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least,” she suggested. “Drink as much spring water as you are able to take. It’s all right to flavor it with juice or wine if you prefer.” She saw the disappointment in his face. “And I will give you a tincture for the pain. Where do you live?”
    His eyes opened in surprise.
    “You can come back every day. The dose must be exact. Too little will do no good, and too much will kill you. I have only a small amount in supply, but I will find more.”
    He smiled. “Can you cure me?”
    “It is a stone in your bladder,” she told him. “If it passes it will hurt, but then it will be over.”
    “Thank you for your honesty,” he said quietly. “I will take the tincture and come back every day.”
    She gave him a tiny portion of her precious Theban opium. Sometimes she mixed it with other herbs such as henbane, hellebore, aconite, mandragora, or even lettuce seed, but she did not wish him to fall into unconsciousness, so she kept it pure.
    Basil returned regularly, and if she had no other patients, he often remained for a little while and they talked. He was an intelligent man of obvious education, and she found him interesting and likable. But beyond that, Anna hoped to learn something from him.
    She broached the subject at the beginning of the second week of his treatment.
    “Oh yes, I knew Bessarion Comnenos,” he said with a slight shrug. “He cared very much about this proposed union with the Church of Rome. Like everyone else, he hated the thought of the pope taking precedence over the patriarch here in Constantinople. Apart from the insult and our loss of self-governance, it is so impractical. Any appeal for permission, advice, or relief would take six weeks to get to the Vatican, however long it required for the matter to reach the pope’s attention, and then another six weeks to get back. By that time it could be too late.”
    “Of course,” she agreed. “And there is the question of money. We can ill afford to send our tithes and offerings to Rome.”
    He groaned so sharply that for a moment she was afraid his pain was physical.
    He smiled with apology. “We are in our own city again, but we balance on the brink of economic ruin. We need to rebuild, but we cannot afford to. Half our trade has gone to the Arabs, and now that Venice has robbed us blind of our holy relics, the pilgrims scarcely bother with us anymore.”
    They sat in the kitchen. She had made an herbal infusion of mint and camomile, and they were sipping it because it was still hot.
    “Added to which,” he went on, “there is the major issue of the filioque clause, which is the real sticking point. Rome teaches that the Holy Spirit proceeds from both the Father and the Son, making them both equally God. We believe passionately that there is only one God, the Father, and to say otherwise is blasphemy. We cannot condone that!”
    “And Bessarion was against it?” she asked, although it was barely a question. Why would anyone think Justinian had killed him? It made no sense. He had always been Orthodox.
    “Profoundly,” Basil agreed. “Bessarion was a great man. He loved the city and its life. He knew that union with Rome would pollute the true faith and eventually destroy everything we care about.”
    “What was he going to do about it?” she said tentatively. “If he had lived…”
    Basil shrugged slightly. “I’m not sure that I know. He spoke well, but he did little enough. It was always ‘tomorrow.’ And as you know, tomorrow did not come for him.”
    “I heard he was murdered.” She found it difficult to say the words.
    Basil looked down at the table and his bony hands holding the cup of mint infusion. “Yes. By Antoninus Kyriakis. He was executed for it.”
    “And Justinian Lascaris, too?” she prompted. “Was there a trial?”
    He looked up. “Of course. Justinian was sent into exile. The emperor himself presided. It appears Justinian helped Antoninus dispose of the body so it might look like an accident.