“You don’t know when you are beaten, do you, Zoe?” he said with a soft, sweet smile.
“Yes, I do,” she answered. “I was beaten the first time, seventy years ago. I saw the fires of hell consume everyone I loved. This time, if it happens, I will go with it.” She took a breath. “But in the name of the Holy Virgin, I will not die without a fight. If we fail, Michael, history will not forgive us.”
“I know,” he admitted quietly. “Tell me, Zoe, Cosmas Kantakouzenos is dead, and Arsenios Vatatzes, and Georgios, and Gregory, and now Eirene. Why is Giuliano Dandolo still alive?”
She should have known he would have understood all along and allowed her to take her revenge only if it suited him.
He was waiting. “He is still useful to me,” she replied. “He is courting enemies of Charles of Anjou, awakening trouble in Sicily. I will have Scalini kill him when we don’t need him. I would have liked something more elegant, but we no longer have time,” she added.
He nodded, his eyes sad. “A pity. I liked him.”
“So did I,” she agreed. “What has that to do with it? He is a Dandolo.”
“I know,” he said softly. “It’s still a pity.”
Eighty-seven
ZOE STOOD AT THE OPEN WINDOW AND STARED AT THE FAR light on the sea. The wind stinging her face was sharp off the water; it still carried the smell of ice from the east, but also present in the breeze was the promise of spring. Zoe’s plans were maturing nicely. She had the money, albeit under bitter protest. Yesterday the Skleros had yielded. And she had exacted an extra price, just as a surety, that they should cease their opposition to the union with Rome. Constantinople needed every shred of power or influence it had with the West. Survival depended on it.
And Zoe’s efforts would thwart Helena, which compared with the survival of Byzantium was trivial, but there was still a dark sweetness to it.
Thomais was at the door. She looked frightened. “Bishop Constantine is here to see you, my lady. He is very angry.”
Zoe had expected Constantine to be angry. “Let him wait a few minutes, then send him in.”
Thomais looked cornered. “Are you well?” she asked. “Shall I bring you an infusion of camomile? I can tell the bishop to come another day.”
Zoe smiled at the thought. It was almost worth doing simply for the satisfaction of it. She was still considering her answer when she saw the large figure of Constantine, magnificently robed, in the passage behind Thomais; obviously he was intending to come in, with or without permission.
Thomais turned to face him.
“Get out of my way, woman.” His face was white and his eyes blazing. Now that he was closer, Zoe could see the gleaming silk of his dalmatica, in spite of the inclement weather. It flowed around him, fluttering wide with his movement, making him appear even larger.
His arrogance was intolerable to Zoe. She had a wild idea to wait until Thomais had retreated and closed the door, then take off her tunic and stand naked before the bishop. It would appall him so terribly, he would never exercise such high-handedness again. And it would be funny.
Thomais was waiting for her to give the order.
“Send Sabas to wait outside the door,” Zoe told her. “I doubt His Grace will continue with such ill manners, but if he does, I would like you and Sabas to be within call.”
Thomais obeyed. Constantine came in and shut the door, almost catching the end of his tunic between it and the jamb.
“You seem to have lost control of yourself,” Zoe observed coolly. “I would offer you wine, but you appear to have had more than sufficient already. What is it you wish?”
“You have betrayed the Orthodox Church,” he replied through clenched teeth, the muscles of his smooth, beardless jaw bulging.
Theodosia Skleros would have told him. No doubt she had asked absolution again for the sins of her brothers.
Constantine’s eyes glittered with a fanatic anger, and there was sweat beading his skin. “You have foresworn all that you professed to believe and broken the covenants of your baptism.” His voice trembled. “You have abandoned the faith, blasphemed God and the Holy Virgin, and you are excommunicated from the fellowship of Christ. You are no longer one of us.” He flung out his arm, fingers pointing at her almost as if he would jab her. “You are denied the body and blood of Christ. Your sins are upon your own head, and in the Day of Judgment He will not atone for you. The Holy Virgin will not intercede for you before God, her prayers will not speak your name, nor will she hear your words at the hour of your death. Among the company of saints, you no longer exist.”
She stared at him. It could not be true. He was standing in the light, alone, the rest of the room blurring around him so she could not see it. There was a strange, fuzzy sound in her ears. She tried to speak, to tell him he was wrong, but she could not find any words, and the pain in her head was unbearable.
She put up her hands to block it out, and then suddenly she was on the floor. Darkness and light splintered into each other in total and incomprehensible silence. Then nothing at all.
Constantine had expected her to be terrified. Zoe had committed the ultimate sin. But he had not thought that she would be so affected that she would be struck speechless and fall to the ground unable to move.
He looked where she lay, her eyes half-open but apparently sightless. Was she dead? He moved closer and stared. He could see her chest rise and fall with her breathing. No, he had not killed her. Better than that, she was sightless and dumb, but still alive to know it.
Victory soared up inside him, as if he were suddenly without weight. He turned on his heel and walked to the door. He pulled it open and saw the servants standing in a huddle. He drew in his breath and let it out slowly. “Be warned,” he said, measuring each word. “The Holy Church of Christ will not be mocked. Your mistress made light of her oaths and betrayed her promises. I have delivered God’s message to her, and He has struck her down.” He gestured behind him to where Zoe lay. “Call a physician if you wish, but he cannot undo the work of God, and he would be a fool to try.”
Eighty-eight
ANNA HAD BEEN SENT FOR AND ACCOMPANIED THE white-faced messenger to Zoe’s home. Sabas was waiting for her and took her immediately to where Zoe was lying on her bed, Thomais at her side, her face impassive.
“Bishop Constantine excommunicated her from the Church,” Sabas informed Anna. “God has stricken her, but still she lives. Please help her.”
Anna moved forward and looked down at Zoe. Her tunic was crumpled and she lay awkwardly, as if placed there by someone who dared not touch her with any more intimacy. Her eyes were almost closed, but she was breathing quite regularly. Without thinking, Anna smoothed Zoe’s dress over her stomach and thighs, then she felt her pulse. It was weak but quite regular.