The Sheen of the Silk

Seventy-seven

THE MAN WHO BROUGHT THE MESSAGE FROM THE POPE WAS obviously tired and profoundly unhappy. Courtesy required that Palombara offer him refreshment, but as soon as the servant had gone to prepare it, he pleaded to know the news.

“God knows we tried to create a union, but we have failed,” the man said miserably. “The king of the Two Sicilies is gathering more ships and more allies with every passing week, and we can no longer pretend that the Orthodox Church is one with us in spirit and intent. It is only too obvious that their acceptance of our hand of friendship is a farce, a convenience to protect their physical safety, no more.”

Palombara’s mind was heavy with the terrible inevitability of it. Yet he had hoped that somehow the passion for survival would overcome.

“If you wish to return to Rome, my lord, the Holy Father gives you leave to do so.” The messenger’s voice dropped. “The Holy Father has recognized that he no longer has any control over the actions of the king. There will be another crusade, perhaps as soon as 1281, and it will be an army such as we have not seen before.” He met Palombara’s eyes. “But if you wish to remain in Constantinople, at least for the time being, there may be some Christian work to do here.” He made the sign of the cross, naturally in the Roman way.

After the man had gone, Palombara remained alone in the great room, watching the afternoon sun sink over the ferries and water taxies and the distant business of the harbor. Rome saw Constantinople’s tolerance of ideas as a moral laxity, its patience with even the most ridiculous or abstruse idea, rather than suppression of it, to be a weakness. They did not see that blind obedience eventually ended in the suffocation of thought.

Palombara did not want to return to Rome and work at some timeserving job shuffling papers, delivering messages, playing at the politics of office. He faced the window, and the light came in on his face. He closed his eyes and felt its warmth on his eyelids.

The darkness was closing in, but he was not yet ready to give up. If Charles of Anjou landed here, Palombara might save something from the wreckage. Definitely he could not simply walk away.

He found the words quite clear in his mind. “Please, dear Lord, do not let all this be destroyed. Please do not let us do that to them-or to ourselves.”

He stood silent for a moment.

“Amen,” he added.