Sheen on the Silk - Anne Perry [236]
They found Nicephoras in his rooms alone. Bread and fruit lay on a small table. He was standing in the center of the floor. He looked older than when Giuliano had last seen him, and touched by a loneliness so sharp that even with good news bursting inside him, Giuliano could not be unaware of it.
“May I offer you food? Drink?” Nicephoras asked.
Giuliano knew he must look exhausted, even unkempt, but he could not take the smile from his face. He had such a gift to give.
“The crusader fleet is sunk,” he said, as if it were a reply. “Burned in Messina harbor. Charles of Anjou will never sail in it to Byzantium, or Jerusalem, or anywhere. It lies at the bottom of the sea.”
Nicephoras stared at him, his face slowly filling with wonder. “Are you … sure?” he whispered.
“Perfectly.” His voice was vibrant, cracking with excitement. “I saw it myself. I was one of those who set the torches. I shall never forget it as long as I live. When the Greek fire in the holds exploded, the sea was like the floor of hell.”
Nicephoras put out his hand and grasped Giuliano’s with a strength that almost crushed it, a power Giuliano would never have believed him to possess. There were tears in his eyes.
“We must tell the emperor.”
This time there was no waiting for Michael to receive them, no formal admission to the throne room. They strode in past the Varangian Guard as if it were any other room in the world.
Michael was hastily dressed, but wide awake. His eyes burned black, intensely alive in spite of his haggard face and the hollows where the bones of his head seemed to strain the parchment-thin skin.
“Majesty,” Giuliano said quietly.
“Speak!”
Giuliano looked up and met Michael’s gaze as if they had been equals. “Charles of Anjou will never threaten Byzantium again, Majesty. His fleet lies burned at the bottom of the Bay of Messina. He is a finished man. Even Sicily will breathe free from his oppression.”
Michael stared. “You have seen this yourself?”
“Captain Dandolo set the torches, Majesty,” Nicephoras offered.
“You are Venetian,” Michael said incredulously.
“Half, Majesty. My mother was Byzantine.” He said it with pride.
Michael nodded slowly, the tension and pain easing out of his body, the smile spreading over this face, his eyes bright. He waved at Nicephoras, still looking at Giuliano. “Give this man everything he wants. Give him food, wine, rest, clean clothes.” He took the gold-and-emerald ring from his finger and held it out.
Giuliano looked at its burning beauty.
“Take it,” Michael told him. “Now we will hear the city rejoice. Nicephoras! Have the good news spread. Let there be dancing in the streets, wine and feasting, music, laughter. Put on our best clothes.” He stopped and looked again at Giuliano. “Zoe Chrysaphes is dead. It’s a pity. How she would have laughed at the irony of this. Byzantium thanks you, Giuliano Dandolo. Now go and eat, drink, take your ease. You will be paid in gold.”
Giuliano bowed and withdrew, dizzy with triumph.
But once in the corridor, he could think only of telling the people he cared for in the city, starting with Anastasius. He must tell him first; all the others could hear afterward. The news would be everywhere, but he must tell Anastasius himself, see his joy, his relief.
“Thank you, but I must tell my friends the news,” he said to Nicephoras beside him. “I want to do that myself. I must be there when they hear.”
Nicephoras nodded. “Of course. You will find Anastasius in Galata, in the house of Avram Shachar.”
“Not here? Not in his own house?” A chill touched Giuliano. “Why? Is something wrong?” Suddenly the news was hollow. He realized how intensely he had been looking forward to telling Anastasius.
“You will find him much … changed,” Nicephoras replied. “But quite well.”
“Changed? How?”
“Shachar lives in the Street of the Apothecaries. It will all explain itself. Go. Before they leave for the south. Leo and Simonis went from here yesterday already. You have little time.” He smiled. “Byzantium owes you much,