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“Sit,” she ordered him. “There, out of my way. Now tell me about all these places. Where is it you’ve been that’s better than here?”
“Jerusalem,” he said, gri
Her hands stopped midair and she turned to look at him gravely. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Giuliano? That would be very wicked.”
“Certainly not!” he said with much indignation. “Do you want me to tell you about it?”
“If you don’t tell me, I won’t feed you. And every word had better be true.”
He told her many things, and the warmth of her friendship eased out the aches from his body and at least some from his heart.
And after Maria had gone to tidy up and the children were in bed, he stood outside with Giuseppe staring across the harbor. They walked together down to the wall to watch the sea lapping against the stones.
“How is it, really?” Giuliano asked. “People complain, but they always do. Is it worse?”
Giuseppe shrugged. “People are angry, and they are afraid. The king is pla
“The king has friends,” Giuliano said grimly. “The pope is his man. And of course his nephew is king of France. Hasn’t he any enemies?”
Giuseppe stared at him in the fading light. “Peter of Aragon, so they say.”
“Real enemy, or just a petty difference?”
“Real enough, the way I hear it. And John of Procida, for whatever that’s worth.”
Giuliano could not remember hearing the names before. Peter of Aragon explained itself. But John of Procida he did not know. He repeated the name as a question.
“Portugal,” Giuseppe replied, with real anxiety sharpening his voice in the darkness. “What are you going to do? Be careful, my friend. The king has ears everywhere.”
Giuliano smiled and said nothing. It was safer for Giuseppe that he did not know.
A man named Scalini made inquiries and obtained Giuliano passage to the coast of Aragon. It was hard labor being an ordinary seaman; however, that was the only vacancy open to him. Perhaps it was wiser than being conspicuous by seeking command. He also chose to use his mother’s name of Agallon. He was surprised how much pleasure it gave him, even though at times he forgot and was slow to answer.
In Aragon, Giuliano heard more and more anxiety about the growing influence of France through an overtly French pope and a projected crusade led by a prince of France. He began to join in the conversations.
“Bad for trade,” he said, shaking his head judiciously.
“You think so?” the man asked.
“Look at Sicily!” he exclaimed. “Taxed until they can barely afford to eat. Everywhere Frenchmen in the major offices, all the castles, the best lands. Frenchmen in the churches, and marrying the girls. You think they’ll give us a chance to trade on equal terms when they hold the Mediterranean from Egypt to Venice, Sicily, and all the French coast? You’re dreaming!”
“Venice won’t allow that!” another man interrupted. “Never.”
“I don’t see them doing anything to stop it.” Giuliano felt another stab of disloyalty, but what he said was true. “They’re selling them the ships. They’ll profit, as always. They have a treaty with the French pope. No doubt they’re getting something from that.”
The fear was growing, and Giuliano worked to foster it. It would reach the ears of the soldiers and the princes and add to their anger, which was already set against the king of the Two Sicilies.
By October, he had planted all the seeds of trouble he could in Aragon and was in Portugal when he heard that Pope Martin IV had excommunicated Michael of Byzantium from the fellowship of the Christian Church. Charles of Anjou was now the most powerful sovereign in Europe. Perhaps most important of all, the pope was under his influence and in his debt.
Who would dare to ride against a Catholic king who so clearly had the unconditional favor of the pope? Would they then find themselves excommunicated also? Did this now threaten anyone who raised his hand, or his voice, against the crusade and Charles of Anjou?
Giuliano felt that the darkness was closing in on all liberty and honor, and on the people he cared about profoundly.
Eighty-five
ON MARTIN’S ORDERS, PALOMBARA WAS IN CONSTANTINOPLE again late in 1281. But in spite of the euphoria of the citizenry after the relief of Berat, a sense of anxiety crowded within him that matched the darkness of the fading year.
Martin IV had excommunicated the emperor Michael. The words echoed in Palombara’s head like the closing of an iron door. It was a stepping-stone to invasion. Martin was sending Palombara with a death sentence for the city, and they both knew it.
And once again he was accompanied by Niccolo Vicenze.
“They were practically dancing in the streets,” Vicenze said to him over di
Palombara had begun by disliking Vicenze, but as he looked at him across the table now, he realized he actually hated him. “I think the point is that they have proved to themselves that they can win, albeit with the aid of a miracle,” he replied coldly.
“And are they relying on another miracle?” Vicenze asked with a sarcastic pitch to his voice.
Palombara put an equal surprise in his reply. “Really, I have no idea. If you wish to know, you should ask one of their bishops. Perhaps Constantine could enlighten you.”
“I don’t care!” Vicenze snapped icily.
Later, alone, Palombara walked up the steep incline to a place where he could see over the narrow stretch of water to Asia. He was on the edge of the Christian world, and beyond it was a yet unknown force.
Yet it was the West that had destroyed Byzantium in the past and was poised to do so again.
What could he do? His mind ranged over a dozen options, all of them useless. The answer was not what he wished, yet he cared enough to be honest with himself and admit that it was the only one. He turned away from the cold wind and the sea and started to climb up the steep street toward the magnificent house of Zoe Chrysaphes.
She greeted him with amusement.
“You did not come merely to inform me that you are in Constantinople again,” she observed. “Or to commiserate with us over the excommunication of the emperor.” There was self-mockery in her face and a certain bitterness.
He smiled back at her. “I did consider asking your help in converting him to the Roman faith.”
She started to laugh, then stopped herself, and it was only just before it turned to weeping.
“Of course,” he continued, “that would achieve nothing. The pope is a Frenchman, bought and paid for by His Majesty of Naples. That is a debt you could pay for forever without having purchased anything.”
She was surprised by his candor. “So what is it you want, Palombara?” she asked without disguising her curiosity, and with a certain warmth.
“Should we expect God to achieve by miracle what we could do for ourselves, with labor and a degree of intelligence?” he asked.
“How very Roman of you,” she said with mockery, but she was far too interested to disguise it. “What miracles did you have in mind?”
“Saving Constantinople from defeat and occupation by Charles of Anjou,” he replied.