The Sheen of the Silk

Twenty-eight

AS WAS INEVITABLE, POPE JOHN XXI ALSO BECAME bitterly aware of the reality in Byzantium with regard to the faith. He was not inclined to be as lenient as his predecessors. He sent letters to Constantinople demanding a public and unqualified acceptance of the filioque clause about the nature of God, of Christ, and of the Holy Spirit, the Roman doctrine of purgatory, the seven sacraments as held by Rome, and papal primacy over all other princes of the Church, with the right of appeal to the Holy See and submission of all churches to Rome.

All Michael’s appeals for the Greek Church to retain its ancient rites, as before the Schism, were refused.

Palombara was present at the great ceremony in April 1277 when this new document was signed by Emperor Michael, his son, Andronicus, and the new bishops whom he had created because the established bishops would not yield their faith or their old allegiances. Of course, in that sense it was a farce. Michael knew it, and so did the new bishops. Their calling existed only on the condition of their abject and public surrender.

Palombara also knew it, and he watched the splendor of the ritual with no sense of victory. He stood in the magnificent hall and wondered how many of these men in their silks and gems felt any passion at all, and if they did, what it was. Was such a prize of any worth? Indeed, was it a service to God or to any kind of morality?

What was the difference between the whisper of the Holy Spirit, the hysteria born of the need for God to exist, and the terror and isolation of seeking Him alone? Was the darkness too big to look at? Or had they seen some light in it that he had not?

He turned slightly sideways to watch Vicenze, a couple of feet away. He stood upright, his eyes bright, his face totally unmoving. He reminded Palombara of nothing so much as a soldier at a victory parade.

How was Michael going to control his people after this? Was he realist enough to have some plan? Or was he shortsighted and utterly lost as well? All shorn lambs, struggling alone through the same gale, not seeing one another.

If only the monk Cyril Choniates would sign, then his followers would. It would be a giant step toward pacifying the opposition. Perhaps it could be brought about? But Palombara must do it, not Vicenze; at all costs, not Vicenze.

He smiled at himself and at his own weakness for victory.

But the main document was already signed. What he needed was an addendum. At first he saw it as a setback that Cyril Choniates was apparently quite seriously ill. Then he thought of Anastasius, the eunuch physician.

A few inquiries elicited the information that he was willing to treat anyone who needed his skills, Christian, Arab, or Jew. He would not rant on about sin or foolish talk of penitence, but would treat the illness, whether provoked by the mind or not.

The next thing for Palombara to do was have Anastasius recommended to whoever was caring for Cyril in his captivity. Who was powerful enough to do that and could be persuaded to?

The answer to that question was undoubtedly Zoe Chrysaphes.

Two days later, he called upon her, bringing with him as a gift this time a small but very beautiful Neapolitan cameo, carved with amazing delicacy. He had chosen it himself and was reluctant to give it away, although that was why he had bought it in the first place.

He saw in her eyes that it pleased her. She turned it over in her fingers, feeling the surface, smiling, then looked up at him.

“Exquisite, Your Grace,” she said softly. “But I am past the days when men give me such gifts for my favors, and you are a priest anyway. If that was what you wanted, you would have to be much subtler. I think far more to the issue is the fact that I am Byzantine and you are Roman. What is it you are looking for?”

He was amused by her directness and forbore from telling her that he was not Roman but Aretino, to him an important difference, but not to her.

“You are right, of course,” he conceded, looking her up and down slowly, with candid appreciation. “As for your favors, I would rather earn them than buy them. What is purchased is of little worth, and has no taste to linger in the mind.”

He was delighted to see the color in her cheeks and realized that he had momentarily disconcerted her. He met her eyes boldly. “What I want is for you to recommend a good physician for the deposed and now exiled subpatriarch Cyril Choniates, who is presently quite seriously ill in the monastery at Bithynia. I have Anastasius Zarides in mind. I believe your influence would be sufficient to have the abbot send for him.”

“It would,” she agreed, her golden eyes quickening with interest. “And why do you care in the slightest what happens to Cyril Choniates?”

“I wish the union with Rome to proceed with as little bloodshed as possible,” he answered. “For Rome’s sake-as you wish it for Byzantium’s. I have an addendum to the treaty of union which I believe Cyril will sign, even though he has refused the main agreement. If he did, then the many monks loyal to him would do so as well. It will be a break in the resistance, perhaps sufficient to bring peace.”

She thought for several minutes, turning away from him to stare at the window and the magnificent view across the rooftops toward the water.

“I assume that this addendum will never be added to the agreement,” she said at last. “At least the main body of it will not. Perhaps a sentence or two, with Cyril’s name, and those of as many of his followers as you may obtain?”

“Precisely,” he agreed. “But it will bring peace. We do not want any more martyrs to a cause which cannot succeed.”

She measured her words very carefully. “There are two of you, are there not? Legates from the pope in Rome?”

“Yes…”

“Is your companion aware that you have come to me with this?”

She might already have the answer, and to affirm it would be an unnecessary lie. “No. We are not allies. Why do you ask?” He kept the irritation out of his voice.

Her smile widened, vivid with amusement. “Cyril will not sign anything for you.”

He felt a chill and a sudden awareness that she was playing, manipulating him far more than he was her. “Have you some other suggestion?” he asked.

She turned to face him, looking up at last, her gaze steady. “What you need is Cyril’s silence, and word that he agreed, which he cannot contest.”

“Why would he not contest it, if as you say he will not agree?”

“He is ill. He is also old. Perhaps he will die?” She raised her superbly arched brows.

Was she really suggesting what he thought? Why would she? She was Byzantine to the core and against anything and everything Roman.

“I shall recommend Anastasius,” she went on. “He is known to be a clever physician, and still resolutely Orthodox. In fact, he is a good friend and something of a disciple of Bishop Constantine, the most Orthodox of all the bishops. I myself will provide him with a medicine to help poor Cyril.”

He let out his breath slowly. “I see.”

“Possibly you do,” she agreed skeptically. “Are you sure you would not prefer that Bishop Vicenze should take this document to Cyril after all? I shall suggest it to him, if you wish.”

“Perhaps that would be a good idea,” Palombara said slowly, the blood roaring in his ears. “I would owe you much.”

“Yes.” Her smile widened. “You would. But peace is in both our interests, even in that of Cyril Choniates, if he were but well enough to see it. We must do for him what he cannot do for himself.”