The Sheen of the Silk

Eighty-three

PALOMBARA FINALLY RETURNED TO ROME IN FEBRUARY OF 1281. There was a faint buzz of excitement in the street as he walked toward St. Peter’s and the Vatican on his first morning back. In spite of the cold wind and the beginning of rain, there was an energy in the air.

He came to the open square and crossed it to the steps up to the Vatican. A group of young priests were standing on the bottom step. One of them laughed. Another chided him gently, in French. They noticed Palombara and spoke to him courteously in heavily accented Italian.

“Good morning, Your Grace.”

Palombara stopped. “Good morning,” he replied. “I have been at sea for several weeks, from Constantinople. Do we have a new Holy Father yet?”

One of the young men opened his eyes wide. “Oh yes, Your Grace. We have order again, and we will have peace.” The young man crossed himself. “Thanks to the good offices of His Majesty of the Two Sicilies.”

Palombara froze. “What? I mean, what offices could he exert?”

The young men glanced at each other. “The Holy Father restored him as senator of Rome,” he said.

“After his election,” Palombara pointed out.

“Of course. But His Majesty’s troops surrounded the Papal Palace at Viterbo until the cardinals should reach a decision.” He smiled broadly. “It clarified their minds wonderfully.”

“And quickly,” one of the others added with a little laugh.

Palombara found his heart beating high in his chest, almost choking him. “And who is our Holy Father?” He was assuredly French.

“Simon de Brie,” the first young man answered. “He has taken the name of Martin the Fourth.”

“Thank you.” Palombara said the words with difficulty. The French faction had won. It was the worst news he could hear. He turned to go on up the steps.

“The Holy Father is not here,” one of the priests called out after him. “He lives in Orvieto, or else in Perugia.”

“Rome is governed by His Majesty of the Two Sicilies,” the first young man added helpfully. “Charles of Anjou.”

In the following days, Palombara came to appreciate just how profound was the victory of Charles of Anjou. He had assumed that the healing of the rift between Rome and Byzantium was a firm accomplishment, but the last shreds of that loosened and fell apart as he overheard the speculation around him of how finally they would end the wavering and deceit of Michael Palaeologus and force a true obedience, a victory for Christendom that had meaning.

At last Palombara was sent for when Martin IV was making one of his rare visits to Rome.

The rituals were the same as before, the professions of loyalty, the pretense at trust, mutual respect, and of course faith in their ultimate victory.

Palombara looked at Simon de Brie, now Martin IV, his trim white beard and pale eyes, and he felt the coldness enlarging inside him. He did not like the man, and he certainly did not trust him. De Brie had spent most of his career as diplomatic adviser to the king of France. Old loyalties did not die so easily.

Looking into the hard, broad-boned face of the new Holy Father, Palombara was absolutely certain that, likewise, Martin neither liked nor trusted him.

“I have read your reports on Constantinople, and the obduracy of the emperor Michael Palaeologus.” Martin spoke in Latin, but with a considerable French accent. “Our patience is exhausted.”

Palombara wondered whether the new pope spoke in the plural as if his office entitled him to think of himself in the royal form or if he actively meant himself and his counselors and advisers. He had a growing fear that it was Charles of Anjou.

“I wish you to return to Byzantium,” Martin continued, not looking at Palombara, as if his feelings were irrelevant. “They know you, and more important, you know them. This situation must be resolved. It has dragged on far too long.”

Palombara wondered why he did not send a Frenchman, and as soon as the idea had formed in his mind, he knew the answer. There was no glory in failure. He looked up and met the cool, faintly amused stare of the Holy Father.

Martin raised his hand in blessing.