Who had made Helena laugh so freely and given her the exquisite perfume bottle? Constantine wished he knew.

ANNA WENT OUT OF HER WAY TO SPEAK TO NEIGHBORS, prepared to waste time in conversation about the weather, politics, religion, anything they wanted to discuss.

“Can’t stand here any longer,” one man said finally. It was Paulus, a local shopkeeper. “My feet are so sore I can hardly get them in my shoes.”

“Perhaps I can help?” Anna offered.

“Just let me sit down,” he said, grimacing.

“I’m a physician. Perhaps I can offer a more permanent solution.”

With his face reflecting disbelief, Paulus followed her, walking gingerly along the uneven stones until they covered the fifty yards to her house. Once inside, she examined his swollen feet and ankles. The flesh was red and obviously painful to the touch.

She filled a bowl full of cold water and put an astringent herb in it. Paulus winced as he put in his feet, then she saw his muscles slowly relax and the sense of ease come into his face. It was more the chill than anything else taking the burning out of his skin. What he really needed was to change his diet, but she knew she must be diplomatic about telling him so. She suggested he might care for rice, boiled with seasoning, and should abstain from all fruit, except apples, if he could find some that had been stored and were fit to eat at this time of year.

“And plenty of spring water,” she added. “It must be spring, not lake, river, well water, or rain.”

“Water?” he said with disbelief.

“Yes. The right water is very good for you. Come back any time you wish to, and I will bathe your feet in herbs again. Would you like some herbs to take with you?”

Paulus accepted them gratefully and paid from the purse he carried with him. She watched him hobble away and knew he would return.

Paulus recommended her to others. She continued to visit the shops within a mile or so of her house, always speaking to the shopkeeper and to other customers as the opportunity arose.

She did not know how far to indulge her own tastes. As a woman, she had loved the feel of silk next to her skin, the soft way it slid through her fingers and pooled on the floor as if it were liquid. Now she held up a length, letting it slither through her hands, watching the colors change as first the warp caught the light, then the weft. Blue turned to peacock and to green; red turned to magenta and purple. Her favorite was a peach burning into flame. In the past, she had worn silks to complement the tawny chestnut of her hair. Perhaps she could still wear them. Vanity was not specifically feminine, nor was the love of beauty.

The next time she had a new patient and earned more than two solidi, she would come back and buy this one.

She stepped out into the brisk wind blowing up from the shore. Walking along the narrow street, she moved aside for a cart to pass. The cool touch of silk had brought back the past with a rush.

She measured her steps carefully on the incline. The street was one of the many still unmended after the return from exile. There were broken walls and windowless houses still dark from the fires. The desolation made her own loneliness overwhelming.

She knew why Justinian had come to Constantinople and had been helpless to stop him. But what passions and entanglements had he become involved in that led him to being blamed for murder? That was what she needed to know. Could it have been love? Unlike her, he had been happy in his marriage.

A small part of Anna had envied him that, but now she had to swallow the hard, choking grief that all but closed her throat. She would give anything she possessed if she could get that happy life back for him. All she had had was medical skill, and it had not been enough to save Justinian’s wife, Catalina. The fever had struck, and two weeks later she was dead.

Anna mourned because she had loved Catalina, too, but for Justinian it was as if his wife had taken the light from him with her when she departed. Anna had watched him and ached for his pain, but all the old closeness of heart and mind they shared was insufficient to touch his loss with healing.

She had seen him change, as if he were slowly bleeding to death. He looked for reasons and answers in the intellect. As if he dared not touch the heart, he combed the doctrine of the Church, and God eluded him.

Then two years ago, on the anniversary of Catalina’s death, he had announced that he was going to Constantinople. Unable to reach his pain, Anna had stood by and let him leave.

He had written frequently, telling her of everything but himself. Then had come the last terrible letter, scrawled in haste as he was leaving in exile, and after that, only silence.

It was the beginning of June, and she had been in the city two and a half months when Basil first came to her as a patient. He was tall and lean, with an ascetic face, now pinched with anxiety as he stood in her waiting room.

He introduced himself quietly and said that he had come on Paulus’s recommendation.

She invited him into the consulting room and inquired after his health, watching him carefully. His body was curiously stiff when he spoke, and she concluded that his pain was more severe than he was admitting.

She invited him to sit and he declined, preferring to remain standing. She concluded that his pain was in the lower stomach and groin, where such a change in position would increase it. After asking his permission, she touched his skin, which was hot and very dry, then tested his pulse. It was regular but not strong.

“I recommend that you abstain from milk and cheese for several weeks, at least,” she suggested. “Drink as much spring water as you are able to take. It’s all right to flavor it with juice or wine if you prefer.” She saw the disappointment in his face. “And I will give you a tincture for the pain. Where do you live?”

His eyes opened in surprise.

“You can come back every day. The dose must be exact. Too little will do no good, and too much will kill you. I have only a small amount in supply, but I will find more.”

He smiled. “Can you cure me?”

“It is a stone in your bladder,” she told him. “If it passes it will hurt, but then it will be over.”

“Thank you for your honesty,” he said quietly. “I will take the tincture and come back every day.”

She gave him a tiny portion of her precious Theban opium. Sometimes she mixed it with other herbs such as henbane, hellebore, aconite, mandragora, or even lettuce seed, but she did not wish him to fall into unconsciousness, so she kept it pure.

Basil returned regularly, and if she had no other patients, he often remained for a little while and they talked. He was an intelligent man of obvious education, and she found him interesting and likable. But beyond that, Anna hoped to learn something from him.

She broached the subject at the beginning of the second week of his treatment.

“Oh yes, I knew Bessarion Comnenos,” he said with a slight shrug. “He cared very much about this proposed union with the Church of Rome. Like everyone else, he hated the thought of the pope taking precedence over the patriarch here in Constantinople. Apart from the insult and our loss of self-governance, it is so impractical. Any appeal for permission, advice, or relief would take six weeks to get to the Vatican, however long it required for the matter to reach the pope’s attention, and then another six weeks to get back. By that time it could be too late.”

“Of course,” she agreed. “And there is the question of money. We can ill afford to send our tithes and offerings to Rome.”

He groaned so sharply that for a moment she was afraid his pain was physical.