Anne Perry - The Sheen of the Silk

“You are a man of conviction,” Constantine said, a slow, sweet smile lighting his face.

She returned to her first question. “Why would Justinian assist anyone to kill Bessarion Comnenos?”

“He did not, of course,” Constantine replied regretfully. “Justinian was a fine man, and as much against the union with Rome as Bessarion was. There were other suggestions, the truth of which I don’t know.”

“What suggestions?” She remembered her deference just in time and lowered her eyes. “If you can tell me? Who is Justinian suspected of helping, and what happened to him?”

Constantine lifted his hands higher. It was an elegant gesture and yet disturbing in its lack of masculinity. She was sharply aware that he was not a man, but not a woman, either, yet still a passionate and highly intelligent being. He was what she was pretending to be.

“Antoninus Kyriakis.” His voice cut across her thoughts. “He was executed. He and Justinian were close friends.”

“And you saved Justinian?” Her voice was hoarse, no more than a whisper.

He nodded slowly, allowing his hands to fall. “I did. The sentence was exile in the desert.”

She smiled at him, the warmth of her gratitude burning through. “Thank you, Your Grace. You give me great heart for the struggle to keep faith.”

He smiled back and made the sign of the cross.

She went out into the street in a turmoil of emotions: fear, gratitude, dread of what she might find in the future, and in them all a powerful awareness of Constantine, strong, generous, firm in a clean and absolute faith.

Of course Justinian had not murdered this Bessarion Comnenos. Although there were marked physical differences between them, in coloring and balance of features, Justinian was her twin brother. Anna knew him as well as she knew herself. He had written to her in the last desperate moments before being taken into exile and told her that Bishop Constantine had helped him, but not why or in what way.

Now her whole purpose was to prove his innocence. She quickened her pace up the incline of the cobbled street.

AFTER ANASTASIUS ZARIDES HAD LEFT, CONSTANTINE remained standing in the ocher-colored room. This physician was interesting and could very possibly prove an ally in the upcoming battle to defend the Orthodox faith from the ambitions of Rome. He was intelligent, subtle, and clearly well educated. With its uncouth ideas and love of violence, Rome could offer nothing to someone like that. If he had a eunuch’s patience, suppleness of mind, and instinctive understanding of emotion, then the brashness of the Latins would be as revolting to him as it was to Constantine himself.

But the questions he had asked were troubling. Constantine had assumed that with Antoninus’s execution and Justinian’s exile, the matter of Bessarion’s murder was closed.

He walked back and forth across the colored floor.

Justinian had mentioned no close kinsmen. But then one did not often speak of cousins or those even further removed.

If Constantine were not careful, the questions could become awkward, but it should be easy enough to deal with them. No one else knew Constantine’s part, or why he had helped or asked for mercy, and Justinian was safely in Judea, where he could say nothing.

Anastasius Zarides might be useful, if in fact he was a skilled physician. Having come was from Nicea, a city known for its learning, he would have had even better opportunity to mix with Jews and Arabs and perhaps acquire a little of their medical knowledge. Constantine disliked admitting it even to himself, but such people were sometimes more skilled than the physicians who adhered strictly to Christian teaching that all illness was a result of sin.

If Anastasius had greater skills, sooner or later he would gain more patients. When people are ill, they are frightened. When they fear they are dying, sometimes they tell secrets they would otherwise keep.

He spent the rest of the afternoon on Church business, seeing priests and petitioners for one sort of grace or another, guidance or a leniency, an ordinance performed, a permission granted. As soon as the last one was gone, his mind returned to the eunuch from Nicea and the murder of Bessarion. There were precautions to take, in case the young man pursued his questions about Justinian elsewhere.

Constantine had imagined that there was no danger left, but he needed to be certain.

After donning his outdoor cloak over his silk tunic and brocaded and jeweled dalmatica, he went into the street. He walked quickly up the slight incline, raising his eyes to the massive two-tiered Aqueduct of Valens that towered up ahead of him. It had stood there for over six hundred years, bringing millions of gallons of clean water to the people of this region of the city. It pleased him just to look at it. Its great limestone blocks were held in place by the genius of its engineering rather than mortar. It seemed indestructible and timeless, like the Church itself, held upright by truth and the laws of God, bringing the water of life to its faithful members.

He turned left into a quieter street and went on upward, wrapping his cloak more tightly around himself. He was going to see Helena Comnena, Bessarion’s widow, just in case Anastasius Zarides should think to do the same. She could be the weak link among those left.

It had stopped raining but the air was damp, and by the time he reached her house he was spattered with mud and his legs ached. He was getting to an age, and a weight, when hills were no longer a pleasure.

He was shown through the large, austere entrance hall and on into an exquisitely tiled anteroom while the servant went to inform his mistress of the bishop’s arrival.

From the distance he heard the murmur of voices, then a woman’s rich laughter. Not a servant-it sounded too free for that. It had to be Helena herself. Someone else must be here. It would be interesting to know who.

The servant returned, conducted him along a passage to another door, announced him, and then stood back. On the way in, Constantine was passed by a woman servant leaving, carrying a magnificent perfume bottle. It was blue-green glass with gold around the rim, set with pearls-perhaps a gift from the caller who had made Helena laugh?

Helena herself stood in the center of the floor. She was beautiful in an unusual way: quite small and short-waisted. The curves of her bosom and hips were enhanced by the way her tunic was clasped at the shoulder and tied with its girdle. She wore few ornaments in her dark, luxurious hair, and no jewelry, since she was still officially mourning her husband. She had remarkably high cheekbones and a delicate nose and mouth. Under her winged eyebrows, her eyes brimmed with tears.

She came forward to meet him with somber dignity.

“How kind of you to come, Your Grace. It is a strange and lonely time for me.”

“I can only imagine how desolate you must be,” he replied gently. He knew exactly what she had felt for Bessarion, and far more of the details of what had happened to him than she had any idea. But none of that would ever be acknowledged between them. “If there is any comfort I can offer you, you have but to ask,” he continued. “Bessarion was a good man, and loyal to the true faith. It is a double blow that he should be betrayed by those he trusted.”

She raised her eyes to his. “I still can hardly believe it,” she said huskily. “I keep hoping that something will arise to prove that neither of them was really guilty. I cannot believe it was Justinian. Not on purpose. There is some mistake.”

“What could that be?” He asked because he needed to know what she might say to others.