Two days later, he called upon her, bringing with him as a gift this time a small but very beautiful Neapolitan cameo, carved with amazing delicacy. He had chosen it himself and was reluctant to give it away, although that was why he had bought it in the first place.
He saw in her eyes that it pleased her. She turned it over in her fingers, feeling the surface, smiling, then looked up at him.
“Exquisite, Your Grace,” she said softly. “But I am past the days when men give me such gifts for my favors, and you are a priest anyway. If that was what you wanted, you would have to be much subtler. I think far more to the issue is the fact that I am Byzantine and you are Roman. What is it you are looking for?”
He was amused by her directness and forbore from telling her that he was not Roman but Aretino, to him an important difference, but not to her.
“You are right, of course,” he conceded, looking her up and down slowly, with candid appreciation. “As for your favors, I would rather earn them than buy them. What is purchased is of little worth, and has no taste to linger in the mind.”
He was delighted to see the color in her cheeks and realized that he had momentarily disconcerted her. He met her eyes boldly. “What I want is for you to recommend a good physician for the deposed and now exiled subpatriarch Cyril Choniates, who is presently quite seriously ill in the monastery at Bithynia. I have Anastasius Zarides in mind. I believe your influence would be sufficient to have the abbot send for him.”
“It would,” she agreed, her golden eyes quickening with interest. “And why do you care in the slightest what happens to Cyril Choniates?”
“I wish the union with Rome to proceed with as little bloodshed as possible,” he answered. “For Rome’s sake-as you wish it for Byzantium’s. I have an addendum to the treaty of union which I believe Cyril will sign, even though he has refused the main agreement. If he did, then the many monks loyal to him would do so as well. It will be a break in the resistance, perhaps sufficient to bring peace.”
She thought for several minutes, turning away from him to stare at the window and the magnificent view across the rooftops toward the water.
“I assume that this addendum will never be added to the agreement,” she said at last. “At least the main body of it will not. Perhaps a sentence or two, with Cyril’s name, and those of as many of his followers as you may obtain?”
“Precisely,” he agreed. “But it will bring peace. We do not want any more martyrs to a cause which cannot succeed.”
She measured her words very carefully. “There are two of you, are there not? Legates from the pope in Rome?”
“Yes…”
“Is your companion aware that you have come to me with this?”
She might already have the answer, and to affirm it would be an unnecessary lie. “No. We are not allies. Why do you ask?” He kept the irritation out of his voice.
Her smile widened, vivid with amusement. “Cyril will not sign anything for you.”
He felt a chill and a sudden awareness that she was playing, manipulating him far more than he was her. “Have you some other suggestion?” he asked.
She turned to face him, looking up at last, her gaze steady. “What you need is Cyril’s silence, and word that he agreed, which he cannot contest.”
“Why would he not contest it, if as you say he will not agree?”
“He is ill. He is also old. Perhaps he will die?” She raised her superbly arched brows.
Was she really suggesting what he thought? Why would she? She was Byzantine to the core and against anything and everything Roman.
“I shall recommend Anastasius,” she went on. “He is known to be a clever physician, and still resolutely Orthodox. In fact, he is a good friend and something of a disciple of Bishop Constantine, the most Orthodox of all the bishops. I myself will provide him with a medicine to help poor Cyril.”
He let out his breath slowly. “I see.”
“Possibly you do,” she agreed skeptically. “Are you sure you would not prefer that Bishop Vicenze should take this document to Cyril after all? I shall suggest it to him, if you wish.”
“Perhaps that would be a good idea,” Palombara said slowly, the blood roaring in his ears. “I would owe you much.”
“Yes.” Her smile widened. “You would. But peace is in both our interests, even in that of Cyril Choniates, if he were but well enough to see it. We must do for him what he cannot do for himself.”
Twenty-nine
ANNA ENTERED ZOE’S ROOM EXPECTING TO FIND HER ill and was surprised when Zoe walked toward her with all the grace and vitality of a woman on the verge of a huge endeavor.
“I am obliged you came so quickly,” she said to Anna, regarding her with a slight smile. “Cyril Choniates is very ill indeed. He is a man I used to know, before his banishment, and for whom I had the greatest admiration.”
She regarded Anna with a sudden solemnity. “He needs a far better physician than his current exile affords him.” She frowned. “One who will disregard his sins, which I doubt are many, and anyway, sin is largely a matter of opinion. One man’s virtue may be another man’s vice.” She looked grave. “Anastasius, you can treat him with herbs and tinctures, medicines which will actually help his illness, or at the very least, if he is ill unto death, ease his distress. He deserves that. Do you take deserving into account?”
“No,” Anna replied with a faint gleam of humor herself. “You know that. As you say, it is often only a point of view anyway. I despise hypocrisy, which would place me against half of the most pious people I know.”
Zoe laughed. “Your frankness could prove your undoing, Anastasius. I advise you to watch your tongue. Hypocrites have absolutely no sense of humor at all, or they would see their own absurdity. Will you go and do what you can for Cyril Choniates?”
“Will I be allowed to?”
“I shall see to it,” Zoe replied. “He is at a monastery in Bithynia. And the papal legate Bishop Niccolo Vicenze will accompany you there. He has business with Cyril, which means he will organize and pay for the travel and the lodging. That seems a good arrangement. The weather is pleasant. The journey on horseback will take you a few days, but it will not be over-arduous. You know Bithynia better than he can. You will leave tomorrow morning. There is no time to waste.”
She moved slowly back across the room toward the table and smooth, comfortable chairs. “I have an herbal mixture I would like you to take for Cyril. He used to enjoy it when I knew him in the past. It is a simple restorative, but it will give him pleasure, and perhaps it will give him also an increase in strength. I will take a little myself. Perhaps you would like some also?”
Anna hesitated.
“As you please,” Zoe said lightly, reaching for the door of a carved wooden cabinet and opening it. Inside were many drawers, each only a few inches square. She pulled one open and took out a silk pouch full of fragments of leaves, crushed so finely as to be almost a powder. “One takes it in a little wine,” she said, suiting the action to the words. She poured two goblets of red wine and sprinkled a little powder into each. It dissolved almost immediately.