Sheen on the Silk - Anne Perry [152]
She had borne him, carried him within her body, and given him life. He hated her for what she had become, yet he had learned love at his father’s knee, at his side. Her name had been the last word he spoke. What was Giuliano if he denied her now?
Damn Zoe Chrysaphes—damn her to a hell of pain that would last all life long—as his would.
Anastasius had been extraordinary. He was a true friend, first rescuing him from being blamed for Gregory Vatatzes’s murder, which he deserved for stupidity, if nothing else, and then defending him against Zoe. Both times it had been at risk to himself: Giuliano was realizing now just how great a risk. And Anastasius had asked for nothing in return. Still, Giuliano could not bear to be with Anastasius again, after this. He was the one person who had seen and heard, and he would never be able to forget it, even if only in anger at Zoe. Or in pity. It was the pity that hurt the deepest.
After stopping at his lodging, he went along to the busy dockyards, looking for any Venetian ship in the harbor. There were two. The first was a merchantman bound for Caesarea, the second just berthed and due out to Venice again within the week.
“Giuliano Dandolo, on the doge’s business,” he introduced himself. “I seek passage home, to report to the doge as soon as possible.”
“Excellent,” the captain said enthusiastically. “A little earlier than I expected, but excellent all the same. Welcome aboard. Boito will be delighted. You may use my cabin. You will not be interrupted.”
Giuliano had no idea what the man was speaking about. “Boito?” he said slowly, searching for meaning in it.
“The doge’s emissary,” the captain replied. “He has letters for you, and no doubt other things too complex or too secret to commit to paper. I was not aware he had even sent word to you yet, but he said it would be today, as soon as possible. Come. I’ll take you.”
In the cramped but well-furnished cabin that was the captain’s domain, Giuliano found himself sitting opposite a narrow-faced, handsome man in his early fifties who produced letters of authority from the doge. He thanked the captain and asked permission to be uninterrupted until he and Giuliano had finished their business.
As soon as the door closed, Boito looked gravely at Giuliano. “I have seen you before. I served Doge Tiepolo. You must have news to have sought me even before I sent you word I was here. Tell me about the Venetian Quarter of the city.”
Giuliano had done his job, spoken casually to all the major families in the quarter, and, perhaps more tellingly, listened to the younger men talking in the cafés and bars along the waterfront and in the street where the best food was served from the stalls. They had been born in Byzantine territory. Their loyalties were torn.
“Those who still have family in Venice will probably remain loyal to us,” he said carefully.
“And the younger ones?” Boito said impatiently.
“Most of them are Byzantine now. They have never been to Venice. Some of them are married to Byzantines, they have homes and business here. There is always the chance that if loyalty to Venice did not move them, faith in the Church of Rome might.”
Boito breathed out very slowly, and his shoulders eased, so slightly that it was visible only in the smallest alteration of the way the creases in his coat changed a fraction. “And you think that faith will not hold them?”
“I doubt it,” he answered.
Boito frowned. “I see. And what is the likelihood of Constantinople accepting the union with the Church of Rome? I know some of the monasteries and maybe most of the outlying towns, perhaps all of Nicea, will refuse. There are even members of the imperial family imprisoned for refusing.”
Giuliano was Venetian. That was where his loyalties must be. And he had promised Tiepolo. The thought of his Byzantine mother was too bitter even to touch. The friends he had made here