to keep them pale and the knuckles from swelling. She wore topaz, set in gold. None of it was to seduce him; their relationship was beyond that now. He wanted her skill, her cunning, not her flesh.
Since the return of the empire from exile in Nicea and scattered cities to the north along the coast of the Black Sea, Michael had made his residence in the Blachernae Palace, on the other side of the city from the old Imperial Palace. The Blachernae overlooked the Golden Horn, as did her own house, and it was not more than a mile and a half away. She could walk it easily, accompanied by Sabas, her most loyal servant.
She did not hurry, it was unseemly. She had time to notice the weeds where paving stones were missing, the broken windows in a church, never replaced.
Even the Blachernae Palace itself was scarred, some of the magnificent arches of its upper windows shattered, threatening to topple over and smash on the steps below.
The Imperial Varangian Guard did not question her. They knew better than to ask who she was. No doubt they had been told to expect her. She swept past them with just a slight inclination of her head.
She remembered the old days, before the Latins came, when she was a tiny child and her father had taken her to the old Imperial Palace, high up on the headland overlooking the city and the sea. Alexios V had been emperor of Byzantium, which to her was the world. That was just before the terrible days of the invasion.
She waited in a huge room with high windows that let the light fill the space and magnify the perfect proportions. The walls were inlaid with pink marble and the floor with porphyry. The torch brackets were high, slender, and decorated in gold. Her surroundings pleased her profoundly, and she was happy to gaze at them until she was sent for.
She was conducted by a tall eunuch with a soft face, tired eyes, and an irritating manner of waving his hands. He led her through the halls and galleries into the emperor's private rooms. There were some conversations that should not be overheard by anyone. Even the ever-present Varangian Guard would stand at a distance, out of earshot. Many of them were yellow-haired, blue-eyed, from God-knew-what remote lands.
This private room was totally restored, the walls repainted with exquisite murals of pastoral scenes at harvesttime. The tall, bronze candle stands were ornate and gleaming, the few statues left undamaged.
She made the usual obeisance. She was twenty-five years older than Michael, and a woman, but he was emperor and Equal of the Apostles. He did not rise to greet her but remained seated, his knees a little apart, covered by the woven, brocaded silk of his dalmatica and the scarlet of the tunic underneath. He was a handsome man with his heavy black hair and beard, fine eyes, and slightly ruddy complexion. He had good hands. Zoe remembered the touch of them with pleasure, even now. They were surprisingly sensitive for a man who had been a brilliant soldier in his prime and still knew more of military strategy than most generals. In battle he had led his army rather than followed it. He was busy now reorganizing the army and the navy and overseeing the repair of the city walls. He was above all a practical man. What he wanted of Zoe would also be practical.
"Come forward, Zoe," he commanded. "We are alone. There is no need for pretense." His voice was soft and deep, as a man's should be.
She stepped closer to him, but slowly. She would never presume and so give him the chance to rebuff her. Let him do the asking, the requesting.
"There is a matter in which you may be of assistance," he said, watching her intently, his eyes searching her face. She was never sure how far he could read her. He was Byzantine to the core; nothing of the imagination passed him by. He was subtle, devious, and brave, but at the moment he had a heavy burden to carry and a broken and obstinate people to lead. They were blind to the realities of the new threat, because they dared not look at it clearly.
Since Bessarion's death, Zoe was beginning to see the political situation differently. There was a betrayal still being planned somewhere, and when Zoe found it out, she would punish whoever was responsible, even if it was Helena.
She wished