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Eighty-two
ZOE PACED THE FLOOR OF HER GREAT ROOM, EACH TIME she turned gazing at the great cross, only the back of which carried a name still burned on her heart-Dandolo, the greatest of them all. She must create a way to be revenged on him and his heirs, on Giuliano, before the crusaders came again and it was too late. The year of 1280 was waning fast, and the invasion would be soon now, perhaps even next year.
By the window, she stopped and stared out at the darkening winter sky. Helena had been particularly arrogant lately. Several times Zoe had caught a look in her eyes that seemed to be laughter, close to mockery, as some people see in another’s defeat. Zoe was growing more and more certain that Helena knew Michael was her father and that she was pla
Perhaps it would be a good idea to send Sabas to watch her rather more carefully. Helena had appeared cooler toward Demetrios. The signs were tiny, a little less voluptuousness in her dress, a momentary distraction of mind now and then that clearly had nothing to do with him, an inattention to his words. Was there someone else? There was no better pretender to the throne.
She was still pondering this when one of the servants came in. He stood in front of her with his eyes on the beautiful tessellated floor, not daring to raise them.
“What?” she demanded. What news could paralyze the idiot like this?
“We have just heard that Doge Contarini abdicated a few weeks ago,” he replied. “There is a new doge in Venice.”
“Of course there is, fool!” she snapped. “Who is it?”
“Giova
She made a suppressed noise of fury and told him to get out. He obeyed with indecent haste.
So there was another Dandolo in the Ducal Palace in Venice. Beyond her reach-but Giuliano was not. What relationship was there between him and this new doge? It did not matter; old Enrico was common to both of them, and that was all that counted.
Giuliano might now be returned to Venice, to a higher calling. She must exact her revenge quickly, before that too slipped out of her grasp.
She was still considering this when an old friend called. He came in white-faced, his body tense, hands curling and uncurling even as he spoke.
He stammered over his words. “You may wish to go, although I can’t imagine it, not now. It is too near the end. Charles of Anjou’s armies are besieging Berat.”
Berat was the great Byzantine fortress in Albania, just 450 miles away and holding the key to the land route from the west.
“When it falls,” he went on, “Constantinople will lie open and undefended before him. The emperor has no army capable of withstanding an assault from the land, or from the sea when the Venetian fleet arrives. Perhaps that will not even be needed? They can take what they want of food and stores and sail on to Acre.”
She was cold inside, as if his framing it in words had made it real.
“Zoe?” he prompted.
But she did not answer him. There was nothing to say. She received it in silence, as the darkness of the night comes without sound.
He crossed himself and left.
Her nightmares of childhood returned. She woke sweating alone in the darkness. Even in the winter night her body was seared by a heat that still lay in her dreams, but how much longer would that be true? When would the acrid smell of smoke, the crushing and the screaming, be real? Pictures danced before her of her mother, clothes torn, thighs scarlet with blood, her face distorted with terror, trying to crawl back to protect her child.
When she rose in the morning, people around her were packing up, ready to leave if the news got worse, gathering in little huddles in street corners, stopping every stranger to ask if there was any further word.
Zoe put together jewels and artifacts, things of great beauty, a winged horse in bronze, necklaces of gold, dishes, ewers, gem-encrusted reliquaries, alabaster and cloiso
With the money she bought great vats full of pitch and had them piled up on the roofs of her house. She would burn the city down herself and destroy the Latins in their own flames before she would let Constantinople be taken again. This time she would die in the fires; never would she run away. Let them all leave, if they were coward enough. She would do it alone, if necessary. She would never surrender, and she would never run away again.
Eighty-three
PALOMBARA FINALLY RETURNED TO ROME IN FEBRUARY OF 1281. There was a faint buzz of excitement in the street as he walked toward St. Peter’s and the Vatican on his first morning back. In spite of the cold wind and the begi
He came to the open square and crossed it to the steps up to the Vatican. A group of young priests were standing on the bottom step. One of them laughed. Another chided him gently, in French. They noticed Palombara and spoke to him courteously in heavily accented Italian.
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
Palombara stopped. “Good morning,” he replied. “I have been at sea for several weeks, from Constantinople. Do we have a new Holy Father yet?”
One of the young men opened his eyes wide. “Oh yes, Your Grace. We have order again, and we will have peace.” The young man crossed himself. “Thanks to the good offices of His Majesty of the Two Sicilies.”
Palombara froze. “What? I mean, what offices could he exert?”
The young men glanced at each other. “The Holy Father restored him as senator of Rome,” he said.
“After his election,” Palombara pointed out.
“Of course. But His Majesty’s troops surrounded the Papal Palace at Viterbo until the cardinals should reach a decision.” He smiled broadly. “It clarified their minds wonderfully.”
“And quickly,” one of the others added with a little laugh.
Palombara found his heart beating high in his chest, almost choking him. “And who is our Holy Father?” He was assuredly French.
“Simon de Brie,” the first young man answered. “He has taken the name of Martin the Fourth.”
“Thank you.” Palombara said the words with difficulty. The French faction had won. It was the worst news he could hear. He turned to go on up the steps.
“The Holy Father is not here,” one of the priests called out after him. “He lives in Orvieto, or else in Perugia.”
“Rome is governed by His Majesty of the Two Sicilies,” the first young man added helpfully. “Charles of Anjou.”
In the following days, Palombara came to appreciate just how profound was the victory of Charles of Anjou. He had assumed that the healing of the rift between Rome and Byzantium was a firm accomplishment, but the last shreds of that loosened and fell apart as he overheard the speculation around him of how finally they would end the wavering and deceit of Michael Palaeologus and force a true obedience, a victory for Christendom that had meaning.
At last Palombara was sent for when Martin IV was making one of his rare visits to Rome.
The rituals were the same as before, the professions of loyalty, the pretense at trust, mutual respect, and of course faith in their ultimate victory.
Palombara looked at Simon de Brie, now Martin IV, his trim white beard and pale eyes, and he felt the coldness enlarging inside him. He did not like the man, and he certainly did not trust him. De Brie had spent most of his career as diplomatic adviser to the king of France. Old loyalties did not die so easily.
Looking into the hard, broad-boned face of the new Holy Father, Palombara was absolutely certain that, likewise, Martin neither liked nor trusted him.