The Sheen on the Silk (51 page)

CONSTANTINE WAS DESPERATE. IT WAS THREE WEEKS SINCE he had killed Zoe Chrysaphes and then a few days later conducted the funeral service for her in the Hagia Sophia. He had offered the Mass and given a eulogy almost fit for a saint.

Now in the solitude of his courtyard, the euphoria had passed and he was dogged by nightmares. He fasted, he prayed, but still they haunted him. Of course it was the work of God that he had destroyed Zoe. He had only ever allied with her in her plot to overthrow Michael so that Bessarion, a true son of the Church, could defy the union with Rome and save the faith.

And then Justinian Lascaris had killed Bessarion, so it had never come to fruition. Should he have agreed with Michael to help Justinian escape death? Perhaps Justinian had been right, and Bessarion would never have had the passion or the skill to defend them, or on the other hand, maybe Justinian had intended to take the throne himself?

Constantine had not pleaded for Justinian’s life. Far from it. He was afraid that if Justinian had lived, he might have betrayed them all. But Michael wanted to save him and had used Constantine’s name to do it, saying he had yielded to his pleas for mercy.

Now Zoe still plagued his dreams: She lay on her back, a lush, full-breasted woman, thighs apart in a mockery of his own emptiness. It was a humiliation, an obscenity, yet he could not look away.

Everything was sliding out of control. The emperor had betrayed the entire nation by selling out to Rome, and worse than that, he had done it so publicly that there was hardly a man, woman, or even child in Constantinople who did not know of it.

Now was the time for a miracle. Another month, two months, and it would be too late.

Yet Constantine was startled when his servant informed him that Bishop Vicenze was here and wished to speak with him. He disliked the man intensely, not only for his calling to undermine the Church in Byzantium and the fact that he came from Rome, but personally as well. Vicenze lacked any kind of humility. Still, Constantine had prayed for a miracle, and he must not stand in the way of its occurrence, if in some way Vicenze was part of it.

Constantine set aside the text he was reading and stood up. “Have him come in,” he instructed.

Today Vicenze was dressed very plainly, almost as if he wished to pass unnoticed, whereas usually he was self-important.

They exchanged formal greetings: Constantine guardedly, Vicenze with uncharacteristic ease, as if keen to reach his purpose for having come.

Constantine offered him wine, fruit, and nuts. Vicenze accepted his hospitality, making light conversation of irrelevances until the servant had left. Then he turned straight to Constantine, his eyes brilliant with urgency.

“The situation in the city is very serious,” he said, his voice sharp. “Fear is mounting every day, and we are on the brink of civil unrest, which could be disastrous for the well-being of the poor and the most vulnerable.”

“I know,” Constantine agreed, taking a handful of almonds from the exquisite porphyry bowl. “They are terrified of the army that Charles of Anjou will bring. They grew up on tales of crusader murders and destruction.” He could not resist saying that, reminding Vicenze that because he was Roman he was partisan in the atrocity.

Vicenze bit his lip. “They need something to restore their faith in God, and in the Blessed Virgin,” he said firmly. “Faith is greater than all the fear in the world. Brave men, giants in the cause of Christ, have faced crucifixion, lions, the fires of torture, and not flinched. They have gone to martyrdom because their faith was perfect. We are not asking that of the people, only belief, so God can work the miracle that will save not only their souls, but their bodies as well, maybe even their homes, their city. Has not the Blessed Virgin done it before, when the people trusted in her?”

In spite of his loathing for the man, Constantine was drawn into his vision. He spoke the truth, pure and lovely as the first light of dawn in a blemishless sky. “Yes… yes, she has, in the face of the impossible,” he agreed.

“The invaders are coming by sea,” Vicenze countered. “Has not God power over the wind and the waves? Could Christ not walk upon the water, and calm the storm-or cause one?”

Constantine felt his breath tighten. “But it would be a miracle. We have not the passion of faith to bring such a thing to pass.”

“Then we must gain it!” Vicenze said, his eyes gleaming. “The faith of the people could save them, and surely there is nothing else left that will?”

“But what can we do?” Constantine said in a whisper. “They are too frightened to believe anymore.”

“All they need is to see the hand of God in something, and they will believe again,” Vicenze replied. “You must perform a smaller miracle for them, not only to the saving of their bodies, and your city and all it has been in the world, but to the saving of their souls. They are your charge, your holy responsibility.”

“I thought you wanted their loyalty to Rome?” Constantine said.

Vicenze gave what passed for a smile. “Dead they are lost to all of us. And perhaps it has not occurred to you, but I do not want the souls of the crusaders stained with Christian blood either.”

