He bowed, and then the two of them picked up Georgios and carried him out, leaving Simonis to come in, her face blanched with shock. While she did what she could to clean Anna’s cuts and apply ointment to the bruises, Anna’s mind raced. She should have known Georgios Vatatzes would take his sister’s rejection badly. Or was it more complex than that?

Bessarion’s murder again, old fear, old vengeance? And how had Zoe’s servants known what to expect and from whom? The answer to that was only too obvious, once Anna faced the facts. Zoe had poisoned Maria, knowing it would ruin the family and intending it to. She had sent Sabas and his fellow servant, not so much to rescue Anna as to make certain that Georgios was killed.

But what had they done to earn Zoe’s hatred to such a depth?

WHEN ANASTASIUS WAS SHOWN INTO ZOE’S magnificent room, the physician was clearly angry, but quietly so, his eyes hard as stones on the shore. He looked appalling; his face was swollen and dark with bruises, and he limped. He dropped herbs on the table as if she had ordered them, but presumably they were to explain to the servants why he was here.

“What are they?” Zoe inquired with interest, as if she had no concern at his appearance, no sudden welling up of fear that he was really hurt.

“The antidote to the poison you used on Maria Vatatzes,” Anastasius replied icily. “I brought it so that you know I have it, and other antidotes. And that Arsenios knows I have it.”

Zoe raised her eyebrows. “It seems to have taken you rather a long time to find it. I assume you learned nothing about Bessarion’s death from Georgios, before he attacked you? Unfortunately you will learn nothing now.”

Temper flared in Anastasius’s eyes. “It won’t take so long if it happens again,” he retorted, entirely ignoring the question about Georgios and Bessarion’s death. “Because I shall know where to look. Of course, should you be the victim, that would be different. You might find it yourself first, if you are well enough to get out of bed.”

Zoe was stunned. Was he threatening her? “How ungrateful of you, Anastasius. After I had the forethought to send Sabas to your rescue.” She regarded him up and down carefully. “You look awful. Not that I doubted Sabas, he never lies.”

Anastasius’s face tightened. “He told the truth. Had he not come, I would be dead. Were I not grateful for that, I would have made it public that you had poisoned Maria. I know that from the flower seller, and she will say nothing, but if harm comes to her, then I will speak. You can’t poison everyone. But in case you have a mind to, Arsenios is perfectly aware that it was you who destroyed his daughter, and who caused his son to be killed in disgrace. I have no idea why you hate him, but he knows, and has taken steps to protect himself.”

“You’re threatening me!” Zoe said in amazement. Perversely, she was pleased.

“That amuses you?” Anastasius said, disgust twisting his mouth. “It shouldn’t. People are at their most dangerous when they have nothing left to lose. If you hate Arsenios, you should have left him something worth surviving to save. That was a mistake.” He turned and walked out, still limping, but with dignity.

Of course, the question of allowing Arsenios to continue spreading the rumors was settled. Zoe could not. She must deal with him, but the question was how?

Again, poison was the obvious weapon. It was her supreme skill. Of course, Arsenios would never take food or drink from her, even in a public place. She would have to find another way to administer it.

Another hundred candles to the Virgin.

She selected the poison carefully, something to which there was no antidote. It had no color and no odor, and it acted rapidly enough that Arsenios would have no chance to call for help or to attack her before he was incapacitated. It was ideal. This would look like a hemorrhage. No one would ever trace it back to her, either from its nature or because she was known to have purchased it. She had possessed it for years and had never needed it until now.

A further hundred candles to light. The priest smiled at her, knowing her now.

Zoe arrived at Arsenios’s home carrying her own most precious and beautiful icon, the dark blue sloe-eyed figure in the frame inset with smoky citrine and river pearls. She wrapped it in silk first, then over that oiled silk, to protect it from the weather should it suddenly rain. The sky was overcast and there was a light wind from the west, but she did not feel the chill in it, even now at dusk. He had agreed to see her only because she was bringing the icon. He sensed she was afraid, at a disadvantage, and his lust for revenge mounted higher. It was what she counted on, but it was a dangerous game.

Sabas was barred from entering and told to wait outside. She was shown into Arsenios’s presence. That was what she had expected. She trusted Sabas, but she did not want him to see her kill Arsenios. That might strain his loyalty. He was a good man, but his willing blindness would go only so far.

Arsenios dismissed the servants, telling them the matter was private. He smiled as the door closed, leaving them alone in the room with its walls inlaid with porphyry and its tessellated floor. It seemed he had no more desire to have servants present than she did. Her pulse quickened.

“The icon?” he asked, looking at it as she laid it on the table. “Gorgeous, I trust?”

She allowed herself to flinch, confirming what he already believed. He must not think she was in control, acting.

“From my own collection,” she replied huskily. Then she lowered her eyes. “But you know the real from the false.” It was time to let him know that she understood his anger and that it was justified. She should seem afraid to anger him further.

“Why do you bring it to me, Zoe Chrysaphes? What are you looking for in return? You never trade except for advantage.”

“Trade?” She allowed the tension in her to show in the trembling hand, the uncertain words. “Yes, of course I want something, but not money.”

He did not answer her but pulled on a pair of fine, soft leather gloves, so light in weight that he could move his fingers easily in them, and then carefully he unwrapped the icon from its silks.

She watched, listened to the sudden intake of his breath with admiration as the last wrapping fell away and he saw the glowing beauty of the Virgin’s face and felt the weight of gold in the frame. She saw the lust for it in his eyes and the delicate movement of his finger as it traced the lines of the frame and moved it so the light caught the gems.

She stood motionless, watching.

He turned and looked at her, studying her face, the rigidity of her body, the power of emotion in her, savoring it. This was what he wanted-her fear.

She started to speak and then stopped.

He smiled slowly and turned back to the icon. “It’s exquisite,” he said, his voice filled with awe in spite of himself. “But it is rather similar to one I already have.”

It did not matter. She had no intention of giving it to him, but she tried to appear crushed and, even more than that, afraid. Again she started to speak and stopped. She looked at him, imagining his cousin Gregory, perhaps the only man she had loved for himself, years ago, and made her eyes plead with him.

Arsenios fingered the front of the icon, picked it up, and examined the back, his heavy-lidded eyes flicking up at her and down at the frame. He saw the small tack she had left projecting, and his smile widened.

Deliberately, she shuddered. She would have gone pale were it within her power.

“Careless,” he whispered. “Not up to your usual standard, Zoe.” His voice was a hiss, anger flaring in his eyes.