“We must obtain it,” Vicenze said with a thin smile. “I will let you know what plan I can contrive. If you can think of anything, then you will naturally inform me.”
“Naturally,” Palombara agreed. He went out into the air, feeling the faint wind in his face. For several moments he stared over the rooftops toward the sea, then he started to walk. He just wanted the comfort of movement, the cobbles under his feet and the ever changing sights.
Michael could not be bought with money or coerced with office. The only thing he cared about was saving his city from Charles of Anjou and the duplicity of Rome. No, that was not true. He would save it from anyone, Christian or Muslim. It had always been Byzantium’s art through the centuries to form alliances, to deal in trade, to turn its enemies against one another. Could he be persuaded to ally with Rome against the hot wind of Islam that was already scorching the southern borders?
What could bring such an alliance into being? An atrocity in Constantinople itself. Something that would enrage Christendom and draw the two opposing Churches into each other’s arms, at least long enough to send the icon to Rome as proof of Byzantium’s good faith.
An outrage, but not murder. Burn a shrine and see that the Muslims were blamed, and there would be rage among the people. Then they would accept any price Michael was able to pay, even tribute to Rome.
Palombara knew how to do it. He had papal money, even some that Vicenze knew nothing about. And he had contact with people who understood how to arrange precise and limited violence, at a price. He would be very, very careful indeed. No one would know, most particularly not Niccolo Vicenze.
The burning of the sacred shrine to Saint Veronica was spectacular. Palombara stood in the street at dusk, anonymous in the gathering crowd, and felt the searing heat as the flames consumed the fragile buildings and scorched the walls of the surrounding houses and shops.
Near him an old woman howled, tearing at her hair, her voice rising in pitch until it was close to a scream. The roar of the fire grew louder, the crackle of wood explosive, sending sparks and burning cinders high into the air.
The heat drove Palombara backward and he reached out to pull the old woman to greater safety, but she snatched her arm away from him.
Gradually the flames subsided, starved of something to consume. But the rage that followed it was as white hot as the heart of the fire had been. Palombara did not need to fan the flames.
He asked for an audience with the emperor and was granted it. When he entered the emperor’s presence, Michael looked tired and worried, and his temper was extremely short.
“What is it, my lord bishop?” Michael said tersely. He was robed in a red dalmatica crusted with jewels. The Varangian Guard remained at the doors, very much in evidence.
Palombara did not waste time. “I came to offer the sympathy of the Holy Father in Rome upon your loss, Majesty.”
“Rubbish!” Michael snapped. “You have come to gloat, and to see what profit you can make out of it.”
Palombara smiled. “Profit for all of us, Majesty. If Islam rises in the south to even more power than it has now, and continues to press the borders of Christendom, it will take more than a crusade to keep them from attacking us, and then inevitably, a full invasion. And I am not speaking of centuries in the future, Majesty, perhaps not even decades.”
Michael’s face was pale under his black beard, but his expression did not change. He had led his people in exile; he knew war well and carried the scars of it on his body. He was prepared to pay the last, desperate price of compromising his religious faith to preserve his people. Michael Palaeologus, emperor of Byzantium and Equal of the Apostles, knew the taste of failure, defeat, and the art and cost of survival.
Palombara was touched with an amazement of pity for this very human man in his gorgeous robes and his still ruined palace. “Majesty,” he said humbly, “may I suggest a more final recognition of Byzantium’s union with Rome, one upon which no enemy, either through malice or stupidity, can cast doubt?”
Michael looked at him with cold suspicion. “What have you in mind, Bishop Palombara?”
Palombara found himself hesitating before he could force the words to his mouth. “Send to Rome the icon of the Holy Virgin that you carried above you as you entered into Constantinople after the exile,” he answered finally. “Let it come to Rome, as a symbol of the union of the two great Christian Churches of the world, willing to stand side by side against the tide of Islam rising around us. Then Rome will forever be mindful of you, and that you are the bastion of Christ against the infidel. And if we let you fall, then the enemies of God will be at our own gates.”
Michael was silent, but there was no anger, no will to fight the impossible or make a show of injured dignity. Michael was a realist. He was neatly caught. The irony of it was not lost on him, but he who had thought himself so clever was utterly out of his depth.
“Look after her well,” Michael answered at last. “She will not forgive you if you defile her. That is what you should fear, Palombara: not me, not Byzantium, nor even the connivings of Rome or the floods of Islam. Fear God, and the Holy Virgin.”
A week later, the ancient icon that had saved Byzantium centuries ago was delivered to the beautiful house where Palombara and Vicenze lodged. They stood in one of the large reception rooms and watched as it was unpacked in silence.
Vicenze was overwhelmed by Palombara’s success. He stood in the sunlight streaming in through the windows, and his pale face was bleak.
Looking at him, Palombara saw a rage and envy that was real.
Then, as Michael’s man worked on the packing, Palombara saw a new expression enter Vicenze’s face, a vision beyond his own failure to gain the icon.
The last wrapping fell away, and each man silently leaned closer to gaze on the somber, beautiful face and, as close to it as they were, the marks of time and weather visible in the minute cracks in the paint, the pinhole marks in the gold leaf. The banner itself was rubbed smooth by many hands, and the oil from human skin over the generations had polished the surfaces of the wood where it was held.
Vicenze opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind. Palombara did not even look at him. The chill dreamlessness of Vicenze’s face would infuriate him.
It was simple enough to hire a ship. Palombara made the agreement with one of the many captains in the port of Constantinople. Vicenze oversaw the carter who was actually carrying the icon, which was even more carefully packed in an outer wooden crate. It was discreetly marked so they could identify it easily, but no one else could guess the contents.
They took little with them, not wanting to give notice to servants or the ever present watchers and listeners that they might not be returning for some time. In fact, it was possible they might be elevated to the cardinal’s purple and not return at all. Palombara regretted leaving behind some of the exquisite artifacts he had purchased while here, but it was necessary in order to create the illusion that he was merely visiting the dockside and would return before dusk.
However, as he arrived on the quay, he saw with disbelief their ship pull away. The water churned around the hull as it gathered speed, oars dipping rhythmically until they should be beyond the harbor shelter and find the soft wind to fill the sails. Vicenze stood on the ship near the rail. The sun in his pale hair was like a halo, and his wide, flat mouth was smiling.