The Sheen of the Silk

chapter 25-26
Twenty-five

PALOMBARA AND VICENZE ARRIVED BACK IN ROME IN January 1276. They had been at sea for nineteen days and were both glad to make landfall at last, even though they knew that it was a race to report to the pope, which of course they would do separately, neither knowing what the other would say.

Two days later, when the messenger finally came to conduct Palombara to the pope's presence, they walked together along the street and across the windy square, robes swirling. Palombara tried to think of anything he could ask the man that would tell him if Vicenze had already been or not, but every question sounded ridiculously transparent. He ended by walking the entire distance in silence.

His Holiness Gregory X looked tired, even in the quiet sunlight of his room and the magnificence of his robes. He had an irritating cough, which he tried to mask. After the usual ritual of greeting he went straight to the subject, as if short of time. Or perhaps he had already seen Vicenze, and this was merely a courtesy to Palombara and of no more meaning than that.

"You have done well, Enrico," he said gravely. "We did not expect that such a great undertaking as the unity of all Christendom could be achieved without difficulty, and some loss of life among the most obdurate."

Palombara knew instantly that Vicenze had already been here and reported a greater success than in fact they had had.

He had a sudden acute sense that the man opposite him was weighed down beyond his ability to bear. There were heavy shadows in his face. Was that repetitive cough more than a cold come with the beginning of winter?

"There are too many people whose reputation, and all the honor or power they have, lies in their allegiance to the Orthodox Church," Palombara replied. "One cannot claim divine guidance and then change one's mind." He wished to smile at the irony of it, but he saw no glimpse of humor in Gregory's eyes, only indecision and a coming darkness. It frightened him, because it was one more piece of evidence that even the pope did not have that bright certainty of God that surely came with true sanctity. Palombara saw only a tired man searching for the best of many resolutions, none of them complete.

"The resistance is mostly among the monks," Palombara continued. "And high clergy whose offices will no longer exist once the center of power has moved here to Rome. And there are the eunuchs. There is no place for them in the Roman Church. They have much to lose, and as they see it, nothing to gain."

Gregory frowned. "Can they cause us trouble? Palace servants? Churchmen without..." He shrugged slightly and coughed again. "Without temptation of the flesh, and therefore without the possibility of true holiness. Is it not better for all that their species die out?"

Intellectually, Palombara agreed with him. The mutilation repelled him, and if he thought about it in detail, it frightened him. Yet when he had said the word eunuch, he had been thinking of Nicephoras, the wisest and most cultured man he had encountered at Michael's court. And of Anastasius, who was even more effeminate; there was nothing manly about him at all. Anastasius's intelligence, and even more the fire of his emotions, had caught Palombara in a way he could not dismiss. In spite of his loss of manhood, the healer had a passion for life that Palombara had never felt. He both pitied and envied him, and the contradiction of it was disturbing.

"It is an offense, a denial, Holy Father," he agreed. "And yet they have merit, even if their abstinence is enforced. I doubt it is of their own choosing in most cases, so there can be no blame..."

Gregory's expression hardened in the pale winter sun slanting in through the windows. "If a child is not baptized, it is not the child's choosing, Enrico, yet it is still lost to Paradise. Be careful when you make such sweeping statements. You tread on delicate ground where doctrine is concerned. We do not question the judgments of God."

Palombara felt a chill. It was not the warning or the chastisement, it was far deeper than that. It was the denial of passion, of certainty, of knowing everything was perfectly and brilliantly true, beautiful to the mind and the soul, as the things of God should be. Did he know an unbaptized child was lost to Paradise? He knew that was taught, but was it by God? Or was it by man, in order to enlarge the flock and therefore the power of the Church, ultimately their own dominion?

How did Gregory, and the Church, conceive of God? Were they creating Him in their own image, essentially shallow, seeking more and more praise, obedience, purchased by fear of damnation? Was man seeking anything beyond himself, not curtailed by the boundaries of his own imagination?

Who dared beyond that, crashing alone into the bright, silent world of... what? Infinite light? Or just a white void?

Palombara knew now, in this beautiful winter-pale room in the Vatican, that in his soul he believed that Gregory had no more idea than he had, simply no desire or compulsion to ask.

"I apologize, Holy Father," he said contritely, sorry for having disheartened an old man whose life hung upon his certainties. "I spoke hastily, because I gained respect for the wisdom of some of the eunuchs at the emperor's court, and I would exclude no one from the saving grace of truth. I fear we have much work yet to do in Byzantium before we win any loyalty deeper than the fear of our physical violence toward them if they fail."

