if it is the work of someone else, do you agree?"
"Oh yes. Creating it is half the flavor. But of course only if it succeeds."
He looked at her, studying her. "Of course it must, but you disappoint me if you think that it must do so immediately. That would be like pouring good wine down your throat, rather than sipping it a little at a time. And my dear, you were never a barbarian to waste your pleasures."
So he had not meant to kill her! Not yet, anyway. He was going to play first, a cut here, a cut there, bleeding away courage a little at a time. It was the insult to his proud name that counted to Gregory, her monstrous temerity in daring to kill one of his blood-in fact, counting Georgios, two. It was war. She smiled up at him.
"I am Byzantine," she replied. "That means that I am both sophisticated and barbaric. Whatever I do, I do it to the ultimate degree. I am surprised you need to be reminded of that." She looked him up and down. "Is your health failing you?"
"Not at all. Nor will it. I am younger than you are."
She laughed. "You always were younger, my dear. All men are. It is something women must learn to accept. But I am glad if you have not forgotten. To forget one's pleasures would be a kind of death, a little one, inch by inch." She smiled at him, eyes bright. "My memory is perfect."
He did not answer, but she saw the muscles tighten in his jaw. Whether he admitted it or not, she still had power to arouse him. It was a great pity he had to die.
He moved a step away, distancing himself a fraction.
She allowed her smile to widen, laughter into her eyes. "Too little, or too much?" she asked softly.
Anger flared up in the stain of blood in his cheeks. He put out his hand and caught her arm, his fingers hard and tight. She could not have escaped, even had she wanted to. Physical memory of passion was suddenly so sharp that it ran hot through her body.
She looked up at him. If he did not give in to the temptation and make love to her, she would never forgive him. Then killing him would be easy, hardly even regrettable. If he did, and it had all the old passion and strength, then dear God, killing him would be the hardest thing she had ever had to do.
He kept his grip on her arm and strode out, half dragging her along until they were beyond the public rooms in some private quarters with chairs and cushions. For an instant, she was frightened. If she screamed here, not even the Varangian Guard would come. She must not let him see that she was afraid.
But he had seen; he knew it as if he could smell it in the air. He smiled slowly, then allowed himself to laugh, a deep, rich sound of pure pleasure.
She drew in her breath and let it out very slowly. The seconds seemed to be caught, suspended one by one.
Then he let go of her arm and placed his hand on her chest and pushed. She fell backward, surprised and a little ashamed, landing hard on the cushions. She stayed motionless.
"Frightened, Zoe?" he asked.
She still did not know if he was going to make love to her, or kill her, or possibly both. Any word she said might be the wrong one. What was he waiting for?
She let out her breath in a sigh, as if bored.
He tore open her tunic and kissed her, hard, over and over, as he had done in the days when they had loved. Then she knew that at least he would not be able to kill her, not tonight. There were too many old hungers to answer, too much present fire.
For both of them it was easy, as if the years had never happened. They said nothing. Afterward they kissed once, and both knew it would be the last time.
Chapter 49-50
Forty-nine
ZOE KNEW BEYOND ANY DOUBT THAT SHE WOULD HAVE only one chance to kill Gregory. If she lost it, she lost everything. He would not fail.
She was thinking of this on her way home from the baths, her servant Sabas a few feet behind her, when she was bumped unexpectedly hard by a messenger running around a group of women talking in the street. Zoe lost her balance, and