Constantine smiled. “Go in peace, my brethren. Never lose faith. To the true heart there is no such thing as defeat, only a time of waiting, an exercise of trust, and a keeping of God’s Commandments, until the dawn.”

Again the cry came, his name, blessings, then again his name, over and over. Anna looked at him and saw the humble bearing of his head, the gesture of declining the praise. But she also saw his body shiver, his fist half-hidden in his robes tighten into a clench, and the sheen of sweat on his skin. When he turned toward her, modestly withdrawing from the adulation, his eyes were shining and his cheeks were flushed. She had seen the same look on Eustathius’s face the first time he had made love to her, back in the beginning, when the hunger and the anticipation had burned through both of them, before the bitterness.

Suddenly she was revolted and ashamed, wishing she had not seen it, but it was too late. The look in Constantine’s face was printed on her mind.

He did not notice. He was reveling in being adored.

She stood in the shadow and was hot with guilt because she was aware of the ugliness in him, the doubt and then the lust, and she had not the honesty to tell him.

Constantine had given her a link to the vast body of the Church again, a purpose to strive for beyond the daily healing of the sick. To separate from him irrevocably-and it would be irrevocable-would mean standing alone.

Which was the greater betrayal, to face him with the truth or not to face him? She turned and walked away, ahead of him, so she could not see his eyes nor he see hers.

ANNA STOOD IN EIRENE VATATZES’S ELEGANT, QUIET bedroom and looked down at the woman lying on the bed. Her clothes were rumpled and marked with blood, and around her neck there were stains of an ointment. In two places was also the yellow mucus of suppuration. There was an open ulcer on her cheek and another just under her jawline on the opposite side. Her hands were covered in red weals, some already swollen where the pus was gathering into a head.

Anna knew from her son, Demetrios, that his father, Gregory, was due to return shortly from Alexandria, this time to remain indefinitely. Eirene was in physical pain, but her distress was greater.

“Is the rest of your body affected as well?” Anna asked gently.

Eirene glared at her. “That doesn’t matter.” She made a sharp gesture with her hands. “Cure my face. Do whatever you have to. The cost is unimportant.” She drew in a long breath. “So is the pain.” Her voice was brittle; Anna could hear the edges of the words like shards of glass grating together.

Anna’s mind raced over every possibility she could think of, every treatment, however radical-Christian, Jewish, or Arabic. Were any of them of use if the source of the illness was the fear in Eirene’s mind?

Anna’s imagination flew to the wounds she guessed at: the rejection of clever, ugly, vulnerable Eirene for the sensuous Zoe, who would laugh and enjoy, then leave, taking whatever she wanted and needing nothing. Was Gregory a man bored by what he could have and fascinated by what he could not? How shallow. How cruel. And yet how desperately understandable.

What was the point in healing the skin from outside, only to have it erupt again a day later?

“Don’t stand there like a fool!” Eirene snapped, twisting a little to look at her. “If you don’t know what to do, say so. I’ll call someone else. If you’re in poverty, for God’s sake take some money, but don’t stare at me as if you expected me to heal myself. What are you going to tell me? That I should pray? Do you think I haven’t prayed all my life, you stupid…” Suddenly she turned her face away, tears wet on her blemished cheeks.

“I am considering what remedies there are, and which would be best,” Anna said gently. Some form of intoxication would relieve the self-consciousness that prevented Eirene from allowing her passion or her anger to show and that had perhaps masked the laughter that could have made her less easy to read. It might even allow the sensuality that could have made her entertaining and just beyond Gregory’s total reach. It would be a short-term answer, but what use was a long-term cure if she perished of misery now?

“I will give you an ointment to take away the heat,” she said aloud.

“I don’t care what it feels like, you fool!” Eirene shouted at her. “Can you see nothing, you-”

“And the redness,” Anna finished calmly. Eirene needed her to understand, yet if she did, that would be intolerable also, another humiliation. “And an infusion to heal it from within, so it does not recur,” she added. “For the suppuration you will just have to wait. I will wash them with a tincture I have prepared, and put on light bandages to keep them from rubbing.”

Eirene looked taken aback, but she would not apologize. Physicians were like good servants; hardly equals. “Thank you,” she said awkwardly.

Anna fetched clean water from one of the servants and dropped in a small measure of liquid from a little vial. The sharp aroma filled the air, but it was pleasant, invigorating. She began to wash each individual sore, working gently and slowly. She intended to be here as long as possible.

Since the last time she had been here, Demetrios’s words had raced in her brain. It still seemed absurd, and she remembered his contempt with a heat of embarrassment. He had said the idea of usurping Michael was ridiculous. She knew that to succeed, one would have to overcome the Varangian Guard. Demetrios knew them, even had friends among them. It would not be possible. One would need to have the army with you. Antoninus was a soldier, he would know that. And the navy, and the merchants, which Justinian would know. His ever increasing business had been in such things.

One would need sound economic advice and access to the Treasury. Since then, Anna had learned that the lord of the Treasury was Eirene’s cousin Theodorus Doukas, and they were close. Some people had suggested that at least part of his brilliance was actually Eirene’s, her foresight, her genius with figures.

And what could the easy, charming Esaias Glabas do in such a plan? Was he cleverer than anyone supposed? And Helena? Was she a part of this plot or merely Bessarion’s wife?

“They are not as deep as I had feared,” Anna said, dabbing gently at one of the scars, cleaning away the suppuration. “I think it may heal over without leaving a mark. Last time I was here I spoke a little with Demetrios. He was most interesting.”

“Really…,” Eirene said with skepticism.

“I think so.” Anna positioned the bandage, easing it smooth, and bound it lightly. “I’m told he has friends among the Varangian Guard.” She bent to her work again.

“Yes,” Eirene agreed, wincing as one of the worst sores was washed. “I think they are grateful that a man of Demetrios’s rank should befriend them. Some noble families treat them less courteously. Not rudely so much as with indifference.” She smiled bleakly. “Like a good servant.”

“You mean Bessarion? Or Justinian Lascaris?”

“Justinian less so. Of course to Bessarion they were heathens, for the most part. Certainly those from the far north.” She bit her lip, forcing herself not to pull away from the pain.

Anna affected not to notice. “Someone told me Esaias Glabas was talented. Is that true?”

“Good heavens, no!” Eirene said with contempt. “He could tell a story well, and he knew endless jokes, most of them unrepeatable in front of women. He could flatter, and keep his temper even when provoked.”

Anna smiled. “You didn’t like him.” It was more an observation than a question.

“He is not dead,” Eirene snapped. “At least not as far as I know. I think Demetrios would have mentioned it.”