He nodded slowly. “You are wise, Anastasius. Wiser, I think, than some of my own brethren. Certainly wiser than that cold-hearted priest from Rome.” He smiled weakly, a flash of light in his eyes. “The only wisdom is to trust God.” He made the sign of the cross, conspicuously in the Orthodox way, then lay back on his pillows and drifted into sleep, a slight smile still on his face.

The next time she went to him, he was awake and feverish, his fingers trembling so it was difficult to hold the cup with the herbal infusion in it. She had to put her own hands around his to help him. This was the time to offer Zoe’s restorative. Normally she would not give any herbs but those she had brought and mixed herself, but she had already tried everything else she had.

She told him she was going to mix something more, sent for him by Zoe Chrysaphes, and left him with the young monk while she did so. When she returned he looked tired, and she offered him the new drink.

“It may be bitter,” she warned. “I drank some myself, as did Zoe, but we took it with wine, and I know you do not wish for that.”

He shook his head. “No wine.” He reached for the cup, and she gave it to him. He drank and pulled his mouth into a grimace. “It’s most unpleasant,” he said ruefully. “For once I wish I-” He stopped abruptly, his face pale, his eyes wide. He gasped and clutched at his throat, struggling for breath.

“It’s poison!” the young monk cried out in terror. “You’ve poisoned him!” He scrambled to his feet and ran to the door. “Help! Help! Cyril is poisoned! Come quickly!”

There were footsteps clattering along the corridor, loud with panic. The young monk was still shouting. In front of her Cyril was gasping, his eyes wild, his skin drained of even the last vestige of color and turning blue as he choked.

But she herself had drunk exactly the same! She had seen Zoe take it out of the same silk purse, and she had given Cyril no more than a pinch. She had not tasted bitterness, but then she had taken it with wine and immediately after had cakes with honey.

Was that it? Wine? Did Zoe know Cyril did not drink it?

She leapt up and ran to the door. “Wine!” she shouted almost into the face of the monk only feet away from her. “Get me wine and honey now! This second, for his life!”

“You poisoned him!” the monk accused, his face contorted with loathing.

“Not I!” She said the first thing that would make any sense. “The Roman! Don’t stand there like a fool, fetch wine and honey, or do you want him dead?”

That accusation moved him. He swiveled on his heel and ran back down the corridor, his sandals slapping on the stone.

She waited in an agony of fear, dashing back into the room to hold Cyril up in her arms, trying to ease his breathing. His throat had closed up and his chest heaved with the effort to fill his lungs. It seemed to be endless, one long, dreadful breath after another, rasping in pain.

At last the monk returned, followed by another. They had wine and honey. She snatched it from them and mixed the two together, not caring a bit how they tasted, and held it to Cyril’s lips.

“Drink!” she commanded. “I don’t care how hard it is, drink! Your life depends on it.” She tried to pry his jaws apart and force it into his mouth. He was barely breathing at all now, his eyes rolled back into his head. “Hold him!” she ordered the nearest monk. “Do it!”

He obeyed, shivering with terror.

With two hands she was more able to force his lips apart and his head back. A little of the liquid went into his mouth, and he swallowed it convulsively. He gagged, then gulped again, and it went down. She gave him more, and more. Infinitely slowly his throat eased, his breathing became less labored, and at last when he focused his eyes the panic had died out of them.

“Enough,” he said hoarsely. “A moment and I will take it all, I promise.”

She laid him back gently and sank to her knees on the hard floor, the prayer of gratitude more audible than she had intended. It was not just for Cyril’s life, but perhaps for her own.

“Explain,” the abbot demanded when she stood before him in his beautiful, sparse office later that evening. He was gaunt, his face lined with anxiety and the long battle against grief. He deserved the truth, absolute and not diminished or twisted by emotion. But he also did not deserve her burden of suspicion that could not be proved. She had had time to weigh what she should tell him.

“Zoe Chrysaphes gave me an herb to offer to Cyril,” she answered. “She told me it was a restorative. She emptied some of it into her own wine goblet, and then into mine, and we both drank it with no ill effects. She gave me the pouch of herbs and I took it. It was from that that I mixed an infusion for Cyril.”

The abbot frowned. “That does not seem possible.”

“Not until I remembered that Zoe and I drank the herbs mixed with wine, and Cyril took his with water,” she explained. “Also we ate honey cakes. She said it prevented an aftertaste. Those were the only differences I knew, so I immediately sent for wine and honey, and forced Cyril to take them. He began to recover. I assume it was the wine, and that Zoe Chrysaphes had never taken it with water, and did not know of its hideously different effect.” That of course was a lie, but neither of them could prove it, nor could they afford the truth.

“I see,” he said slowly. “And what of the Roman? What part has he in this?”

“None that I know,” she said. Again it was a lie. If he had not wished to persuade Cyril to sign the addendum, and Zoe had not feared that he might succeed, then Cyril would simply have died quietly here in this monastery, and public opinion regarding the union would have been unaffected. Zoe would choose that before his surrender. Anna’s visit had offered her the chance to make certain of Cyril’s refusal, or, if at the worst he had signed, then Anna and Vicenze would be blamed for his murder and the document accounted worthless.

But the abbot did not need to know that.

“We are grateful for your quick thought in saving him,” he said gravely. “Perhaps you will tell Zoe Chrysaphes that?”

“I will convey whatever message you wish,” she replied.

“Thank you,” the abbot said gravely. “One of the brothers told me you are from Nicea. Is that correct?”

“Yes. I grew up a little distance from here.”

He smiled, a slight, sad gesture, but it reached his eyes with a startling tenderness. “One of our brethren does not ever leave here. There was a man who visited him, but he has not been lately. I think it would be a great kindness if you would spend an hour with Brother John.” He barely made it a question.

Anna did not hesitate. “Of course. It would be my pleasure.”

“Thank you,” the abbot said again. “I shall take you.” And without hesitation he led her out of the room, along a narrow, slightly echoing passage and through a huge carved door studded with brass, then up a steep and winding stairway. He stopped on a small landing at the top, high over the rest of the vast building. He knocked at the only door, and at the word of command, he opened it and went in ahead of Anna, holding it for her to follow.

“Brother John,” he said quietly, “Brother Cyril has been ill and a physician has come from Constantinople to help him. He has done well, and will shortly leave, but he is from Nicea, and I thought you might like to speak with him for a while first. His name is Anastasius. He reminds me somewhat of the man who used to come to see you three or four years ago.”

Anna looked at the young man who rose slowly from the hard wooden chair and thought how odd it was for the abbot to describe her when she was only a step behind him. Then she saw the man’s face, thin and worn with pain and yet startlingly gentle. He was no more than in his twenties, but the thing that made her heart beat wildly so the blood thundered in her head and her mouth went dry was that he had no eyes. The ugly sockets were sunken, giving his face a hollow, mutilated look. With a shock like fire, she knew who he was-this was John Lascaris, whose eyes had been put out by Michael Palaeologus so he could not succeed to the throne. No wonder she reminded the abbot of the man who had come to see him-it could only be Justinian.