But as Giuliano watched, weighed, and judged, he still felt like a man assessing the chances and profits of war, and he was ill at ease with himself for doing it.
Toward the end of the month, he received a message from Zoe Chrysaphes saying that she had managed to learn some facts about Maddalena Agallon. She was not certain that he would wish to hear them, but if he did, she would be pleased to receive him in two days’ time.
Of course he went. Whatever the news was, he was compelled to hear it.
When he arrived at Zoe’s house and was admitted by her servants, he was struggling to keep a veneer of composure. She pretended to notice nothing.
“Have you seen more of the city?” she asked conversationally, leading him again toward the magnificent windows. It was early evening, and the light was soft, blurring the harsher lines.
“I have,” he answered. “I have taken time to visit many of the places you spoke of. I have seen some views lovely enough to hold me spellbound. But nothing as good as this.”
“You flatter me,” she said.
“Not you-your city,” he corrected with a smile, but his tone allowed that the distinction was minimal.
She turned to look at him. “It is cruel to stretch out the response.” She gave a slight shrug. “Some people find spiders beautiful. I don’t. The silken thread which traps flies is clever, but distasteful.”
He felt his pulse beating so hard, he was surprised she did not see it in his temples. Or perhaps she did.
“Are you certain you wish to hear?” she asked quietly. “You do not have to. I can forget it and tell no one, if you prefer.”
His mouth was dry. “I want to hear.” In that instant he was not sure if he meant it, but he would be a coward to retreat now.
“The Agallons were an excellent family, with two daughters,” she began. “Maddalena, your mother, eloped with a Venetian sea captain, Giovanni Dandolo, your father. It seemed at the time that they were very much in love. But after less than a year, in fact only a matter of months, your mother left him and returned to Nicea, where she married a Byzantine of considerable wealth.”
He should not have been surprised; it was what he had expected. Still, to hear it in words so clear in this exquisite room was the end of all denial, all escape into hope.
“I’m sorry,” Zoe said quietly. The muted light from the window removed all lines from her face, and she looked as she must have in her youth. “But when Maddalena’s new husband discovered that she was already with child, he threw her out. He would not raise another man’s son, and a Venetian’s at that. He had lost his parents and a brother in the sacking of the city.” Her voice cracked, but she faltered for only a moment. “She did not want the responsibility and the burden of a child, so she gave you away. News of it must have reached your father, and he came and found you, and took you with him back to Venice. I wish I could have told you something less cruel, but you would have learned this sooner or later, if you had persisted in searching. Now you can bury it, and not think of it again.”
But that was impossible. He was barely aware of thanking her or of struggling through the rest of the evening. He did not know what time it was when he finally excused himself and fumbled his way out into the night.
Forty
THREE MONTHS LATER, GIULIANO ARRIVED BACK IN VENICE to report to the doge. Even more important for him was the need to recapture the old sense of belonging. This was the home where he had been happy, yet he felt a part of him had already left Venice for the last time.
That afternoon, the doge sent for him and he reported to the palace. It still felt faintly alien to find Contarini there and not Tiepolo. That was foolish: Doges died, like kings or popes, and were succeeded by the new. But Giuliano had cared for Tiepolo, and he missed him.
“Tell me the truth of the union,” Contarini asked after the formalities had been conducted and all but his secretary had left.
As Giuliano told him the real depth of the dissension that faced Michael Palaeologus, Contarini nodded. “Then a crusade is inevitable.” The doge looked relieved. No doubt he was thinking of the wood already negotiated and in part paid for.
“I think so,” Giuliano agreed.
“Is Constantinople rebuilding its sea defenses?” Contarini pressed.
“Yes, but slowly,” Giuliano replied. “If the new crusade comes through in the next two or three years, they will not be ready.”
“Will it be two or three years?” Contarini demanded. “Our bankers here need to know. We cannot commit money, timber, shipyards, or a hope which may be years away. At the beginning of the century, we stopped all other business and threw everything into building for the fourth crusade, and if your great-grandfather had not finally lost his patience with the devious Byzantines and their endless arguments and excuses, then the losses to Venice would have ruined us.”
“I know,” Giuliano said quietly. The figures were clear enough, but the fires and the sacrilege still shamed him.
He looked up to see Contarini watching him. Were his thoughts so clear in his face?
“What if Michael wins his people over?” Giuliano asked.
Contarini thought for several moments. “The new pope is less predictable than Gregory was,” he said ruefully. “He may choose not to believe it. The Latins will see what they want to see.”
Giuliano knew that was true. He despised himself for what he was doing, although he had left himself no choice.
Contarini was still guarded, his eyelids heavy, concealing. “Our shipwrights must work. Trade must continue: Whose ships they are is a matter of judgment, careful planning, and foreknowledge.”
Giuliano knew exactly what he was going to say next. He waited respectfully.
“If Constantinople is still vulnerable,” Contarini went on, “then Charles of Anjou will hasten his plans so he can strike while it remains so. The longer he waits, the harder his battle will be.” He paced across the checkered marble floor. “This month he is in Sicily. Go there, Dandolo. Watch, listen, and observe. The pope has said the crusade will take place in 1281 or 1282. We cannot be ready before that. But you say Constantinople is rebuilding, and Michael is clever. Which man will outwit the other, the Frenchman or the Byzantine? Charles has all of Europe on his side, bent on regaining the Holy Land for Christendom, not to mention an overweening ambition. But Michael is fighting for survival. He might not care whether we win Jerusalem or not, if it is at the expense of his people.”
“What can I learn in Sicily of his plans?” Giuliano asked reasonably.
“Many a man’s weaknesses lie at home, where he does not expect them. The king of the Two Sicilies is arrogant. Come back to me in three months. You will be provided with all you need of money and letters of authority.”
Giuliano made no demur, saying nothing of the fact that he had only just arrived back, that he had had no rest and barely time to speak to his friends. He was more than willing to go, because Venice had not healed the ache inside him as he had believed it would.
Forty-one
GIULIANO’S SHIP DOCKED IN THE SICILIAN PORT OF PALERMO two weeks later. He stood on the harbor wall in the harsh, eye-searing sun and stared around him. The glittering light off the water was blue to the horizon. The town rose on gentle hills: the buildings pale, soft colors like the bleached earth, with occasional splashes of colored vines or bright clothes strung across the street from window to window in the hot air.
In time he would present himself at the court of Charles of Anjou, but first he wanted to arm himself with some knowledge of the town and its people. He should never forget that he was in what was essentially an occupied city, French on the surface, Sicilian at heart. For that he needed to be among the people.