"Fear can be the beginning of wisdom," Gregory pointed out. He looked up suddenly and met Palombara's eyes. He saw the skepticism in them, and possibly something of the darkness inside.

Palombara nodded in acquiescence.

"But I have other plans to discuss," Gregory said with sudden vigor. "The momentum is building for a new crusade, without the bloodshed of the past. I have decided to write to the emperor Michael inviting him to meet us in Brindisi next year. I will be able to speak to him, make better judgments of his strength, and his sincerity, and perhaps allay some of his fears." He waited for Palombara's reaction.

"Admirable, Holy Father," he said with as much enthusiasm as he could put into his voice. "It will stiffen his resolve, and perhaps you will be able to suggest to him ways in which he can deal with his bishops of the old faith, and still retain their loyalty. He will be grateful to you, as will the Byzantine people. More important than that, of course, it is the right thing to do."

Gregory smiled, quite clearly pleased with the response. "I am glad you see it so clearly, Enrico. I fear not everyone will."

Palombara wondered instantly if Vicenze had argued. That would have been daring of him, or, more likely, simply highly insensitive. Had he seen Gregory's failing health and already changed his allegiance? Perhaps Vicenze had information Palombara did not; otherwise it would be out of character. He never took risks.

"Others will understand in time, Holy Father," Palombara said, despising the hypocrisy in himself.

"Yes indeed." Gregory pursed his lips. "But we have much to do to prepare." He leaned forward a little. "We need all Italy with us, Enrico. There is much money to raise, and of course men, horses, armor, machines of war. And food, and ships. I have legates in all the capitals of Europe, and Venice will come because there is so much profit in it for them, as there always has been. Naples and the south will have no choice, because Charles of Anjou will see to it. It is the cities of Tuscany, Umbria, and the Regno that concern me."

In spite of his desire to be impervious to the fires of ambition, Palombara felt a flutter of excitement inside himself. "Yes, Holy Father..."

"Begin with Florence," Gregory said. "It is rich. There is a stirring of life and thought there that will reward us well, if we nurture it. They are loyal to us. Then I want you to seek out what support we have in Arezzo. That will be harder, I know. Their loyalties are to the Holy Roman Emperor. But you have proved your mettle in Byzantium." He smiled bleakly. "I know what you have told me of Michael Palaeologus, Enrico, and I am not as blind as your tact imagines. I know what you have not told me, by virtue of your silences. Go, and report back to me by the middle of January."

"Yes, Holy Father," Palombara said with an enthusiasm he could not conceal. "Yes, I will."

* * *

On the last night before leaving Florence, Palombara dined with his old friend Alighiero de Belincione and Lapa, the woman he had lived with since the death of his wife. They had two small children, Francesco and Gaetana, and Alighiero's son Dante, from his previous marriage.

As always, they made Palombara feel welcome, gave him excellent food, and afterward sat around the fire and brought him up-to-date on all the latest news and gossip.

They were fascinated by Palombara's experiences in Constantinople. Lapa wished to hear all about the court of Michael, particularly the fashions and the food. Alighiero was more interested in the spices and silks in the market and the artifacts to be purchased from the fabled cities farther east along the old Silk Road.

They were discussing the life of those who traveled it when a boy came into the room, tentatively at first, knowing he was interrupting. He was about ten years old, slender, almost thin; the bones of his shoulders were visible even through his winter jerkin. But it was his face that held Palombara's attention. He was pale and his features were already losing the softness of the child, and his eyes burned with a passion that seemed almost to consume him.

Lapa looked at him with anxiety. "Dante, you missed supper. Let me get you something now." She half rose to her feet.

Alighiero put out his hand to restrain her. "He'll eat when he's hungry. Don't worry so much."

She brushed him away. "He needs to eat every day. Dante, let me present you to Bishop Palombara, from Rome, then I'll make you something."

Alighiero sat back again, probably in deference to Palombara, rather than have a disagreement in front of him, which would have been embarrassing.

"Welcome to Florence, Your Grace," the boy said politely.

Palombara looked into his eyes and saw in them an emotion so powerful that it seemed to light him from within, and Palombara had a sudden conviction that he himself scarcely impinged upon the boy's world. He wanted to make some mark on this extraordinary child.

