The Sheen on the Silk by Anne Perry Read Free Book Online

before making his decision. “Now let us see if Abd al-Qadir can help you with the Theban opium. If not, I have some that is less good, but still perfectly adequate. Come.”
    Obediently she followed, looking forward to meeting the Arab physician and wondering if perhaps he was the surgeon Shachar would recommend for Basil. How would her very Greek patient accept that? Perhaps it would not be necessary.

Five

    ZOE CHRYSAPHES STOOD AT THE WINDOW OF HER FAVORITE room and stared across the rooftops of the city to where the sunlight streamed onto the Golden Horn till the water was like molten metal. Her hands caressed the stones in front of her, still warm in the last glow of the day. Constantinople was spread out below her like a jeweled mosaic. The ancient magnificence of the Aqueduct of Valens was behind her, its arches sweeping in from the north like a Titan from the Roman past, an age when Constantinople was the eastern pillar of an empire that ruled the world. The Acropolis, far to the right, was far more Greek and therefore more comfortable to her, her language, her culture. Although its great days had been before she was born, the elderly woman still felt a pride in the thought of it.
    She could see the tops of the trees that hid the ruins of the Bukoleon Palace, where her father had taken her as a child. She tried to bring back those bright memories, but they were too far away and slipped out of her grasp.
    The radiance of the setting sun momentarily hid the squalor of the unmended walls, covering their scars with a veil of gold.
    But Zoe never forgot the pain of the enemy invasion, of ignorant and careless feet trampling what had once been beautiful. She looked at the city now and saw it as exquisite and defiled, but still throbbing with a passion to taste every last drop of life and drain it to the lees.
    The light was kind to her. She was past seventy, but the skin was smooth over her cheekbones. Her golden eyes were shadowed and hooded under her winged brows. Her mouth had always been too wide, but the curve of it was full. The luster of her hair was less than it had been and closer to brown than chestnut-there was only so much that herbs and dyes could do-but it was still beautiful.
    She stared a few moments longer at the glittering skyline of Galata as the torches were lit. The east was fading rapidly, and the harbor was masked in purple. The spires and domes were sharper against the enamel blue of the sky. In thought she communed with the heart of the city, that part of it that was more than palaces or shrines, more even than the Hagia Sophia or the light on the sea. The soul of Constantinople was alive, and that was what she had seen raped by the Latins when she was a small child.
    As the sun slid behind the low clouds and the air grew suddenly cold, she turned away at last. She stepped back into the room and its dazzling torchlight. She could smell the tar burning, see the faint shimmer of the flames in the draft. Between two of the finest tapestries in dark reds, purples, and umber, there was a gold crucifix more than a foot’s length from top to bottom. She walked over and stood in front of it, staring at the Christ in agony. It was exquisitely wrought: Every fold of His loincloth, the sinews of His limbs, His face hollowed by pain, all were perfect.
    Gently she reached up, eased it off its hook, and held it in her hands. She did not need to look at it, knowing as she did every line and shadow of the images on each of the four arms. Her fingers felt them now, going over them softly, like faces of those she loved; except that it was hate that moved Zoe, the envisioning over and over again of revenge: exquisite, slow, and complete.
    On the top, above the Christ, was the family emblem of the Vatatzes, who had ruled Byzantium in the past. It was green, with a double-headed eagle in gold, above each head a silver star. They had betrayed Constantinople when the crusaders had come, fleeing the invaded city and