Sheen on the Silk - Anne Perry [41]
“I understand, Majesty,” Palombara answered. “We are faced with hard choices. We pick the best of them.”
Vicenze bowed so slightly, it was barely discernible. “We will do what is right, Majesty. We understand that haste would be unfortunate.”
Michael looked at him dubiously. “Very unfortunate,” he agreed.
Vicenze drew in his breath sharply.
Palombara froze, dreading the clumsiness of what Vicenze might say and yet a tiny part of him wishing for his downfall.
Michael waited.
“There would be little to recommend failure, in any way,” Palombara said quietly. As a matter of pride, he wanted Michael to see him quite separately from Vicenze.
“Indeed.” Michael nodded. Then he looked beyond them and signaled for someone to come forward. He was obeyed by a person of curious stature, walking with an oddly graceful gate. His face was large and beardless, and when he spoke, with the emperor’s permission, his voice was as soft as a woman’s and yet not feminine.
Michael introduced him as Bishop Constantine.
They acknowledged each other formally and with some discomfort.
Constantine turned to Michael. “Majesty,” he said emphatically, “the patriarch, Cyril Choniates, should also be consulted. His approval would be of great service toward persuading the people to accept unity with Rome. Perhaps you have not been advised of the depth of feeling there is?” He phrased it as a question, but the emotion in his voice made it into a warning.
Palombara found him an uncomfortable presence because of his indeterminate masculinity, but the strange person also seemed to be laboring to hide some passion he was afraid to show. Yet it was so powerful that it broke through in the ridiculous gestures of his pale, heavy hands and now and then in a loss of control in his voice.
Michael’s face darkened. “Cyril Choniates is no longer in office.”
Constantine was not deflected. “The monks are likely to be the most difficult section of the Church to convince that we should forfeit our ancient ways and submit to Rome, Majesty,” he stated. “Cyril could help with that.”
Michael stared at him, the expression in his face changing from certainty to doubt. “You puzzle me, Constantine,” he said at last. “First you are against union, now you are addressing me how best to smooth the path for it. You seem to change like water in the wind.”
Suddenly Palombara had an acutely awkward awareness, as if someone had taken a blindfold from his eyes. How could he have been so slow to see? Bishop Constantine was one of the eunuchs of the court of Byzantium. Palombara found himself looking away and was aware of a heat in his cheeks and a disturbing consciousness of his own wholeness. He had associated passion and strength with masculinity, and effeminacy with change, weakness, lack of decision or courage. It seemed Michael felt the same.
“The sea is made of water, Majesty,” Constantine said softly, staring at Michael without lowering his glance. “Christ walked upon the lake of Gennesareth, but we would be wise to treat it with greater caution and respect. Or else lacking faith, as Peter did, we may drown without a divine hand reaching to save us.”
The silence prickled in the great room.
Michael drew in his breath slowly, then let it out again. He studied the bishop’s face for a long time. Constantine did not waver.
Vicenze drew in his breath to speak, and Palombara poked him sharply, with his elbow. He heard Vicenze gasp.
“I have no confidence that Cyril Choniates will see the necessity of union,” Michael said at last. “He is an idealist, and I am guardian of the practical.”
“Practicality is the art of what will work, Majesty,” Constantine replied. “I know you are too good a son of the Church to suggest that faith in God does not work.”
Palombara barely hid a smile, but no one was looking at him.
“If I decide to seek Cyril’s help,” Michael said carefully, his eyes unwavering, “I know you will be the man to send to him, Constantine. Until then I look to you to persuade your flock to keep faith both in God and in