“A rare kind of courage,” she conceded, while thinking of Constantine’s passionate belief in the Virgin’s power to protect them, if they kept the Orthodox faith. Constantine’s way of defending the city was surely what God wanted; the emperor’s was the intellectual way of man trusting to himself and the arm of flesh-or, more accurately, of cunning.

She wondered what Justinian had really believed rather than what it was politic to say.

A servant had come to call them, and she followed Nicephoras into the emperor’s presence.

Michael was still a little feverish, but the rash was definitely improved and no longer spreading. This time, she had brought leaves to make an infusion-a different sort that would reduce fever and pain-and also more ointment of frankincense, mastic, and elder bark, mixed with oil and white of egg.

Two days after that when she came again, the emperor was up and dressed. He had sent for her to thank her for her skill and to pay her handsomely. She did not allow him to see the intensity of her relief.

“Was I poisoned, Anastasius Zarides?” Michael asked, his black eyes searching her face.

She had expected the question. “No, Majesty.”

His arched eyebrows rose even higher. “Then I have sinned, but you did not tell me?”

She had expected that also. “I am not a priest, Majesty.”

He considered a moment. “Nicephoras says you have intelligence, and that you are honest. Is he wrong, then?”

“I hope not.” She made her voice as pious as she could and avoided his eyes.

“Do I sin in seeking union with Rome, and you have not the courage or the faith to tell me?” he persisted.

This question she had not foreseen. There was laughter in his eyes, and impatience. She had only seconds to think. “I believe in medicine, Majesty. I do not know enough about faith. It did not save us in 1204, but I don’t know why not.”

“Perhaps we had not enough?” he suggested, looking her up and down slowly, as if he might read her answer in the way she stood or the hands knotted together in front of her. “Is lack of faith a sin, or is it an affliction?”

“To know whether to have faith or not, one has to understand what it is that God has promised,” she replied, searching her mind frantically. “To have faith that God will give you something merely because you want it is foolish.”

“Will He not protect His true Church, because He wants it?” he responded. “Or does it depend upon us observing every detail, and then standing against Rome?”

He was playing with her. Nothing she said would change his mind, but it might decide her fate. Perhaps he would know if she was lying about her beliefs to please him, and then he would not believe her medical opinions as honest, either.

“I think our blind trust dissolved in blood and ashes seventy years ago,” she said. “Maybe God expects us to find a way to use both our intelligence and our faith this time. We will never all be just, or all be wise. The strong must defend the weak.”

He appeared satisfied and changed the subject.

“So how did you cure me, Anastasius Zarides? I wish to know.”

“With herbs to reduce the fever and the pain, Majesty, ointment to heal the rash, and care to make sure you were not infected by spoiled food, or cloth or oils that were not clean. Your other servants would take care you were not deliberately poisoned. You have tasters. I advised them to be careful of all knives, spoons, and dishes for themselves also.”

“And prayer?”

“Most profoundly, Majesty, but I did not need to tell them that.”

“For my health, and your survival, no doubt.” This time there was quite open laughter in his face.

On the way home, she still wondered if he had been poisoned and if Zoe had had anything to do with it. To be subject to Rome might feel like rape to her. Had she convinced herself that this time blind, passionate faith would save them?

Suddenly Anna was aware of the depth of her own doubt, and perhaps the weight of sin that might have caused it. Were the differences between one church and another of any importance to God, or were they only matters of philosophy, rituals of men adapted to suit one culture or another?

She wished she could have asked Justinian what he believed now, what it was he had learned in Constantinople that he had been willing to fight for to prevent union with Rome and survival against the next crusade.

The loneliness of mind without him was all but crippling.

ANNA HAD BEEN IN THE CITY OVER TWO YEARS. SHE NOW knew exactly what Justinian had been charged with and what the evidence seemed to have been. His trial had been secret and had been held before the emperor himself. Michael was the last resort to justice in all cases, so it was not unusual, particularly since both the victim and one of the accused were of once imperial families.

She had also learned far more about Antoninus, but nothing of it suggested a man prone to violence. On the contrary, he sounded most likable. He was brave and fair as a soldier and reputedly even liked music. People said he and Justinian were good companions, and it was easy to believe it.

Bessarion, on the other hand, was admirable but seemed a solitary man. While gifted with crowds, he was not at ease with his equals and perhaps a bit obsessive in his views.

The more she knew of it, the less sense it made. What possible bond could link Bessarion the religious leader to Antoninus the soldier and good comrade; Justinian the merchant and believer; Zoe the wounded and passionate lover of Byzantium; Helena, her shallow daughter; the lightweight Esaias Glabas, whose name turned up every so often; Eirene Vatatzes, clever but reputedly ugly; and Constantine, the powerful, vulnerable eunuch bishop?

It had to be more than religion. That was shared to a greater or lesser degree by the entire nation.

There was no one she dared speak to about it apart from Leo and Simonis.

Simonis had been there since both Anna and Justinian had studied medicine under their father’s tutelage. She had no children of her own, and when their mother had been ill, as she was increasingly often, it was Simonis who had looked after them.

Then had come Anna’s first practice with real patients, always carefully supervised, every movement watched, every calculation checked, encouraged, or corrected.

That was when it had happened. In her eagerness, Anna had misread a label and prescribed too strong a dosage of opiates for pain. She had left immediately afterward on an errand that took several hours. Her father had been called to a serious accident, and it was Justinian who had discovered the mistake.

He had had sufficient knowledge to realize what had happened and also to understand the treatment. He had prepared it, then raced to the home of the patient, where he had found him already feeling dizzy and lethargic. Justinian had forced the patient to take a strong emetic and then, after he had vomited, a laxative to get rid of the rest of the opiate. He took on himself the blame for the error. To save both his father’s practice and Anna’s future, Justinian had placated the irate and wretched patient by promising to give up all medical studies himself, and the man had accepted and agreed to remain silent as long as Justinian kept his word.

He had kept it. He had turned instead to trade, at which he had proved both gifted and successful. But it was not medicine!

Her brother had never once chided Anna for her error or its cost to him, nor had he spoken of it in front of their father. Justinian had said his decision to leave study and turn to business was simply a personal choice. To his mind, Anna was the better physician. Their mother was bitterly disappointed, but their father had said nothing.