The Sheen of the Silk

Ninety-two

CONSTANTINE WAS DESPERATE. IT WAS THREE WEEKS SINCE he had killed Zoe Chrysaphes and then a few days later conducted the funeral service for her in the Hagia Sophia. He had offered the Mass and given a eulogy almost fit for a saint.

Now in the solitude of his courtyard, the euphoria had passed and he was dogged by nightmares. He fasted, he prayed, but still they haunted him. Of course it was the work of God that he had destroyed Zoe. He had only ever allied with her in her plot to overthrow Michael so that Bessarion, a true son of the Church, could defy the union with Rome and save the faith.

And then Justinian Lascaris had killed Bessarion, so it had never come to fruition. Should he have agreed with Michael to help Justinian escape death? Perhaps Justinian had been right, and Bessarion would never have had the passion or the skill to defend them, or on the other hand, maybe Justinian had intended to take the throne himself?

Constantine had not pleaded for Justinian’s life. Far from it. He was afraid that if Justinian had lived, he might have betrayed them all. But Michael wanted to save him and had used Constantine’s name to do it, saying he had yielded to his pleas for mercy.

Now Zoe still plagued his dreams: She lay on her back, a lush, full-breasted woman, thighs apart in a mockery of his own emptiness. It was a humiliation, an obscenity, yet he could not look away.

Everything was sliding out of control. The emperor had betrayed the entire nation by selling out to Rome, and worse than that, he had done it so publicly that there was hardly a man, woman, or even child in Constantinople who did not know of it.

Now was the time for a miracle. Another month, two months, and it would be too late.

Yet Constantine was startled when his servant informed him that Bishop Vicenze was here and wished to speak with him. He disliked the man intensely, not only for his calling to undermine the Church in Byzantium and the fact that he came from Rome, but personally as well. Vicenze lacked any kind of humility. Still, Constantine had prayed for a miracle, and he must not stand in the way of its occurrence, if in some way Vicenze was part of it.

Constantine set aside the text he was reading and stood up. “Have him come in,” he instructed.

Today Vicenze was dressed very plainly, almost as if he wished to pass unnoticed, whereas usually he was self-important.

They exchanged formal greetings: Constantine guardedly, Vicenze with uncharacteristic ease, as if keen to reach his purpose for having come.

Constantine offered him wine, fruit, and nuts. Vicenze accepted his hospitality, making light conversation of irrelevances until the servant had left. Then he turned straight to Constantine, his eyes brilliant with urgency.

“The situation in the city is very serious,” he said, his voice sharp. “Fear is mounting every day, and we are on the brink of civil unrest, which could be disastrous for the well-being of the poor and the most vulnerable.”

“I know,” Constantine agreed, taking a handful of almonds from the exquisite porphyry bowl. “They are terrified of the army that Charles of Anjou will bring. They grew up on tales of crusader murders and destruction.” He could not resist saying that, reminding Vicenze that because he was Roman he was partisan in the atrocity.

Vicenze bit his lip. “They need something to restore their faith in God, and in the Blessed Virgin,” he said firmly. “Faith is greater than all the fear in the world. Brave men, giants in the cause of Christ, have faced crucifixion, lions, the fires of torture, and not flinched. They have gone to martyrdom because their faith was perfect. We are not asking that of the people, only belief, so God can work the miracle that will save not only their souls, but their bodies as well, maybe even their homes, their city. Has not the Blessed Virgin done it before, when the people trusted in her?”

In spite of his loathing for the man, Constantine was drawn into his vision. He spoke the truth, pure and lovely as the first light of dawn in a blemishless sky. “Yes… yes, she has, in the face of the impossible,” he agreed.

“The invaders are coming by sea,” Vicenze countered. “Has not God power over the wind and the waves? Could Christ not walk upon the water, and calm the storm-or cause one?”

Constantine felt his breath tighten. “But it would be a miracle. We have not the passion of faith to bring such a thing to pass.”

“Then we must gain it!” Vicenze said, his eyes gleaming. “The faith of the people could save them, and surely there is nothing else left that will?”

“But what can we do?” Constantine said in a whisper. “They are too frightened to believe anymore.”

“All they need is to see the hand of God in something, and they will believe again,” Vicenze replied. “You must perform a smaller miracle for them, not only to the saving of their bodies, and your city and all it has been in the world, but to the saving of their souls. They are your charge, your holy responsibility.”

“I thought you wanted their loyalty to Rome?” Constantine said.

Vicenze gave what passed for a smile. “Dead they are lost to all of us. And perhaps it has not occurred to you, but I do not want the souls of the crusaders stained with Christian blood either.”

Constantine believed him. “What can we do?” he asked.

Vicenze took a deep breath and let it out softly. “There is a fine man, a good man, one who has helped his fellows, given of his means to the poor, and is deeply loved by all who know him. He is a Venetian living here, by the name of Andrea Mocenigo. He is aware of the situation-that we stand on the brink of destruction-and he will help.”

Constantine was lost. “How? What can he do?”

“Everyone knows Mocenigo is ill,” Vicenze said. “He is prepared to take a poison which will make him collapse. I will carry an antidote to it, and when you come to bless him, in the name of God and the Holy Virgin, I will give it to him, discreetly, and he will recover. People will see a miracle, dramatic and unmistakable. Word will spread, and faith will leap up again as a fire. Hope will be restored.” He did not add that Constantine would be seen as a hero, even a saint.

A sharp whisper of doubt stabbed Constantine’s mind. “Then why do you not do it yourself? Then the people would give Rome the credit.”

Vicenze’s mouth turned down at the corners. “The people mistrust me,” he said simply. “It must be someone they have seen in the service of God all their lives. I know of no one else with that reputation in Constantinople.”

All this was true, Constantine knew. This was what he had worked and waited for all his life.

“Who knows?” Vicenze went on. “Maybe God will grant you a real miracle. Is this not the purpose for which you have lived?”

It was. Whatever Vicenze did, whatever that loathsome Palombara said to him, Constantine would be unshakable, without doubt or fear, his mind as clear as a burning light. He would not fail.

But he still would use his mind, his experience, and his own safeguards. He would say nothing of them to Vicenze, who for all his unwitting usefulness was still the enemy.

“I do not want a theological debate about it!” Constantine said furiously to Anastasius when asking for his help and receiving in return a passionate argument against the whole idea. “I want you there as a physician to attend Mocenigo, in case Vicenze is not to be trusted.”

“Of course he is not to be trusted,” Anastasius said bitterly. “What on earth can I do?”

“Carry another dose of the antidote,” Constantine retorted. “You cannot refuse to do that. If you do, you are turning your back on Mocenigo, and on the people.”

Anastasius sighed. He was caught, and they both knew it. If he spoke out against the plot or betrayed its nature to the people, it would shatter the belief they were clinging to, perhaps even provoke the final panic that could crush them all.