The Sheen of the Silk

Sixty-seven

IN CONSTANTINOPLE, THE SUMMER OF 1278 WAS HOT AND still. Palombara was again in the city, surrounded by its vivid mixture of sounds and colors, its racing ideas, its passionate religious debate.

Unfortunately, he had once more been accompanied by Niccolo Vicenze. The Holy Father had told Palombara that Vicenze knew nothing of his real mission, which was supporting the emperor in obeying the act of union with Rome. And naturally to preserve the emperor’s life and power, should they be threatened. It was implicit that it was also Palombara’s task to be sure he was aware of such threats, whoever posed them.

Of course, what the Holy Father had actually said to Vicenze could be completely different. That must never be forgotten.

The priority now was to deal with Bishop Constantine. He was foremost among those still irrevocably opposed to the union. Arguing with him was pointless. He must be defeated. It was an ugly thought, but too many lives rested on it to be squeamish. The question was one of means.

At Constantine’s side, through hunger and disease, had been the physician Anastasius. If anyone knew the bishop’s weaknesses, it was he. And what was equally certain in Palombara’s mind was that Anastasius would never willingly betray them, least of all to Rome. Deceiving him was not something Palombara looked forward to.

Another thought occurred to him, subtle and dangerous. If he were in Constantine’s place, determined at any cost to save the freedom of the Orthodox Church, the one man above all others who stood in his way was Michael himself. Remove the emperor, put an Orthodox believer in his place, without either his intelligence or his steel, and all this other maneuvering would be unnecessary.

His urgency to see Anastasius doubled. Fragments of conversation came back to his mind, old plots and murders, imperial names like Lascaris and Comnenos, his intimacy with Zoe Chrysaphes, that most Byzantine of women, and his treatment of the emperor.

It was over a week before the opportunity came without forcing it. He had been attempting to cross Anastasius’s path by chance, and eventually they met on the hill above the docks. Palombara had just arrived by water taxi, and Anastasius was walking along the cobbles. It was early evening, the sun low and hazy, healing the jagged scars of violence and poverty beneath a patina of gold.

“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 cannot force his subjects to abandon the old faith, not even enough to satisfy appearances from the pope.”

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.”