For a moment, tears filled her eyes and her vision swam. Then she took one hand in the other and twisted her fingers until the pain reminded her of reality, limits, the things she could have, and those she could not. "Maybe there's more than one hell," she suggested. "Maybe one of them is to repeat the same thing over and over again until you finally realize that you are dead, in every sense that matters. You have ceased to grow."
"I'm tempted to joke that that is pure Byzantine, and probably heretical," Giuliano answered. "But I have an awful feeling that you are right."
Forty-seven
OF COURSE, HELENA HAD TOLD ZOE OF GREGORY VATATZES'S return from Alexandria. She had stood to the middle of the glorious room overlooking the sea and said it quite casually, as if it were of no more meaning than the price of some new luxury in the market: entertaining, but of no matter. How much did Helena know, or worse than that, was there something Zoe did not know?
She stared at the great gold cross. Poor Eirene. She had sought refuge in her intelligence and her anger, instead of using both to win what she wanted.
And Gregory was on his way back at last. He would arrive any day now. Zoe remembered him as vividly as if he had gone only a week ago, not more years than she wanted to count. Would his hair be gray? But he would still be as tall, towering even over her.
Perhaps it was as well they had not married. The edge of danger might have gone; they could have become bored with each other.
Arsenios had been his cousin in the elder branch of the family. He had kept the money and the gorgeous stolen icons, sharing nothing, so his sin had not tainted Gregory. In fact, Gregory had hated Arsenios for it. If he hadn't, Zoe could never have loved him.
But he was still Arsenios's cousin, and he would be concerned by his death, and of course the ruin of his daughter, and the death of his son, which Zoe had so brilliantly contrived. Would he deduce what had happened and how she had brought it about? He had always been as clever as she, or very nearly.
She shivered, although the air from the open window was still warm. Would he look for revenge? He had had no love for Arsenios, but family meant something, pride of blood.
She dressed in dark blue one day, crimson and topaz the next, used oils and unguents, perfumes, had Thomais brush her hair until it gleamed, the sheen bronze and then gold as she moved, like the warp and weft of silk.
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