Sheen on the Silk - Anne Perry [88]
It was absurd to suppose that popes kept dying because they were not enacting the will of God, yet Palombara could not rid his mind of the thought. It kept dancing at the edge of his grasp all the time, a single reason that made sense of all of it.
He let his imagination roam, tasting ideas, soaking them in as a cat basks in the sun.
The conclave was divided into two great factions, the pro–Charles of Anjou Frenchmen and the anti-Charles Italians. They cast the first ballot, and Palombara was deliriously on the crest of the wave, only two votes short of being elected. His outstretched fingers all but touched the crown.
On September 13, the final vote was cast.
Palombara waited. He had hardly slept for days, lying awake, his mind in a turmoil of hope and self-mockery. He had even stood before the glass and imagined himself in the robes of office, looked at his strong, slender hand and seen the papal ring on it.
Now he waited, like everyone else, too tense to remain seated, too tired to pace more than a few moments. He lost count of time. He was hungry, and even more he was thirsty, but he could not bring himself to leave.
Then at last it was over. A fat cardinal in billowing robes, the sweat streaming down his face, announced that Christendom had a pope again.
Palombara’s heart nearly deafened him. The seventy-one-year-old Portuguese philosopher, theologian, and doctor of medicine, Peter Juliani Rebolo, was elected, as John XXI. Palombara was furious with himself for not having expected it. How could he have been such a fool? He stood in the beautiful hall with a fixed smile on his face as if there were no leaden weight of disappointment crushing inside him, as if he did not hurt intolerably. He smiled at men he hated, connivers and time servers he had courted only hours before. Was this Portuguese philosopher and ex-doctor really God’s choice for the throne of Saint Peter?
The people around him were cheering, voices too loud, filled with false joy, some, like his own, strident with disappointment and fear for their own positions. Everyone knew who had leaned which way openly, for or against. No one knew what deals had been done, bargains made, prices offered or taken in secret.
Within days, he was sent for by yet another new Holy Father, and once again he walked across the square and up the shallow steps through the great arches. Inside, he walked the familiar ornate passageways to the papal apartments.
He knelt and kissed the pope’s ring and repeated his faith and loyalty, his mind racing as to why he had been sent for. What miserable task would he be given to remove him from Rome to where his ambition could be nicely cooled? Where could he do no harm? Probably somewhere in northern Europe, where he would freeze all summer as well as all winter.
John was smiling when Palombara looked up. “My predecessor, God rest his soul in peace, wasted your talents in chasing support for the crusade here in Italy,” he said smoothly. “As did the good Innocent.”
Palombara waited for the blow.
John sighed. “You have both skill and experience regarding the schism between ourselves and the Greek Orthodox Church. I have studied your letters on the subject. You would best serve God and the cause of Christendom if you were to return to Constantinople, as legate to Byzantium, with a special responsibility to continue in the work of healing the differences between us and our brethren.”
Palombara drew in his breath slowly and let it out in silence. The sunlight in the room was so bright, it hurt his eyes.
“It is of the greatest importance,” John said gravely, his words chosen with care and only slightly accented with his native Portuguese. “You must work with all prayer and diligence to this end.” He smiled. “We need Byzantium not only to give lip service to its union with Rome, we need it to be real. We need to see the obedience and be able to prove it to the world. The days when we can afford leniency are past. Do you understand, Enrico?