Sheen on the Silk - Anne Perry [177]
“In theory, of course.” Palombara looked at him more closely. He realized that Vicenze had a plan, one he was sufficiently pleased with that he had no doubt of victory. He was telling Palombara only because he wanted him to know, not to participate.
It meant Palombara must form his own plan, with absolute secrecy, or Vicenze would be there first and take the prize to the pope alone. The secrecy was necessary because it would not be beyond Vicenze’s mind deliberately to sabotage Palombara and allow all attention to focus on him, while he executed his own scheme. Palombara could end up in a Byzantine jail, while Vicenze, wringing his hands with hypocritical sorrow, would make his way to the Vatican, icon in hand.
“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.