Sheen on the Silk - Anne Perry [1]
Bessarion struggled, trying to fight upward, with nothing to stand on, against a man leaner and stronger than himself and just as willing to sacrifice everything he had for a belief.
At last the splashing ceased. Silence washed in from the shadows beyond the aisles, and the water became still again.
He crouched on the stones, sick and cold. But he was not yet finished. He forced himself to stand. Aching as if he had been beaten, he climbed back up the steps, his face wet with tears.
One
ANNA ZARIDES STOOD ON THE STONE PIER AND GAZED across the dark waters of the Bosphorus toward the lighthouse of Constantinople. Its fires lit the sky with a great beacon outlined against the paling March stars. It was beautiful, but she was waiting for the dawn to show her the city’s rooftops and, one by one, all the marvelous palaces, churches, and towers she knew must be there.
The wind was chill off the waves, whose crests were only barely visible. She heard the sound of them sucking and hissing on the pebbles. Far away on the promontory the first rays of daylight caught a massive dome, a hundred, two hundred feet high. It glowed a dull red, as if with its own inner fire. It had to be the Hagia Sophia, the greatest church in the world, not only the most beautiful, but the heart and soul of the Christian faith.
Anna stared at it as the light strengthened. Other rooftops grew clearer, a jumble of angles, towers, and domes. To the left of the Hagia Sophia she saw four tall, slender columns, like needles against the horizon. She knew what they were, monuments to some of the greatest emperors of the past. The imperial palaces must be there, too, and the Hippodrome, but all she could see were shadows, white gleams of marble here and there, more trees, and the endless roofs of a city larger than Rome or Alexandria, Jerusalem or Athens.
She saw the narrow stretch of the Bosphorus clearly now, already growing busy with ships. With an effort she made out the vast battlements of the shoreline, and something of the harbors below them, crowded with indistinguishable hulls and masts, all riding the safe calm within the breakwaters.
The sun was rising, the sky a pale, luminescent arch shot with fire. To the north, the curved inlet of the Golden Horn was molten bronze between its banks—a beautiful spring morning.
The first ferry of the day was making its way toward them. Worried once again how she would appear to strangers, Anna walked over to the edge of the pier and stared down at the still water in the shelter of the stone. She saw her own reflection: steady gray eyes, strong but vulnerable face, high cheekbones, and soft mouth. Her bright hair was jaw length, not dressed and ornamented like a woman’s, and with no veil to hide it.
The ferry, a light, wooden boat big enough to carry half a dozen passengers, was less than a hundred yards away now. The oarsman was fighting the stiff breeze and the perverse currents, treacherous here at the narrows where Europe met Asia. She took a deep breath, feeling the bandages tight around her chest and the slight padding at her waist that concealed her woman’s shape. In spite of all her practice, it still felt awkward. She shivered, pulling her cloak closer.
“No,” Leo said from behind her.
“What’s wrong?” She turned to look at him. He was tall, slender-shouldered, and round-faced, with hairless cheeks. His brow was furrowed with anxiety.
“The gesture,” the eunuch replied gently. “Don’t give in to the cold like a woman.”
She jerked away, furious with herself for making such a stupid mistake. She was endangering them all.
“Are you still sure?” Simonis asked, her voice brittle. “It’s not too late to…to change your mind.”
“I’ll get it right,” Anna said firmly.
“You can’t afford mistakes, Anastasius.” Leo deliberately