like your mother,” she whispered, touching his face with her fragile hand, cold when he clasped it in his. She told him the story, as she had told it to Anastasius. Giuliano was not ashamed to weep for his mother, for his own misjudgment of her, or for Eudoxia.

He stayed with her for most of the night, tiptoeing away to his own rough bed only toward dawn.

He rose late the following day and attended a service with the nuns. He could never thank his aunt enough. He sat with her again, helped her eat a little and drink, all the time telling her about his life, his travels at sea, and especially his journey to Jerusalem.

He found it hard to leave, but her strength was slipping away and he knew it was right to let her rest. There was a peace in her smile, a calmness in her, that had not been there upon their arrival.

And most profoundly, he marveled at the truth. His mother had loved him. All that had been broken inside him was healing. How could he ever thank Anastasius for that?

He and Anastasius set out, riding single file again, down the new pathway, and he was glad of the chance to be alone with his thoughts. In one day, what had been a feeling of abandonment and shame had become the deepest love imaginable. His mother had sacrificed every happiness she had so that he would survive and be loved.

Now his Byzantine heritage was rich with passionate, lifelong, and selfless love. Surely no child had been loved more? He was glad that in the darkness of the long ride, Anastasius could not see the tears on his face and that with the frequent need to pass single file on the rough road, there was little chance to speak.