She regarded Anna with a sudden solemnity. “He needs a far better physician than his current exile affords him.” She frowned. “One who will disregard his sins, which I doubt are many, and anyway, sin is largely a matter of opinion. One man’s virtue may be another man’s vice.” She looked grave. “Anastasius, you can treat him with herbs and tinctures, medicines which will actually help his illness, or at the very least, if he is ill unto death, ease his distress. He deserves that. Do you take deserving into account?”
“No,” Anna replied with a faint gleam of humor herself. “You know that. As you say, it is often only a point of view anyway. I despise hypocrisy, which would place me against half of the most pious people I know.”
Zoe laughed. “Your frankness could prove your undoing, Anastasius. I advise you to watch your tongue. Hypocrites have absolutely no sense of humor at all, or they would see their own absurdity. Will you go and do what you can for Cyril Choniates?”
“Will I be allowed to?”
“I shall see to it,” Zoe replied. “He is at a monastery in Bithynia. And the papal legate Bishop Niccolo Vicenze will accompany you there. He has business with Cyril, which means he will organize and pay for the travel and the lodging. That seems a good arrangement. The weather is pleasant. The journey on horseback will take you a few days, but it will not be over-arduous. You know Bithynia better than he can. You will leave tomorrow morning. There is no time to waste.”
She moved slowly back across the room toward the table and smooth, comfortable chairs. “I have an herbal mixture I would like you to take for Cyril. He used to enjoy it when I knew him in the past. It is a simple restorative, but it will give him pleasure, and perhaps it will give him also an increase in strength. I will take a little myself. Perhaps you would like some also?”
Anna hesitated.
“As you please,” Zoe said lightly, reaching for the door of a carved wooden cabinet and opening it. Inside were many drawers, each only a few inches square. She pulled one open and took out a silk pouch full of fragments of leaves, crushed so finely as to be almost a powder. “One takes it in a little wine,” she said, suiting the action to the words. She poured two goblets of red wine and sprinkled a little powder into each. It dissolved almost immediately.
Her eyes met Anna’s as she picked up one of them and put it to her lips. “To Cyril Choniates,” she said softly, and drank.
Anna picked up the other and sipped. There was no alteration to the flavor; even the scent of the herb had vanished.
Zoe emptied her goblet and offered a honey cake, taking one herself and biting into it with pleasure.
Anna drained her goblet as well.
“Honey cake?” Zoe offered. “I recommend it. It will take the aftertaste away.”
Anna accepted and ate.
Zoe gave her the rest in the silk pouch.
“Thank you.” Anna took it. “I will offer it to him.”
Anna made the short journey across the Bosphorus to the Nicean shore, where she found Bishop Niccolo Vicenze waiting for her somewhat impatiently. He was pacing back and forth on the quayside, his pale hair gleaming in the cool, early light, his face set in harsh lines of displeasure. He was dressed for traveling, as she was, in shorter robes and soft leather boots covering his lower legs. Even so, he managed to look severely clerical, as if his office were part of himself.
Their greeting was brief, no more than an acknowledgment, then they mounted the waiting horses and began the long journey inland through country she already knew.
The sun rose in a clear sky and the day was warm with only the slightest breeze. But it was a long time since Anna had ridden a horse for more than a couple of miles, and she quickly grew both sore and tired, although Bishop Vicenze was the last person to whom she would have displayed any weakness.
She had ridden in this land before, years earlier, with Justinian. If she closed her eyes and felt the sun on her face, the strength of the animal beneath her, she could imagine it was he riding ahead of her.
But it was Vicenze who was there now along the track between the bracken, the wild blackberries, and the gorse, and he shared nothing. He never even looked back to see if she was keeping up.
It was familiar territory to her, at least to begin with. After that they followed Vicenze’s guidance from a map, which appeared to be perfect. It was fortunate, but somehow it gave her little pleasure. She had fully expected he would be infallible in such technical skills. Nevertheless, she thanked him, because she did not wish to be at fault in courtesy. It would be a sign of weakness, and although he was a priest, she sensed no mercy in him.
They arrived at the massive, fortresslike monastery after dark, on the third day, having found wayside lodging each night.
They were made welcome. Zoe’s messenger had arrived and left before them, and Anna at least was eagerly awaited. As soon as she had been given the barest food and water, and had washed her hands and face from the dust of the journey, she was taken to see Cyril.
With gratitude and anxiety, a young monk took her along the silent corridors to Cyril’s cool stone cell. It was a simple room, no more than five paces by five, the walls bare except for a large crucifix. He lay on a narrow cot, pale-faced and exhausted from the pain in his chest and entire abdominal area. That was not unusual with a long-term fever. The normal functions do not occur, and pain is natural.
She greeted him gently, introducing herself and expressing sorrow for his illness. He was not an old man as she considered age, certainly not over seventy, but his body was wasted from years of self-denial and now also from illness. His hair was thin and white and his face sunken; his skin felt like old paper to her touch.
She asked him the usual questions and heard the answers she had expected. She had brought herbs that were pleasant tasting but purgative. To begin with, what she wanted most was to give him some ease, a better chance to sleep for a length of time, and to restore the balance of fluid in his body.
“Drink as much as you can of this I have brewed for you,” she told him. “It will ease your pain considerably. I shall make a jug full every few hours, and bring it to you. By tomorrow this time, you will be less distressed.” She hoped that was true, but belief was a large part of recovery, Christian or not.
“It would be more comfortable if you were to be attended by someone you know well,” she said to him. “But I shall be as close by as your brethren will permit, and will come at a moment’s notice if you call.”
“Should I fast?” he inquired anxiously. “With Brother Thomas’s help I will pray. I have already confessed my sins and received absolution.”
“Prayer is always good,” she agreed. “But be brief. Do not weary God with what He already knows. And no, do not fast,” she added. “Your spirit is strong enough. In order to continue in service to God and man, you need to regain the strength of your body. Take a little wine, mixed with water, and honey if you wish.”
“I abstain from wine.” He shook his head fractionally.
“It’s not important.” She smiled at him. “Now I shall make the herbal infusion for you, and come back with it.”
“Thank you, Brother Anastasius,” he said weakly. “God be with you.”
She sat up most of the night with him. He was feverish and restless, and she began to fear she would not be able to save him. By morning he was very weak, and she found it difficult to persuade him to drink the stronger herbs she had prepared. He was in much distress, and she became concerned that he had an internal obstruction rather than merely the natural effects of fever and ill diet. She increased the strength of the purgative, feeling she had little to lose. This time she added sandalwood for the liver, aloeswood to treat blockage in the liver and urinary system, and again more calamint.