Read Online The Sheen on the Silk by Anne Perry - Free Book Online

different as they were viewed, because they needed to be to survive; and that they were human, full of hungers, fears, and dreams like everyone else, and had the same ability to be hurt.
    She bought a length of the silk sufficient to make a dalmatica for herself and accepted the shop owner’s offer to have it cut and stitched and delivered to her home. She thanked him and left, smiling even in the heat of the road outside and the dust of too many rainless days.
    Then she went south toward Mese Street and looked at the shops there. She bought new linen tunics for both Leo and Simonis and a new outdoor cloak for each of them, requesting that they be delivered.
    She had attended the nearest church every Sunday except when a patient required her urgent presence, but now she felt like taking a water taxi the considerable distance to the great cathedral of the Hagia Sophia. It stood out on the promontory, at the farthest end of Mese Street, between the Acropolis and the Hippodrome.
    It was a calm evening, the air still close and warm, even on the water. As the sun sank lower in the west, color spilled across the Golden Horn, making it look like a sheet of silk. It was its brilliant reflection at sunrise that had given it its name.
    The water taxi put ashore at dusk, and she climbed the steep streets up from the harbor as the lamps and torches were lit.
    She approached the Hagia Sophia, now black against the fading sky, with a sense of awe and excitement. For a thousand years it had stood on this spot, the largest church in Christendom. It had been completely destroyed by fire in 532. The great dome had collapsed in 558, brought down by an earthquake, and been replaced almost immediately by the dome that now soared huge and dark against the sky.
    Of course she had seen it many times from the outside. The building itself was over 250 feet in either direction. The stucco was of a reddish color, and in the rising or setting sun it glowed with such warmth that mariners approaching the city could see it from afar.
    She went in through the bronze doors and then stopped in amazement. The vast interior was bathed in light from countless candles. It was like being in the heart of a jewel. The porphyry marble columns were deep red. Her father had told her they were originally from the Egyptian temple in Heliopolis, ancient, beautiful, and priceless. The polychrome marble in the walls was cool green and white, from Greece or Italy. The white of it was inlaid with ivory and pearls, and there were gold icons from the ancient temples of Ephesus. It far surpassed every description she had heard.
    The impression of light was everywhere, as if the whole structure floated in the air, needing no physical support. The arches were inlaid with mosaics of staggering beauty, somber blues, grays, and browns against backgrounds of countless tiny squares of gold: pictures of saints and angels, Mary with the child Christ, prophets and martyrs from all the ages. Her eyes were dragged away from them only by the beginning of the Mass and the voices rising in unison and then in harmony.
    Moved by the sacred solemnity of it, uplifted by a surge of her own faith and an ache to belong, she went toward the steps to the upper level. Head bent, she was carried forward by the others around her. This was the familiar ritual and the creed that had nourished her all her life. She had walked up to the women’s section of her own church in Nicea as a little girl with her mother, while Justinian and her father went with the men to the main body of the hall.
    She reached the top and stood with the others staring down into the heart of the church as, in profound reverence, the priests performed the blessing and the taking of the sacrament of Christ’s body and blood, given to redeem mankind. The ritual was Byzantine to the heart, solemn and subtle, ancient as the trust between man and God.
    The sermon was about the faith of Gideon leading the armies of the children of Israel