The days went by. Word spread that he was home. Her servants told her. Helena told her. He would come, he would not be able to resist it. Zoe could outwait him, she had always been able to do that, whatever it cost her. She paced the floor, lost her temper with Thomais and threw a dish at her, catching her on the cheek in a curving gash, seeing the sudden blood run scarlet on the black skin. She sent for Anastasius to stitch it up, telling him nothing.

When Gregory finally came, he still caught her by surprise. All the pictures in her mind did not match the shock of seeing him come into the room. She had been reading, with the lights high so she could see. Too late to dim them now.

He walked in slowly. His hair was winged with gray but still thick, his long face sunken below the cheekbones, eyes black as tar. But it was his voice that always reached deepest into her: the careful diction, as if he loved the roll of the words; the dark, bass resonance of it.

“It doesn’t look very different,” he said softly, his eyes gazing around before resting on her. “And you still wear the same colors. I’m glad. Some things shouldn’t change.”

She felt a flutter inside her, like a trapped bird. She thought of Arsenios dying on the floor, spewing blood, his eyes glittering with hate.

“Hello, Gregory,” she said casually. She moved a step or two toward him. “You still look Byzantine, in spite of your years in Egypt. Did you have a good voyage?”

“Tedious,” he replied with a slight smile. “But safe enough.”

“You’ll find the city changed.”

“Oh, yes. Much is rebuilt, but not all. The seawalls are largely repaired, but you have no games, no chariot races at the Hippodrome,” he observed. “And Arsenios is dead.”

“I know.” She had prepared for this moment. “I feel for your loss. But Eirene is well, and Demetrios, although I know they missed you.” That was a formality.

He shrugged. “Perhaps,” he acknowledged. “Demetrios speaks much of Helena.” A slight smile touched his lips. “I thought she would tire of Bessarion. In fact, it took longer that I had expected.”

“Bessarion is dead,” she replied.

“Really? He was young, at least young to die.”

“He was murdered,” she told him, keeping her voice perfectly level.

A razor-sharp amusement crossed his face and vanished as quickly. “Indeed? By whom?”

Zoe had not intended to meet Gregory’s eyes, but the impulse was irresistible. She saw the fire of intelligence there, and a bottomless understanding. To look away would be a defeat. “A young man called Antoninus, I believe, assisted by a friend, Justinian Lascaris. He disposed of the body.”

Gregory looked surprised. “Why? If ever a man were totally ineffectual, it was Bessarion. Surely not over Helena? Bessarion wouldn’t have given a damn if she had affairs, as long as she was discreet.”

“Of course not over Helena,” she said tartly. “Bessarion was leading the battle against union with Rome. He had gained a considerable reputation as a religious hero.”

“How interesting.” He sounded as if he meant it. “And these other men, Antoninus and Justinian, were for the union?”

“Not at all, especially Justinian,” she replied. “They were profoundly against it. That is the part of it which does not make sense.”

“This really is interesting,” he murmured. “What about Helena? Did she wish to be a hero’s wife? Or might a hero’s widow suit her better? Bessarion sounds extremely tedious.”

“He was. Someone tried to kill him before Antoninus did. Three times. Twice with poison, once with a knife in the street.”

“Not Antoninus?”

“Definitely not. He was not incompetent. Far from it. Justinian Lascaris even less so.”

“Then perhaps it was Helena after all,” he said thoughtfully. “You said ‘Lascaris’? A good name.”

She did not answer. She could feel her heart pounding and her breath tight in her chest.

Gregory smiled. His teeth were still white, still strong. “That is something you never did, Zoe.” He said it softly, as if with approval. “If you were going to kill someone, you would do it yourself. More efficient, and safer. Although even with the greatest care, the utmost secrecy, there is always a way to find out.”

“But not to prove it,” she said with barely a flutter in her breath.

He moved another step, closing the distance between them. He touched her cheek with his fingers, then kissed her, slowly, intimately, as if he had all the time in the world.

She decided to attack. If in doubt, always attack. She answered him with equal intimacy, her lips, her tongue, her body. And it was he who stepped back.

“You do not need to prove anything,” he said. “If what you want is revenge. All you need is to be sure.”

“I understand revenge,” she answered him, her voice caressing the words. “Not for myself-no one has wronged me deeply enough for that-but for my city, for its rape and the spoiling of its holy relics. I understand it, Gregory.”

“I shall never think of Byzantium without thinking of you, Zoe. But there are other loyalties, such as that of blood. One day we will all die, but Byzantium will not be the same after you do. Something will have gone, and I shall regret that!” He looked once more around the room, then quickly turned on his heel and left.

He knew she had killed Arsenios. That was what he had come to tell her. He would let her wait, wondering when he would do it and how. Gregory never rushed his pleasures, either physical or emotional. She remembered that about him. He tasted every bit, slowly.

She stood in her room holding her arms around herself. The rape of Constantinople could not be forgiven until all of it was paid for, not ever put to the back of the mind and allowed to heal.

High among those from whom she must wring the last drop was Giuliano Dandolo, the great-grandson of that monstrous old man who had led the ruinous crusade.

She walked to the window, gazed across at the rising moon spilling silver over the Horn, and began to plan the destruction of Gregory. She regretted it.

She remembered him passionately, with both pleasure and regret. Maybe she would lie with him one last time? She would mourn him, perhaps even more than Eirene would.

FOR ZOE, TOWERING OVER SUCH RELATIVELY SMALLER considerations as how to destroy Gregory was the fact that he was forewarned.

Poison was her weapon, either of the mind or of the body. She could anger, tempt, or provoke people, even mislead them into destroying themselves. Every quality that was power could become a weakness, if carried to excess. Even the gold byzant, that most exquisite of coins, had two sides.

She stared at herself in the glass. In this dim room, shaded from the sunlight, she was still beautiful. She had never been indecisive, never a coward. Would he use those things against her? Of course he would, if he could find a way.

How? By baiting her to attack him. That is what she would have done. Use her courage to tempt her to seize the chance, recklessly, and then trap her. Should she do the same? Bluff? Double bluff? Triple bluff? Abandon them all and act simply? Nothing Byzantine, nothing Egyptian-just crude as a Latin and therefore unexpected from her.

What if she just waited and watched, to see what he did? How soon would he decide to act? After all, it was Gregory who wanted revenge for Arsenios’s death; she could afford time.

Care, always the utmost care.

Even so, three days later, after a trip to the baths and eating fruit afterward, she was dreadfully ill. By the time she got home, she was nauseated and filled with stabbing pains. Already she was beginning to grow dizzy. How had he reached her? She had eaten only what she had seen others eat: harmless things, apricots and pistachios from a common dish.