The Sheen of the Silk

Eighty-five

ON MARTIN’S ORDERS, PALOMBARA WAS IN CONSTANTINOPLE again late in 1281. But in spite of the euphoria of the citizenry after the relief of Berat, a sense of anxiety crowded within him that matched the darkness of the fading year.

Martin IV had excommunicated the emperor Michael. The words echoed in Palombara’s head like the closing of an iron door. It was a stepping-stone to invasion. Martin was sending Palombara with a death sentence for the city, and they both knew it.

And once again he was accompanied by Niccolo Vicenze.

“They were practically dancing in the streets,” Vicenze said to him over dinner one evening, referring to the Byzantines rejoicing over Berat in the spring. “Didn’t the fools realize it only meant that he would come by sea instead of by land?” He smirked as he said it, but Palombara saw the flare of temper beneath it in his pale face, as if he were savoring the vision of revenge when the great fleet of Charles of Anjou would sweep across the sea and break the city walls to enter with fear and death, as before.

Palombara had begun by disliking Vicenze, but as he looked at him across the table now, he realized he actually hated him. “I think the point is that they have proved to themselves that they can win, albeit with the aid of a miracle,” he replied coldly.

“And are they relying on another miracle?” Vicenze asked with a sarcastic pitch to his voice.

Palombara put an equal surprise in his reply. “Really, I have no idea. If you wish to know, you should ask one of their bishops. Perhaps Constantine could enlighten you.”

“I don’t care!” Vicenze snapped icily.

Later, alone, Palombara walked up the steep incline to a place where he could see over the narrow stretch of water to Asia. He was on the edge of the Christian world, and beyond it was a yet unknown force.

Yet it was the West that had destroyed Byzantium in the past and was poised to do so again.

What could he do? His mind ranged over a dozen options, all of them useless. The answer was not what he wished, yet he cared enough to be honest with himself and admit that it was the only one. He turned away from the cold wind and the sea and started to climb up the steep street toward the magnificent house of Zoe Chrysaphes.

She greeted him with amusement.

“You did not come merely to inform me that you are in Constantinople again,” she observed. “Or to commiserate with us over the excommunication of the emperor.” There was self-mockery in her face and a certain bitterness.

He smiled back at her. “I did consider asking your help in converting him to the Roman faith.”

She started to laugh, then stopped herself, and it was only just before it turned to weeping.

“Of course,” he continued, “that would achieve nothing. The pope is a Frenchman, bought and paid for by His Majesty of Naples. That is a debt you could pay for forever without having purchased anything.”

She was surprised by his candor. “So what is it you want, Palombara?” she asked without disguising her curiosity, and with a certain warmth.

“Should we expect God to achieve by miracle what we could do for ourselves, with labor and a degree of intelligence?” he asked.

“How very Roman of you,” she said with mockery, but she was far too interested to disguise it. “What miracles did you have in mind?”

“Saving Constantinople from defeat and occupation by Charles of Anjou,” he replied.

“Really? Why?” She stood perfectly still; only the flames of the fire in the great hearth gave an illusion of movement in the room.

“Because if Byzantium falls, then the rest of Christendom will not be far behind it,” he replied. That was not the whole truth. Part of Palombara’s motivation was anger at the hollowness of the papacy, the departure from the passion and the honor that it should have had. And part of it was, to his surprise, that he had come to admire the subtlety and the intricate, devious beauty of Byzantine culture. If it was ruined, the world would lose.

She nodded slowly. “Why are you telling me? It is the pope who needs to know. He is shortsighted, and worldly. Why do you suppose we in the Orthodox Church hate the idea of owing him allegiance?”

“I came to suggest a different course of action.”

Her eyes widened. “Different from what?”

“From pouring Greek fire over the walls onto the heads of the invaders,” he replied with a smile. “Not that I have anything against that. I would just like to strike a little sooner.”

He had her complete attention.

“At his support in Europe, before he sets sail,” he continued. “Particularly in Spain, Portugal, possibly parts of France. To foment trouble, insurrection, to appeal to self-interest, trade, to make very clear indeed some of the disadvantages if Charles of Anjou succeeds.”

“Trouble costs money,” she pointed out, but the flame was back in her eyes. “Michael’s Treasury is fully engaged in armaments for defense.”

Palombara knew that Michael’s Treasury was all but empty, but he did not say so. “What about the great merchant houses of Constantinople?” he asked instead. “Could they not be persuaded to contribute-handsomely?”

Very slowly, she smiled. “You know, my lord bishop, I think they could. I am sure there are… ways to convince them.”

He kept his eyes on hers. “If I can be of assistance, please tell me.”

“Oh, I will. May I offer you wine? Almonds?”

He accepted, as if to eat and drink together sealed a bargain.