Sheen on the Silk - Anne Perry [159]
Fifty-eight
ANNA STOOD AT THE RAILING OF THE SHIP IN THE LATE afternoon sun. It was already low on the horizon, the wind was cold on her face, and the sharp, salt air filled her lungs. They were several days out of Constantinople, having sailed through the Sea of Marmara and into the Mediterranean, and she had begun to find the pitch and slight roll of the deck more natural. She had even grown accustomed to the seaman’s britches she had been lent, a tunic and dalmatica being awkward garments in which to climb steps and move easily in narrow spaces. There was no room to hold on to skirts, and they were more immodest than she had previously considered. Giuliano had suggested the change, and after a few hours she had found it agreeable.
Giuliano was busy most of the time. It took all his skill to command men he knew little and to work south at this time of the year, against the current sweeping up from Egypt past Palestine and then westward. Even when they were with the wind, they still had to tack and veer precisely.
She heard his footsteps across the deck behind her. She did not need to turn to know it was he.
“Where are we?” she asked as he stepped beside her.
He pointed. “Rhodes is there, ahead of us. Cyprus over there, farther to the south and east.”
“And Jerusalem?” she asked.
“Farther still. Alexandria’s that way.” He swung around and extended his arm south. “Rome there, to the west. Venice is to the north of that.”
This was the first time they had had more than a few moments in which to talk without being overheard by the crew. Zoe and the death of Gregory crowded her mind, but she did not want to say anything that would tear scabs off the wounds and prevent the fragile healing.
She thought of the great rock that was reputed to guard the other end of the Mediterranean from the ocean, which, as far as anyone knew, stretched out to the edge of the world.
“Have you been out through the Gates of Hercules into the Atlantic?” she asked, her imagination fired at the thought.
“Not yet. One day I’d like to.” He narrowed his eyes against the sun, smiling. “If you could go anywhere at all, where would you choose?”
She was taken by surprise. Her mind raced. She did not want to talk about old dreams that did not matter anymore. “Venice? Is it very beautiful?” She wanted to hear the urgency and the tenderness in his voice.
He smiled, indulging her. “It’s like nowhere else,” he answered. “So beautiful you think it must be a city of dreams, an idea floating on the face of the water. Touching it would be like trying to catch moonlight with a net. And yet it is as real as marble and blood, and as brutal as betrayal.” There were passion and regret in his eyes. “It has the ephemeral loveliness of music in the night, and yet it stays in the mind as great visions do, coming back again and again, just when you think it has finally left you in peace.”
He looked at the darkening horizon. “But I don’t think I could forget Byzantium, either, now. It is subtle, wounded, more tolerant than the West, and perhaps wiser.” He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.
The wind was rising from the north, whitening the wave crests as the current buffeted them. Anna waited for him to speak, happy in the sounds of the water and the creaking of wood.
“I know we want to retake Jerusalem for Christianity,” he went on. “But I wonder if we’ve thought beyond that, to the cost.” He gave a hard little laugh. “We sacrifice Byzantium to gain Jerusalem—and lose the world. I don’t know. But I’ve got a decent red wine—”
“Venetian, of course,” she interrupted lightly, tearing the thread of tension that was tightening inside herself.
He laughed. “Of course. Come and we’ll share it over dinner. Ship’s rations, but not bad.” He spoke easily, without hesitation.
Banishing thought for anything beyond the moment, she accepted, rising to her feet and having to steady herself to the slight pitch of the deck.
It was a good meal, although she was barely aware of what