Sheen on the Silk - Anne Perry [164]
After she had the picture, she would have time to think of Justinian and find a way to travel to the monastery in Sinai.
In the morning, she and Giuliano ate breakfast together. They had grown accustomed to dates and a little coarse bread.
“Be careful,” he warned as they parted in the street. He was on his way to study first the warren of alleys, the half-hidden waterways of underground rivers and springs. A desert city lives or dies on its water, as does any army besieging it.
“I will,” she said quietly. “Zoe gave me the name of the man to ask for, and a story as to why I want the picture. And I know what it is supposed to look like. You be careful, too. Examining fortifications isn’t a good thing to be caught doing either.”
“I’m not,” he said quickly. “I’m a pilgrim, praying in every place Christ walked, just like all the others.”
She smiled at him, then turned away quickly and went without looking back. Her feet felt bruised on the uneven pavement; her shoulders bumped one moment against other people, the next against the protruding walls as the alley became narrower. Then suddenly there were steps, and she was climbing down.
She began in the Jewish Quarter, at the address she had been given by Zoe.
“Simcha ben Ehud?” she asked several local shopkeepers. They all shook their heads.
She tried day after day, growing afraid that she was drawing attention to herself. One morning, when she had been in Jerusalem a little over three weeks, Anna was walking up a narrow flight of steps. Legs aching, muscles so weary that she was consumed in the concentration of forcing one foot after the other, she almost collided with a man coming in the opposite direction. She apologized and was about to move on when he caught her by the shoulder. Her first instinct was to fight; then he spoke to her quietly, with his mouth almost to her ear. “You are looking for Simcha ben Ehud?”
“Yes. Do you know where I can find him?” She had a knife at her belt, but she was afraid to reach for it. The man was only an inch or two taller than her, but he was wiry and she knew from the pressure of his hand on her shoulder that he was strong. He had a hawk nose and hooded eyes, almost black, but there was a gentleness in his mouth, even an ease of laughter in the lines cut deep by the passage of emotion.
“You are Simcha ben Ehud?” she asked.
“You have come from Byzantium, from Zoe Chrysaphes?” he returned.
“Yes.”
“And your name?”
“Anastasius Zarides.”
“Come with me. Follow me, and say nothing. Stay close.” He turned and led the way back up the steps and along a narrow lane. Not once did he turn to make sure she was following, but he moved slowly and she knew he was deliberately making sure she did not lose him.
Finally, he turned into a small courtyard with a well and a narrow wooden door at the opposite side. Inside was a room with a stairway to another room above it; this was full of light. In it sat a very old man, white-bearded. His eyes were opaque as milk, and he was clearly blind.
“I have the messenger from Byzantium, Jacob ben Israel,” ben Ehud said quietly. “He has come to see the painting. With your permission?”
Ben Israel nodded. “Show him,” he agreed. His voice was hoarse, as if he were unused to speaking.
Ben Ehud went to another door, this one no more than three feet high, opened it, and, after a moment’s consideration, pulled out a small square of wood wrapped in linen cloth. He took off the cloth and held it up for Anna to see the picture.
She felt a sudden wave of disappointment. It was the head and shoulders of a woman. Her face was worn with age, but her eyes were bright, her expression almost rapturous. She wore a simple robe of the shade of blue traditionally associated with the Madonna.
“You are disappointed,” ben Ehud observed. He was waiting, still holding the picture. “Do you think it is worth your journey?”
“No,” she replied. “There is nothing special about her face, no understanding. I don’t think the artist knew her at all.”
“He was a physician, not a painter,