The Sheen on the Silk (42 page)

PALOMBARA ARRIVED IN ROME ONLY DAYS AFTER VICENZE. The voyage had been good enough for time and seamanship, but the taste of defeat had robbed him of any pleasure at all. He had landed at Ostia, and even the briefest inquiry had told him Vicenze had beaten him by at least twenty-four hours.

The pope and the cardinals were already assembled in the anteroom to the pope’s chambers in the Vatican Palace when Palombara strode in, still travel stained, his clothes shabby with dust and sweat. At any other time he could have been barred entrance in his disheveled state, but the buzz of excitement was in the air, as in a summer lightning storm when the wind was dry, prickling on the skin like the touch of a hundred flies. People started to speak and then stopped. Eyes darted everywhere, seeing him and smiling. Did he imagine the mockery, or was it only too real?

The huge crate stood with its wood neatly opened; only the cloth covering protected the icon of the Blessed Virgin that Michael Palaeologus had carried in triumph when his people had returned home.

Vicenze stood a little to one side of it, his face burning with victory, his pale eyes glittering. Only once did he look at Palombara, then away again, as though he were insignificant, a man who had ceased to matter.

A workman stepped forward at his signal. There was no other sound in the room, no rustle of heavy robes, no shifting of feet. Even the pope seemed to be holding his breath.

The workman reached up and pulled off the protecting cloth.

The pope and the cardinals craned forward. There was utter silence.

Palombara looked, blinked, and stared. God Almighty! What met his gaze was not the exquisite features of the Virgin, but a riotous profusion of naked flesh, in exuberant, joyful detail and painted with great skill. The central figure was a smiling parody of the Virgin, but so overtly feminine that one could not look at it without a quickening of the pulse, a remembrance of the hot blood of passion. One lush breast was exposed, and her slender hand rested intimately on the groin of the man nearest to her.

One of the less abstemious cardinals exploded with laughter and instantly tried to suffocate it in a fit of coughing.

The pope’s face was scarlet, although there could have been more than one reason for that.

Other cardinals choked. Someone snorted in disgust. Another laughed quite openly.

Vicenze was white to the lips, his eyes as hectic as if he were consumed with fever on the edge of delirium.

Palombara tried for a full minute to look as if he were not laughing, and failed. It was exquisite. He too owed someone a debt he would never be able to pay.

Palombara had no choice but to go when Nicholas sent for him.

The Holy Father’s expression was unreadable. “Explain yourself, Enrico,” he said very quietly. His voice trembled, and Palombara had no idea if the emotion all but choking him was fury or laughter.

There was nothing to offer but the truth.

“Yes, Holy Father,” he said piously. “I persuaded the emperor to send the icon to Rome. It arrived at the house we had taken for our stay in the city. It was unpacked in front of us, and it was quite definitely a very somber, very beautiful picture of the Virgin Mary. It was repacked in front of us, ready to ship.”

“This tells me nothing,” Nicholas said dryly. “Who obtained it? You?”

“Yes, Holy Father.”

“And what did Vicenze do about it? Don’t tell me this is his revenge for your superiority? He could never have done this to himself. The laughter will follow him to the grave, as well you know.” He leaned forward. “This looks a great deal more like your wit, Enrico. For which I shall pardon you…” The faintest twitch pulled the corner of his mouth, and with difficulty he controlled it. “If you return the icon of the Virgin to me forthwith. Discreetly, of course.”

Nicholas might not have a towering faith with a light to lead Christendom, but he unquestionably had a sharp sense of humor, and to Palombara that was a grace sufficient to redeem him from almost any other failure.

“Is it still in Constantinople?” Nicholas asked.

“I don’t know, Holy Father, but I doubt it,” Palombara replied. “I think Michael was honest.”

“Do you? Then I am inclined to accept that,” Nicholas said thoughtfully. “You are a cynical man. You manipulate others, so you expect them to do the same to you.” He raised his eyebrows. “Don’t look so crushed! So where is the icon, whoever has it? I do not require to know, if such knowledge would be embarrassing.”

“My guess would be Venice,” Palombara replied. “The captain who brought Vicenze and the icon to Rome was a Venetian-Giuliano Dandolo.”

“Ah! Yes, I have heard of him. A descendant of the great doge,” Nicholas said quietly. “How very interesting.” He smiled. “When you return to Constantinople you will take a letter for me, in which I shall thank the emperor Michael for his gift of good faith and assure him that the union is regarded with the utmost gravity and honor by Rome.” He looked at Palombara steadily. “You will return to Byzantium, taking Vicenze with you.”

