“I’m s-sorry,” she stammered, reaching into the folds of her tunic for the dagger in its jeweled sheath, crystals blazing in the light. She pulled it forward enough for him to see it.

He saw it and lunged forward, his fingers grasping her wrist like a vise. She did not need to pretend in order to cry out in pain. She was a tall woman, his height, but she was no match for him in strength. He wrenched the sheath from her easily, bruising the slender bones of her wrist and bending the arm back until it was twisted, bringing tears to her eyes.

He was close to her; she could smell the sweat of anger on him and see the pores of his skin.

“Just a little scratch,” he said between his teeth. “An accident with a careless tack, and I would have been dead. Why, Zoe? Because Gregory would not marry you? You fool! Eirene was a Doukas. Do you imagine he would have given that up for you? Why bother? You lay with him whenever he wanted anyway. One doesn’t marry a whore.”

She did not have to pretend anger, or pain. She let it blaze up in her eyes and tried to snatch back the dagger, but deliberately aiming to the left, as if misjudging.

He laughed, a harsh, ugly sound, and grasped the handle to yank it free. It did not come, and he pulled harder. “You tried to stab me,” he said jubilantly. “That’s what you came for, to murder me. We struggled, and tragically, in spite of all I could do, you slipped and the knife turned on you-fatally.” His lips drew back from his teeth in triumph; he pulled again on the knife hilt, his other hand on the sheath to free it, and felt the tiny needle in his flesh.

It was seconds before he knew what it was; then, as the pain flooded through him, his eyes widened and he stared at her in sudden, terrible understanding.

She stood straight now, shoulders back, head high, but far enough away from him that even if he fell forward, he could not reach her. She smiled, a slow, sweet taste of victory.

“It was nothing to do with Gregory,” she told him as he fell forward onto his knees, his face purple, his hands clutching at his stomach. “I had all I wanted from him.” That was almost true. “It was your father’s theft of the icons when the city was burning. You took our family relics, and you kept them. You betrayed Byzantium, and for that you must pay with your life.” She stepped backward as he crawled a few inches toward her. His throat was closing and his eyes bulged in his head. Saliva dribbled from his mouth and there was a terrible hacking, rasping sound in his chest, then he vomited blood in a scarlet tide. He screamed and almost instantly choked as more blood spewed out. His eyes rolled in terror, and he gagged and choked, swallowing, drowning.

She watched a few moments longer until his face turned purple and he lay still. She walked around him and picked up her icon and the knife, rewrapping both carefully in the silk. She walked to the door and opened it silently. There was no one in the hall or the room beyond. She moved soundlessly over the marble and out the great carved front door. Sabas was watching for her and appeared out of the shade. Servants would find Arsenios and suppose he had died of a hemorrhage; perhaps too much wine had ulcerated his stomach.

That night, she celebrated with the best wine in her cellar. But she awoke sometime in the dark, shivering and nauseated, her body running with sweat. She had been dreaming, seeing Arsenios’s body on the floor again, vomiting rivers of blood, and the icons on the wall above him, their calm-eyed faces watching his horror. She lay rigid in the bed. What if his servants knew it was poison? Was anyone clever enough to find traces of it? Surely not. She had been careful. He had died dreadfully-quickly, but in agony and horror.

When daylight came, it was not so bad. She could see the realities of her house, her servants moving around. Sabas came in, and at first she dared not meet his eyes, then she could not look away from him. What did he know? To explain herself to a servant would embarrass them both-and yet she wanted to. Desperately she wanted not to be alone.

That night, the dreams were worse. Arsenios took longer to die. There was more blood. She saw his bulging eyes always looking at her, staring, stripping her clothes off literally until she stood in front of him naked, vulnerable, her breasts hanging, her stomach bulging, repulsive. He crawled on the floor after her, refusing to be paralyzed, refusing to choke, to die. He grasped her ankle with his claw of a hand, pain shooting through her again as it had when he had taken her wrist.

He had been going to kill her! He had said so. She had had no choice. She was justified. It was self-defense, to which everyone is entitled. There was no justice in this!

She woke with her body covered in sweat, her clothes sticking to her, ice-cold the minute she threw off the cover and slid out. She knelt on the marble floor, shuddering, her hands folded in prayer, knuckles shining white in the candlelight.

“Blessed Virgin, Holy Mother of God,” she whispered hoarsely. “If I have sinned, forgive me. I did it only to prevent him from keeping the icons which belong to the people. Forgive me, please wash me of my sins.”

She crept back to bed, still shaking with cold, but she dared not sleep.

The following night she did the same, but spending longer on her knees, recounting to the Blessed Virgin the icons Arsenios had taken and his impiety in keeping them all these years-and that was apart from the less precious, less beautiful ones he had sold, anyone could guess as to whom-the buyer with the most money. As if that mattered!

On the fourth day, she heard the news she had prayed for. Arsenios Vatatzes had been buried. They said he had died of a hemorrhage to the stomach shortly after Zoe had visited him. His servants had found him. She listened carefully, but there was no whisper of blame. She had got away with it!

The conclusion was obvious. Heaven was with her; she was an instrument in the hands of God. The rest was just bad dreams, nothing more. They should be forgotten, like any other nonsense.

Tomorrow she would go out and offer her thanks, with gifts, to the Virgin Mary in the Hagia Sophia, knowing that she had divine approval. Candles were not enough, but she would offer them anyway, hundreds of them, enough to light the whole dome, and also perhaps one of her lesser icons.

GIULIANO DANDOLO ENJOYED BEING BACK IN CONSTANTINOPLE. The vitality of the city excited him; the tolerance and width of vision was like the wind off a great ocean. It called to him more and more powerfully each time he saw it.

Now he was here at Contarini’s orders to observe for himself, rather than by rumor, whether Byzantium was finally keeping the rules of the union with Rome or, as before, paying them lip service while going its own way.

What he had seen so far should have pleased him for the prospects of a new crusade passing this way and storming the city and the profit that that would mean for Venice. But Giuliano could not rejoice in it. He learned of the strength of the resistance with a sense of foreboding. Not only had the leaders of opposition to the union been blinded, mutilated, or banished; many had fled to separatist Byzantine states. The prisons were crowded, and most embarrassing to Michael, many of his immediate relatives were actively engaged in plotting against him. It seemed he was attacked at the front and beset on all sides.

The Blachernae Palace was beautiful, even if it was poor compared with the glories of Venice. There were still the marks of fire and pillage all through it, and it had none of the sheer grace of pale marble and the endless reflections of light that he was used to.