Constantine believed him. “What can we do?” he asked.

Vicenze took a deep breath and let it out softly. “There is a fine man, a good man, one who has helped his fellows, given of his means to the poor, and is deeply loved by all who know him. He is a Venetian living here, by the name of Andrea Mocenigo. He is aware of the situation-that we stand on the brink of destruction-and he will help.”

Constantine was lost. “How? What can he do?”

“Everyone knows Mocenigo is ill,” Vicenze said. “He is prepared to take a poison which will make him collapse. I will carry an antidote to it, and when you come to bless him, in the name of God and the Holy Virgin, I will give it to him, discreetly, and he will recover. People will see a miracle, dramatic and unmistakable. Word will spread, and faith will leap up again as a fire. Hope will be restored.” He did not add that Constantine would be seen as a hero, even a saint.

A sharp whisper of doubt stabbed Constantine’s mind. “Then why do you not do it yourself? Then the people would give Rome the credit.”

Vicenze’s mouth turned down at the corners. “The people mistrust me,” he said simply. “It must be someone they have seen in the service of God all their lives. I know of no one else with that reputation in Constantinople.”

All this was true, Constantine knew. This was what he had worked and waited for all his life.

“Who knows?” Vicenze went on. “Maybe God will grant you a real miracle. Is this not the purpose for which you have lived?”

It was. Whatever Vicenze did, whatever that loathsome Palombara said to him, Constantine would be unshakable, without doubt or fear, his mind as clear as a burning light. He would not fail.

But he still would use his mind, his experience, and his own safeguards. He would say nothing of them to Vicenze, who for all his unwitting usefulness was still the enemy.

“I do not want a theological debate about it!” Constantine said furiously to Anastasius when asking for his help and receiving in return a passionate argument against the whole idea. “I want you there as a physician to attend Mocenigo, in case Vicenze is not to be trusted.”

“Of course he is not to be trusted,” Anastasius said bitterly. “What on earth can I do?”

“Carry another dose of the antidote,” Constantine retorted. “You cannot refuse to do that. If you do, you are turning your back on Mocenigo, and on the people.”

Anastasius sighed. He was caught, and they both knew it. If he spoke out against the plot or betrayed its nature to the people, it would shatter the belief they were clinging to, perhaps even provoke the final panic that could crush them all.

ANNA ENTERED THE HOUSE OF MOCENIGO WITH ONLY A faint thought in the back of her mind that this was where Giuliano had lived for so long. All her conscious thought was for Mocenigo’s distress. She could feel the anxiety and the fear as soon as she entered. There was that peculiar, tense hush that comes with awareness of profound suffering that is expected to end in the death of someone who is deeply loved.

Mocenigo’s wife, Teresa, met her at the door of his room. Her face was pale and hollow-eyed from lack of sleep, and her hair was pinned back simply to keep it out of the way, with no thought for beauty.

“I am glad you have come,” she said simply. “The last medicine seems to have made him worse. We rely entirely upon Bishop Constantine. God is our last refuge. Perhaps He should have been the first?”

Anna realized that Mocenigo himself might be party to the miracle, but his wife was not. It was too late to matter now. Anna followed her into Mocenigo’s room.

It was stifling. The sun beat on the roofs and the windows were closed. The air smelled of body fluids, of pain and disease.

Mocenigo himself was lying on top of the bed. His face was scarlet and bloated, sheened with sweat, and there were blisters around his mouth. The small vial of liquid in the pocket of Anna’s robe did not seem much remedy for this terrible distress.

Mocenigo opened his eyes and looked at her. He smiled, even through the pain that all but consumed him. “I think it will take a miracle to bring me back from this,” he said, dry humor lighting his face for an instant, then vanishing. “But even for a day or two, it would be worth it, if it strengthens the people’s faith. Byzantium has been good to me. I would like to repay… a little.”

She said nothing. The deceit of it saddened her, and she hated Constantine for forcing her to be part of it. Yet perhaps Mocenigo was right, and the people would be richer for it. It was his last gift to those he loved.

There was a faint noise from outside, as if the crowd were growing larger. Word had spread that Mocenigo was dying and that Constantine would shortly come to see him. Was it grief or hope that brought them? Or both?

There was a roar and then a cheer. Anna knew that Constantine had arrived. A moment later, one of his servants came to the sickroom door and requested that Mocenigo be brought out where his well-wishers could see him.