Palombara was horrified at the thought.

Nicholas saw his distress and chose to ignore it. “I do not want him here in Rome. I quite see that you do not want him, either, but I am pope, Enrico, and you are not-at least not yet. Take Vicenze. You still have work to do there. Charles of Anjou will sail, and then it will be too late to stop him. Perhaps you can find some Byzantine friend who will curb his excesses for you. Godspeed.”

Palombara had no choice but to leave the reclaiming of the icon to Nicholas. If Dandolo had any sense, he would yield it easily enough. God knows, Venice had relics to spare. And to steal from the pope, and thus from the heart of the Church, was a dangerous thing to do.

Possibly Dandolo might present it to the Holy Father himself, with any claim he could think of as to how it had come into his possession. Nicholas might be inclined to forgive him for it and pretend to believe any tale of its adventures.

DURING THE VOYAGE BACK TO CONSTANTINOPLE, Palombara and Vicenze had barely spoken to each other, and then only in a bitterly civil manner, as was necessary in front of the sailors. It deceived no one.

Now Palombara went to the one person who had the power and the means to destroy a papal legate. He needed to convince her of the need.

Zoe welcomed him with interest, her curiosity sharpened. However, he was not blind to the hatred in her eyes, the hunger to hurt him because he was the one who had persuaded Michael to give the icon of the Virgin to Rome.

Instead of telling her that he too believed in the need for Byzantium to survive, with its values and its civilization, he told her of the shipping of the icon. He described his own fury as he saw Vicenze in the stern of the ship, waving at him. He touched briefly on his seemingly endless voyage in pursuit, but only for dramatic effect. Then in detail, drawing it out, he told her of the unveiling, the moment of incredulity, and then in much freer detail than he would have to any other woman, he described the picture, and the cardinal’s horror, the pope’s laughter, and Vicenze’s incandescent rage.

She laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks. In that moment, he could have reached across and touched her and she would not have pulled away. As thin as spider’s silk and as strong, it was a bond neither of them would ever forget, an unbreakable intimacy.

“I don’t know where it is,” he said softly. “I would guess in Venice. I imagine Dandolo took it from Vicenze. He is the only one who had the chance to. But I will see that the pope receives it, and perhaps even sends it back.”

“And what are you going to do, Enrico Palombara? You must deal with Vicenze.”

“Oh, I know!” he assured her, smiling bitterly. “This pope would protect me today, but tomorrow could be different.” He shrugged. “Over the last few years, popes have come and gone faster than the weather has changed. Their promises are worth nothing, because their successors are not bound by them.”

She did not answer him, but there was a sudden light in her eyes, a different understanding. It took only an instant for him to know that she had let slip the dream of defying the union and seen the reality, and its flaws. It was his first step toward convincing her. He must tread lightly. The smallest attempt at deception and he would lose her.

She searched his face, curiously, quite frankly. “You are trying to tell me that union with Rome may not be as bad as I had supposed, because little note can be kept of actual practice. A pope’s word is worth little, so ours need be worth no more. As long as we are discreet and do not force anyone’s attention to us, we may quietly do as we have always done.”

He smiled his acknowledgment.

Although she understood perfectly, she was enjoying playing with him. “And what is it you would like of me, Palombara?”

“I find it inconvenient always having to watch over my shoulder,” he replied.

“So you wish Vicenze… got rid of? You think I can do that? And that I would?”

“I am quite sure you could,” he replied. “But I don’t want him killed. I would be suspected, whatever the circumstances. And of rather more practical importance than that, he would only be replaced, and by someone I don’t know, and therefore would find harder to predict.”

She nodded. “You have been in Byzantium long enough to learn a little wisdom.”

He smiled and inclined his head. “I need Vicenze’s attention diverted, something that will give him no time to concentrate on destroying me.”

She considered carefully. “You cannot afford to leave alive someone who will kill you if they can. Sooner or later they will find the opportunity. You cannot stay awake all the time. One day you will forget, be at a disadvantage, too tired to think. Seize the time, Palombara, or he will.”

He realized with a wave of certainty that she was speaking from her own experience, and the instant after he knew exactly where and when. The grief was for Gregory Vatatzes, but she had had no choice, for her own survival. Was Arsenios Vatatzes’s death her doing also? One of her vengeances?

“The important thing is that only you and I know this.” He chose his words carefully, edged with double meaning. “While I appreciate your help, I cannot afford to be in your debt.”

“You won’t be,” she promised. “You have given me knowledge of papal plans which enables me to… revise my situation on the union with Rome. That is important to me.”

