It was almost immaterial what it said. It was Zoe’s writing. The slant of the letters was different from her usual-bolder, more masculine-but Anna recognized the characteristic capitals. She had seen Zoe’s script often enough on letters and instructions, lists of ingredients.

“Zoe Chrysaphes,” she said softly, her voice rasped with fury. “You fool!” She was shaking in spite of the effort to control herself. “She’s Byzantine to the soul, and you are not only a Venetian, you’re a Dandolo! You let her give you a dagger anyone would recognize? Where were your wits?”

He stood frozen to the spot.

She closed her eyes. “Please God, no one will ask you, but if they do, stick to the truth that you were out. Someone may have seen you. I shan’t tell you where it happened because you shouldn’t know. Don’t mention the dagger. I think I’m the only one who really saw it. Just clean the damn thing!” Without giving him more than a glance, Anna opened the door and went out into the corridor and then the street again. Quickly, stumbling and shivering, she hurried to the nearest watch point of the civil authority of the city. Thank heaven it was in the Venetian Quarter still, and the watchmen had no willingness to consider it anything more than the accident it appeared to be.

“And what were you doing there?” the watchman asked her.

“I have several patients in the quarter,” she replied.

“At that hour of night?”

“No, sir. I was just a physician they had consulted. They knew that I would come.”

“The man was dead, you say. What could you do for him?” The man frowned at her.

“Nothing, I’m afraid. But they were very distressed, especially the women. They needed help… treatment.”

“I see. Thank you.”

She stayed only a little longer, leaving her name and address for them to find her again if necessary. Then, still shaking with horror and fear, still wretched with nausea, the sweat cold on her skin, she began the long walk back up the hill homeward.

ZOE WAS TOO EXCITED TO SLEEP WHEN SHE RETURNED TO her house. She took off her old woman’s rags and burned them in the hearth. No one must see them, especially soaked with blood as they were. Fortunately, she had little of it on herself. As if she had merely found herself having a restless night, she sent for Thomais and told her to heat water for her to bathe and to fetch towels. Carefully she chose her most precious, luxurious oils and perfumes and unguents for her skin.

When the water was ready, steam rising, moist on the skin and sweet to the smell, she stepped in slowly, savoring the sensation. The heat, the gentle touch of it, eased out all the tight-knotted aches and fears.

She remembered, with a pleasure made sharper by grief, how Gregory had wanted her, tasted her slowly. It was right that she had killed him physically, violently, face-to-face. That was how they had loved, and hated. Poison was right for men like Arsenios, not for Gregory.

She stood up when the water was cooling and noticed with amusement that Thomais still looked at her with admiration in her eyes.

She dressed in fresh clothes and ordered fruit and a glass of wine. Alone in the silence of the end of night, she stood in front of the window and watched the dawn pale in the east. Today she would go to the Hagia Sophia and offer up her thanks to the Virgin Mary. She would give hundreds of candles, make the whole place a glory of light. Gregory Vatatzes and Giuliano Dandolo destroyed in one superb act. And she was safe.

The dawn broadened. Thomais returned to say that the physician Anastasius had called, requesting to see her immediately.

What on earth could he want at this hour? But since Zoe was up and dressed anyway, it was not an inconvenience.

“Send him in,” she ordered. “And bring more fruit, and another glass.”

A moment later Anastasius came in, his face ashen except for two high spots of color on his cheeks. His hair was barely combed, and he looked both exhausted and furious.

“Good morning, Anastasius,” Zoe said. “May I offer you wine, a little fruit?”

“Gregory Vatatzes is dead,” Anastasius said in a hard, thin voice.

“I did not know he was ill,” Zoe replied with perfect calm. “From your apparent distress, I assume you attended him?”

“There was nothing to attend,” Anastasius replied bitterly. “He was lying in a street in the Venetian Quarter, his throat torn open with the dagger you gave to Giuliano Dandolo.”

“Murdered?” Zoe turned the word over on her tongue, as if uncertain of it. “He must have had more enemies than he realized. Dandolo, you said? Really. I believe Gregory spent some time in Venice, before going to Alexandria. Perhaps it was a family feud?”

“I am sure it was,” Anastasius agreed. “Dandolo is a dangerous name to carry in Constantinople. With the history it has, I would be surprised if you gave him such a gift.” He smiled with scalding irony, his eyes brilliant, the intelligence in them hard and probing. “With the hilt toward him, that is.”

A flash of humor lit Zoe’s smile for an instant. “You think I should have presented it blade first?”

“I think you did,” Anastasius retorted. “Only he did not realize it.”

Zoe shrugged. “Then it looks as if he too is a victim of this murder. I’m sorry he is your friend. I would not intentionally have had it so.”

“He is not a victim,” Anastasius said. “The authorities have concluded that Gregory’s death was a tragic accident. He was apparently struck by a horse and cart, in the darkness, of course, and the unfamiliar streets.”

“And it tore his throat out?” Zoe said incredulously. “Was it the horse which did that, or the cart?”

Anastasius’s face was unreadable. “It looks as if he was in the middle of the street and was knocked down. The wheels of the cart went over Gregory’s throat. At least that is what it looked like to me.”

“And the Dandolo dagger?” Zoe asked sarcastically. “Was the horse carrying that as well? Or the driver, perhaps?”

“That would have been someone else, who left the scene,” Anastasius said. “But since the dagger has disappeared, it doesn’t really matter. No one else saw it, and I daresay Giuliano has it back by now, and will take better care of it in future.”

Zoe had to control her eyes, her mouth, even the pallor in her face. Anastasius must see nothing.

She stood staring at him, his blazing eyes, the face so strong yet so un-masculine with its soft mouth, passionate and vulnerable. He could not be related to Dandolo. There was no resemblance. Dandolo’s mother’s family, perhaps? There was no one of his generation except Giuliano himself. Eudoxia had become a nun. Maddalena was dead.

Love? A physically immature eunuch, with a man like Dandolo?

Then like lightning, a wild idea cut across the darkness, dazzling Zoe with its obviousness, and she began to laugh. Perfectly clear now-and yet impossible. But she believed it: Anastasius was not a eunuch at all-he was as much a woman as Zoe herself! Her love for Dandolo was just the same love Zoe would have had for him, had she been the right age and he not a Venetian. Or maybe even if he had been, just not a Dandolo.

Anastasius, or whatever her name was, stood frozen to the floor, staring.

Zoe went on laughing. This person who had been so sad and confusing as half a man was infinitely understandable as a woman.

Finally, Zoe regained control of herself and walked over to the wine and the glasses. She poured a glass to the brim and held it out, offering it.

“No, thank you,” Anastasius said coldly.

Zoe shrugged and drank the glass half-empty herself, then filled the other glass. She offered the first glass again.

This time Anastasius took it, drank it to the lees, then put it down and turned on her heel and walked out.