Sheen on the Silk - Anne Perry [42]
Constantine bowed, but there was little obeisance in it.
A few moments later, Palombara and Vicenze were permitted to leave.
“That eunuch could prove a nuisance,” Vicenze said in Italian as the Varangian Guard accompanied them on their way out into the air where there was a breathtaking view of the city beneath them. He gave a little shiver, and his lip curled with distaste. “If we cannot convert people like that”—he carefully avoided using the term man—“then we will have to think of a way of subverting their power.”
“At the height of their power eunuchs ran the whole court and much of the government,” Palombara informed Vicenze with perverse satisfaction. “They were bishops, generals in the army, ministers of government and law, mathematicians, philosophers, and physicians.”
“Well, Rome will put an end to that!” Vicenze said with savage satisfaction. “We are not come a day too late.” And he marched forward, leaving Palombara to catch up with him.
Thirteen
PALOMBARA BUSIED HIMSELF LEARNING MORE ABOUT HOW the emperor might strengthen his position in the eyes of his people. If they truly regarded him as “Equal of the Apostles,” then they might believe he guided them righteously in their religious choice, as he had in their military and governmental ones.
He went to the great cathedral of the Hagia Sophia, but it was not to worship, and certainly not to partake in the Orthodox Mass. He wished to experience the differences between the Greek and the Roman.
The service was more emotionally moving than he had expected. There was a passionate solemnity to it in this ancient cathedral with its mosaics, its icons, and its pillars, the gold-surfaced niches surrounding the marvelous, somber-eyed figures of saints, the Madonna, and Christ Himself. In the dim light they glowed with an almost animate presence, and in spite of himself he found his intellectual appreciation overtaken by awe for the genius and the beauty of it. The vast dome seemed almost to float above its high circle of windows, as if there were no support for it of brick or stone. He had heard the legend that the building of it was beyond human ability, and that the dome itself had been miraculously suspended from heaven by a golden chain, held by angels until the pillars could be secured. The tale had amused him at the time, but here in this glory it did not seem impossible.
He was on the outer steps when he saw, a little apart from the crowd, a woman of more than average height. She had an extraordinary face. She was at least sixty, possibly more, but she stood with a perfect, even arrogant posture. She had high cheekbones, a mouth too wide, too sensuous, and heavy-lidded, golden eyes. She was looking at him, singling him out. He felt both flattered and uncomfortable as she approached him.
“You are the papal legate from Rome.” Her voice was strong, and seen closer up her face was full of a vitality that demanded his attention and his interest.
“I am,” he agreed. “Enrico Palombara.”
She gave a slight shrug; it was almost a voluptuous gesture. “Zoe Chrysaphes,” she answered. “Have you come to see the home of the Holy Wisdom, before you attempt to destroy it? Does its beauty touch your soul, or only your eyes?”
Nothing in her invited pity. She was an aspect of Byzantium he had not seen before—perhaps the ancient spirit that had survived the barbarians when Rome had fallen: passionate, dangerous, and intensely Greek. The energy in her fascinated him, as a flame draws a night insect.
“What is perceived only by the eyes does not necessarily have meaning,” he replied.
She smiled, instantly aware of the subtle flattery implied and amused by it. This could be the beginning of a long duel, if she really cared about the Orthodox faith and keeping it from Roman contamination.
She arched her fine brows. “How could I know? We have nothing meaningless.” The laughter in her was almost expressed.
He waited.
“Have you no fear that perhaps you are wrong to demand our submission?” she asked at length. “Does it not waken you in the night, when you