Sheen on the Silk - Anne Perry [166]
He was still puzzled. He said nothing, but it was in his eyes.
“Justinian Lascaris,” she said, wading in more deeply.
At last, understanding filled his eyes. “Are you related to John Lascaris, whose eyes the emperor put out?”
“Yes.” She mustn’t elaborate. “Please don’t …”
He put up his hand to silence her. “You must go to Mount Sinai. I’ll take the picture to the ship. I’ll look after it, I promise.” He smiled with a hard, biting pain of shame. “I’ll not steal it for Venice, I give you my word.”
“I wasn’t afraid you would,” she replied.
“We’ll go very carefully,” he said. “I think we’ll be safer outside the city. How long will it take you to get to Mount Sinai?”
“A month, to go there and back,” she answered.
He hesitated.
“I’ll be back here by the time the ship returns,” she promised. “Just keep the picture safe.”
“I must see Jaffa, and Caesarea on the coast,” he said. “I’ll be back in thirty-five days.” He looked anxious, on the brink of speaking, and then changed his mind.
There was a sound of footsteps outside in the hostelry corridor and hushed voices arguing.
“We can’t stay here,” he told her quietly. “You must change your appearance and get out of the city. How are you getting to Sinai? A caravan?”
“Yes. They go every two or three days.”
“Then you must get out of the pilgrim gray. That’s what they’re looking for. I’ll go and get you something right now. You could dress as a boy….”
She saw the embarrassment in his face, in case he had insulted her, but there was no time or safety to spare for such things.
She took the initiative. “Better still as a woman,” she told him.
He looked startled. “They won’t let women into the monastery.”
“I know. I’ll find another hostelry, on the road outside the walls. Then I’ll change back again.”
He left and she barred the door behind him. She spent a miserable hour waiting for his return, afraid in case he was attacked. She was too tense to sit or even to stand still. She paced the floor back and forth, only a few steps each way. Five times she heard footsteps outside and thought it was Giuliano, then stood with pounding heart and ears straining as they passed and the silence closed in again.
Once someone knocked, and she was about to undo the bolt when she realized it could be anyone. She froze. She could hear someone breathing heavily just on the other side of the wood.
There was a thump against the door, as if someone had tested it with his weight. She stepped back silently. There was another thump, this one harder. The door shook on its hinges.
There were voices, then quick footsteps. Someone stopped outside the door.
“Anastasius!” It was Giuliano’s voice, urgent and sharp with fear.
Relief washed over her like a sudden heat. She tried to loosen the bar and found it jammed by the previous pressure from outside. She jerked her own weight against it, heard it give.
Giuliano stepped in and replaced the bar instantly. He had a bundle of clothes in his arms, some for her and some for himself. “We’ll go tonight,” he said quietly. “Change into these. I’ve got merchants’ clothes for myself. I’ll try to look like an Armenian.” He shrugged. “At least I can speak Greek.” He began slipping off his gray pilgrim cloak.
Was he coming with her? How far? She picked up the women’s clothes and turned her back to put them on. If she made any kind of an issue of modesty now, it would draw his suspicion. If she was quick enough, he might be too occupied with his own clothing to notice anything else.
The dress was wool, dark wine red, roughly shaped, and tied with a girdle. She slipped into it with an ease that tore away the years of pretense as if they had been paper, and