"Thank you, Dante," he replied. "I have already been given the hospitality of friends, and there is no greater gift of welcome than that."

Now Dante looked at him, then he smiled. For an instant Palombara was real to him, it was there in his eyes.

"Come," Lapa said, standing. "I will make you something to eat. I have a little of your favorite caramel." She led the way out of the room, and with a brief glance at Palombara, the boy followed her obediently.

"I apologize for him," Alighiero said with a smile to cover his embarrassment. "Ten years old and he believes he has seen heaven in a girl's face. Portinari's daughter, Bice, Beatrice. He barely saw her. It was last year, and he still can't get over it." His eyes were puzzled. "He lives in another world. I don't know what to do with him." He shrugged slightly. "I suppose it will pass. But at the moment poor Lapa's worrying about him." He picked up the jug of wine. "Have some more?"

Palombara accepted, and they spent the rest of the evening in agreeable conversation. For once, Palombara was able to indulge in friendship and forget about the moral ambiguities of the crusade.

When he left to ride to Arezzo the following morning, he could not rid his mind of the solemn, passionate face of the boy who was convinced he had seen the face of the girl he would love all his life. The fire had consumed the boy, had lit him from within. Ahead of him were both heaven and hell, but never the corrosion of doubt or the yawning wasteland of indifference. Yes, Palombara envied the boy, and whether he dared to grasp at it or not, he needed to know that heaven existed.

Palombara rode through the winter rain, feeling it on his face, smelling the wet earth, the tangle of fallen leaves rotted beneath the trees. It was a clean, living odor. The day would be short and dark, night crowding in from the east, closing the colors across the sky into hot reds on the horizon. Tomorrow he would be back in Rome.

Palombara sought out old friends in Arezzo and put to them the same questions he had to others in Florence. By January 10 in the new year of 1276, he was back in Rome, to report to Gregory.

He was crossing the square toward the broad steps up to the Vatican Palace, aware of a certain hush in the gray winter air, like a presage of rain. It was late afternoon, and it looked as if darkness were going to come early.

He saw a cardinal he was acquainted with walking toward him with a heavy tread, his face pinched.

"Good evening, Your Eminence," Palombara said courteously.

The cardinal stopped, shaking his head from side to side. "Too soon," he said sadly. "Too soon. We don't need change at the moment."

Palombara was seized with a presentiment of loss. "The Holy Father?"

"Just today," the cardinal replied, looking Palombara up and down, seeing the marks of travel on his clothes. "You're too late."

Palombara should not have been surprised. Gregory had looked exhausted both in body and in spirit when he had last seen him. Palombara was touched with a grief greater than his disappointment at his own loss of office or the confusion of the future, everything plunged into uncertainty again. There was an emptiness where he had had a friend, a mentor, someone whose judgments he understood.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "I did not know." He crossed himself. "May he rest in peace."

It rained all day, and he stayed at home, supposedly writing a report on his work in Tuscany to give to the new pope, should he want it. Actually he paced the floor, deep in thought, turning over all the decisions he would have to make. There was everything to win... or lose.

He had been in high office several years now and earned both friends and enemies. Most important, perhaps, he had earned favors, and chief among his many enemies was Niccolo Vicenze.

Over the next few weeks, if he was to retain any power, he would need more than skill, he would need luck. He should have been better prepared for Gregory's death. The signs of it had been there in the hollows around his eyes, the constant cough, the pain and weariness in him.

Palombara stopped at the window and stared out at the rain. The new crusade had been a passion with Gregory, but what about his successor?

He was surprised how much Constantinople dominated his thoughts. Would the new pope care about the Eastern Church, try to bridge the differences between them and treat them with respect as fellow Christians? Would he begin a real healing of the schism?

During the following days, tension mounted, speculation was rampant, but for the most part concealed by the decencies of mourning and of Gregory's burial in Arezzo. Above all, of course, was expediency. No one wished to wear his ambition naked. People said one thing and meant another.

Palombara listened and considered which faction he should be seen to back. This was much on his mind when a Neapolitan priest named Masari fell into step with him, crossing the square toward the Vatican Palace in the feeble light of the January sun only a week after Gregory's death.

"A dangerous time," Masari observed conversationally, avoiding the puddles with his exquisite boots.

Palombara smiled. "You fear the cardinals will choose other than by the will of God?" he said with only the barest suggestion of humor in his voice. He knew Masari, but not well enough to trust him.

