Sheen on the Silk - Anne Perry [217]
Mocenigo opened his eyes and looked at her. He smiled, even through the pain that all but consumed him. “I think it will take a miracle to bring me back from this,” he said, dry humor lighting his face for an instant, then vanishing. “But even for a day or two, it would be worth it, if it strengthens the people’s faith. Byzantium has been good to me. I would like to repay … a little.”
She said nothing. The deceit of it saddened her, and she hated Constantine for forcing her to be part of it. Yet perhaps Mocenigo was right, and the people would be richer for it. It was his last gift to those he loved.
There was a faint noise from outside, as if the crowd were growing larger. Word had spread that Mocenigo was dying and that Constantine would shortly come to see him. Was it grief or hope that brought them? Or both?
There was a roar and then a cheer. Anna knew that Constantine had arrived. A moment later, one of his servants came to the sickroom door and requested that Mocenigo be brought out where his well-wishers could see him.
Anna stepped forward to refuse him. “You can’t—”
But she was overridden. Constantine’s servant was giving orders, and other people were coming in, solemn-faced, preparing to put him on a litter and lift him out. No one was listening to Anna. She was merely a physician, where Constantine spoke for God.
She followed outside. Mocenigo was in such distress that he said nothing, too weak to protest. His wife, ashen-faced, simply obeyed Constantine’s servant.
There were now more than two hundred people in the street, and soon it would be three hundred and then four.
Constantine stood on the top step, holding up his hands for silence. “I have not come to give this good man the last rites or prepare him for death,” he said clearly.
“You’d better prepare us all!” a voice shouted. “We’re just as done for as he is!”
There was a roar of agreement, and several people waved their arms.
Constantine raised his hands higher. “The threat is real, and terrible,” he cried loudly. “But if the Holy Mother of God is with us, what can it matter if all men are against us, or the legions of darkness either?”
The noise subsided. Several people crossed themselves.
“I come to seek the will of God,” Constantine went on. “And if He grants me, to beseech the Holy Virgin to allow this man to be healed of his affliction, as a sign that we too will be healed of ours, and saved from the abominations of the invaders.”
There was a moment’s incredulity. People turned to one another, puzzled, daring to hope. Then the cheer went up even more loudly than before, a little hysterical, hundreds willing themselves to believe, they knew the strength of faith to make such a miracle possible, and all the wild hope that went with it.
Constantine smiled, lowered his hands, and turned to Mocenigo. The sick man was now lying on the pallet in front of him, breathing shallowly, but seeming to be at ease.
The crowd fell into an almost paralyzed silence. No one even shuffled a foot.
Constantine lowered his hands and placed them on Mocenigo’s head.
Anna searched with increasing panic for sight of Vicenze in the crowd; then she saw him, close by but not to the fore, as if he were here only to witness. Better it were so.
Constantine’s voice rose clear and charged with emotion. He called on the Holy Virgin Mary to heal Andrea Mocenigo, as a blessing to him for his faith and as a sign to the people that she still watched over them and would keep and preserve them in the face of all adversity.
Vicenze stepped forward, and as Constantine raised Mocenigo up, Vicenze passed him water and together they ministered to him. Vicenze stepped back.
Everyone waited. The air seemed dense with the burden of hope and fear.
Then Mocenigo gave a terrible cry and clutched at his throat, his body twisting in agony. He tore at himself, screaming.
Anna ran forward, pushing everyone out of her way, even though she already knew it was too late. The antidote Vicenze