The Sheen on the Silk (34 page)

GIULIANO LEFT ZOE’S HOUSE AND WALKED OUT INTO THE broad, open street, barely seeing where he was going. The pain seemed so huge, it threatened to tear through his skin from the inside and overwhelm him. He was filled with shame and the knowledge that this woman he could just remember-a lovely face, tears, warmth, and a sweet smell-not only had not loved him enough to keep him, but had descended to that most despicable of trades.

He had seldom used whores himself; he was handsome and charming and had had no need to. He shivered with a new revulsion at himself when he remembered the times he had.

He barely saw the street around him. Other people were so many blurs of color and movement. He felt sick, cold to the very pit of his belly, and shivering. Thank God at least his father had never known that Maddalena had died by her own hand, beyond the reach of the Church, even in death.

He crossed the busy street, traffic stopping, drivers of carts shouting at him, but their words did not penetrate his mind. He went on down the steep incline toward the Venetian Quarter by the shore.

She had borne him, carried him within her body, and given him life. He hated her for what she had become, yet he had learned love at his father’s knee, at his side. Her name had been the last word he spoke. What was Giuliano if he denied her now?

Damn Zoe Chrysaphes-damn her to a hell of pain that would last all life long-as his would.

Anastasius had been extraordinary. He was a true friend, first rescuing him from being blamed for Gregory Vatatzes’s murder, which he deserved for stupidity, if nothing else, and then defending him against Zoe. Both times it had been at risk to himself: Giuliano was realizing now just how great a risk. And Anastasius had asked for nothing in return. Still, Giuliano could not bear to be with Anastasius again, after this. He was the one person who had seen and heard, and he would never be able to forget it, even if only in anger at Zoe. Or in pity. It was the pity that hurt the deepest.

After stopping at his lodging, he went along to the busy dockyards, looking for any Venetian ship in the harbor. There were two. The first was a merchantman bound for Caesarea, the second just berthed and due out to Venice again within the week.

“Giuliano Dandolo, on the doge’s business,” he introduced himself. “I seek passage home, to report to the doge as soon as possible.”

“Excellent,” the captain said enthusiastically. “A little earlier than I expected, but excellent all the same. Welcome aboard. Boito will be delighted. You may use my cabin. You will not be interrupted.”

Giuliano had no idea what the man was speaking about. “Boito?” he said slowly, searching for meaning in it.

“The doge’s emissary,” the captain replied. “He has letters for you, and no doubt other things too complex or too secret to commit to paper. I was not aware he had even sent word to you yet, but he said it would be today, as soon as possible. Come. I’ll take you.”

In the cramped but well-furnished cabin that was the captain’s domain, Giuliano found himself sitting opposite a narrow-faced, handsome man in his early fifties who produced letters of authority from the doge. He thanked the captain and asked permission to be uninterrupted until he and Giuliano had finished their business.

As soon as the door closed, Boito looked gravely at Giuliano. “I have seen you before. I served Doge Tiepolo. You must have news to have sought me even before I sent you word I was here. Tell me about the Venetian Quarter of the city.”

Giuliano had done his job, spoken casually to all the major families in the quarter, and, perhaps more tellingly, listened to the younger men talking in the cafés and bars along the waterfront and in the street where the best food was served from the stalls. They had been born in Byzantine territory. Their loyalties were torn.

“Those who still have family in Venice will probably remain loyal to us,” he said carefully.

“And the younger ones?” Boito said impatiently.

“Most of them are Byzantine now. They have never been to Venice. Some of them are married to Byzantines, they have homes and business here. There is always the chance that if loyalty to Venice did not move them, faith in the Church of Rome might.”

Boito breathed out very slowly, and his shoulders eased, so slightly that it was visible only in the smallest alteration of the way the creases in his coat changed a fraction. “And you think that faith will not hold them?”

“I doubt it,” he answered.

Boito frowned. “I see. And what is the likelihood of Constantinople accepting the union with the Church of Rome? I know some of the monasteries and maybe most of the outlying towns, perhaps all of Nicea, will refuse. There are even members of the imperial family imprisoned for refusing.”

Giuliano was Venetian. That was where his loyalties must be. And he had promised Tiepolo. The thought of his Byzantine mother was too bitter even to touch. The friends he had made here were mostly Venetian anyway. Constantinople was Zoe Chrysaphes and people like her. Except Anastasius. But you could not distort the fate of nations or the course of a crusade on the friendship of one person, however passionate, generous, or vulnerable.

Yet Anastasius had not hesitated to risk his life to save Giuliano from prosecution for the murder of Gregory. In fact, he had not even asked Giuliano if he were guilty. And he had been willing to fight Zoe in a way for which she would never forgive him. How does a man honor debts to two opposing forces?

“They need more time,” Giuliano answered, dragging his mind back to the moment and this small, wooden-walled cabin, so like all the others he had sailed in. “Give it to them, and they may see the wisdom of it. They need to feel that they are not betraying the faith they understand. You cannot expect a man to deny his God and then be loyal to you.”

Boito made a steeple of his long, thin fingers and regarded Giuliano thoughtfully. “There is little time to give them, whether we wish it or not. The doge is certain that Charles of Anjou is already making plans that will considerably further his ambition to rule all the eastern Mediterranean, including those areas of trade and influence which belong rightfully to Venice. I’m sure you don’t wish to see that happen.”

Giuliano was startled. “But Byzantium won’t stop Charles, because it can’t. They are subtle and wise, and cruel, but their power is waning. Their strength is exhausted. The sack of 1204 devastated them, and they have not yet recovered.”