"I fear that without a little help they may be fallible, like all men," Masari replied, an answering gleam in his eyes. "It is a fine thing to be pope, and great power is destructive of all manner of qualities, regrettably, sometimes most of all of wisdom."

"But far from ending with it," Palombara said dryly. "Give me the benefit of your knowledge, brother. What, in your opinion, would wisdom dictate?"

Masari appeared to consider. "Intelligence rather than passion," he replied at length as they continued up a flight of steps. It was starting to rain harder. "A gift for diplomacy rather than a tangle of family connections," he went on. "It is most awkward to owe one's relations for the favor of their support. Debts have a way of requiring payment at most inconvenient times."

Palombara was amused and interested in spite of himself. He felt the quickening of his pulse. "But how is one to gain any level of support without obligation, probably of several kinds? Cardinals do not cast their ballots without a reason." He did not say "unless they are bought," but Masari knew the sense behind his words.

"Regrettably not." Masari bent forward, shielding his dark face from a spout of water off a high roof guttering. "But there are many sorts of reasons. One of the best might be the belief that the new pope, whoever he is, would succeed in unifying the whole Christian faith, while not yielding any holy doctrine to the false teaching of the Greek Church. That would surely be most displeasing to God."

"I do not know the mind of God," Palombara said acerbically.

"Of course," Masari agreed. "Only the Holy Father himself knows that beyond doubt. We must pray, and hope, and seek after wisdom."

Palombara had a fleeting memory of standing in the Hagia Sophia and the beginning of his understanding of how much subtler a thing the wisdom of Byzantium was than that of Rome. For a start, it incorporated the feminine element: gentler, more elusive, harder to define. Perhaps it was also more open to variance and alteration, more nurturing to the infinite spirit of humanity.

"I hope we don't have to wait until we find it," he said aloud. "Or we might not elect a new pope in our lifetime."

"You jest, Your Grace," Masari said softly, his black eyes steady on Palombara's face for a moment, then moving swiftly away again. "But I think perhaps you understand wisdom more than most men."

Again the stab of surprise jolted Palombara, and the racing of his heart. Masari was testing him, even courting him?

"I value it more than wealth or favors," he answered with total solemnity. "But I think it does not come cheaply."

"Little that is good comes cheaply, Your Grace," Masari agreed. "We look toward a pope who is uniquely fitted to be leader of the Christian world."

"We?" Palombara kept walking, but now unmindful of the wind, the puddles gathering in the stones, or the passersby.

"Such men as His Majesty of the Two Sicilies and lord of Anjou," Masari answered. "But of more import to this issue, of course, he is also senator of Rome."

Palombara knew precisely what he meant-someone with a powerful influence over who would become pope. The implication and the offer were both plain. Temptation roared through his mind like a great wind, scattering everything else. Already? A serious chance to become pope! He was young for it, not yet fifty, but there had been far younger. In 955, John XII had been eighteen, ordained, made bishop, and crowned pope all in a day, so it was said. His reign had been short and disastrous.

Masari was waiting, watching not only for the words, but for all the unspoken patterns and betrayals in his face.

Palombara said what he believed was probably true, but also what he knew Charles would want to hear. "I doubt Christendom will be wholly united by anything except conquest of the old Orthodox patriarchies," he said, hearing his own voice as if it were someone else's. "I have recently returned from Constantinople, and the resistance there, and in the surrounding countryside especially, is still strong. A man who has given his career to one faith does not easily sacrifice his identity. If he loses that, what else has he?"

"His life?" Masari suggested, but there was no seriousness in his voice, only satisfaction and a passing regret, as for the inevitable.

"That is the stuff martyrs are made of," Palombara retorted a trifle sharply. The triple crown was closer to his grasp than it had ever been, perhaps than he had ever seriously believed possible. But what would he have to pay for such a favor from Charles of Anjou and whoever else was in his debt?

If he hesitated now, Charles would never back him. A man fit to be pope did not need time to weigh his courage. Did he have that clarity of mind so that he would understand the voice of God telling him how to lead the world, or what was true and what was false? Did he have the fire of soul that could bear it? Did such a thing even exist?

He thought again of the strange, effeminate eunuch Anastasius and his plea for gentleness and the humility to learn, to crush the appetite for exclusivity, and to tolerate the different.

"You hesitate," Masari observed. The withdrawal was already in his voice.

Palombara was angry with himself for his equivocation, his cowardice. A year ago, he would have accepted and considered the cost, even the morality, afterward.

