“Where?”
“I don’t know. How big is it?”
She took it out, unwrapped it carefully, and held it up for him to see. She watched his face, seeing the disbelief in his eyes melt away and wonder take its place.
“We must put it on the ship,” he said simply. “It’s the only place where it’ll be safe.”
“Do you think those men were after it?” she asked.
“Don’t you? And whether they were or not, others will be. If Zoe knew of it, so do they.”
“The monastery I want is at Mount Sinai.” She forced out the words.
He studied her face, trying to understand. “A relative?” he said softly.
How much dared she tell him? The longer she hesitated, the more anything she said would seem to be false. “My brother,” she said in a whisper. “I’m sorry.” Now she would have to lie again or tell him that her name before she married was Lascaris. Men did not change their names at marriage, and eunuchs did not marry at all. He would have to think she simply lied about her name, to hide it. This masquerade had once seemed so obvious that she had even become accustomed to thinking of it as easy. Even the freedom to move about the streets she now took for granted.
He was still puzzled. He said nothing, but it was in his eyes.
“Justinian Lascaris,” she said, wading in more deeply.
At last, understanding filled his eyes. “Are you related to John Lascaris, whose eyes the emperor put out?”
“Yes.” She mustn’t elaborate. “Please don’t…”
He put up his hand to silence her. “You must go to Mount Sinai. I’ll take the picture to the ship. I’ll look after it, I promise.” He smiled with a hard, biting pain of shame. “I’ll not steal it for Venice, I give you my word.”
“I wasn’t afraid you would,” she replied.
“We’ll go very carefully,” he said. “I think we’ll be safer outside the city. How long will it take you to get to Mount Sinai?”
“A month, to go there and back,” she answered.
He hesitated.
“I’ll be back here by the time the ship returns,” she promised. “Just keep the picture safe.”
“I must see Jaffa, and Caesarea on the coast,” he said. “I’ll be back in thirty-five days.” He looked anxious, on the brink of speaking, and then changed his mind.
There was a sound of footsteps outside in the hostelry corridor and hushed voices arguing.
“We can’t stay here,” he told her quietly. “You must change your appearance and get out of the city. How are you getting to Sinai? A caravan?”
“Yes. They go every two or three days.”
“Then you must get out of the pilgrim gray. That’s what they’re looking for. I’ll go and get you something right now. You could dress as a boy…”
She saw the embarrassment in his face, in case he had insulted her, but there was no time or safety to spare for such things.
She took the initiative. “Better still as a woman,” she told him.
He looked startled. “They won’t let women into the monastery.”
“I know. I’ll find another hostelry, on the road outside the walls. Then I’ll change back again.”
He left and she barred the door behind him. She spent a miserable hour waiting for his return, afraid in case he was attacked. She was too tense to sit or even to stand still. She paced the floor back and forth, only a few steps each way. Five times she heard footsteps outside and thought it was Giuliano, then stood with pounding heart and ears straining as they passed and the silence closed in again.
Once someone knocked, and she was about to undo the bolt when she realized it could be anyone. She froze. She could hear someone breathing heavily just on the other side of the wood.
There was a thump against the door, as if someone had tested it with his weight. She stepped back silently. There was another thump, this one harder. The door shook on its hinges.
There were voices, then quick footsteps. Someone stopped outside the door.
“Anastasius!” It was Giuliano’s voice, urgent and sharp with fear.
Relief washed over her like a sudden heat. She tried to loosen the bar and found it jammed by the previous pressure from outside. She jerked her own weight against it, heard it give.
Giuliano stepped in and replaced the bar instantly. He had a bundle of clothes in his arms, some for her and some for himself. “We’ll go tonight,” he said quietly. “Change into these. I’ve got merchants’ clothes for myself. I’ll try to look like an Armenian.” He shrugged. “At least I can speak Greek.” He began slipping off his gray pilgrim cloak.
Was he coming with her? How far? She picked up the women’s clothes and turned her back to put them on. If she made any kind of an issue of modesty now, it would draw his suspicion. If she was quick enough, he might be too occupied with his own clothing to notice anything else.
The dress was wool, dark wine red, roughly shaped, and tied with a girdle. She slipped into it with an ease that tore away the years of pretense as if they had been paper, and once again she was the widow who had returned from Eustathius’s house to that of her parents. She bound her hair like a woman’s, wrapped the outer robe of darker wool around her, and without thinking adjusted it with the grace she had struggled so hard to abandon.
He looked at her. For an instant his face was blank, then it filled with sharp, painful surprise. He picked up the painting and handed it to her. He turned to the door, opened it carefully with his hand on the hilt of his knife. Having looked to right and left, he nodded at her to follow him.
Outside in the street there were several groups of people standing around, apparently arguing or haggling over the prices of goods.
Giuliano went immediately north, keeping a steady pace she could match without appearing to stride like a man. She kept her eyes down and her steps shorter. In spite of the fear tightening her muscles, she enjoyed the brief freedom of being a woman, as if it were a wild, dangerous escape that would have to end too soon.
Jerusalem was a small city. They walked quickly, keeping to the wider streets where possible.
They were climbing steadily, the great site of the Temple Mount to their right. She thought Giuliano was making for the Damascus Gate to the northwest and the Nablus Road.
They were accosted once, and Giuliano stopped and turned, smiling, hand on his belt. It was a peddler selling holy relics. He thought Giuliano was reaching for his purse. Anna knew he had a hand on the knife hilt.
“No, thank you,” he said briefly. Catching Anna by the arm, he hurried onward.
His grip was warm and harder than it would have been had he touched a woman. She struggled to keep up with him, never daring to draw attention to herself by looking backward.
The Damascus Gate was crowded with merchants, peddlers, camel drivers, and several pilgrims dressed in gray. Suddenly they appeared sinister, and without realizing it, she slowed her step. Giuliano’s hand tightened again, pulling her forward.
Did he feel her fear, or the slenderness of her bones, and wonder? They knew so much of each other-of dreams and beliefs-and yet so little. It was all shot through with assumptions and lies. Probably the lies were all hers.
They pushed through the crowds at the gate, and then they were out on the open road. After they had gone swiftly for about two hundred yards and strayed off the path downward, Giuliano stopped. “Are you all right?” he said anxiously.
“Yes,” she said. “Do you want to go south now?” She pointed back to the road. “The Jaffa Gate’s that way. That’s Herod’s Gate ahead of us. I could go in there. There’s a pilgrim lodging near St. Stephen’s. I’ll stay there overnight, and go down to the Sion Gate before morning.”
“I’ll come with you,” he said quickly.