Sheen on the Silk - Anne Perry [136]
She shivered, although the air from the open window was still warm. Would he look for revenge? He had had no love for Arsenios, but family meant something, pride of blood.
She dressed in dark blue one day, crimson and topaz the next, used oils and unguents, perfumes, had Thomais brush her hair until it gleamed, the sheen bronze and then gold as she moved, like the warp and weft of silk.
The days went by. Word spread that he was home. Her servants told her. Helena told her. He would come, he would not be able to resist it. Zoe could outwait him, she had always been able to do that, whatever it cost her. She paced the floor, lost her temper with Thomais and threw a dish at her, catching her on the cheek in a curving gash, seeing the sudden blood run scarlet on the black skin. She sent for Anastasius to stitch it up, telling him nothing.
When Gregory finally came, he still caught her by surprise. All the pictures in her mind did not match the shock of seeing him come into the room. She had been reading, with the lights high so she could see. Too late to dim them now.
He walked in slowly. His hair was winged with gray but still thick, his long face sunken below the cheekbones, eyes black as tar. But it was his voice that always reached deepest into her: the careful diction, as if he loved the roll of the words; the dark, bass resonance of it.
“It doesn’t look very different,” he said softly, his eyes gazing around before resting on her. “And you still wear the same colors. I’m glad. Some things shouldn’t change.”
She felt a flutter inside her, like a trapped bird. She thought of Arsenios dying on the floor, spewing blood, his eyes glittering with hate.
“Hello, Gregory,” she said casually. She moved a step or two toward him. “You still look Byzantine, in spite of your years in Egypt. Did you have a good voyage?”
“Tedious,” he replied with a slight smile. “But safe enough.”
“You’ll find the city changed.”
“Oh, yes. Much is rebuilt, but not all. The seawalls are largely repaired, but you have no games, no chariot races at the Hippodrome,” he observed. “And Arsenios is dead.”
“I know.” She had prepared for this moment. “I feel for your loss. But Eirene is well, and Demetrios, although I know they missed you.” That was a formality.
He shrugged. “Perhaps,” he acknowledged. “Demetrios speaks much of Helena.” A slight smile touched his lips. “I thought she would tire of Bessarion. In fact, it took longer that I had expected.”
“Bessarion is dead,” she replied.
“Really? He was young, at least young to die.”
“He was murdered,” she told him, keeping her voice perfectly level.
A razor-sharp amusement crossed his face and vanished as quickly. “Indeed? By whom?”
Zoe had not intended to meet Gregory’s eyes, but the impulse was irresistible. She saw the fire of intelligence there, and a bottomless understanding. To look away would be a defeat. “A young man called Antoninus, I believe, assisted by a friend, Justinian Lascaris. He disposed of the body.”
Gregory looked surprised. “Why? If ever a man were totally ineffectual, it was Bessarion. Surely not over Helena? Bessarion wouldn’t have given a damn if she had affairs, as long as she was discreet.”
“Of course not over Helena,” she said tartly. “Bessarion was leading the battle against union with Rome. He had gained a considerable reputation as a religious hero.”
“How interesting.” He sounded as if he meant it. “And these other men, Antoninus and Justinian, were for the union?”
“Not at all, especially Justinian,” she replied. “They were profoundly against it. That is the part of it which does not make sense.”
“This really is interesting,” he murmured. “What about Helena? Did she wish to be a hero’s wife? Or might a hero’s widow suit her better? Bessarion sounds extremely tedious.”
“He was.