She took another apricot; this one was less ripe than the first, a little like Anastasius. He had surprised her with his sharpness in judging Euphrosane. Not that he was wrong, of course; she simply had expected him to be more mealy-mouthed in expressing it. But liking him could not be allowed to get in the way of Zoe’s plans for revenge. If Anastasius was useful, that was all that mattered.

And he had one weakness she should not forget-he forgave. Some of the patients she had recommended had treated him badly, but he did not seem to bear a grudge. He had had opportunity to take advantage of them in return, and he had not taken it. Zoe did not think it was cowardice; there would have been no danger to himself-indeed, no price to pay of any sort. That was stupid. With no fear there would be no respect. She would have known better. She would have to protect Anastasius, as long as he was useful. All scores must be evened.

She turned back and faced the room and the great gold crucifix on the wall. She would help the physician in his quest for information about Bessarion, but she knew it had nothing to do with understanding alliances in Constantinople. Then why was he asking about it?

Naturally she could not tell him even a whisper of the truth. Could she say that Helena had been bored witless by Bessarion and that he had probably never been interested in her-not as a man should be interested in a woman?

She relaxed and threw back her head, smiling in a rare moment of self-mockery She had tried to seduce Bessarion herself once, just to see if there was any fire in his loins, or his soul. There wasn’t. He was willing, eventually, but it wasn’t worth the trouble.

No wonder Helena’s eyes were wandering! Far cleverer to seduce Antoninus and then use him to dispose of Bessarion and so get rid of both of them-if that was what had happened. That was worthy of a daughter of Zoe’s. She had been slow to learn, but apparently she had succeeded well enough in the end. Pity Helena had compromised Justinian, too. He was a real man, too much for Helena. If she had caused that, Zoe would not forgive her for it.

She walked slowly across the room to the doorway, swinging her arm out a fraction to make the silk of her robe flutter and shine in the light. The sheen changed color from russet to gold and back again, deceiving the eye, firing the imagination.

A week later, the emperor sent for her. There was a man worth lying with. The memory was still a good one, even all these years after. Not the best; Gregory Vatatzes would always be that. But Zoe forced him out of her mind. There was pain in every thought of him, as well as pleasure.

Michael wanted something, or he would not have sent for her. She dressed carefully, gorgeous in a bronze and black silk tunic that clung to her. A high necklace would conceal the aging of her skin under her jaw. Her hands were soft. She knew exactly what ingredients to use in unguents to keep them pale and the knuckles from swelling. She wore topaz, set in gold. None of it was to seduce him; their relationship was beyond that now. He wanted her skill, her cunning, not her flesh.

Since the return of the empire from exile in Nicea and scattered cities to the north along the coast of the Black Sea, Michael had made his residence in the Blachernae Palace, on the other side of the city from the old Imperial Palace. The Blachernae overlooked the Golden Horn, as did her own house, and it was not more than a mile and a half away. She could walk it easily, accompanied by Sabas, her most loyal servant.

She did not hurry, it was unseemly. She had time to notice the weeds where paving stones were missing, the broken windows in a church, never replaced.

Even the Blachernae Palace itself was scarred, some of the magnificent arches of its upper windows shattered, threatening to topple over and smash on the steps below.

The Imperial Varangian Guard did not question her. They knew better than to ask who she was. No doubt they had been told to expect her. She swept past them with just a slight inclination of her head.

She remembered the old days, before the Latins came, when she was a tiny child and her father had taken her to the old Imperial Palace, high up on the headland overlooking the city and the sea. Alexios V had been emperor of Byzantium, which to her was the world. That was just before the terrible days of the invasion.

She waited in a huge room with high windows that let the light fill the space and magnify the perfect proportions. The walls were inlaid with pink marble and the floor with porphyry. The torch brackets were high, slender, and decorated in gold. Her surroundings pleased her profoundly, and she was happy to gaze at them until she was sent for.

She was conducted by a tall eunuch with a soft face, tired eyes, and an irritating manner of waving his hands. He led her through the halls and galleries into the emperor’s private rooms. There were some conversations that should not be overheard by anyone. Even the ever-present Varangian Guard would stand at a distance, out of earshot. Many of them were yellow-haired, blue-eyed, from God-knew-what remote lands.

This private room was totally restored, the walls repainted with exquisite murals of pastoral scenes at harvesttime. The tall, bronze candle stands were ornate and gleaming, the few statues left undamaged.

She made the usual obeisance. She was twenty-five years older than Michael, and a woman, but he was emperor and Equal of the Apostles. He did not rise to greet her but remained seated, his knees a little apart, covered by the woven, brocaded silk of his dalmatica and the scarlet of the tunic underneath. He was a handsome man with his heavy black hair and beard, fine eyes, and slightly ruddy complexion. He had good hands. Zoe remembered the touch of them with pleasure, even now. They were surprisingly sensitive for a man who had been a brilliant soldier in his prime and still knew more of military strategy than most generals. In battle he had led his army rather than followed it. He was busy now reorganizing the army and the navy and overseeing the repair of the city walls. He was above all a practical man. What he wanted of Zoe would also be practical.

“Come forward, Zoe,” he commanded. “We are alone. There is no need for pretense.” His voice was soft and deep, as a man’s should be.

She stepped closer to him, but slowly. She would never presume and so give him the chance to rebuff her. Let him do the asking, the requesting.

“There is a matter in which you may be of assistance,” he said, watching her intently, his eyes searching her face. She was never sure how far he could read her. He was Byzantine to the core; nothing of the imagination passed him by. He was subtle, devious, and brave, but at the moment he had a heavy burden to carry and a broken and obstinate people to lead. They were blind to the realities of the new threat, because they dared not look at it clearly.

Since Bessarion’s death, Zoe was beginning to see the political situation differently. There was a betrayal still being planned somewhere, and when Zoe found it out, she would punish whoever was responsible, even if it was Helena.

She wished she could have spoken to Justinian before he went into exile, but Constantine had accomplished his rescue so smoothly, and so quickly, that that had not been possible.

Now she needed to know what Michael wanted of her. “Whatever I can do,” she murmured respectfully.

“There are certain people whose services you use…” He measured his words with care. “I would prefer not to be seen to use them, but they have skills I need. I wish for information. Later it may be more than that.”

“Sicily?” She breathed out the word; it was really more of an acknowledgment than a question.

He nodded assent.

She waited. A new bargain must be made, and that was good. She would deal with anyone if it was for Byzantium’s sake, but she would not do it cheaply. The Sicilian she employed was a weasel of a man, a double spy, but she had caught his one mistake and kept the proof of it where all his cunning would never find it. He was dangerous, and she must handle him with care, as one did a serpent. She knew why Michael could not afford to have any connection with him, even through his own spies. Nothing escaped the eunuchs closest to him, or the house servants and palace guards, the priests forever coming and going. He needed someone like Zoe, who was just as clever as he was but who could afford to be ruthless in ways he dared not. There were too many pretenders to the throne, would-be usurpers, plots and counterplots. Michael was only too bitterly aware of it, always watching over his shoulder.