Anna stepped forward to refuse him. “You can’t-”

But she was overridden. Constantine’s servant was giving orders, and other people were coming in, solemn-faced, preparing to put him on a litter and lift him out. No one was listening to Anna. She was merely a physician, where Constantine spoke for God.

She followed outside. Mocenigo was in such distress that he said nothing, too weak to protest. His wife, ashen-faced, simply obeyed Constantine’s servant.

There were now more than two hundred people in the street, and soon it would be three hundred and then four.

Constantine stood on the top step, holding up his hands for silence. “I have not come to give this good man the last rites or prepare him for death,” he said clearly.

“You’d better prepare us all!” a voice shouted. “We’re just as done for as he is!”

There was a roar of agreement, and several people waved their arms.

Constantine raised his hands higher. “The threat is real, and terrible,” he cried loudly. “But if the Holy Mother of God is with us, what can it matter if all men are against us, or the legions of darkness either?”

The noise subsided. Several people crossed themselves.

“I come to seek the will of God,” Constantine went on. “And if He grants me, to beseech the Holy Virgin to allow this man to be healed of his affliction, as a sign that we too will be healed of ours, and saved from the abominations of the invaders.”

There was a moment’s incredulity. People turned to one another, puzzled, daring to hope. Then the cheer went up even more loudly than before, a little hysterical, hundreds willing themselves to believe, they knew the strength of faith to make such a miracle possible, and all the wild hope that went with it.

Constantine smiled, lowered his hands, and turned to Mocenigo. The sick man was now lying on the pallet in front of him, breathing shallowly, but seeming to be at ease.

The crowd fell into an almost paralyzed silence. No one even shuffled a foot.

Constantine lowered his hands and placed them on Mocenigo’s head.

Anna searched with increasing panic for sight of Vicenze in the crowd; then she saw him, close by but not to the fore, as if he were here only to witness. Better it were so.

Constantine’s voice rose clear and charged with emotion. He called on the Holy Virgin Mary to heal Andrea Mocenigo, as a blessing to him for his faith and as a sign to the people that she still watched over them and would keep and preserve them in the face of all adversity.

Vicenze stepped forward, and as Constantine raised Mocenigo up, Vicenze passed him water and together they ministered to him. Vicenze stepped back.

Everyone waited. The air seemed dense with the burden of hope and fear.

Then Mocenigo gave a terrible cry and clutched at his throat, his body twisting in agony. He tore at himself, screaming.

Anna ran forward, pushing everyone out of her way, even though she already knew it was too late. The antidote Vicenze had given Mocenigo was poison. Perhaps hers would be poison to him as well. She dared not use it in what would surely be a useless attempt now.

Mocenigo was choking. She got to him just as he writhed and fell off the litter, vomiting blood. There was nothing she could do but support him so he did not choke and drown. Even so, it was only moments before he gave a last, agonizing convulsion and his heart stopped.

The nearest man in the crowd howled with terror and rage, then charged forward, knocking Constantine off his feet. Others followed, shouting and lashing out. They hauled Constantine half up, dragging him along, all the time cursing him and beating his head and face and body with fists, kicking him and hurling anything they could grasp. It seemed as if they would tear him apart.

Anna was appalled by the savagery of it, and even as he was thrashed and hauled and half carried away, she could see Constantine’s terror. Then there was another face in the crowd she knew, Palombara. Their eyes met for an instant, and she understood that he had foreseen it: Vicenze’s plan, the poison, the violence.

She laid Mocenigo down. There was nothing anyone could do for him now, except cover his face so his last agony was given some privacy. Then she lunged forward, striking at those in her way, shouting at them to leave Constantine alone.

She screamed until her throat ached. “Don’t kill him! It won’t… For the love of God, stop it!” A blow landed on her back and shoulders, sending her forward, crashing into the man ahead of her, then another blow drove her to her knees. All around were faces distorted with hate and terror. The noise was indescribable. This must be what hell was like-blind, insane rage.

Anna clambered to her feet, was almost knocked over again, and started to move in the direction she thought they had dragged Constantine.

She shouted, pleading with them, but nobody was listening. Someone howled in terror: It was a man’s voice, shrill and unrecognizable. It was hideous with the indignity of its nakedness. Was it Constantine, reduced to the least he could become? She lunged forward again, striking and shouting and kicking to make her way.

Palombara saw her for an instant, then lost her again. He knew what she was doing. He understood the horror and the pity in her. That brief second when he met her eyes, it was as clear to him as if he had felt it himself, the passion for life, the courage that could not deny, whatever the cost. She was vulnerable. She could be so desperately hurt, even killed, and he could not bear that. He would not live with that light gone.

