Sheen on the Silk - Anne Perry [85]
If he hesitated now, Charles would never back him. A man fit to be pope did not need time to weigh his courage. Did he have that clarity of mind so that he would understand the voice of God telling him how to lead the world, or what was true and what was false? Did he have the fire of soul that could bear it? Did such a thing even exist?
He thought again of the strange, effeminate eunuch Anastasius and his plea for gentleness and the humility to learn, to crush the appetite for exclusivity, and to tolerate the different.
“You hesitate,” Masari observed. The withdrawal was already in his voice.
Palombara was angry with himself for his equivocation, his cowardice. A year ago, he would have accepted and considered the cost, even the morality, afterward.
“No,” Palombara denied it. “I have not the stomach to rule a Rome that starts another war with Byzantium. We will lose more than we gain.”
“Is that what God tells you?” Masari asked with a smile.
“It is what my common sense tells me,” Palombara answered him. “God speaks only to the pope.”
Masari shrugged and with a little salute turned and walked away.
The decision came remarkably quickly. It was eleven days later, January 21, a dark, windy day, when Palombara’s servant came running across the courtyard, his feet splashing in the puddles. He barely knocked on the carved wooden door before entering the study, his face flushed with exertion.
“They have chosen Pierre de Tarentaise, Cardinal Bishop of Ostia,” he said breathlessly. “He has taken the name of Innocent the Fifth, Your Grace.”
Palombara was stunned. His immediate thought was that Charles of Anjou had supported him all along, and Palombara had been ridiculous to imagine that Masari had been offering him anything except a chance to declare his loyalties. He was a pawn, no more.
“Thank you, Filippo,” Palombara said absently. “I am obliged you came so hastily.”
Filippo withdrew.
Palombara sat at his desk, his body frozen, his mind whirling. Pierre de Tarentaise. Palombara knew him, at least to speak to. They had both been at the Council of Lyons; Tarentaise had actually read the sermon.
Then another thought came to him: Apparently he was taking the name of Innocent V. It was Innocent III who had been pope when Enrico Dandolo had set off on the crusade whose soldiers had sacked and burned Constantinople in 1204. Choosing the name of Innocent was a statement of intent, as such choices always were. Palombara must think carefully indeed where his own path lay.
He entered the familiar high-windowed rooms, his heart pounding with anticipation, already hardening himself against failure, as though bracing himself would make the pain less.
It was only now that he realized how keenly he wanted to return to Constantinople. He longed for the complexity of the East and to be part of the struggle he had seen begin there. He wanted to persuade at least some of those clerics to bend and save what was good of their belief so it was not lost to the wider faith. He wanted to explore their different concept of wisdom; it intrigued him, promising a more rounded explanation of thought, less didactic and in the end more tolerant.
He was finally ushered into the Holy Father’s presence and entered with all the appropriate humility. Innocent was already over fifty, a fair, mild-faced man, nearly bald, and now dressed in the magnificent regalia of his new office.
Palombara knelt and kissed his ring, making the usual formal protestations of his loyalty. Then on Innocent’s invitation, he rose to his feet again.
“I am familiar with your opinions on Byzantium and the Greek Church in general,” Innocent began. “Your work has been excellent.”
“Thank you, Holy Father,” Palombara said humbly.
“His Holiness Pope Gregory informed me that he had sent you to Tuscany to see what support you could raise for the crusade,” Innocent continued. “It