"No," Palombara denied it. "I have not the stomach to rule a Rome that starts another war with Byzantium. We will lose more than we gain."

"Is that what God tells you?" Masari asked with a smile.

"It is what my common sense tells me," Palombara answered him. "God speaks only to the pope."

Masari shrugged and with a little salute turned and walked away.

The decision came remarkably quickly. It was eleven days later, January 21, a dark, windy day, when Palombara's servant came running across the courtyard, his feet splashing in the puddles. He barely knocked on the carved wooden door before entering the study, his face flushed with exertion.

"They have chosen Pierre de Tarentaise, Cardinal Bishop of Ostia," he said breathlessly. "He has taken the name of Innocent the Fifth, Your Grace."

Palombara was stunned. His immediate thought was that Charles of Anjou had supported him all along, and Palombara had been ridiculous to imagine that Masari had been offering him anything except a chance to declare his loyalties. He was a pawn, no more.

"Thank you, Filippo," Palombara said absently. "I am obliged you came so hastily."

Filippo withdrew.

Palombara sat at his desk, his body frozen, his mind whirling. Pierre de Tarentaise. Palombara knew him, at least to speak to. They had both been at the Council of Lyons; Tarentaise had actually read the sermon.

Then another thought came to him: Apparently he was taking the name of Innocent V. It was Innocent III who had been pope when Enrico Dandolo had set off on the crusade whose soldiers had sacked and burned Constantinople in 1204. Choosing the name of Innocent was a statement of intent, as such choices always were. Palombara must think carefully indeed where his own path lay.

He entered the familiar high-windowed rooms, his heart pounding with anticipation, already hardening himself against failure, as though bracing himself would make the pain less.

It was only now that he realized how keenly he wanted to return to Constantinople. He longed for the complexity of the East and to be part of the struggle he had seen begin there. He wanted to persuade at least some of those clerics to bend and save what was good of their belief so it was not lost to the wider faith. He wanted to explore their different concept of wisdom; it intrigued him, promising a more rounded explanation of thought, less didactic and in the end more tolerant.

He was finally ushered into the Holy Father's presence and entered with all the appropriate humility. Innocent was already over fifty, a fair, mild-faced man, nearly bald, and now dressed in the magnificent regalia of his new office.

Palombara knelt and kissed his ring, making the usual formal protestations of his loyalty. Then on Innocent's invitation, he rose to his feet again.

"I am familiar with your opinions on Byzantium and the Greek Church in general," Innocent began. "Your work has been excellent."

"Thank you, Holy Father," Palombara said humbly.

"His Holiness Pope Gregory informed me that he had sent you to Tuscany to see what support you could raise for the crusade," Innocent continued. "It will take time, of course, possibly five or six years. Success cannot be hurried."

Palombara agreed, wondering what Innocent really meant. He looked at his calm face, completely unreadable. He could see nothing changed in him except his clothes and the confidence in his manner, a kind of benign glow; but every now and again he glanced around the room, as if to make certain he was really here.

"There are matters of reform within our own numbers," Innocent said, "that we cannot pursue for the time being." That was a flat contradiction of Gregory's view, and he had felt strongly about it, certain that it was God's will. Had he been wrong? Or was Innocent not listening to the whisper of the spirit now?

The void was there again at Palombara's feet, the fear that there was no revelation at all, simply human ambition and chaos, fed by the desperate need for meaning.

"I have been giving both thought and prayer to the situation in Byzantium," Innocent continued. "It seems to me that you have a feeling for the people..."

"I have come to know them far better than at first," Palombara answered what he took to be a question. He felt the need to justify himself and not allow the implication of disloyalty, however slight, to go uncorrected. "I do not think they will be easily persuaded from their beliefs, especially those who have placed themselves in a position from which there is no retreat."

Innocent pursed his lips. "It is a pity we ever allowed it to become such. We should have begun negotiations long ago. But whenever it is done, as you say, it will not be without loss. No war for the cause of the Mother Church was ever fought without casualties." He shook his head fractionally. "Give me your report on your findings in Tuscany, then I wish you to go to other cities here in Italy and encourage their support." He smiled. "Perhaps in time to Naples, even to Palermo. We shall see."

Palombara felt a sudden coldness seize him. Did Innocent know that Masari had approached him and that he had been tempted, even if only for a moment? There would be an exquisite irony in sending Palombara to the court of Charles of Anjou to raise support for a new crusade.

