“And are they relying on another miracle?” Vicenze asked with a sarcastic pitch to his voice.
Palombara put an equal surprise in his reply. “Really, I have no idea. If you wish to know, you should ask one of their bishops. Perhaps Constantine could enlighten you.”
“I don’t care!” Vicenze snapped icily.
Later, alone, Palombara walked up the steep incline to a place where he could see over the narrow stretch of water to Asia. He was on the edge of the Christian world, and beyond it was a yet unknown force.
Yet it was the West that had destroyed Byzantium in the past and was poised to do so again.
What could he do? His mind ranged over a dozen options, all of them useless. The answer was not what he wished, yet he cared enough to be honest with himself and admit that it was the only one. He turned away from the cold wind and the sea and started to climb up the steep street toward the magnificent house of Zoe Chrysaphes.
She greeted him with amusement.
“You did not come merely to inform me that you are in Constantinople again,” she observed. “Or to commiserate with us over the excommunication of the emperor.” There was self-mockery in her face and a certain bitterness.
He smiled back at her. “I did consider asking your help in converting him to the Roman faith.”
She started to laugh, then stopped herself, and it was only just before it turned to weeping.
“Of course,” he continued, “that would achieve nothing. The pope is a Frenchman, bought and paid for by His Majesty of Naples. That is a debt you could pay for forever without having purchased anything.”
She was surprised by his candor. “So what is it you want, Palombara?” she asked without disguising her curiosity, and with a certain warmth.
“Should we expect God to achieve by miracle what we could do for ourselves, with labor and a degree of intelligence?” he asked.
“How very Roman of you,” she said with mockery, but she was far too interested to disguise it. “What miracles did you have in mind?”
“Saving Constantinople from defeat and occupation by Charles of Anjou,” he replied.
“Really? Why?” She stood perfectly still; only the flames of the fire in the great hearth gave an illusion of movement in the room.
“Because if Byzantium falls, then the rest of Christendom will not be far behind it,” he replied. That was not the whole truth. Part of Palombara’s motivation was anger at the hollowness of the papacy, the departure from the passion and the honor that it should have had. And part of it was, to his surprise, that he had come to admire the subtlety and the intricate, devious beauty of Byzantine culture. If it was ruined, the world would lose.
She nodded slowly. “Why are you telling me? It is the pope who needs to know. He is shortsighted, and worldly. Why do you suppose we in the Orthodox Church hate the idea of owing him allegiance?”
“I came to suggest a different course of action.”
Her eyes widened. “Different from what?”
“From pouring Greek fire over the walls onto the heads of the invaders,” he replied with a smile. “Not that I have anything against that. I would just like to strike a little sooner.”
He had her complete attention.
“At his support in Europe, before he sets sail,” he continued. “Particularly in Spain, Portugal, possibly parts of France. To foment trouble, insurrection, to appeal to self-interest, trade, to make very clear indeed some of the disadvantages if Charles of Anjou succeeds.”
“Trouble costs money,” she pointed out, but the flame was back in her eyes. “Michael’s Treasury is fully engaged in armaments for defense.”
Palombara knew that Michael’s Treasury was all but empty, but he did not say so. “What about the great merchant houses of Constantinople?” he asked instead. “Could they not be persuaded to contribute-handsomely?”
Very slowly, she smiled. “You know, my lord bishop, I think they could. I am sure there are… ways to convince them.”
He kept his eyes on hers. “If I can be of assistance, please tell me.”
“Oh, I will. May I offer you wine? Almonds?”
He accepted, as if to eat and drink together sealed a bargain.
Eighty-six
THE WINTER SEEMED TO ZOE UNNATURALLY DARK, BUT after Palombara’s visit the cold no longer touched her bones. She knew what she was going to do, it merely required a little thought as to exactly how.
She knew from Scalini and other men like him that the forces of the new crusade were gathering in the West. He had brought her word of siege engines, catapults, horse armor and trappings ready for the foot soldiers and the mounted knights that would mass in Sicily. They would storm Constantinople, then ride in triumph into Jerusalem, with Charles of Anjou at their head. Anyone in their path would be trampled. A road stained with blood had never troubled crusaders.
Also of great concern to Zoe was the change in Helena. It dated since soon after Eirene’s death-so soon, in fact, that it was hard to believe they were unconnected. The conclusion was unpleasantly clear. Somehow Helena had found out who her father was.
Zoe stood warming herself by the fire. The thought of Helena kept returning to her mind, so sharp that it was as if someone had left a window open, letting in a knife cut of ice-laden air from outside.
Helena would not stand on the walls with her mother and pour fire on the invaders, then die in her own funeral pyre. She was a survivor, not a martyr. She would find a way to escape and start again somewhere else. And she would certainly escape with money.
Michael would never yield. He would die before he accommodated Charles. Not that Charles would leave him alive anyway. He would destroy all royal claimants, and if Helena did not know that, then she was a fool. Her birth would be her death sentence. Charles would leave his puppet emperor without a rival of any sort.
The answer came to Zoe with the scorching heat of the Greek fire she planned to use. If Charles wanted to hold Byzantium with a hand of peace, to free his armies to go on to Jerusalem, what better than to marry his puppet emperor to a legitimate heir of the Palaeologi? Murder Michael and Andronicus, and who was left? Helena!
Zoe’s mind raced, horrified. It was betrayal beyond imagining.
She sat with her arms around herself, shivering in spite of the fire. Before it came anywhere near that, she must raise the money Palombara had suggested, buy all the trouble, anger, and rebellion she could. And she knew now exactly where that money was coming from.
Her power had always lain in knowledge of other people’s secrets and the proof that could ruin them. The man to help her now was Philotheos Makrembolites. She had heard only last week that he was on his deathbed. Perfect! In pain, frightened, and with nothing to lose.