She thought about it, struggling, twisting this way and that in her mind, finding no escape. “No,” she said at last.
“What is Justinian Lascaris to you that you risk so much to save him?” he asked.
She felt the blood hot in her face. “We are related.”
“Closely?” he said in little more than a whisper. “Brother? Husband?”
It was as if time stopped, frozen between one heartbeat and the next. He knew. It was perfectly clear in his face. To deny it would be idiotic.
He waited, his eyes so gentle that it made the tears spill over onto her cheeks for the shame of her deceit. Would he think her disguise mocked him? She kept her eyes down, unable to look at him and hating herself.
“My twin,” she whispered.
“Anastasia Lascaris?”
“Anna,” she corrected him, as if that tiny piece of honesty mattered. “Zarides now. I’m a widow.”
“Whoever the other conspirators are, they are still dangerous,” he warned. “I believe you know who they are. One of them betrayed Justinian, I don’t know which, and if I did, I would not tell you, for your own sake. They would betray you just as quickly.”
“I know-” The words caught in her throat. “Thank you.”
“By the way, you should lengthen your stride a little. You still take short steps, like a woman. Otherwise you are pretty good.”
She nodded, unable to speak, then turned slowly and walked away, her mind numb, finding it hard to keep her balance. She would have to correct her walk some other time.
Fifty-seven
A WEEK LATER, ANNA HAD JUST SEEN HER LAST PATIENT OF the morning and was standing in the kitchen when Leo brought her a letter from Zoe Chrysaphes.
Dear Anastasia,
I have just received news of a most important matter concerning the true faith which we both espouse. I need to inform you of the details as soon as possible. Please regard this as urgent, and call upon me today.
Zoe
The blurred writing of her name, using the feminine rather than masculine, was a veiled reminder to Anna of Zoe’s power over her. She dared not refuse.
There was no decision to make. “I have to call on Zoe Chrysaphes.” She did not want to frighten Leo by telling him that Zoe knew her secret. “It is something to do with the Church. It should be interesting.”
But interest was the emotion furthest from her mind when she was shown into Zoe’s room. The fear and the loss in their previous encounter seemed to close in on her as if she could never escape it. She felt as though Giuliano must be just out of the line of her sight, and any moment he would move and she would see the pain in his face.
Zoe came forward superbly, head high, back straight. The deep blue-gray silk of her tunic swirled around her ankles, unbroken by gold ornament, simple as the dusk sky.
“Thank you for coming so quickly,” she said. “I have remarkable news, but before I tell you I must swear you to secrecy. A promise to me is little: Promise to Mary the Mother of God that you will betray this secret to no one. I charge you!” Her golden eyes blazed with a sudden flare of passion.
Anna was astonished. “And if I will not do that?”
“We need not consider it,” Zoe replied, her smile not wavering. “Because you will. Betrayal of secrets can be a most painful thing. The outcome can even kill. But you know that. Give me your promise.”
Anna felt her face burn. She had walked directly into the trap. “I will promise Mary the Mother of God,” she said with a faint echo of sarcasm.
“Good,” Zoe responded immediately. “And most appropriate. Everyone knows that the Venetians stole the Shroud of Christ from the Hagia Sophia, and also a nail from the true Cross. It is the most holy relic on earth, and only God knows where it is now. Probably in Venice, or maybe Rome. They’re all thieves.” She tried to keep the fury from her voice and failed. “And the crown of thorns,” she added. “But I have word out of Jerusalem of another relic, nearly as good. It has just come to light, after more than twelve hundred years.”
Anna tried not to care. She should never forget that, above all, Zoe was a creature of revenge and deception. Only a fool would trust her. Yet she found herself asking, almost holding her breath for the answer.
Zoe’s smile widened. “The portrait of the Mother of God, painted by St. Luke,” she whispered. “Imagine it. He was a physician, like you. And an artist. He saw her, just as you and I can see each other.” Her voice was husky with excitement. “Perhaps she was older, but all the passion and the grief would be there in her face.” Her eyes were alight with wonder. “Mary-as an old woman, who had given birth to the Son of God, and stood at the foot of the Cross at his death, helpless to save Him. Mary, who knew He was risen, not by faith or belief, or the sermons of priests, but because she had seen Him.”
“Where is this painting?” Anna asked. “Who has it? How do you know it is genuine? There are more pieces of the true Cross sold to pilgrims than would furnish a forest.”
“Its existence has been confirmed,” Zoe said calmly, seeing victory.
“Why do you tell me?” She dreaded the answer.
Zoe’s eyes were unblinking. “Because I wish you to go to Jerusalem and purchase it for me, of course. Don’t pretend to be stupid, Anastasia. Naturally I will provide the money. When you return with the picture I shall give it to the emperor, and once again Byzantium will have one of the great relics of Christendom. She is our patron saint, our guardian, and our advocate with God. She will protect us from Rome, whether it is the violence of the crusaders or the corruption of popes.”
Anna was stunned. Another thought occurred to her. Zoe had said it was to give to the emperor, not the Church. Did Michael know perfectly well that it was Zoe who had been going to kill him, and this was a bargain for her freedom, even her life?
Aloud she asked, “Why me? I know nothing of paintings.”
Zoe looked deeply satisfied. “I trust you,” she said smoothly. “You will not betray me, because to do so you would have to betray yourself… and Justinian. Do not forget how well I know you.”
“I can’t travel alone to Jerusalem,” Anna pointed out, although now her heart was racing at the thought. Jerusalem-so near Sinai. She might see Justinian. Did Zoe think of that, too? “Still less could I return without an armed guard if I am carrying a relic like that,” she added.
“I don’t expect you to.” Zoe gazed out of the window at the fading light of the sky. “I have already made inquiries as to your passage, and arranged it where you will be perfectly safe. Except, of course, from the rigors of a voyage, but that is inescapable.” She was smiling. “There is a ship chartered and commanded by a Venetian about to leave Constantinople for Acre, and then its captain, with suitable guard, I imagine, will make his way to Jerusalem. They are willing, for a consideration which I will pay, to allow you to accompany them. The captain will be aware of your purpose, but no one else.”
“A Venetian?” Anna was appalled. “They’ll let me get the painting, then steal it, probably throw me overboard, and you’ll never see the painting again.”
“Not this captain,” Zoe said with secret amusement. “He is Giuliano Dandolo. I have told him only that it is the picture of a Byzantine Madonna, posed for by a merchant’s daughter, perhaps his mother. You would be wise not to tell him differently.”
Anna stood rigid. “And if I refuse?” she stammered.
“Then I shall no longer feel bound to be discreet about your… identity. To the emperor, the Church, or to Dandolo. Be sure that that is what you want before you provoke it to happen.”