"Yes, Holy Father," he said, keeping his voice level with an effort. "I shall give you the report on Tuscany tomorrow, then leave for whatever city you judge best."

"Thank you, Enrico," Innocent said mildly. "Perhaps you could begin with Urbino. And then perhaps Ferrara?"

Palombara accepted and looked into Innocent's face with a new awareness of his power and a certain foreboding. Would it be possible to mount a crusade that would not ravage Constantinople again?

Was his new mission a beginning of undoing all that his last had sought to achieve? Any certainty of faith eluded him.

Twenty-six

BUT PALOMBARA'S CALLING WAS SHORT-LIVED. INNOCENT died in the middle of the year, after just five months in office. After a short conclave, Ottobono Fieschi had been chosen, and taken the title of Adrian V. Then, incredibly, after only five weeks this pope too was dead. He had not even had time to be consecrated! It was lunacy. How could it be attributed to God? Or was it God's way of telling them that they had chosen the wrong man? It was descending into farce. Didn't anyone hear the voice of divine prompting?

Or was it as Palombara had always feared in the darkness of his own soul, that there was no divine voice? If God had indeed made the world, then He had long since lost interest in its self-destructive indulgences, its frail dreams, and its incessant, pointless quarreling. Man was simply too busy looking after himself either to have noticed or to have understood.

It was hot outside, the smoldering heat of midsummer in Rome. And now the cardinals from all corners of Europe would have to come back to begin again. Some of them might not even be home yet from the last conclave. What absurdity.

Palombara walked slowly around the house he had once loved so much. He looked at the beautiful paintings he had collected over the years and saw the skill of the brushstrokes, the mastery of balance and line, but the fire in the artist's soul failed to warm him.

He would go to Charles of Anjou himself, not wasting time and words with someone like Masari. He would see if his interest was still alive in the possibility of backing Palombara for the throne. He would decide before he got there exactly what he would offer the king of Naples and what he would not.

Thirteen days later, he was in Charles's presence in his huge villa on the outskirts of Rome. He was a man of immense physical power, barrel-chested, pulsing with energy like the fires of a forge. He seemed unable to stand still, moving from one place to another in the room, from one pile of papers of his compulsive triplicate of orders to a scribe making notes, then on to another. On a table were his own pen and ink, where he corrected what he considered mistakes. His broad brow was sheened with sweat and his heavy face high-colored.

"Well?" he inquired. "What have you come to see me for, Your Grace?" There was amusement in his face and a penetrating intelligence. Palombara was sharply aware that he could not manipulate this man, and only a fool would try.

"As a senator of Rome, you will have a powerful vote to cast on the papal conclave, sire," he replied.

"One vote," Charles observed dryly.

"I think more than that, my lord," Palombara answered him. "Many men care what your judgment might be."

"For their ambition." It was not a question but an answer.

"Of course. But also for the future of Christendom," Palombara pointed out. "More hangs in the balance now than perhaps at any time since the days of Saint Peter." He smiled, not hesitating. "And possibly hanging over it all, can we unite Byzantium with us in any sense that has value, not a source of constant strife?"

"Byzantium..." Charles repeated the word, rolling it on his tongue. "Indeed."

The silence prickled in the room.

"You've been legate to Constantinople," Charles observed, continuing again to walk around the room, his leather-clad feet slapping on the marble floor. He passed from shadow into the sunlight falling from the high windows and back into shadow again. "You told the Holy Father the Byzantines would not yield to Rome." He swung around in time to catch the surprise in Palombara's face before he could mask it. "Is that tide of resistance strong enough to last, shall we say, another three years or so?"

Palombara understood immediately. "That might depend upon the terms on which Rome insisted, sire."

Charles breathed out softly. "As I assumed. And if you were pope, what sorts of conditions would you feel could not be abandoned, even to secure such a prize as the submission of the Orthodox Church and the uniting of Christendom?"

Palombara knew exactly what he meant. "We are speaking of political unity," he said carefully, but his tone was light, as if it were well understood between them. "Unity of intent was never a possibility. Obedience, perhaps, but not belief."

Charles waited, smiling slowly.

"I see no virtue in facilitating such a union if it means giving away any of the tenets of faith that have kept the loyalties we have elsewhere," Palombara answered. It was a nicely sanctimonious speech, but he knew Charles would understand it. Charles needed a pope who would delay any act of unity by making demands to which he knew Byzantium would not yield. Who better to judge that precisely than Palombara, who had argued the case with Michael?

