Sheen on the Silk - Anne Perry [199]
When she rose in the morning, people around her were packing up, ready to leave if the news got worse, gathering in little huddles in street corners, stopping every stranger to ask if there was any further word.
Zoe put together jewels and artifacts, things of great beauty, a winged horse in bronze, necklaces of gold, dishes, ewers, gem-encrusted reliquaries, alabaster and cloisonné jars, and sold them.
With the money she bought great vats full of pitch and had them piled up on the roofs of her house. She would burn the city down herself and destroy the Latins in their own flames before she would let Constantinople be taken again. This time she would die in the fires; never would she run away. Let them all leave, if they were coward enough. She would do it alone, if necessary. She would never surrender, and she would never run away again.
Eighty-three
PALOMBARA FINALLY RETURNED TO ROME IN FEBRUARY OF 1281. There was a faint buzz of excitement in the street as he walked toward St. Peter’s and the Vatican on his first morning back. In spite of the cold wind and the beginning of rain, there was an energy in the air.
He came to the open square and crossed it to the steps up to the Vatican. A group of young priests were standing on the bottom step. One of them laughed. Another chided him gently, in French. They noticed Palombara and spoke to him courteously in heavily accented Italian.
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
Palombara stopped. “Good morning,” he replied. “I have been at sea for several weeks, from Constantinople. Do we have a new Holy Father yet?”
One of the young men opened his eyes wide. “Oh yes, Your Grace. We have order again, and we will have peace.” The young man crossed himself. “Thanks to the good offices of His Majesty of the Two Sicilies.”
Palombara froze. “What? I mean, what offices could he exert?”
The young men glanced at each other. “The Holy Father restored him as senator of Rome,” he said.
“After his election,” Palombara pointed out.
“Of course. But His Majesty’s troops surrounded the Papal Palace at Viterbo until the cardinals should reach a decision.” He smiled broadly. “It clarified their minds wonderfully.”
“And quickly,” one of the others added with a little laugh.
Palombara found his heart beating high in his chest, almost choking him. “And who is our Holy Father?” He was assuredly French.
“Simon de Brie,” the first young man answered. “He has taken the name of Martin the Fourth.”
“Thank you.” Palombara said the words with difficulty. The French faction had won. It was the worst news he could hear. He turned to go on up the steps.
“The Holy Father is not here,” one of the priests called out after him. “He lives in Orvieto, or else in Perugia.”
“Rome is governed by His Majesty of the Two Sicilies,” the first young man added helpfully. “Charles of Anjou.”
In the following days, Palombara came to appreciate just how profound was the victory of Charles of Anjou. He had assumed that the healing of the rift between Rome and Byzantium was a firm accomplishment, but the last shreds of that loosened and fell apart as he overheard the speculation around him of how finally they would end the wavering and deceit of Michael Palaeologus and force a true obedience, a victory for Christendom that had meaning.
At last Palombara was sent for when Martin IV was making one of his rare visits to Rome.
The rituals were the same as before, the professions of loyalty, the pretense at trust, mutual respect, and of course faith in their ultimate victory.
Palombara looked at Simon de Brie, now Martin IV, his trim white beard and pale eyes, and he felt the coldness enlarging inside him. He did not like the man, and he certainly did not trust him. De Brie had spent most of his career as diplomatic adviser to the king of France. Old loyalties did not die so easily.
Looking into the hard, broad-boned face of the new Holy Father, Palombara was absolutely certain that, likewise, Martin neither liked nor trusted him.
“I have read your reports on Constantinople, and the