Sheen on the Silk - Anne Perry [237]
Giuliano clasped his hand again, the emperor’s ring digging into his flesh, then he turned and left.
• • •
As soon as Michael Palaeologus, Equal of the Apostles, was alone, he went to his own rooms and closed the doors. He was tired. The long battle had exhausted him, and there was a weakness inside him that he knew would not heal.
He bent in front of the locked cabinet and took the key from around his neck. He slipped it in the lock and opened it.
She was there, as always, her calm face in its sublime beauty, the Mother of God that St. Luke had painted and Zoe Chrysaphes had given him. He knelt in front of her, the tears sliding easily down his face.
“Thank you,” he said simply. “In spite of our weakness and our doubts, you have saved us from our enemies. And a greater miracle than that, you have saved us from ourselves.”
He crossed himself in the old Greek way, but he remained on his knees.
Giuliano found the Street of the Apothecaries, but it seemed to take an age, and all the way down the hill from the palace, into the docks, and on the quayside waiting for the water taxi, his mind was racing. What had Nicephoras meant? What sort of change? He did not want Anastasius different from the passion and the courage, the wit, and the gentleness that he remembered. He wanted the same warm, clever, and vulnerable person he had known and cared for so profoundly.
He strode up the Street of the Apothecaries in the hot summer sun, past the empty shops and markets, the deserted houses. The news would be here any moment, spreading like fire. He wanted to be the first to tell Anastasius.
“Where is the shop of Avram Shachar?” he called out to a man slowly opening his door and peering out.
The man pointed.
Giuliano thanked him and increased his pace.
He found the right door and banged on it, too hard, and realized with embarrassment that he was being rude.
“I’m sorry,” he said as soon as it was opened. “I’m looking for Anastasius Zarides. Is he here?”
Shachar nodded, but he did not step aside or invite him in.
“I’m Giuliano Dandolo, a friend of Anastasius. I have great good news. Charles of Anjou is fallen. His fleet is sunk—burned, and at the bottom of the sea. I want to be the one to tell him….” He realized he was gabbling and took a breath to steady himself. “Please.”
Shachar nodded slowly, his eyes searching Giuliano’s face. “That is true?”
“Yes. I swear. I have already told the emperor. But I want to tell Anastasius myself—and you.”
Shachar’s face split into a broad smile. “Thank you. You had better come in.” He pulled the door wide and pointed to a room at the farther end of the corridor. “The herb room is there. Anastasius will be working with them. No one will disturb you.” He seemed about to add something more, then changed his mind.
“Thank you.” Giuliano brushed past him and went down to the door. Then apprehension swept over him. What changes had Nicephoras meant? What had happened? Was Anastasius ill? Injured?
He knocked hard on the door.
It opened and a woman stood just inside. She was taller than average, with a slender throat, high cheekbones, and bright chestnut hair. There was something beautiful in her that tugged at him as if he had known her for as long as he could remember, yet he had never seen her before.
The color swept up her skin in a burning tide.
“Giuliano …” Her voice was husky, as if she found it difficult to speak.
He did not know what to say. He knew now. He felt a rage of embarrassment burst open inside him for all the things he had said, the emotions, the stories shared about which he could recall not the words, but the intense feeling of companionship, almost intimacy, as if nothing need be hidden.
Then he remembered the awakening of physical hunger in himself and the shame and confusion that had all but crippled him. He had struggled with such pain to stifle that.
It seared through him with shock. What had she felt?
He averted his eyes and saw the herbs and ointments packed away, as if to travel.
“Is Shachar leaving?” he asked impulsively. “Are