"Your understanding matches my own." Charles relaxed and moved away, walking easily, the tension drained out of him. "I can see how it might very well be God's will to have a pope with such perception of the true nature of people, rather than some ideal which does not conform to reality. I shall use such influence as I have to that end. Thank you for sparing me your time, and your knowledge, Your Grace." His smile broadened. "We shall be able to be of service to each other-and to the Holy Mother Church, of course."

Palombara excused himself and walked out through the shadow of the arches and into the blistering sun. Even the cypresses, like motionless flames in the still air, looked tired. There was no wind to stir them at all.

It was absurd to suppose that popes kept dying because they were not enacting the will of God, yet Palombara could not rid his mind of the thought. It kept dancing at the edge of his grasp all the time, a single reason that made sense of all of it.

He let his imagination roam, tasting ideas, soaking them in as a cat basks in the sun.

The conclave was divided into two great factions, the pro-Charles of Anjou Frenchmen and the anti-Charles Italians. They cast the first ballot, and Palombara was deliriously on the crest of the wave, only two votes short of being elected. His outstretched fingers all but touched the crown.

On September 13, the final vote was cast.

Palombara waited. He had hardly slept for days, lying awake, his mind in a turmoil of hope and self-mockery. He had even stood before the glass and imagined himself in the robes of office, looked at his strong, slender hand and seen the papal ring on it.

Now he waited, like everyone else, too tense to remain seated, too tired to pace more than a few moments. He lost count of time. He was hungry, and even more he was thirsty, but he could not bring himself to leave.

Then at last it was over. A fat cardinal in billowing robes, the sweat streaming down his face, announced that Christendom had a pope again.

Palombara's heart nearly deafened him. The seventy-one-year-old Portuguese philosopher, theologian, and doctor of medicine, Peter Juliani Rebolo, was elected, as John XXI. Palombara was furious with himself for not having expected it. How could he have been such a fool? He stood in the beautiful hall with a fixed smile on his face as if there were no leaden weight of disappointment crushing inside him, as if he did not hurt intolerably. He smiled at men he hated, connivers and time servers he had courted only hours before. Was this Portuguese philosopher and ex-doctor really God's choice for the throne of Saint Peter?

The people around him were cheering, voices too loud, filled with false joy, some, like his own, strident with disappointment and fear for their own positions. Everyone knew who had leaned which way openly, for or against. No one knew what deals had been done, bargains made, prices offered or taken in secret.

Within days, he was sent for by yet another new Holy Father, and once again he walked across the square and up the shallow steps through the great arches. Inside, he walked the familiar ornate passageways to the papal apartments.

He knelt and kissed the pope's ring and repeated his faith and loyalty, his mind racing as to why he had been sent for. What miserable task would he be given to remove him from Rome to where his ambition could be nicely cooled? Where could he do no harm? Probably somewhere in northern Europe, where he would freeze all summer as well as all winter.

John was smiling when Palombara looked up. "My predecessor, God rest his soul in peace, wasted your talents in chasing support for the crusade here in Italy," he said smoothly. "As did the good Innocent."

Palombara waited for the blow.

John sighed. "You have both skill and experience regarding the schism between ourselves and the Greek Orthodox Church. I have studied your letters on the subject. You would best serve God and the cause of Christendom if you were to return to Constantinople, as legate to Byzantium, with a special responsibility to continue in the work of healing the differences between us and our brethren."

Palombara drew in his breath slowly and let it out in silence. The sunlight in the room was so bright, it hurt his eyes.

"It is of the greatest importance," John said gravely, his words chosen with care and only slightly accented with his native Portuguese. "You must work with all prayer and diligence to this end." He smiled. "We need Byzantium not only to give lip service to its union with Rome, we need it to be real. We need to see the obedience and be able to prove it to the world. The days when we can afford leniency are past. Do you understand, Enrico?"

Palombara studied the new pope's face. Was John XXI, under his bland exterior, far subtler than anyone had guessed, and willing to use whatever tool was to hand, turning its blade to suit his own purposes? Was this new office given in order to have Palombara safely out of Rome and in Constantinople, which he knew and loved as much as he loved anything? To whom did he owe this debt? Someone would seek to collect whatever favor he had given, but who?

"Yes, Holy Father," he accepted. "I will do all I can to serve God, and the Church."

John nodded again, still smiling.