But he had joined with Justinian to kill not Michael, in order to save the Church, but Bessarion, and for what? To save Byzantium, because Bessarion had neither the grasp of reality nor the nerve to do as Michael Palaeologus was doing and make the only peace possible?
Justinian had been devoutly against the union from the beginning. His allegiance to Constantine was witness to that. And Constantine’s loyalty to him in return? Was that not one passion that could be trusted?
She stopped working and began to wash her mortar, pestle, and dishes, then put them away.
Justinian was the first, as an outsider, to see Bessarion’s weaknesses as well as his dreams and to realize that far from saving Constantinople, he would seal its fate.
She tried to imagine how he must have felt as the evidence forced itself upon him and little by little he understood that Bessarion must not be allowed to take the throne. If Justinian withdrew from the plan, Demetrios would simply take his place. Bessarion must be stopped. He could have gone to him and tried to persuade him, more and more forcefully as Bessarion resisted. The quarrels had become deeper. In momentary desperation he had gone to others, even to Eirene, but not to Zoe. Why had Justinian and she not allied to serve the common cause?
The only one Justinian had trusted was Antoninus, who in the end had gone to his death tortured and alone. Then who had betrayed Justinian to the authorities?
If Bessarion had lived, the plot would have gone ahead. The next evening, they would have attempted to kill the emperor. Zoe had the courage and the skill to do it, whatever Bessarion’s failings. But had Zoe honestly believed that Bessarion had the courage and the fire to save both the city from the Latins and the Church from Rome?
And would Bessarion have obeyed her, or was his arrogance such that once on the throne he would have defied all advice, especially from a woman? How had she imagined she could manipulate him? Because she had more political intelligence than he, and more realism? Or more allies? Perhaps knowledge of Michael’s network of spies and agents of violence, information, and deceit? Then he could keep his hands clean and still reap the benefits.
Perhaps Zoe would have allowed Bessarion to take the throne and then helped Demetrios Vatatzes to usurp Bessarion. Or was that Eirene’s plan?
Justinian had prevented any of it from happening. If he had killed Bessarion, then far from being a conspirator against the emperor, he had saved his life. Had Michael known that? Had Nicephoras?
And a cold and ugly thought: Had Constantine allowed Justinian to be blamed as an act of revenge for his change of allegiance, his understanding of reality?
Fifty-six
ANNA CHOSE HER TIME WITH CARE. FROM HER MANY visits to the Blachernae, she was familiar with Nicephoras’s routine. She went when she knew he would be alone and undisturbed, unless there was some crisis. She was uncharacteristically nervous climbing the palace steps, although she was now well-known, having attended most of the eunuchs at one time or another.
She passed the broken statues, the dark stains of fire, the passages blocked with rubble because the fabric of the building was dangerous. Perhaps Michael kept it this way so that neither he nor his servants would ever forget what being faithful to Orthodoxy cost.
She found Nicephoras in his usual room, open onto the courtyard. His servant went ahead and whispered that Anastasius had come, and a moment later she was shown in. Instantly she saw both the tiredness in his face and the sudden lift of pleasure at the sight of her.
“We are not falling ill often enough. It seems a long time since you have been here. What brings you? I have not heard of anyone needing your help.”
“It is I who need yours,” Anna replied. “But perhaps I can offer something in return? You look weary.”
He gave a little shake of his head. Anna was aware of the loneliness within him, the hunger to speak of things deeper in the heart than policy or the realities of diplomacy.
“That vase is new,” she observed, looking at a smoothly curved bowl sitting on one of the tables to the side. “Alabaster?”
“Yes,” he said quickly, his face brightening. “Do you like it?”
“It’s perfect,” she replied. “It’s as simple as the moon, as… as complete in itself, unconcerned with admiration.”
“I like that,” he said quickly. “You are quite right, many things try too hard. You hear the artist’s voice crying through the work for your attention. This has the supreme confidence of knowing exactly what it is. Thank you. I shall like it even more from now on.”
“Do I interrupt you reading?” she asked, seeing the manuscript on his desk.
“Ah! Yes, I was. It is about England, and I daresay it would be considered highly seditious here, but it is extraordinarily interesting.” His eyes were bright, watching her face carefully.
She was surprised. “England?” To her it meant only a barbarism beyond even the French, and she said as much.
“I thought so, too,” he admitted. “But they wrote a Great Charter in 1215, different from our laws of Justinian, because they were created by the barons, the aristocracy, and forced upon the king, whereas ours were codified by the emperor. Nevertheless, some of their provisions are interesting.”
She feigned interest, for his sake. “Really?”
His enthusiasm was too keen to be dampened by her lack of it. “My favorite is the dictum that justice delayed is justice denied. Do you not like that?”
“Yes, I do,” she said, to please him, then realized how profoundly she meant it. “Very much. It is certainly true. Is that what you were reading?”
“No. Much more recent, actually. Have you heard of Simon de Montfort, the Earl of Leicester?”
“No.” She hoped this was not going to be long. “Is he one of the barons who forced this charter?”
“No.” He turned the manuscript facedown deliberately. “But you have come about something in particular. I see it in your face. The murder of Bessarion again?”
“You know me too well,” she confessed, then felt as if with the words she had betrayed him. He knew nothing at all of her in reality. She could not meet his eyes and was surprised how much that hurt. She had planned in her mind exactly what to say, practicing the details.
“What is it?” he asked.
She plunged in, all her careful rehearsal abandoned. “I believe there was a plot to assassinate the emperor, and for Bessarion to take his place, in order to save the Church from union with Rome. Whoever killed Bessarion prevented that from happening. It was an act of loyalty, not treason. They should not have been punished for it.”
His face was filled with a sadness she did not understand.
“Who were the conspirators, apart from Justinian and Antoninus?”
She said nothing. She could not prove it, and in spite of what they had planned to do, it seemed such a betrayal to tell him. He would have to act. They would be arrested, tortured. Horrible pictures filled her imagination: Zoe stripped, humiliated, her body mocked and perhaps touched with fire again. And she could not prove it anyway.
“I did not think you would tell me,” Nicephoras said. “I might have been disappointed if you had. Justinian would not either, nor Antoninus.” His voice dropped even lower and was rough with pain. “Even under torture.”
She stared at him, new terror gripping her like a clenched fist inside her stomach, tightening.
“Is he…” She forced the words out between dry lips. She remembered John Lascaris’s blind face. Justinian… it was almost more than she could bear.
“We did not maim him.” Perhaps without meaning to, Nicephoras was taking part of the blame himself. He was the emperor’s man. “Justinian could not tell us that they wouldn’t try again. Can you?”