He fought his way toward her, his priest’s calling forgotten, his robes torn, his fists bleeding. He ignored the blows that landed on him. He knew they hated him. To them he was Roman, a symbol of all that had accomplished their ruin time and time again. Still, he must reach Anna and get her out of this; what happened after that was in the hands of God.

Another blow knocked him almost senseless. The pain was stunning, taking his breath away. It seemed like minutes before he could get his balance back, but it must have been only seconds. He lashed out, shouting at the huge man in front of him.

Palombara hit him. It felt good to put all his weight behind it, all the fury and frustration he had ever known. For an instant, that man was every cardinal who had lied and connived, every pope who had failed his promises, who had equivocated, stuffed the Vatican with his sycophants, been a coward where he should have been brave, arrogant where he should have been humble.

The man went down, teeth broken on Palombara’s fist, his mouth gushing blood. Hell, but it hurt! Palombara’s hand stabbed with pain right up to his shoulder, and it was only then that he noticed the broken shard of tooth, like bone, embedded in his knuckles.

Where was Anna? He plowed forward, beating and flailing, knocked sideways again and again by blows himself. There was a gash in his shoulder bleeding badly, and it hurt to breathe.

Then she was there in front of him, dust and blood on her clothes, a bruise on her cheekbone. There was too much noise for him to speak to her; he simply grasped her arm and dragged her after him in the direction he thought would lead to escape. He kept her in the shelter of his own body, taking the blows meant for both of them. One to his chest hurt so intensely that he stopped, for seconds unable to draw any breath into his lungs. He was aware of her holding him. Without realizing it, he had sunk to his knees. The crowd was parting a little. He could see clear space ahead.

“Go!” he said hoarsely. “Get away from here.”

Still she held him. “I’m not leaving you. Just breathe slowly, don’t gasp.”

“I can’t.” His chest was tighter. There was blood in his throat. It was getting harder to concentrate, to stay conscious. “Go!”

She bent down to him, holding him closer, as if she would give him her strength. She was going to wait with him! He did not want her to. He wanted her to survive. Her passion, with its cost, had shown him that hell was worse and heaven far, far more exquisite than he had dreamed-and both were real.

“For God’s sake, get out of here!” he rasped, his mouth filling with blood. “I don’t want to die for nothing. Don’t… don’t do that to me! Give me something…” He could still feel her arms around him, then just as the darkness had closed over him, he felt her let him go, and suddenly it was light. He knew he was smiling. He meant to.

Anna staggered to her feet. In a few moments, there was a break in the crowd and she saw someone holding out a hand to her. She took it and was pulled beyond the fury into a calm, dusty space. Then a door was opened and she was inside a house. She thanked the man. He looked exhausted and frightened, possibly no older than his twenties.

“Are you all right?” she asked him.

He was shaking, embarrassed by his own weakness. “Yes,” he assured her. “More or less. I think they killed the bishop.”

She knew Palombara was dead, but this young man was speaking of Constantine. To him, Palombara was a Roman and of no importance.

The young man was wrong; Constantine was badly beaten, but he was definitely alive and still conscious, although in great pain. His servant, arms bloody, face swollen with bruises, came to Anna and asked her help. They had carried him into a nearby house, and the owner had given up his own room so Constantine could have the best bed, the greatest comfort possible.

She went with the servant; there was no alternative she could live with.

The owner of the house and his wife were waiting, white-faced, horrified at the violence, the tragedy, and above all at what appeared to be a total collapse of sanity.

“Save him,” the wife pleaded as Anna came in. Her eyes beseeched Anna for some hope.

“I will do all I can,” Anna said, then followed the servant up the narrow stairs.

Constantine was lying on the bed, his torn and bloody dalmatica removed. His tunic was crumpled and filthy with dirt from the street, but someone had done his best to straighten it and make him as comfortable as possible. There was a ewer of water on the table and several bottles of wine and jars of perfumed unguent. One look at Constantine’s face told her that they would do little good. His ribs were broken, his collarbones, and one hip. He was certainly bleeding inside where no one could reach it.

She sat on the chair beside him. To touch him would only cause greater pain.

“God has left me,” he said. His eyes were empty of all passion, looking inward on an abyss from which there was no return.

Christ had promised that in the resurrection every human being would be made whole again; not a hair of the head would be lost. That must mean that everything would be restored as it should have been, without accident, withering, or mutilation. Should she tell him that? Would it be of any comfort now, when it was his soul that had been squandered? That was the inner self that remained into eternity.