The Sheen of the Silk

Thirty

VICENZE RETURNED TO THE HOUSE IN A VICIOUS TEMPER.

“How was your journey to Bithynia?” Palombara asked.

“Pointless,” Vicenze snapped. “I went only because it was my holy duty to try.” He looked at Palombara malevolently, faintly suspicious as to how much he might know or guess. “One of us must do something to win over these obdurate people, or give them room to condemn themselves utterly.”

“So that whatever we do, we are justified.” Palombara was surprised at how bitter he sounded.

“Exactly,” Vicenze agreed. “It was a last attempt.”

“Last?”

Vicenze’s eyebrows rose and there was a gleam of satisfaction in his cold eyes. “Next week we return to Rome. Had you forgotten?”

“Of course not,” Palombara told him. Actually, he had thought it was a little longer than that. He had been considering with some anxiety exactly what he would report to the pope, in what terms he would explain the nature of their failure to gain any more support for the agreement. He had come to the point where he believed that Michael could carry his people sufficiently for the appearance of union with Rome and that the fact of a degree of independence could be disguised. People would always believe differently from one place to another, one social class, one degree of wealth or education or emotional need to another. But he did not think the pope would be well pleased with that. It was an eminently practical answer, but it was not a political victory.