Boito sat in silence, his hooded eyes distant. Finally he smiled. “Knowledge is what we need, at this point. The doge must know exactly what obstacles lie in the way of the king of the Two Sicilies, and his ambition to be king of Jerusalem also.” His expression was enigmatic. He did not say whether it was to remove the obstacles or to strengthen them. Giuliano had a strong impression it might be the latter.

“To be specific,” Boito continued, “the doge must know the military situation in Palestine, and what an intelligent man would predict for the future. Say, the next three or four years.”

Giuliano turned it over in his mind. It was knowledge of the most intense importance, perhaps to the whole of Christendom and the future of the world. If Charles conquered the Holy Land and united the five ancient patriarchates, it would be the most powerful kingdom in the West.

“I see that you understand,” Boito said with an easing of his smile into warmth. “I suggest you go by the safest route possible, and the most inconspicuous. That would be from here down the coast of Palestine to Acre, and then make your way inland. There are always pilgrims. Attach yourself to one of their groups, and you will pass initially unnoticed. When you return, you will report to the doge himself. No one else. Is that clear?”

“Of course.”

“The doge needs eyes and ears that he can trust. As you love, and owe, the city of your heritage, Dandolo, the city that has given you hope and honor, give her your service now, for the sake of the future.”

“Yes, I will.” There was no other possible answer. Apart from anything else, Giuliano had promised Tiepolo.

ANNA STOOD IN HER HERB ROOM MIXING OINTMENTS AND distilling tinctures. In each of the little wooden drawers of powders, she kept one whole leaf of each type so she would not mistake what it was.

She had watched Giuliano go from Zoe’s house almost blind with the pain of what she had told him, and Anna had known also that her own presence there had made it doubly agonizing for him. She did not expect to see him again in the next few weeks or perhaps even months. That hurt her with a persistent ache, like a hunger, but she knew of no way to heal it.

Zoe’s extraordinary admissions when she had been feverish made her certain beyond doubt. They had planned to kill Michael Palaeologus, and for Bessarion to usurp the throne and then deny the union and rally the country behind him to save the Orthodox Church from Rome.

But how had they thought to withstand the crusader armies? Or had they not even considered that? Were they so steeped in religious fervor that they believed the Virgin Mary would save them?

Justinian had been levelheaded in Nicea, self-mocking at times; he had far too sharp a sense of wit, and of the ironies of life, to trust a man like Bessarion without knowing exactly what he meant to do and how.

She stood with the leaves in her hand, breathing in their aromatic perfume, trying to steady her racing mind.

How had Justinian discovered the plot? Or had he been part of it from the beginning? Then how had he taken so long to realize it could not work?

She looked at the astrolabe on the table with its beautiful inlays and circles, orbits within orbits. Was the plot like that or far simpler: a desperate agreement by all of them, albeit from different priorities? Bessarion for faith, and perhaps-whether he recognized it or not-for ambition and glory for himself, the old power returned to his family. Helena quite simply for power. She had the honesty, or perhaps the lack of conscience, that she had never pretended faith.

Of Esaias, she still knew little. Others had spoken of him as shallow, but that did not have to be true. Knowledge of the plot made her realize everyone might be utterly different from the character they had presented for the purpose of achieving that one overriding aim.

She had finished putting away the herbs and began pouring the tinctures into vials and labeling them.

Antoninus might have been exactly what he now seemed: a man loyal to the Church even at the cost of his own life; a good friend to Justinian, acknowledging his part in it after torture and only when it was pointless to deny it.

But he had joined with Justinian to kill not Michael, in order to save the Church, but Bessarion, and for what? To save Byzantium, because Bessarion had neither the grasp of reality nor the nerve to do as Michael Palaeologus was doing and make the only peace possible?

Justinian had been devoutly against the union from the beginning. His allegiance to Constantine was witness to that. And Constantine’s loyalty to him in return? Was that not one passion that could be trusted?

She stopped working and began to wash her mortar, pestle, and dishes, then put them away.

Justinian was the first, as an outsider, to see Bessarion’s weaknesses as well as his dreams and to realize that far from saving Constantinople, he would seal its fate.

She tried to imagine how he must have felt as the evidence forced itself upon him and little by little he understood that Bessarion must not be allowed to take the throne. If Justinian withdrew from the plan, Demetrios would simply take his place. Bessarion must be stopped. He could have gone to him and tried to persuade him, more and more forcefully as Bessarion resisted. The quarrels had become deeper. In momentary desperation he had gone to others, even to Eirene, but not to Zoe. Why had Justinian and she not allied to serve the common cause?

The only one Justinian had trusted was Antoninus, who in the end had gone to his death tortured and alone. Then who had betrayed Justinian to the authorities?

If Bessarion had lived, the plot would have gone ahead. The next evening, they would have attempted to kill the emperor. Zoe had the courage and the skill to do it, whatever Bessarion’s failings. But had Zoe honestly believed that Bessarion had the courage and the fire to save both the city from the Latins and the Church from Rome?

And would Bessarion have obeyed her, or was his arrogance such that once on the throne he would have defied all advice, especially from a woman? How had she imagined she could manipulate him? Because she had more political intelligence than he, and more realism? Or more allies? Perhaps knowledge of Michael’s network of spies and agents of violence, information, and deceit? Then he could keep his hands clean and still reap the benefits.

Perhaps Zoe would have allowed Bessarion to take the throne and then helped Demetrios Vatatzes to usurp Bessarion. Or was that Eirene’s plan?

Justinian had prevented any of it from happening. If he had killed Bessarion, then far from being a conspirator against the emperor, he had saved his life. Had Michael known that? Had Nicephoras?

And a cold and ugly thought: Had Constantine allowed Justinian to be blamed as an act of revenge for his change of allegiance, his understanding of reality?