Sheen on the Silk - Anne Perry [70]
“Justinian?” Zoe rolled the name over on her tongue. “Sometimes he made me laugh. He could be abrupt and single-minded, but he wasn’t weak.” Her wide mouth tightened. “I hate weakness! Never trust a weak person, Anastasius, man or woman—or eunuch. Never trust someone who needs to be approved of. When things get hard, they’ll go with the winner, whatever they stand for. And don’t trust someone who needs to be praised. They’ll buy approval, regardless of the price.” She lifted one long, slender finger. “Above all, don’t trust someone who has no belief bigger than the comfort of not being alone. He’ll sell his soul for what looks like love, whatever it really is.” In the torchlight her face was hard and full of pain, as if she had stared at the first great disillusion.
“So whom do I trust?” Anna asked, forcing the same harsh humor into her own voice.
Zoe looked at her, taking in every line of her face, her eyes, her mouth, her hairless cheeks and soft throat. “Trust your enemies, if you know who they are. At least they’ll be predictable. And don’t look at me like that! I’m not your enemy—or your friend. And you will never predict me, because I’ll do whatever I need to, of God or of the devil, to get what I want.”
Anna believed her, but she did not say so.
Zoe saw it in her face and laughed.
Twenty-one
ANNA PUT AWAY THE HERBS INTO HER CASE, SAID A FEW last words of advice to the patient, then excused herself.
“Thank you,” Nicephoras said sincerely as she came out into the hallway. He had obviously been waiting for her. “Will Meletios recover?” The concern was apparent in the slight strain in his voice. He was sending for her more and more often lately.
“Oh yes,” she said confidently, praying she was right. “His fever’s broken. Just get him to drink, and then start him eating again soon, perhaps tomorrow.”
Nicephoras was clearly relieved. She had found him to be both compassionate and highly intelligent. She had become increasingly aware of a loneliness in him to share the excitement of his knowledge. He not only collected works of art, especially from antiquity, but even more he loved the treasures of the mind and hungered to share them.
They walked together from the anteroom to one of the great galleries. He guided her a little to the left. “Have you met John Beccus, the new patriarch?”
“No.” She was interested and knew that it showed in her voice. This was the calling that Constantine had wanted, even though he was obliged to hide it.
“He is with the emperor now. If you wait a short while, I shall introduce you,” Nicephoras offered.
“Thank you,” she accepted quickly. They fell into conversation about art, moving into history and the events that had inspired certain styles, and from that into philosophy and religion. She found his views more liberal than she had expected, teasing her mind with new and broader ideas.
“I have just been reading some works by an Englishman named Roger Bacon,” he said with intense enthusiasm. “I have never discovered a mind like his. He writes of mathematics, optics, alchemy, and the manufacture of a fine black powder which can explode”—he jerked his hands apart to demonstrate—“with great force, when it is ignited. The thought is exciting and terrifying. It could be used for immense good, and perhaps even greater evil.” He looked at Anna’s face to judge her appreciation of what he had said, the sheer intellectual excitement of it.
“He is an Englishman?” Anna repeated. “Did he discover this stuff, or invent it?”
“I don’t know. Why?” Then he understood. “He is a Franciscan, not a crusader,” he said quickly. “He has many practical ideas, such as how lenses could be ground and then assembled into a machine so that the tiniest objects could appear enormous, and you