First, however, John had to get his own family to safety. The empress would not stop at murder. But then, smiled John, neither would he.

His older son, fifteen-year-old John, would remain with him. Matthew, at six, could be placed in sanctuary at the monastery attached to the Church of St. Andrew, near the Gate of Pege. His second wife, Zoe, his daughters, and his niece would all go to convents. John could trust the devout Anna not to violate religious sanctuary.

His first wife, Marie of Bursa, had died when their eldest daughter, Sophia, was barely three, and little John was five. He had mourned her for a year and then married a Greek princess, Zoe of Macedonia. Ten months later, Helena, now eight, had been born-followed eighteen months after by his younger son, and two years later by his youngest daughter, Theadora, now four-and-a-half. There had been twin sons, dead a year later in an epidemic. Zoe was again with child.

Entering the Mangana Palace, he hurried to his apartments and was met by his manservant, Leo.

“He is dead, my lord?”

“Yes,” John answered. “A few minutes ago. Take Matthew to St Andrew’s-immediately. I will wake my lady and the girls.” He hurried to the women’s wing of the apartment, startling the eunuch guards who dozed by the doors.

“Say goodbye to Matthew, my love,” he told Zoe. “Leo is taking him to St. Andrew’s now.”

This was not the time for prolonged discussion. Moving on to the bedchamber shared by Sophia and Eudoxia, he shook them awake. “Get dressed. The emperor is dead. You go to St. Mary’s in Blanchernae for safety.”

Sophia stretched languidly, her nightshift slipping to reveal a plump golden breast. She shook her jet black hair back, and her red mouth pouted. She reminded him more of her mother each day. If he couldn’t marry her off right now, then a convent was the best place for her.