Sheen on the Silk - Anne Perry [214]
Justinian Lascaris was in exile near Jerusalem; this much he also learned. Her husband? Then she was a Lascaris as well, at least by marriage, a member of one of the imperial families with a passionate vengeance to wreak against the Palaeologi.
It was imperative Palombara see Anna Zarides where Vicenze would not know of it. His curiosity was cruel, endless, and still fueled by his need for revenge over the substitution of the nude painting for the icon of the Virgin.
So Palombara made his inquiries obliquely, as if they were of interest rather than importance, and it was three days before he finally presented himself at her house.
He noticed that she looked tired. There were fine lines around her eyes and a pallor to her skin. She had to be even more aware than he of the fear in the city and how short a time they had left before the end.
“How can I help you, Bishop Palombara?” she asked, looking at his eyes, his face, then at the way he stood. She could have seen no signs of illness in him, because there were none.
“I was grieved to hear of the death of Zoe Chrysaphes,” he replied. He saw the answering emotion in her, a sharper sadness than he would have expected, and he liked her for it. “I went to convey my sympathies to Helena Comnena.”
“That was gracious of you,” she responded. “How does that reflect on your health?”
“It doesn’t.” He did not alter his steady gaze. “She told me that in her mother’s papers she discovered something … startling. It is a piece of information which I fear Helena will use to her advantage, unless she can be prevented.”
Anna clearly had no idea what he was referring to. He hated what he had to do, but her ignorance compelled him to act.
“Is Justinian Lascaris your husband or your brother?” he asked bluntly.
She stood completely motionless, the remnants of color draining from her skin. At first there was nothing in her eyes, as if she were too stunned to react at all; then the fear came, violent, all but consuming her. She breathed slowly, her chest heaving.
“My brother,” she said at last. “My twin brother.”
“I came to warn you, not to threaten you,” he said gently. “You might prefer to leave the city.”
The ghost of a smile crossed her face. “But there will certainly be work enough for a physician when the city falls.” Her voice was thick with emotion, as if she found the words hard to say at all.
“Helena hates you,” he said urgently. “She’s changed since Zoe’s death. It’s almost as if it has freed her. I’m sure she’s planning something. If she has access to Zoe’s papers, then she may have taken up funding the rebellion against Charles in the West.” Had he said too much?
Anna smiled. “I’m sure she has something planned,” she agreed bitterly.
“Then go!” he argued. “While you can.”
“I’m Byzantine, and I should run while you, a Roman priest, will stay?” she asked.
He did not answer. Perhaps in the end there was nothing else to say.
Ninety-two
CONSTANTINE WAS DESPERATE. IT WAS THREE WEEKS SINCE he had killed Zoe Chrysaphes and then a few days later conducted the funeral service for her in the Hagia Sophia. He had offered the Mass and given a eulogy almost fit for a saint.
Now in the solitude of his courtyard, the euphoria had passed and he was dogged by nightmares. He fasted, he prayed, but still they haunted him. Of course it was the work of God that he had destroyed Zoe. He had only ever allied with her in her plot to overthrow Michael so that Bessarion, a true son of the Church, could defy the union with Rome and save the faith.
And then Justinian Lascaris had killed Bessarion, so it had never come to fruition. Should he have agreed with Michael to help Justinian escape death? Perhaps Justinian had been right, and Bessarion would never have had the passion or the skill to defend them, or on the other hand, maybe Justinian had intended to take the throne himself?
Constantine had not pleaded for Justinian’s