He jerked upward at her with the ragged stem, impelled by fear.

She felt the glass cut, and she twisted away and grasped it with the other hand, screaming out, intending the servants to hear her. Afterward, she would need their testimony. He must be the aggressor, only one glass broken, she merely defending herself.

He was caught by surprise. He had expected her to fall backward, bleeding. Instead she pressed on up to him, turning the stem against him with her weight and her other hand over his. The broken edge caught him, a thin, slashing cut.

Then she drew back, allowing surprise into her face as servants came rushing into the room.

“It’s nothing!” Cosmas said angrily, shouting at them but still looking at her. His face was red, his eyes blazing.

Zoe turned toward the two men and the woman, forcing herself to sound apologetic. This was what they must remember. “I dropped a glass and it broke,” she said with a charming smile, rueful, just a little ashamed. “We reached for it at the same moment and… and bumped into each other. I am afraid we both grasped for the glass, and have cut ourselves on its shards. Perhaps you would bring water, and bandages.”

They hesitated.

“Do it!” Cosmas yelled at them, clutching the wound where the blood was already staining his robe.

“I have a tincture to ease pain,” Zoe said helpfully, reaching inside her tunic for the fold of oiled silk with the antidote in it.

“No,” he refused instantly. “I will use my own.” There was a slight sneer in his voice, as if he had seen her trick and sidestepped it.

“As you please.” She emptied the powder into her mouth and took a sip of the wine from his glass, still whole on the table.

“What’s that?” he demanded.

“A powder against the pain,” she replied, holding up her bleeding arm. “Do you want some?”

“No!” There was derision in his eyes.

The servants returned and carefully washed the wounds of both of them.

“I have a salve…” Zoe reached with her other hand for the porcelain jar of ointment with its painted chrysanthemums. She put a little on her wound. It was mildly soothing, but she relaxed her body, as if it had brought great ease. She held out the open jar to Cosmas; her face was composed, as close to indifferent as she could make it.

“Master?” one of the servants offered.

“Oh, do it,” Cosmos told him impatiently. Now that the servants were returned, being seen to be afraid demeaned him.

The servant obeyed, using it liberally.

Both wounds were bound, and the servants fetched more wine, more glasses, and a blue porcelain dish of sweet honey cakes.

Within fifteen minutes, Cosmos began to sweat profusely and have some difficulty in getting his breath. The glass slipped from his hand and spilled wine onto the floor, rolling away with a hollow sound. He put his hand to his throat as though to loosen a tight garment, but there was nothing there. He began to shake uncontrollably.

Zoe stood up. “Apoplexy,” she said, looking down at him. Then she turned and walked unhurriedly to the door and called the servants. “He is taking a fit. You had better send for a physician,” she told them.

When she had seen them leave, their faces white with panic, she went back to where Cosmas was collapsed, half-fallen to the floor. He should live for another hour, at least, but the poison was working rapidly.

Cosmos gasped and seemed to recover a little. Although she found it revolting to touch his fat body, she bent and helped him ease his position to one where he was better able to breathe. She might have to explain it afterward if she had not.

“You did this to me!” he gasped, curling his lips in a snarl. “You are going to steal my icons. Thief!”

She bent even closer to him, the fear draining out of her and vanishing. “Your father stole them from mine,” she hissed in his ear. “I want them back in the churches so pilgrims will come here and make Byzantium rich and safe again. You, your family, and your blood are the thieves. And yes, I did this to you! Know it and taste it, Cosmas. Believe it!”

“Murderer!” he spat back at her, but it was no more than a sigh.

She went into the room with the icons. After lifting the one of the Virgin off the wall, she wrapped it in the folds of her cloak.

She smiled and walked on to the door where the servants were waiting to let her out.

Revenge was perfect, richer than laughter, sweeter than honey, more lasting than the scent of jasmine in the air.

ON THE LAST DAY OF APRIL IN THE FOLLOWING YEAR, 1274, Enrico Palombara was standing in the central courtyard of his villa a mile beyond the Vatican walls. The sunlight had the limpid clarity one sees only in spring. The arid heat of summer was still far away. The walls were ocher-colored, and the new leaves of the vines made a lacework of green against them. The sound of falling water was a constant music.

He could hear the chattering of birds in the eaves as they worked. He loved their ceaseless industry, as if they could not imagine failure. They did not pray, as men did, so the answering silence would not frighten them.

He turned and went inside. It was time for him to walk to the Vatican and present himself to the pope. He had been sent for, and he must make certain he was there well in time. He did not know the reason Gregory X wished to speak to him, but he profoundly hoped that it would be the chance of office again-and not merely as secretary or assistant to some cardinal or other.

He increased his pace along the street, his long bishop’s robes swirling. He nodded to people he knew, exchanging a greeting here and there, but his mind was on the meeting ahead. Perhaps he would be sent as a papal legate to one of the great courts of Europe, such as Aragon, Castile, Portugal, or, above all, the Holy Roman Empire. Any such position would offer vast opportunities out of which could be carved a superb career, possibly even elevation to the papal throne itself one day. Urban IV had been a papal legate before his election.

Five minutes later, Palombara walked across the square, up the wide, shallow steps of the Vatican Palace, and into the shade under the huge arches. He reported his presence and was conducted to the pope’s private apartments, still fifteen minutes before the appointed time.

As he expected, he was kept waiting. He did not feel free to pace back and forth over the smooth marble floor as he would have liked.

Then suddenly he was summoned, and the next moment he was in the pope’s chamber, a formal room still, but brighter and more comfortable. Sunlight streamed in through the window, making it seem airy. He had no time to look at the murals, but they were in softer colors, muted pinks and golds.

He knelt to kiss the ring of Tebaldo Visconti, now Gregory X. “Your Holiness,” he murmured.

“How are you, Enrico?” Gregory asked. “Let us walk in the inner courtyard for a while. There is much to discuss.”

Palombara rose to his feet, noticeably taller and leaner than the rather rotund figure of the pope. He looked down into the pope’s face with its large, dark eyes and magnificent nose, long, heavy, and straight. “As Your Holiness pleases,” he said obediently.

Gregory had been pope for two and a half years already. This was the first time he had spoken with Palombara alone. He led the way out through the wide doors into the inner courtyard, where they were observed but not overheard.

“We have much work to do, Enrico,” Gregory said quietly. “We live in a dangerous age, but one of great opportunity. We have enemies all around us. We cannot afford dissension within.” He glanced at Palombara sharply.

Palombara murmured a reply to show his attention.