The Sheen of the Silk

“It is better she doesn’t,” Eirene repeated wearily. “She would become impossible to manage.”

“Why should I believe all this?”

“Because it is true,” Eirene replied. “I bequeathed some of the letters to Helena. My cousin will give them to her in time But the rest are there in my safe box. The key is under my pillow. Give them to Demetrios.” She smiled slightly. “Once Helena knows, then she’ll have the power. That’s why Zoe has never told her.” She took a long, shuddering breath. “But now I don’t care. It’ll be hell for Zoe… every day.” A faint smile parted her lips, as if to taste something sweet.

She closed her eyes, and gradually all expression emptied out of her face. She slept for perhaps half an hour.

There was a noise in the corridor outside, and the door swung open. Demetrios came in, dalmatica swirling, wet from the rain, his eyes dark and angry.

“Mother?” he said quietly. “Mother?”

Eirene opened her eyes, taking several moments to focus. “Demetrios?”

“I’m here.”

“Good. Get Anastasius to give you… the letters. Don’t lose them! Don’t throw…” She took a long, deep breath and let it out with a sigh, a little gasp in her throat. Then silence.

Demetrios waited for several more minutes and then stood up. “She’s gone. What letters was she talking about? Where are they?”

A

“Thank you,” he said, taking them from her hand. “You can go. I would rather be alone with her.”

There was nothing for A

Seventy-six

ZOE HEARD OF EIRENE’S DEATH WITHOUT SURPRISE; SHE had been ill for some time. It was not exactly grief Zoe felt, for they had been both friends and enemies. What troubled her was that they had also been co-conspirators against Michael, when Zoe had believed that Bessarion could have usurped the throne and led a resistance against the union with Rome and that such a thing would have saved both Constantinople and the Church.

Now she knew that that could never have succeeded. Justinian had realized it and done what Zoe should have done herself. His action had had the advantage that it was he who had paid the price for it, not she.

The thought that gnawed at the back of her mind as she paced the floor in her marvelous room was that Anastasius, inquisitive and unpredictable, was the one who had treated Eirene in her last days. Sometimes when people are ill, frightened, and realizing that death ca

And then there was Helena. She had changed since Eirene’s death. She had always been arrogant, but there was a self-confidence in her now that was disturbing, as if nothing frightened her anymore.

Did she think that now Eirene was dead, Demetrios would marry her? That made no sense. He would have to observe a decent period of mourning.

But as Zoe thought back on Helena’s mood, her behavior, there was certainly no new warmth toward Demetrios; if anything, rather the opposite. She seemed consumed in herself. It was something far more powerful than security or status; something, perhaps, like a glimpse of the throne!

Could there be another attempt at usurpation, one that this time might succeed? The situation was vastly changed, and this time Zoe would have no part in it. But could she betray it to Michael? She could not. Her part in the last plot had been too close. If Helena attempted and failed, Zoe would be ruined.

Michael was their only hope. His overthrow would bring chaos to the empire, and to her personally, a whole new balance of relationships. Worst of all, Helena would exercise her long-hoped-for revenge.

In the end, survival was all. Byzantium must not be raped again. Whatever was paid to prevent that, it was not too much.

Seventy-seven

THE MAN WHO BROUGHT THE MESSAGE FROM THE POPE WAS obviously tired and profoundly unhappy. Courtesy required that Palombara offer him refreshment, but as soon as the servant had gone to prepare it, he pleaded to know the news.

“God knows we tried to create a union, but we have failed,” the man said miserably. “The king of the Two Sicilies is gathering more ships and more allies with every passing week, and we can no longer pretend that the Orthodox Church is one with us in spirit and intent. It is only too obvious that their acceptance of our hand of friendship is a farce, a convenience to protect their physical safety, no more.”

Palombara’s mind was heavy with the terrible inevitability of it. Yet he had hoped that somehow the passion for survival would overcome.

“If you wish to return to Rome, my lord, the Holy Father gives you leave to do so.” The messenger’s voice dropped. “The Holy Father has recognized that he no longer has any control over the actions of the king. There will be another crusade, perhaps as soon as 1281, and it will be an army such as we have not seen before.” He met Palombara’s eyes. “But if you wish to remain in Constantinople, at least for the time being, there may be some Christian work to do here.” He made the sign of the cross, naturally in the Roman way.

After the man had gone, Palombara remained alone in the great room, watching the afternoon sun sink over the ferries and water taxies and the distant business of the harbor. Rome saw Constantinople’s tolerance of ideas as a moral laxity, its patience with even the most ridiculous or abstruse idea, rather than suppression of it, to be a weakness. They did not see that blind obedience eventually ended in the suffocation of thought.

Palombara did not want to return to Rome and work at some timeserving job shuffling papers, delivering messages, playing at the politics of office. He faced the window, and the light came in on his face. He closed his eyes and felt its warmth on his eyelids.

The darkness was closing in, but he was not yet ready to give up. If Charles of Anjou landed here, Palombara might save something from the wreckage. Definitely he could not simply walk away.

He found the words quite clear in his mind. “Please, dear Lord, do not let all this be destroyed. Please do not let us do that to them-or to ourselves.”

He stood silent for a moment.

“Amen,” he added.

Seventy-eight

GIULIANO DANDOLO RETURNED TO VENICE WITH A SHIP filled with gold from all over Europe. In England, Spain, France, and the Holy Roman Empire, men were preparing for a great crusade. Some of the ships were built already. The shipyards worked night and day. Charles of Anjou had paid his share of the contract; he would receive what he had ordered.

Nevertheless, Giuliano was not happy as he stood on the balcony and stared at the splendor of the dying sun over the Adriatic.

The doge had told him that Venice had abrogated the treaty it had made with Byzantium. It had lasted just two years. Giuliano had had nothing to do with it, neither its creation nor its destruction, yet he felt racked with shame for the betrayal of it.

He stared at the light on the water, watching it change. The translucency of it, the moving shadows, were so subtle that one nameless tone vanished into another. It was like the Bosphorus.

What would happen to Constantinople when the crusaders landed?

The whole issue of fighting over faith was absurd. How far from the teachings of Christ were all these quarrels as to who had power or rights over what. He remembered the conversations he had had with Anastasius at sea and in that desolate site that might, or might not, have been Golgotha.