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“I have read your reports on Constantinople, and the obduracy of the emperor Michael Palaeologus.” Martin spoke in Latin, but with a considerable French accent. “Our patience is exhausted.”
Palombara wondered whether the new pope spoke in the plural as if his office entitled him to think of himself in the royal form or if he actively meant himself and his counselors and advisers. He had a growing fear that it was Charles of Anjou.
“I wish you to return to Byzantium,” Martin continued, not looking at Palombara, as if his feelings were irrelevant. “They know you, and more important, you know them. This situation must be resolved. It has dragged on far too long.”
Palombara wondered why he did not send a Frenchman, and as soon as the idea had formed in his mind, he knew the answer. There was no glory in failure. He looked up and met the cool, faintly amused stare of the Holy Father.
Martin raised his hand in blessing.
Eighty-four
IN MARCH, GIULIANO WAS IN THE PRIVATE QUARTERS OF the new doge, overlooking the canal, seeing the light on the ever shifting water, the sound of it through the open windows like the breathing of the sea stirring in its sleep.
They had been eating a light supper and reminiscing about Giuliano’s father, who had been the doge’s cousin. There were exaggerated tales of fishing, wine drinking, brawls, and loves.
They were laughing when there was a sharp rap on the door, and a moment later a stiff gentleman in an embroidered doublet came into the room and bowed from the neck.
“There is extraordinary news from Berat, Your Serene Highness,” the gentleman said. “There is a soldier here with a firsthand account of it, if you will receive him.”
“Yes. Send him in. Then give him a good meal and wine.”
The man bowed and left. A moment later he conducted in a soldier, obviously newly landed, still wearing his worn and bloodstained clothes.
“Well, tell me!” the doge ordered.
“The fortress at Berat has been relieved and Charles of Anjou’s army completely routed,” the man exclaimed. “Your Serene Highness.”
The doge was startled. “Routed? Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir,” the sailor replied. “Apparently Hugues de Sully himself, their great hero, undefeated before, was captured.” His face was flushed with his delight, not only for the news he carried, but clearly also that he should be the one to tell the doge.
“Really?” The doge glanced at Giuliano. “Do you know this de Sully?”
“No, sir,” Giuliano admitted.
“A Burgundian. A huge man, enormous, a symbol of their invincibility.” The doge held his hands out far apart to suggest his size. “With hair like a roof on fire. Never seemed to get tired, so I am told. In the last two years he has been ordering boatloads of soldiers, horses, arms, money, siege engines. He has taken them to the Balkans to march first on Thessalonica, then on to Constantinople.” The doge turned back to the soldier. “Tell me more.” There was the begi
“Yes, Highness,” the soldier agreed, his eyes still brilliant with triumph. “But the Byzantines dared not lose Berat, it holds the gateway through Macedonia, and thus all the way to Constantinople itself. Lose Berat and the empire is Anjou’s for the taking. Michael Palaeologus is no fool-well, not militarily, anyway.”
“But he has no army of size, skill, or experience to relieve the city when it is surrounded by a force such as de Sully’s, or led by such a man,” the doge said. “My information was that they were starving and obliged to smuggle food in by putting it on rafts and floating it down the river by night. What happened?”
The soldier gri
He laughed. “They did not stop ru
Giuliano looked from one to the other of them, seeing the undisguised pleasure in the doge’s face.
“Thank you,” the doge said sincerely. “You did excellently to bring such news, and so rapidly. Venice is grateful. My chamberlain will give you a purse of gold so you may celebrate appropriately. Then go wash, eat, and drink to our prosperity.”
The soldier thanked him profoundly and left, still gri
“This is excellent,” the doge said as soon as he was certain they were alone. “After this, any crusade will have no choice but to go by sea, which means in Venetian ships.” He laughed. “I have an excellent red wine. Let us drink a toast to the future.”
But Giuliano woke the following morning with an ache inside himself so deep, it consumed all the elation at victory he had felt the night before. With pale, sharp daylight came reality. Charles of Anjou coveted Constantinople, his soul starved for it. Giuliano had seen it in his eyes, in his clenched fist, as if he could grasp it and hold his fingers around it forever. He wanted to take it by violence and crush it unconditionally.
Giuliano knew Charles’s brutal rule. He had seen it in Sicily, where he taxed his own people into penury. What would he do to a conquered nation, as Byzantium would become? He would crush it, burn it, murder its people.
Such thoughts of Byzantium were disloyal to all that had bred and nurtured Giuliano, and to the promise he had made to Tiepolo on his deathbed, but he could not deny himself.
Perhaps the decision had been there for a long time, and he had needed only to be here in Venice, to see the vast shipyards busy night and day, to make him face the reality of it. He could no longer belong to a place, with the ease of friendship it gave and its torture of conscience. He must choose a morality, a people and belief that he loved and that had held truths bigger than comfort or acceptance.
He might never again serve this doge or any other. The knowledge came with a wrenching loneliness and a sudden high, bright freedom. He must do what he could to prevent the invasion. Charles of Anjou had friends in Rome, but somewhere he must have enemies. Sicily was the place to seek them.
He returned to Sicily, finding lodging again with Giuseppe and Maria, where he had stayed before.
“Ah, Giuliano!” Maria said with joy lighting her face as she came out to greet him in the front room with its shabby chairs and well-trodden floor. She flung her arms around him, holding him tightly, then blushed as she realized that she was making a spectacle of herself.
“Have you come to stay for a while?” she asked him. “You must eat with us. Tell us everything. Are you married yet? What is her name? What is she like? Why did you not bring her?”
“No.” Giuliano was used to her questions and shrugged them off without offense. “I’m here because no one can cook like you, or make me laugh as hard.”
She dismissed this with a wave of her hand, but she colored with pleasure.
“I’ve been to all sorts of places,” he said, following her into the busy, chaotic kitchen where loaves of bread and vegetables were piled up, olives in pottery jars, lemons, onions rich gold and wine-colored, and bright fruit.