Sheen on the Silk - Anne Perry [98]
Zoe’s expression froze like white marble, so tightly controlled that neither fury nor relief showed. Then something quite remarkable was there, just for a second, but long enough that Anna was perfectly certain of what it was—admiration.
“How kind of you,” Zoe said in a low voice. “I shall not forget it.”
Thirty
VICENZE RETURNED TO THE HOUSE IN A VICIOUS TEMPER.
“How was your journey to Bithynia?” Palombara asked.
“Pointless,” Vicenze snapped. “I went only because it was my holy duty to try.” He looked at Palombara malevolently, faintly suspicious as to how much he might know or guess. “One of us must do something to win over these obdurate people, or give them room to condemn themselves utterly.”
“So that whatever we do, we are justified.” Palombara was surprised at how bitter he sounded.
“Exactly,” Vicenze agreed. “It was a last attempt.”
“Last?”
Vicenze’s eyebrows rose and there was a gleam of satisfaction in his cold eyes. “Next week we return to Rome. Had you forgotten?”
“Of course not,” Palombara told him. Actually, he had thought it was a little longer than that. He had been considering with some anxiety exactly what he would report to the pope, in what terms he would explain the nature of their failure to gain any more support for the agreement. He had come to the point where he believed that Michael could carry his people sufficiently for the appearance of union with Rome and that the fact of a degree of independence could be disguised. People would always believe differently from one place to another, one social class, one degree of wealth or education or emotional need to another. But he did not think the pope would be well pleased with that. It was an eminently practical answer, but it was not a political victory.
Thirty-one
IT WAS ONLY DAYS AFTER THAT WHEN ANNA ATTENDED AN accident in the street. An old man had tripped and bruised himself badly. She was bending over his leg, examining it, when there was a disturbance in the crowd that had gathered, and a young priest, ashen-faced, elbowed his way through, pushing people aside roughly, calling out her name.
“Is it an emergency?” she asked without looking up. “This man has had a bad shock and needs—”
“Yes, you may already be too late.” The priest reached for her arm and pulled her to her feet. “He is bleeding to death. They have torn his tongue out.”
She turned to the crowd and gestured to the old man. “Take him home. Give him hot drinks and keep him wrapped up. I have to go.”
She picked up her bag and allowed the priest to half drag her around the corner and up an alley to a small house where the door was open. She could hear gagging and wails of fear and distress even before she was inside.
The scene that met her was appalling. A monk knelt sprawled on the floor, blood streaming from his mouth, pooling scarlet on the tiles in front of him, covering his hands and forearms and the front of his robe. He gasped, gagged again, and more blood gushed out of him. His face was gray with pain and terror, his eyes staring. Around him three other monks stood helplessly, not knowing what to do. The man was bleeding to death in front of them.
Anna put down her bag and seized a piece of cloth from one of them, glanced at it quickly to make certain it was clean, then went to the man on the floor. Someone said his name was Nicodemus.
“I can help you,” she said firmly, praying that please God she could. “I’m going to stop the bleeding, and you won’t choke. You’ll have to breathe through your nose. It may be difficult, but you can do it. Keep still and let me press this. It’s going to hurt, but it’s necessary.” And before he could pull away, she put