Palombara broke into a sweat of blind fury. He had never experienced defeat so total and so consuming that no other emotion was possible.
“My lord bishop,” a voice said, sounding concerned, “are you ill, sir?”
Astonished, Palombara looked at the speaker. It was the captain of the ship, to whom he had not yet paid the money, believing that that fact alone would hold him loyal. “They’ve taken your ship,” he said harshly, flinging out his arm to point into the bay where the hull of it was already growing smaller in the distance.
“No, sir,” the captain said incredulously. “My ship is over there, waiting for you and your cargo.”
“I just saw Bishop Vicenze on board.” He gestured out to sea again. “There!”
The captain shaded his eyes and followed Palombara’s gaze. “That’s not my ship, sir. That is Captain Dandolo’s.”
Palombara blinked. “Dandolo? He took the package onto his own ship?”
“He had a big package, sir. Several feet high, and wide, about the size you described to me.”
“Bishop Vicenze brought it?”
“No, sir. Captain Dandolo brought it himself, sir. Will you still be wanting to sail to Rome, sir?”
“Yes, by God in heaven, I will!”
Sixty-nine
CONSTANTINE STRODE THROUGH THE HARD, BRIGHT SUN to visit Theodosia Skleros, the only daughter of Nicholas Skleros, one of the wealthiest men to have returned to Constantinople after the exile. None of the family wavered in their devotion to the Orthodox Church and consequently in their loathing of Rome and all its abuse of power.
Theodosia was married to a man who in Constantine’s opinion was worthy of neither her high intelligence nor, more important, her great spiritual beauty. Still, since he was apparently her choice, Constantine treated him with all the courtesy he would grant to any man with such an exceptional wife.
He found Theodosia at prayer. He knew she would be alone at this hour, and no caller would be more welcome than he.
She greeted him with a smile of pleasure and perhaps surprise also. Usually he sent a message before he came.
“Bishop Constantine,” she said warmly, coming into the spare, elegant room with its classical murals of urns and flowers. She was not a lovely woman, although she walked with grace, and her voice had a richness to it, a care and clarity of diction that made listening to her a joy.
“Theodosia…” He smiled, already the weight of his anger easing. “You are most gracious to receive me when I took no care to ask if it was convenient.”
“It is always convenient, my lord,” she replied, and she invested it with such sincerity that he could not doubt it. Standing here in the shadow away from the harsh sunlight, she reminded him of Maria, the only girl he had ever loved. It was not that their faces were alike; Maria had been beautiful. At least that was how he remembered her, but they had been little more than children. His elder brothers were young men, handsome and bawdy, feeling their new strength and exercising it, not always with kindness.
It was just after Constantine was castrated. His body ached now at the remembrance of it: not of the physical pain, but of the emotional shame. Not that the pain was negligible, but the wound had healed in time. He wished that had been true for Niphon too, but it had not. He had been the youngest brother, confused by what had happened to him, not understanding. His wound had become infected. Constantine had never been able to forget his white face as he lay on the bed, the sweat-soaked sheets damp around him. Constantine had sat with him, holding his limp hand, talking to him all the time so he would know he was never alone. He was still a child, soft-skinned, slender-shouldered, and so frightened. He had looked so small when he was dead, as if it had never been possible he would grow up.
They had all grieved for him, but Constantine the most. Maria was the only one who had understood how deeply it had cut into all that he was.
She had been the most beautiful girl in the town. All the young men had wanted to court her. But it seemed she had chosen brash, charming Paulus, Constantine’s eldest brother.
Then suddenly, without anyone knowing the reason, she had turned away from him and wanted instead to be with Constantine. Theirs had been a pure friendship, asking nothing but understanding, the joy of sharing both beauty and pain, the exhilaration of ideas, and sometimes, on wonderful occasions, laughter.
She had wished to become a nun; she had confided that to him, softly, with a shy smile. But her family forced her to marry into a wealthy family with whom they had ties, and Constantine had never seen Maria again, nor had he ever learned what had happened to her.
She remained for him the ideal not only of womanhood, but of love itself. Now as Theodosia smiled at him in her quiet, grave way and offered him honey cakes and wine, he saw in her dark eyes something of Maria again, an echo of the same trust in him. A peace settled inside him so sweet, he began to find again the courage to fight harder, with new power, more belief.
It gave him the confidence to try a more dangerous path, one that repelled him, and yet in Theodosia’s piety and unquestioning devotion to the faith, he understood the necessity of using every weapon within his reach.
It was strange to visit Zoe’s house afterward. Constantine had no delusions that she welcomed him out of anything but an intense curiosity to know what he could want with her.
He had forgotten how striking she was. Although she was in her late seventies, still she walked with her head high and the same grace in her steps, the suppleness of body he remembered.
He greeted her cautiously, accepting hospitality in order to make it clear that he intended the visit to have meaning.
“You must be aware of the danger we are in, perhaps even more than I am,” he began. “The emperor sees it as so imminent that he has taken the icon of the Virgin which he carried in triumph and sent it to Rome. He told me that was to preserve it, should the city be burned again. But he has not told the people this. Presumably he is afraid of panic.”
“All times require care, my lord bishop,” she answered, although there was no belief or acceptance in her face. “We have many enemies.”
“We were preserved, in spite of the earthly strength of our enemies,” he replied, “because we believed. God cannot save us if we will not trust Him. We have an advocate in the Blessed Virgin. I know that you know this, which is why I came to you, even though we are not friends, and I do not trust you in most things, I admit that. But in your love of Byzantium, and of the Holy Church we both believe in, I trust you with my life.”
She smiled, as if some faint amusement overrode all that she heard in him, but her eyes were hot and still, and there was a color in her cheeks that owed nothing to art. Now was the time to tell her his purpose.
“I trust you because we have a common cause,” he said again. “And therefore common enemies in the powerful families who, for one reason or another, support the union.”
“What have you in mind, Your Grace-precisely?”
“Information, of course,” he replied. “You have weapons you cannot use, but I can. Now is the time, before it becomes too late.”
“Is it not already too late?” she said coolly. “We have had at least this much common purpose for years.”
“Because you will not part with the kind of information I want while it is still of more value to you,” he replied. “You cannot use it with impunity. I can.”
“Possibly. I can think of nothing I know which will enlarge the Kingdom of God.” There was a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “But perhaps you have more in mind than reduction of the realm of the devil?”