She wished she could have asked Justinian what he believed now, what it was he had learned in Constantinople that he had been willing to fight for to prevent union with Rome and survival against the next crusade.
The loneliness of mind without him was all but crippling.
Eighteen
ANNA HAD BEEN IN THE CITY OVER TWO YEARS. SHE NOW knew exactly what Justinian had been charged with and what the evidence seemed to have been. His trial had been secret and had been held before the emperor himself. Michael was the last resort to justice in all cases, so it was not unusual, particularly since both the victim and one of the accused were of once imperial families.
She had also learned far more about Antoninus, but nothing of it suggested a man prone to violence. On the contrary, he sounded most likable. He was brave and fair as a soldier and reputedly even liked music. People said he and Justinian were good companions, and it was easy to believe it.
Bessarion, on the other hand, was admirable but seemed a solitary man. While gifted with crowds, he was not at ease with his equals and perhaps a bit obsessive in his views.
The more she knew of it, the less sense it made. What possible bond could link Bessarion the religious leader to Antoninus the soldier and good comrade; Justinian the merchant and believer; Zoe the wounded and passionate lover of Byzantium; Helena, her shallow daughter; the lightweight Esaias Glabas, whose name turned up every so often; Eirene Vatatzes, clever but reputedly ugly; and Constantine, the powerful, vulnerable eunuch bishop?
It had to be more than religion. That was shared to a greater or lesser degree by the entire nation.
There was no one she dared speak to about it apart from Leo and Simonis.
Simonis had been there since both Anna and Justinian had studied medicine under their father’s tutelage. She had no children of her own, and when their mother had been ill, as she was increasingly often, it was Simonis who had looked after them.
Then had come Anna’s first practice with real patients, always carefully supervised, every movement watched, every calculation checked, encouraged, or corrected.
That was when it had happened. In her eagerness, Anna had misread a label and prescribed too strong a dosage of opiates for pain. She had left immediately afterward on an errand that took several hours. Her father had been called to a serious accident, and it was Justinian who had discovered the mistake.
He had had sufficient knowledge to realize what had happened and also to understand the treatment. He had prepared it, then raced to the home of the patient, where he had found him already feeling dizzy and lethargic. Justinian had forced the patient to take a strong emetic and then, after he had vomited, a laxative to get rid of the rest of the opiate. He took on himself the blame for the error. To save both his father’s practice and Anna’s future, Justinian had placated the irate and wretched patient by promising to give up all medical studies himself, and the man had accepted and agreed to remain silent as long as Justinian kept his word.
He had kept it. He had turned instead to trade, at which he had proved both gifted and successful. But it was not medicine!
Her brother had never once chided Anna for her error or its cost to him, nor had he spoken of it in front of their father. Justinian had said his decision to leave study and turn to business was simply a personal choice. To his mind, Anna was the better physician. Their mother was bitterly disappointed, but their father had said nothing.
Shame still burned inside Anna like acid. She had begged Justinian to tell the truth and allow her to carry her own guilt, but he had warned her that the patient was sworn to silence only on the conditions now agreed. If she now went to him, it would ruin her career without restoring his, and it might also bring their father down. A second story now would seem devious at best, at worst doubly incompetent. She’d known that was true, and for her father’s sake she had said nothing. She never knew how much he had known or guessed of the truth.
Her mistake had cost Justinian his life in medicine. He had earned the right to ask almost anything of her, yet beyond her marriage to Eustathius-which he had believed at the time to be for her happiness and security-he had sought nothing. Anything she could do now to clear his name and effect his release was little enough, and she had no shadow of hesitation.
Nineteen
ANNA WAS AWARE OF THE DANGERS OF ASKING ABOUT religious contention in a climate already riven with differences and a sense of impending danger. Yet the answer as to who had killed Bessarion was not going to fall into her hands without her actively seeking it.
What did Constantine know? That seemed the best place to begin.
He was in his room by the courtyard with the summer sun bright on the water and the stones beyond the arches, and the shadows cool inside. He looked almost fully recovered from his illness.
“What can I do for you, Anastasius?” he asked.
“I have been thinking how you wear yourself out in helping the poor and those in trouble of heart or conscience…” she began.
He smiled, his shoulders easing as if he had expected something more critical from her.
“My medical practice is sufficiently established to provide for the needs of my household,” she continued. “I would like to offer some of my time to caring for those who cannot pay… with your guidance as to who is the most in need.” She hesitated only a moment. “Perhaps you would like me with you, so I could act both wisely and without delay?”
His eyes widened and his face filled with pleasure. “That is a truly noble desire, and I accept. We will begin straightaway-tomorrow. I was discouraged, uncertain what next to do for the best, but God has answered my prayers in you, Anastasius.”
Surprised and pleased by the vehemence of his response, she found herself smiling. “What ailments will we be most likely to find, so I can bring the best herbs?”
“Hunger and fear,” he replied ruefully. “But we will also find diseases of the lungs and of the stomach, and no doubt of the skin, from poverty, insect infestations, and dirt. Bring what you can.”
“I’ll be here,” she promised.
She went with Constantine at least two days in every week. They traveled the poorer areas down by the docksides, the back streets, narrow and cramped. There were so many sick, especially during the summer heat when there was little rain to clear the gutters and flies swarmed everywhere. It was a difficult course to steer between the spiritual ailments and the bodily ones. It was even more so with Constantine so close and the certainty that all she said to a patient could be repeated back to him.
Often a patient would say to her, “I’ve repented, why aren’t I getting better?”
“You are,” she would reply. “But you must also take the medicine. It will help.” Then she tried to bring back to her memory all the appropriate saints to pray to for the specific illness and realized in doing so that she did not believe it at all. But they did, and that was what mattered. “Pray to St. Anthony the Abbot,” she would add. “And put on the ointment.” Or whatever was right for the problem.