She saw in his face that he wished to ask more. Afraid it would be questions she could not answer without causing him confusion or distress, she gave him no time, bidding him good-bye and promising to return soon.
Early the following morning, she went to check his progress. He looked gaunt in the full daylight, his cheeks sunken, his skin colorless, papery; oddly like a very large old woman. His pale hands on the bedcover seemed enormous, his arms fleshy. She was moved with a wave of intense pity for him but was careful that he should not see it in her eyes.
“The people are praying for you,” she told him. “Philippos, Maria, and Angelos stopped me when they heard I had called on you. They are very concerned.”
He smiled, the light returning to his eyes. “Really?”
Did he fear she was saying it to please him? “Yes, some even fast and keep vigil. They love you, and I think also they are very afraid of facing the future without you.”
“Tell them I need their support, Anastasius. Thank them for me.”
“I will,” she promised, embarrassed by his need for so much reassurance. When he was better, would he remember this and hate her for having seen too much?
The following day, Manuel once again opened the door to Anna. His eyes went immediately to the basket she was carrying: strengthening foods prepared by Simonis for the ailing bishop.
“Food for the bishop,” she explained. “How is he?”
“Much better,” Manuel replied. “The pain is less, but he is still very weak indeed.”
“It will take time, but he will recover.” She passed him the soup with instructions to heat it and left the bread on the table. She went through to Constantine’s bedroom, knocking on the door and waiting for his answer before she went in.
While he was sitting up in bed, he still looked hollow-eyed and pale. A whole man would have been stubble-chinned by now, but Constantine’s face looked curiously soft.
“How are you?” she asked.
“Improved,” he replied, but she could see he was tired.
She felt his brow, then his pulse, then gently pinched the skin on his forearm again. He was still clammy and his flesh slack, but his pulse was steadier. She made a few more inquiries about his pain, by which time Manuel arrived with the soup and bread. She sat beside Constantine, steadying his hand as he ate, gently helping him, steeling herself to ask the questions.
“Please eat,” she encouraged. “We need you to be strong. I do not wish to be governed by Rome. It will destroy a great deal of what I believe to be true, and of infinite value. It is a tragedy that Bessarion Comnenos was murdered.” She hesitated. “Do you think that could have been prompted by Rome?”
His eyes widened and his hand stopped with the spoon in the air. The thought had not occurred to him. She could see him searching for the answer he wanted to give.
“I had not considered it,” he admitted finally. “Perhaps I should have.”
“Would it not have served their interest?” she pressed. “Bessarion was passionately against union. He was of imperial blood. Might he have led a resurgence of faith among the people that would have made union impossible?”
He was still staring at her, the last of the soup temporarily forgotten. “Have you heard anyone say so?” he asked, his voice low and with a sudden, sharp note of fear in it.
“If I were of the Roman faith, perhaps hoping to assist the union myself, either for religious reasons or ambition, I would not want a leader such as Bessarion alive and well,” she said urgently.
A curious look passed over Constantine’s face, a mixture of surprise and wariness.
She plunged on. “Might Justinian Lascaris have been in the pay of Rome, do you suppose?”
“Never,” he said instantly. Then he stopped, as if he had committed himself too quickly. “At least, he is the last man I would have thought it of.”
She could not let this opportunity slip by. “What other reason do you think Justinian could have had for killing Bessarion? Did he hate him? Was there a rivalry between them? Or money?”
“No,” he said quickly, pushing aside the tray that held his food. “There was no rivalry or hate, at least on Justinian’s part. And no money. Justinian was a wealthy man, and prospering more each year. Every reason I know of says he would wish Bessarion alive. He was profoundly against the union and supported Bessarion in his work against it. At times I thought he did the more work of the two.”
“Against the union?”
“Of course.” Constantine shook his head. “I cannot believe Justinian would work for Rome. He was an honorable man, of more courage and decisiveness than Bessarion, I think. That is why I spoke for him to the emperor in plea that the sentence be commuted to exile. It was certainly his boat that was used to dispose of the body, but it might have been without his knowledge. Antoninus confessed, but he did not implicate Justinian.”
“What do you think was the truth?” She could not leave it now. She touched on the subject ugliest in her mind. “Could it not have been personal? To do with Helena?”
“I do not believe Justinian had any feelings for Helena, most certainly not of that kind.”
“She is beautiful,” Anna pointed out.
Constantine looked slightly surprised. “I suppose so. There is no modesty in her, no humility.”
“True,” Anna conceded, “but those are not always qualities that men look for.”
Constantine shifted a little in the bed, as if he were uncomfortable. “Justinian told me that Helena had once made it very clear that she wished him to lie with her, and he had refused. He told me that he still loved his wife, who had died not long before, and he could not yet think of another woman, least of all Helena.” Constantine smoothed his hands over the rumpled sheet. “He showed me a painting of his wife, very small, only a couple of inches square, so that he could carry it with him. She looked very beautiful to me, a gentle face, intelligent. Her name was Catalina. The way Justinian said it made me believe everything he said.”
Anna took the tray from the side of the bed and rose to put them on a table at the far side of the room. It gave her a chance to compose herself. His words, the story of Justinian and Catalina’s portrait, brought their presence so sharply to her mind that the loss was almost like a physical pain.
She put down the tray and turned back to Constantine. “Then he would have wanted Bessarion alive, wouldn’t he?” she asked. “Both to lead the struggle against the union and to excuse him from having to justify his refusal of Helena?”
“That is another reason I pleaded for his exile,” Constantine said sadly.
“Then who did help kill Bessarion? Could we not prove it, and have Justinian freed?” She saw the surprise in his face. “Would it not be our holy duty?” she amended quickly. “Added to which, of course, he could return and continue in the struggle against Rome.”
“I don’t know who helped kill Bessarion,” he said, spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “If I did, don’t you think I would already have told the emperor?”