Zoe hid her surprise almost instantly, but Anna saw it.
“If you mean about Bessarion’s death,” Zoe answered, “then of course I knew it. The poisonings, and the knifing in the street. They had your hand all over them-they failed. Misconceived, and stupid.” She sat up a little, pushing Anna aside, her attention fully upon her daughter. “Who did you think would take his place, you fool? Justinian? Demetrios? That’s it-Demetrios. I suppose I have Eirene to thank for that.” It was a conclusion, not a question. She sank back against the pillows, the pain showing in her face again. And Helena walked out.
Anna tried to keep her concentration on the slowly healing skin, but the thoughts raced in her mind. There had been other attempts on Bessarion’s life. By whom? Apparently Zoe thought by Helena. Why? Who was Demetrios? Who was Eirene? Now she had something concrete to seek.
She finished the bandages, willing herself to keep her fingers steady.
It was not difficult to make the initial inquiries. Eirene was a woman of great note, ugly, clever, of ancient imperial family both by birth as a Doukas and by marriage as a Vatatzes. Gossip had it that she was responsible for the steady increase of her husband’s fortune, even though he had not yet returned from exile, for most of which he had been in Alexandria.
She had one son-Demetrios. There the information stopped, and as yet Anna dared not press it any further. The connections she was looking for now were more sinister, perhaps dangerous.
By August, Zoe’s burns were almost entirely healed and her patronage was bringing other patients to Anna. Some of these were wealthy merchants, dealers in furs and spices, silver, gems, and silks. They were happy to pay two or three solidi for the best herbs and even more for personal attention on demand.
Anna told Simonis to buy lamb or kid, even though they were recommended only for the first half of the month. They had been frugal ever since they had arrived in March. Now it was time for a celebration. She should serve it hot, with honey-vinegar and perhaps some fresh gourd.
“You know what vegetables to eat in August,” Anna added. “And yellow plums.”
“I’ll get some rose wine.” Simonis had the last word.
Anna went back to the local silk shop and picked up the length she had admired before. She let the soft, cool fabric slide through her fingers, almost like liquid, and watched as the light fell on it, turning it slowly. The sheen was first amber, then apricot, then fire, changing as it moved like a living thing. People said that of eunuchs, that the essence of them was elusive, never the same twice. It was meant as condemnation-that they were unreliable.
She saw it only that they were different as they were viewed, because they needed to be to survive; and that they were human, full of hungers, fears, and dreams like everyone else, and had the same ability to be hurt.
She bought a length of the silk sufficient to make a dalmatica for herself and accepted the shop owner’s offer to have it cut and stitched and delivered to her home. She thanked him and left, smiling even in the heat of the road outside and the dust of too many rainless days.
Then she went south toward Mese Street and looked at the shops there. She bought new linen tunics for both Leo and Simonis and a new outdoor cloak for each of them, requesting that they be delivered.
She had attended the nearest church every Sunday except when a patient required her urgent presence, but now she felt like taking a water taxi the considerable distance to the great cathedral of the Hagia Sophia. It stood out on the promontory, at the farthest end of Mese Street, between the Acropolis and the Hippodrome.
It was a calm evening, the air still close and warm, even on the water. As the sun sank lower in the west, color spilled across the Golden Horn, making it look like a sheet of silk. It was its brilliant reflection at sunrise that had given it its name.
The water taxi put ashore at dusk, and she climbed the steep streets up from the harbor as the lamps and torches were lit.
She approached the Hagia Sophia, now black against the fading sky, with a sense of awe and excitement. For a thousand years it had stood on this spot, the largest church in Christendom. It had been completely destroyed by fire in 532. The great dome had collapsed in 558, brought down by an earthquake, and been replaced almost immediately by the dome that now soared huge and dark against the sky.
Of course she had seen it many times from the outside. The building itself was over 250 feet in either direction. The stucco was of a reddish color, and in the rising or setting sun it glowed with such warmth that mariners approaching the city could see it from afar.
She went in through the bronze doors and then stopped in amazement. The vast interior was bathed in light from countless candles. It was like being in the heart of a jewel. The porphyry marble columns were deep red. Her father had told her they were originally from the Egyptian temple in Heliopolis, ancient, beautiful, and priceless. The polychrome marble in the walls was cool green and white, from Greece or Italy. The white of it was inlaid with ivory and pearls, and there were gold icons from the ancient temples of Ephesus. It far surpassed every description she had heard.
The impression of light was everywhere, as if the whole structure floated in the air, needing no physical support. The arches were inlaid with mosaics of staggering beauty, somber blues, grays, and browns against backgrounds of countless tiny squares of gold: pictures of saints and angels, Mary with the child Christ, prophets and martyrs from all the ages. Her eyes were dragged away from them only by the beginning of the Mass and the voices rising in unison and then in harmony.
Moved by the sacred solemnity of it, uplifted by a surge of her own faith and an ache to belong, she went toward the steps to the upper level. Head bent, she was carried forward by the others around her. This was the familiar ritual and the creed that had nourished her all her life. She had walked up to the women’s section of her own church in Nicea as a little girl with her mother, while Justinian and her father went with the men to the main body of the hall.
She reached the top and stood with the others staring down into the heart of the church as, in profound reverence, the priests performed the blessing and the taking of the sacrament of Christ’s body and blood, given to redeem mankind. The ritual was Byzantine to the heart, solemn and subtle, ancient as the trust between man and God.
The sermon was about the faith of Gideon leading the armies of the children of Israel against a force that seemed overwhelming. Again and again God commanded Gideon to reduce his meager army until it seemed absurd even to attempt a battle. The priest pointed out that this was so that when they won, as they would do, they would know that it was God who had made it possible. They would be victorious, but also both humble and grateful. They would know upon whom to rely in all future paths. First obey, and nothing is impossible, no matter what appearances suggest.
Was he speaking of the threat to the Church posed by the union with Rome? Or an invasion by crusading forces again, if the union was refused and the Latins returned, violent and bloody as before?
After the last notes of the singing faded away, she turned to leave, and then the horror dawned on her. Unthinking, she had followed the other women up to the women’s section. She had utterly forgotten she was supposed to be a eunuch. What on earth could she do? How could she escape now? The sweat broke out on her body, drenching her and leaving her cold. Everyone knew that the balconies of the upper floor were for women. She was agonized with shame.