The Sheen of the Silk

Eighty-nine

CONSTANTINE STOOD ALONE IN THE COURTYARD STARING at the fountain, and in his mind everything shrank into a tiny, crystal-clear picture, sharp-edged as a polar wind and just as simple. He could see the whole pattern as clearly as a great mosaic, every piece in its place. His whole life, every experience good and bad, had been leading up to this time when his understanding was like a shaft of light and at last undeniable. Even betrayed, he had not abandoned the cause. From that surely he must conclude that God would never abandon him?

His task now was the one above all others. Zoe Chrysaphes must be stopped. He had struck her down once, with the power of God in his hand, and Anastasius the vain, the shallow, and fickle as water, had healed her.

He must go to Zoe late in the evening, when he was certain to find her alone. His resolve was absolute. He could not leave the destiny of God’s people on earth in the slippery hands of Zoe Chrysaphes.

It was a dark night, cloud-covered and windy, with pieces of debris blown rattling along the street. He would not have chosen to be out, but this must be done. And perhaps such a night was created for decisions that could never be reversed.

He was admitted warily by her servants and shown into the entrance room with its old mosaic floors and arched doorways leading to her private apartments; but he had to insist, even imply the threat of excommunication to them, in order to see her alone. After his last visit, Zoe’s servants mistrusted him.

Finally, only Anastasius stood in his way.

“I will see her alone,” Constantine said firmly. “That is her right. Would you deny her the final sacrament of extreme unction? Can you face God yourself, if you do such a thing?”

Anastasius reluctantly stepped away, and Constantine went in, closing the door behind him.

The great room was as magnificent as always. The torches were burning in their ornate stands, yellow flames giving it a warm, peaceful feeling, like a fine painting framed and dusted with gold. The great crucifix was hanging in its usual place. It was beautiful, but Constantine did not like it. There was something almost barbaric about it. It made him uncomfortable, like a sort of indecency.

Zoe sat in a huge chair with her back to one of the tapestries, all wines and scarlets and purples, with threads of bronze. She was wearing red again, a brazen color. It lit her face, which was not as gaunt as it should be after her illness, and showed off those golden eyes.

“I know what you have done, Zoe Chrysaphes,” he said quietly. “And what you plan to do.”

“Really?” She seemed barely interested.

He leaned closer. “There are plans in heaven that earth knows nothing of,” he said harshly. “That is the meaning of faith. Trust God that He will provide for us whatever is necessary.”

Her fine eyebrows rose. “Do you believe that, Bishop Constantine?”

“I more than believe it,” he said with ringing certainty. “I know it.”

“You mean I cannot change you?” she persisted.

“Not at all.” He smiled.

“You have such faith!” Her voice was slow, almost a caress.

“I have,” he declared.

“Then why are you here?”

He felt the heat in his skin. Zoe had nearly tricked him.

“To save your soul, woman!” he retorted.

“You told me I had already lost it,” she reminded him. “Are you going to forgive me after all?”

“I can do,” he told her. “If you repent, and come back as an obedient daughter of the Church. Recant all that you have said in support of union with Rome, forgive your enemies, return the money to the Church you have taken, and submit yourself to discipline. Continue the rest of your days in prayer to the Holy Virgin, and you may at the last be washed clean.”

“All that before Charles of Anjou burns us to the ground again?” she said with mocking incredulity.

“God can do anything!” he said forcefully. “If you repent, and obey.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said softly. “We must help ourselves.”

“You blaspheme!” His voice rose in amazement and fury. “God will strike you dead!” He lifted his hand and pointed at her, jabbing his finger in the air as if it were a weapon.

She sat staring at him, smiling slightly lopsidedly, the right side of her face a little stiff. “Then my physician will heal me… again,” she replied. “You have the power to destroy, and he to make whole. Think of that, Bishop! Which of you does that make the greater?”

He lunged forward and seized a cushion from the nearest chair. He flung himself on top of her, pressing the soft, stifling fabric over her face. She struggled, arms and legs thrashing, but he was more than twice her weight and he held her down, crushing her lungs, suffocating her. It was only a few hideous moments before she stopped moving, and his rage went cold, his body covered in icy sweat. He stood up slowly and looked at Zoe where she lay sprawled on the floor, hair tangled, tunic up around her thighs. He should remember her like this: broken, without dignity, at once both exciting and disgusting in her suggestion of sensuality.

Feeling a revulsion he could barely control, he touched her hair with his hand to straighten it around her face. It was soft, so soft that he could barely feel it. The backs of his fingers brushed against her cheek. Her skin was still warm.

He shuddered convulsively. This was obscene! He wanted to strike her, tear down one of the huge tapestries and cover her with it.

But of course he must not do that. He was a bishop, tending a penitent sinner on her deathbed.

He pulled her tunic down as far as it would go. It was not far enough. It still looked as if she had had it lifted, as if… He refused to follow that thought. His mutilation burned in his soul. He lifted her thighs; she was heavy and warm. Then he pulled her tunic straight.

He stood up, his whole body trembling.

He waited several more minutes, then walked to the door and opened it. He stopped abruptly or he would have bumped into Anastasius standing just beyond it.

He looked Anastasius straight in the eye. “She repented of all her errors and saved her soul. It is a time for great rejoicing. Zoe Chrysaphes died a loyal daughter of the true Church.” He took a deep, steadying breath. “She will be buried in the Hagia Sophia. I shall offer the funeral Mass myself.” He forced himself to smile. It was like the rictus of the dead on his face.

Anastasius stared in total disbelief, his eyes wide and, unbelievably, filled with grief.

Constantine crossed himself and walked past him, his huge hands clenched, his heart pounding with victory.