He rose to his feet and she did also, standing close enough to him that he could smell the perfume of her hair and her skin. If the balance between them had been just a little different, he would have touched her, and maybe more than that. As it was, their understanding was deep, even intimate. She would curb Vicenze for him, and it would amuse her to do so. If he ever presented a danger to her, with intense regret, she would kill him. They both knew that, too. The difference between them was that apart from his admiration for her, his involvement was ultimately sealed in his mind, his urgent, busy intellect; there was no wave strong enough to knock him off his feet, bury him, pummel him, and carry him far, far out of his depth. Whereas she cared passionately.

He envied her that.

CONSTANTINE PACED THE FLOOR OF HIS BEAUTIFUL ROOM with the icons, grasping at the air with his hands.

“Please help her, Anastasius. She is so wounded by the betrayal, she is ill with grief. I think she does not care if she lives or not. I have done all I can, but I am no use. Theodosia is a good woman, perhaps the best I know. How can a man abandon a wife of years for some… some harlot with a pretty face, just because she may give him a child?”

“Yes, of course I’ll go to her,” Anna replied. “But I have no cure for grief. All I can do is wait with her… try to persuade her to eat, help her to sleep. But the pain will still be there when she wakens.”

Constantine breathed out a great sigh. “Thank you.” He smiled suddenly. “I knew you would.”

Anna found Theodosia Skleros suffering in spirit as deeply as Constantine had said. She was a dark-haired woman of great dignity, if not beauty. She was sitting in a chair, staring out of the window with unfocused eyes.

Anna carried over another chair and sat near her, for a long time saying nothing.

Finally Theodosia turned to her, as if her presence required some response. “I don’t know who you are,” she said politely. “Or why you have come. I did not send for you, and I seek no counseling. There is no purpose you can serve here, except the easing of your own sense of duty. Please feel released from obligation and leave. There is probably someone you can serve elsewhere.”

“I am a physician,” Anna explained. “Anastasius Zarides. I came because Bishop Constantine is deeply concerned for you. He told me you are the finest woman he knows.”

“There is no comfort in being ‘fine’ alone,” Theodosia said bitterly.

“There is not much comfort in doing anything alone,” Anna replied. “I hadn’t imagined you did it for comfort. From what Bishop Constantine said, I had thought it was simply who you were.”

Theodosia turned slowly and looked at her, very slight surprise in her face, but no light, no hope. “Is that supposed to cure me?” she said with mockery. “I have no interest in being a saint.”

“Perhaps you would like to be dead, but you haven’t the anger yet to commit that sin, because it would be irrevocable. Or perhaps you are just afraid of the physical pain of dying?”

“Please stop insulting me and go away,” Theodosia said clearly. “I have no need of you.” She looked back out of the window.

“Would you want him back, if he came?” Anna asked her.

“No!” Then Theodosia drew in her breath sharply and turned to face Anna again. “I’m not grieving for him, I am mourning what I believed he was. Perhaps you can’t understand that…”

“Do you imagine you are the only person to taste the dregs of disillusion?”

“Did you not understand me when I told you to go away?”

“Yes. The words are simple enough. You keep twisting your hands. Your eyes are sunken and your color is bad. Do you have a headache?”

“I ache everywhere,” Theodosia replied.

“You are not drinking enough. Your skin will begin to hurt soon, I expect, then your stomach, although I imagine that pains you already. And you will become constipated.”

Theodosia winced. “That is too personal, and it is not your business.”

“I am a physician. Are you trying to punish someone by deliberately afflicting your body? Do you imagine your husband cares?”

“My God, you are cruel! You’re heartless!” Theodosia accused.

“Your body doesn’t care about just or unjust, only practical,” Anna pointed out. “I cannot stop your heart aching, any more than I could stop my own, but I can heal your body, if you don’t leave it too long.”

“Oh, give me the herbs, then go away and leave me in peace,” Theodosia said impatiently.

But Anna stayed until Theodosia was asleep. And she returned every day for the next week, then every second or third day. The grief did not go, but the urgency of it abated. They spoke together of many things, seldom personal, more of art and philosophy, of tastes in food, of works of literature and thought.

“Thank you,” Constantine said to Anna a little more than a month later. “Your gentleness of spirit has bound the wound. Perhaps in time God may heal it. I am truly grateful.”

Anna had seen Theodosia at her deepest distress, at her most vulnerable and humiliated. Anna understood very well why she did not wish their association to continue. It was forever taking the plaster off the wound to look at it again. It was wiser to leave it alone to mend unseen.

She acknowledged Constantine’s thanks and changed the subject.