Sheen on the Silk - Anne Perry [176]
“Charles of Anjou wants any excuse to take Constantinople again. The emperor knows that.”
Anastasius nodded. “He would hardly unite with Rome against a lesser threat.”
Palombara winced. “That’s harsh. Shouldn’t Christendom be united? Islam is rising in the East.”
“Do we fight one darkness by embracing another?” Anastasius said softly.
Palombara shivered. He wondered if Anastasius really saw it like that. “What is so different between Rome and Byzantium that you can consider one light and the other darkness?” he asked.
Anastasius was silent for a long time.
“It is all far subtler, a million shades between one and the other,” he said at length. “I want a Church that teaches pity and gentleness, patience, hope, forbearance from self-righteousness, but still with room for passion and laughter, and dreams.”
“You want a lot,” Palombara said gently. “Are you expecting the elders of the Church to produce all this as well?”
“I just need a Church that doesn’t stand in our way,” Anastasius replied. “I believe God wants us to teach, to befriend, and finally to create—that is the purpose. To become like God, as all children dream of becoming like their fathers.”
Palombara studied his face: the hope in it, the hunger, and the ability to be hurt. Anastasius had been right: The thought was beautiful, but it was also turbulent, intensely alive.
Palombara did not believe for an instant that either the Byzantine Church or the Roman would ever accept such an idea. It painted something of an awe and a beauty too limitless for ordinary men to conceive of. One would have to catch some glimpse of the heart of God even to dream so much.
But then perhaps Anastasius had, and Palombara envied him that.
They stood over the darkening seascape, the lights of the dockside behind them. For long minutes, neither of them spoke. Palombara was afraid Anastasius would leave and his opportunity would be lost.
Finally, he spoke. “The emperor is determined to save the city from Charles of Anjou by declaring union with Rome, but he cannot force his subjects to abandon the old faith, not even enough to satisfy appearances from the pope.”
Anastasius did not answer. Perhaps he knew it was not a question.
“You ask a great deal about the murder of Bessarion Comnenos several years ago,” Palombara pressed on. “Was that a thwarted attempt to usurp the throne, and then fight to keep religious independence?”
Anastasius turned slightly toward him. “Why do you care, Bishop Palombara? It failed. Bessarion is dead. So are those who conspired with him.”
“So you know who they were?” he said instantly.
Anastasius drew in a deep, slow breath. “Only two of them. But without those, and without Bessarion himself, what can they do?”
“That question concerns me,” Palombara replied. “Any such attempt now would incite a terrible revenge. The mutilation of the monks would seem trivial by comparison. And the only man to win would be Charles of Anjou.”
“And the pope,” Anastasius added, his eyes catching the light of a cart passing with a lantern held high. “But it would be a bitter victory, Your Grace. And the blood of it would not wash off your hands.”
Sixty-eight
THE HISTORIC ICON OF THE VIRGIN THAT THE EMPEROR Michael had carried into Constantinople when the people returned from exile in 1262,” Vicenze said unequivocally. “That is what it will take.”
Palombara did not reply. They were standing in the room overlooking the long slope down to the shore. The light danced on the water, and the tall masts of the ships swayed gently as the hulls rolled on the slight morning swell.
“We’ll never succeed until we have a symbol of Byzantine surrender to Rome,” Vicenze went on. “The icon of the Virgin is it. They believe it saved them from invasion once before.”
Palombara had no argument to offer against it. His reluctance was purely practical. “It will be impossible to get it, so the effectiveness of it hardly matters.”
“But you agree as to the power it will have.” Vicenze