Sheen on the Silk - Anne Perry [32]
He increased his pace along the street, his long bishop’s robes swirling. He nodded to people he knew, exchanging a greeting here and there, but his mind was on the meeting ahead. Perhaps he would be sent as a papal legate to one of the great courts of Europe, such as Aragon, Castile, Portugal, or, above all, the Holy Roman Empire. Any such position would offer vast opportunities out of which could be carved a superb career, possibly even elevation to the papal throne itself one day. Urban IV had been a papal legate before his election.
Five minutes later, Palombara walked across the square, up the wide, shallow steps of the Vatican Palace, and into the shade under the huge arches. He reported his presence and was conducted to the pope’s private apartments, still fifteen minutes before the appointed time.
As he expected, he was kept waiting. He did not feel free to pace back and forth over the smooth marble floor as he would have liked.
Then suddenly he was summoned, and the next moment he was in the pope’s chamber, a formal room still, but brighter and more comfortable. Sunlight streamed in through the window, making it seem airy. He had no time to look at the murals, but they were in softer colors, muted pinks and golds.
He knelt to kiss the ring of Tebaldo Visconti, now Gregory X. “Your Holiness,” he murmured.
“How are you, Enrico?” Gregory asked. “Let us walk in the inner courtyard for a while. There is much to discuss.”
Palombara rose to his feet, noticeably taller and leaner than the rather rotund figure of the pope. He looked down into the pope’s face with its large, dark eyes and magnificent nose, long, heavy, and straight. “As Your Holiness pleases,” he said obediently.
Gregory had been pope for two and a half years already. This was the first time he had spoken with Palombara alone. He led the way out through the wide doors into the inner courtyard, where they were observed but not overheard.
“We have much work to do, Enrico,” Gregory said quietly. “We live in a dangerous age, but one of great opportunity. We have enemies all around us. We cannot afford dissension within.” He glanced at Palombara sharply.
Palombara murmured a reply to show his attention.
“The Germans have chosen a new king, Rudolph of Hapsburg, whom I shall crown Holy Roman Emperor in due time. He has renounced all claims to our territories, and to Sicily,” Gregory continued.
Now Palombara understood. Gregory was clearing all threats one by one toward some further great plan.
They crossed into a brief open space, and Palombara shaded his eyes against the sunlight so he could read Gregory’s expression.
“The power of Islam is increasing,” Gregory continued, his voice growing sharper. “They hold much of the Holy Land, all Arabia south and east, Egypt and North Africa, and up into the south of Spain. Their trade is expanding, their science and their arts thrive, their mathematics, their medicine, lead the way in thought. Their ships sail the eastern Mediterranean, and there is nothing to stop them.”
Palombara felt a chill in the air in spite of the brilliance of the sun.
Gregory stopped. “If they move north toward Nicea, and they well could, then there is nothing to stop them taking Constantinople, and the whole of the old Byzantine Empire piece by piece after that. Then they will be at the very gates of Europe. Disunited, we will not stand.”
“We must not permit it to happen,” Palombara said simply, although the answer was anything but simple. The two-hundred-year-old schism between Rome and Byzantium was deep and had resisted all previous attempts at reconciliation. They were now not only doctrinally apart on many issues, most intractably the issue of the Holy Spirit proceeding from the Father and the Son or the Father only. They were also culturally different in a hundred patterns, beliefs, and observances. These distinctions had become a matter of human pride and identity.
“The emperor Michael Palaeologus has consented to send delegates to the council I have called