Sheen on the Silk - Anne Perry [179]
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