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“My favorite time of day,” Palombara said quite casually, as if it were a natural thing they should meet again after so long a space of time.
“Is it?” Anastasius said. “You look forward to the night?”
He stood still, and courtesy demanded that Anastasius do the same. “I was speaking of these moments only, not what came before, or will follow.”
There was interest in Anastasius’s eyes. Palombara knew they were dark gray, but facing the sun as he was, he thought they could have been brown.
Palombara smiled. “There is a tenderness in the shadows,” he continued. “A mercy the hard light of morning doesn’t allow.”
“You like mercy, my lord?” Anastasius said curiously.
“I like beauty,” Palombara corrected him. “I like the unreality of the softer light-the permission to dream.”
Anastasius smiled, the quick, warm gesture lighting his face. Palombara had the sudden thought that he was beautiful; neither man nor woman, but not a distortion of either.
“I need to dream,” he explained quickly. “Reality is harsh, and its fruits will come quickly enough.”
“You refer to something specific?” Anastasius glanced to his side at the ruin of a tower; one side of it had crashed to the ground, the rubble still uncleared. “Are you still here trying to persuade us to join Rome in heart, as well as in treaty?”
“Charles of Anjou wants any excuse to take Constantinople again. The emperor knows that.”
Anastasius nodded. “He would hardly unite with Rome against a lesser threat.”
Palombara winced. “That’s harsh. Shouldn’t Christendom be united? Islam is rising in the East.”
“Do we fight one darkness by embracing another?” Anastasius said softly.
Palombara shivered. He wondered if Anastasius really saw it like that. “What is so different between Rome and Byzantium that you can consider one light and the other darkness?” he asked.
Anastasius was silent for a long time.
“It is all far subtler, a million shades between one and the other,” he said at length. “I want a Church that teaches pity and gentleness, patience, hope, forbearance from self-righteousness, but still with room for passion and laughter, and dreams.”
“You want a lot,” Palombara said gently. “Are you expecting the elders of the Church to produce all this as well?”
“I just need a Church that doesn’t stand in our way,” Anastasius replied. “I believe God wants us to teach, to befriend, and finally to create-that is the purpose. To become like God, as all children dream of becoming like their fathers.”
Palombara studied his face: the hope in it, the hunger, and the ability to be hurt. Anastasius had been right: The thought was beautiful, but it was also turbulent, intensely alive.
Palombara did not believe for an instant that either the Byzantine Church or the Roman would ever accept such an idea. It painted something of an awe and a beauty too limitless for ordinary men to conceive of. One would have to catch some glimpse of the heart of God even to dream so much.
But then perhaps Anastasius had, and Palombara envied him that.
They stood over the darkening seascape, the lights of the dockside behind them. For long minutes, neither of them spoke. Palombara was afraid Anastasius would leave and his opportunity would be lost.
Finally, he spoke. “The emperor is determined to save the city from Charles of Anjou by declaring union with Rome, but he ca
Anastasius did not answer. Perhaps he knew it was not a question.
“You ask a great deal about the murder of Bessarion Comnenos several years ago,” Palombara pressed on. “Was that a thwarted attempt to usurp the throne, and then fight to keep religious independence?”
Anastasius turned slightly toward him. “Why do you care, Bishop Palombara? It failed. Bessarion is dead. So are those who conspired with him.”
“So you know who they were?” he said instantly.
Anastasius drew in a deep, slow breath. “Only two of them. But without those, and without Bessarion himself, what can they do?”
“That question concerns me,” Palombara replied. “Any such attempt now would incite a terrible revenge. The mutilation of the monks would seem trivial by comparison. And the only man to win would be Charles of Anjou.”
“And the pope,” Anastasius added, his eyes catching the light of a cart passing with a lantern held high. “But it would be a bitter victory, Your Grace. And the blood of it would not wash off your hands.”
Sixty-eight
THE HISTORIC ICON OF THE VIRGIN THAT THE EMPEROR Michael had carried into Constantinople when the people returned from exile in 1262,” Vicenze said unequivocally. “That is what it will take.”
Palombara did not reply. They were standing in the room overlooking the long slope down to the shore. The light danced on the water, and the tall masts of the ships swayed gently as the hulls rolled on the slight morning swell.
“We’ll never succeed until we have a symbol of Byzantine surrender to Rome,” Vicenze went on. “The icon of the Virgin is it. They believe it saved them from invasion once before.”
Palombara had no argument to offer against it. His reluctance was purely practical. “It will be impossible to get it, so the effectiveness of it hardly matters.”
“But you agree as to the power it will have.” Vicenze stuck to his point.
“In theory, of course.” Palombara looked at him more closely. He realized that Vicenze had a plan, one he was sufficiently pleased with that he had no doubt of victory. He was telling Palombara only because he wanted him to know, not to participate.
It meant Palombara must form his own plan, with absolute secrecy, or Vicenze would be there first and take the prize to the pope alone. The secrecy was necessary because it would not be beyond Vicenze’s mind deliberately to sabotage Palombara and allow all attention to focus on him, while he executed his own scheme. Palombara could end up in a Byzantine jail, while Vicenze, wringing his hands with hypocritical sorrow, would make his way to the Vatican, icon in hand.
“We must obtain it,” Vicenze said with a thin smile. “I will let you know what plan I can contrive. If you can think of anything, then you will naturally inform me.”
“Naturally,” Palombara agreed. He went out into the air, feeling the faint wind in his face. For several moments he stared over the rooftops toward the sea, then he started to walk. He just wanted the comfort of movement, the cobbles under his feet and the ever changing sights.
Michael could not be bought with money or coerced with office. The only thing he cared about was saving his city from Charles of Anjou and the duplicity of Rome. No, that was not true. He would save it from anyone, Christian or Muslim. It had always been Byzantium’s art through the centuries to form alliances, to deal in trade, to turn its enemies against one another. Could he be persuaded to ally with Rome against the hot wind of Islam that was already scorching the southern borders?
What could bring such an alliance into being? An atrocity in Constantinople itself. Something that would enrage Christendom and draw the two opposing Churches into each other’s arms, at least long enough to send the icon to Rome as proof of Byzantium’s good faith.
An outrage, but not murder. Burn a shrine and see that the Muslims were blamed, and there would be rage among the people. Then they would accept any price Michael was able to pay, even tribute to Rome.
Palombara knew how to do it. He had papal money, even some that Vicenze knew nothing about. And he had contact with people who understood how to arrange precise and limited violence, at a price. He would be very, very careful indeed. No one would know, most particularly not Niccolo Vicenze.