“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.