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.
She remembered Constantine working so hard, until his face was gray with exhaustion and he could barely keep his balance, yet none of the poor, the frightened, or the sick were turned away. What uncontrollable hunger had blurred his vision so badly that he had ended in twisting it all until nothing was honest anymore?
“God doesn’t leave people,” she said aloud. “We leave Him.” Her voice was shaking.
His eyes focused on her. “I served the Church all my life…” he protested.
“I know,” she agreed. “But that’s not the same thing. You created a God in your own image, one of laws and rituals, of office and observances, because that requires only outward acts. It’s simple to understand. You don’t have to feel, or give of your heart. You missed the grace and the passion, the courage beyond anything we can imagine, the hope even in absolute darkness, the gentleness, the laughter, and the love that has no shadow. The journey is longer and steeper than any of us can understand. But then heaven is higher, so it has to be steep, and far.”
He said nothing, his eyes bottomless, like pits dug out of his soul.
She reached for the towel, wrung out the water, and washed his face. She hated him, yet at this moment she would have taken his pain if she could.
“A Church can help,” she went on, in order to fill the silence, so he knew she was still there. “People can always help. We need people. There’s nothing if we don’t care. But the real climb is made not because this person or that person told you what to do, or lifted you on the way, it is made because you hunger for it so much, no one can stop you. You have to want it so that you will pay what it costs.”
“Didn’t I save souls?” he pleaded.
How could she refuse him? Love forgave. In all her anger and pain, she must remember she walked beside, not above. She too needed grace. If it was for a different sin, it was no less necessary.
“You have helped, but Christ redeemed them, and they saved themselves by being the best they could, and trusting in God to mend what was left.”
“Theodosia?” he asked. “I gave her absolution. She needed it. Wasn’t I right?”
“No,” she said softly. “You forgave her without demanding penance because you wanted to please her. You lied to her, and it destroyed her faith. Perhaps it was fragile anyway, but she couldn’t trust a God who would permit what she did to Joanna. You would have known that, if you’d thought about it honestly.”
“No, that’s not true.” But there was no conviction in his voice.
“Yes, it is. You defaced your own truth.”
He stared at her, and very slowly something of what she had said became real to him, and the abyss widened.
She saw it and was seized with pity, and then remorse. But it was too late to take it back. “She walked there willingly.” She touched the cloth to his face again, very gently. “We all do.” She met his eyes. Whatever she would see there, she had no right to look away now.