Mocenigo shrugged and pulled his face into an expression of doubt. “The paper is signed, but that’s a long way from a reality yet.”
Giuliano managed to look slightly surprised. “You think the agreement may not be kept? Surely Byzantium wants peace? Constantinople in particular cannot afford war again, and if they are not of one faith with Rome, war is what it will be, in fact, even if they don’t call it that.”
“Probably.” Mocenigo’s voice was soft and sad. “Most sane people don’t want war, but wars still happen. The only way you change people’s religion is by convincing them of something better, not by threatening to destroy them if they refuse.”
Giuliano stared at him. “Is that how they see it?”
“Don’t you?” Mocenigo countered.
Giuliano realized that Mocenigo identified with Constantinople, not with Rome. “Do you think other Venetians here feel the same?” he asked. Then instantly he wondered if it was too soon to have been so blunt.
Mocenigo shook his head. “I can’t answer for others. None of us knows yet what obedience to Rome will mean, apart from months of delay before we get answers to appeals, and money paid out of the country in tithes, instead of it staying here, where we desperately need it. Will our churches still be cared for, mended, filled with beauty? Will our priests still be paid well, and left their consciences and their dignity?”
“Well, there cannot be a crusade before ’78 or ’79 at the soonest,” Giuliano reasoned aloud. “By then we may have reached a more sensible understanding, earned a little latitude, perhaps.”
Mocenigo smiled-a sudden radiance in his face. “I love a man with hope,” he said, shaking his head. “But find out all you can about trade, by all means. There’s profit to be made, even in a short time. See what others think. Many believe the Holy Virgin will protect us.”
Giuliano thanked him and let the subject fall for the time being. But the easy way in which Mocenigo, a Venetian, had said “us” when referring to Constantinople remained in his mind. It suggested a sense of belonging that he could neither dismiss nor forget.
In the following days, he explored the shops along Mese Street and the spice market with its rich, aromatic perfumes and bright colors. He talked to the Venetians in the quarter, listened to the jokes and the arguments. At home in Venice most quarrels were about trade; here they were about religion, faith versus pragmatism, conciliation versus loyalty. Sometimes he joined in, more with questions than opinions.
It was not until his third week that he went farther up the hills and into the old back streets, where he found the dark stains of fire on the stones and every now and then rubble and weeds where there had been people’s homes at the turn of the century; and for the first time in his life, he was ashamed of being Venetian.
One house in particular caught his attention as he stood in a brief shower of rain, the water running down his face and plastering his hair to his head. He stared at the faded paint of a mural showing a woman with a child in her arms. His mother would not have been born when the city was broken and burned, but she might have looked like that, young and slender, in a Byzantine tunic, with a child close to her, proud, gentle, smiling out at the world.
Seventeen
FROM THE EMPEROR,” SIMONIS SAID, HER EYES WIDE AS she stood in the doorway of the herb room. “They want you to go with them, immediately. He is ill.”
“I expect someone is ill,” Anna replied, following after Simonis toward the outer room. “A servant, perhaps.”
Simonis snorted with impatience and pushed open the door for Anna to go in.
Simonis was right: It was Michael himself who wished to consult Anna. Almost lost for words, she gathered up her case of herbs and ointments and accompanied the servants out along the street and up toward the Blachernae Palace.
Inside, she was met by a court official and together they were escorted by two of the Varangian Guard, the emperor’s personal troops. They led her through the magnificent, crumbling aisles and galleries to his private apartments. He was apparently suffering from some complaint of the skin that was causing him severe discomfort.
It must have been Zoe who had spoken of her in such a way that the emperor would call her. What would she want in return? Without any doubt at all, it would be a large favor and probably dangerous. Yet it would never have been possible for Anna not to accept. One did not refuse the emperor.
She would have liked to. Failing to cure him might be the end of her career, at least among the wealthy and influential. Zoe would certainly not favor her again. She would be fortunate if that were all the revenge she took for such an embarrassment to her own reputation. And not every ailment was curable, even with the Jewish and Arabic medicine Anna used, let alone Christian.
Even though the great days of the court eunuchs were past, and the emperor no longer spoke to or listened to the world solely through them, there were still many here. She would have to deceive them with her imposture.
She had tried so hard to mimic Leo that she was losing her own identity, pretending to dislike apricots when she loved them, to like sweet pastries full of honey when they made her gag. She had had to spit out a hazelnut because it revolted her, after she had seen him take one and copied without thinking. She was using his phrases, adopting his voice, and she despised herself for it. She did it because it was safe. Nothing of her old, female self must be left to betray her.
How great a fool was she making of herself now, hurrying along the vast gallery behind a somber-robed official and the huge Varangian Guardsmen, hoping to practice the medicine her father had taught her-on the emperor, no less-because she thought she could rescue Justinian? Her father would have understood, and even approved her aims, but would he question her sanity in trying to put it into practice? What would he think of her if he knew the truth of what she owed Justinian? He had died before she had found the courage to confess to him.
The official had stopped, and there was another man in front of Anna. He was tall and broad-shouldered, but with the smooth face of a eunuch, the long arms and slightly odd grace of movement. She could not judge his age, except that he was certainly older than her. The skin of a eunuch was like that of a woman, softer, more prone to fine lines, and a eunuch’s hair seldom receded as a whole man’s often did. When he spoke, his voice was low-pitched and his diction beautiful.
“I am Nicephoras,” he introduced himself. “I will conduct you to the emperor. Is there anything you need that we may bring to you? Water? Incense? Sweet oils?”
She met his eyes for an instant, then looked down. She must not forget that this eunuch was one of the most senior courtiers in Byzantium. “Water would be helpful, and whatever sweet oils the emperor most favors,” she replied.
Nicephoras gave the order to a servant waiting in a farther doorway almost out of sight. Then he dismissed the official who had brought Anna, and the guards, and he himself led the way forward.
Outside the emperor’s room, he stopped. Anna felt as if he must see through her disguise and was about to tell her so. She wondered for a hideous moment if they might actually search her before allowing her into Michael’s presence. Then she had an appalling thought as to where his skin rash might be, and after she looked at it she would never be forgiven for the intimacy. It even came to her in a wild instant to confess now, before it was beyond recall. The sweat broke out on her skin, and the blood beat so loudly in her ears that it almost deafened her.
Nicephoras was speaking, and she had not heard him.
He realized it.
“He is in some pain,” he repeated patiently. “Do not ask him anything unless it is necessary for you to know it, and address him formally at all times. Do not stare. Thank him if you wish, but do not embarrass him. Are you ready?”