“At the height of their power eunuchs ran the whole court and much of the government,” Palombara informed Vicenze with perverse satisfaction. “They were bishops, generals in the army, ministers of government and law, mathematicians, philosophers, and physicians.”
“Well, Rome will put an end to that!” Vicenze said with savage satisfaction. “We are not come a day too late.” And he marched forward, leaving Palombara to catch up with him.
Thirteen
PALOMBARA BUSIED HIMSELF LEARNING MORE ABOUT HOW the emperor might strengthen his position in the eyes of his people. If they truly regarded him as “Equal of the Apostles,” then they might believe he guided them righteously in their religious choice, as he had in their military and governmental ones.
He went to the great cathedral of the Hagia Sophia, but it was not to worship, and certainly not to partake in the Orthodox Mass. He wished to experience the differences between the Greek and the Roman.
The service was more emotionally moving than he had expected. There was a passionate solemnity to it in this ancient cathedral with its mosaics, its icons, and its pillars, the gold-surfaced niches surrounding the marvelous, somber-eyed figures of saints, the Madonna, and Christ Himself. In the dim light they glowed with an almost animate presence, and in spite of himself he found his intellectual appreciation overtaken by awe for the genius and the beauty of it. The vast dome seemed almost to float above its high circle of windows, as if there were no support for it of brick or stone. He had heard the legend that the building of it was beyond human ability, and that the dome itself had been miraculously suspended from heaven by a golden chain, held by angels until the pillars could be secured. The tale had amused him at the time, but here in this glory it did not seem impossible.
He was on the outer steps when he saw, a little apart from the crowd, a woman of more than average height. She had an extraordinary face. She was at least sixty, possibly more, but she stood with a perfect, even arrogant posture. She had high cheekbones, a mouth too wide, too sensuous, and heavy-lidded, golden eyes. She was looking at him, singling him out. He felt both flattered and uncomfortable as she approached him.
“You are the papal legate from Rome.” Her voice was strong, and seen closer up her face was full of a vitality that demanded his attention and his interest.
“I am,” he agreed. “Enrico Palombara.”
She gave a slight shrug; it was almost a voluptuous gesture. “Zoe Chrysaphes,” she answered. “Have you come to see the home of the Holy Wisdom, before you attempt to destroy it? Does its beauty touch your soul, or only your eyes?”
Nothing in her invited pity. She was an aspect of Byzantium he had not seen before-perhaps the ancient spirit that had survived the barbarians when Rome had fallen: passionate, dangerous, and intensely Greek. The energy in her fascinated him, as a flame draws a night insect.
“What is perceived only by the eyes does not necessarily have meaning,” he replied.
She smiled, instantly aware of the subtle flattery implied and amused by it. This could be the beginning of a long duel, if she really cared about the Orthodox faith and keeping it from Roman contamination.
She arched her fine brows. “How could I know? We have nothing meaningless.” The laughter in her was almost expressed.
He waited.
“Have you no fear that perhaps you are wrong to demand our submission?” she asked at length. “Does it not waken you in the night, when you are alone, and the darkness around you is full of thoughts, good and evil? Then do you not wonder if it is the devil who speaks to you and not God?”
He was startled. It was not what he had expected her to say.
She was staring at him, searching his eyes. Then she laughed, a full-throated, rich sound of pulsing life. “Ah, I see! You don’t hear anyone’s voice at all-do you-only silence. Eternal silence. That is Rome’s secret-there is no one there except yourselves!”
He looked at the intelligence and the victory in her face. She had seen the emptiness inside him.
He stood still facing her while the departing people swirled around them. He could sense her pain, like the touch of fire. He could even empathize with her, but in the end the union was going to happen, with or without Zoe Chrysaphes’s agreement. All this unique glory of the eye, the ear, and, above all, the mind could be destroyed by the ignorant, if the crusader armies stormed through here yet again.
Knowing her might give him an advantage it would be wise not to let Vicenze know about.
In the weeks that followed, Palombara pursued his interest in Zoe Chrysaphes discreetly, listening for her name rather than raising it himself, collecting many facts about her once powerful family. Her only child, Helena, who had married into the ancient imperial house of Comnenos, had been recently widowed by murder.
It was rumored that Zoe had been mistress to many men, possibly Michael Palaeologus himself. Palombara was inclined to believe it. Even now there was a sensuality about her, a savagery and a life force that made other women seem tame.
For a moment, he regretted that he was a papal legate, abroad where he dared not slip the traces. Vicenze was always watching; and anyway, Zoe would not entertain lovers simply for the pleasure of it. Physical passion with her would have been a good battle, one worth the fighting, win or lose. It would always have been of the mind as well, even if rarely of the heart.
It was up to him to bring about the next encounter, which he did by hunting along Mese Street for an unusual gift for her. He wanted something individual that would earn her curiosity. Then he could visit her, ostensibly to seek her advice. He knew enough about her now to make that credible.
He was shown into her magnificent room, which overlooked the city and the Bosphorus beyond. It was like stepping back into the old city, before the sack: its glory fading only a little, its pride still secure. There were tapestries on the walls, rich and dark. Their colors were subdued by the centuries but not worn dim, only muted in places where the light had softened their tones. The floor was marble, smoothed by the passage of generations of feet. The ceiling in places was inlaid with gold. On one wall hung a gold cross nearly two feet long, the figure on it so exquisitely crafted that it seemed about to twist in a last agony.
Zoe wore a tunic of amber color under a darker, more vibrant dalmatica, and it was fastened with a gold pin set with garnets. She looked amused, as if she had known he would come, but perhaps not so soon.
There was another person present, about Zoe’s height but dressed in a plain tunic and dark blue dalmatica. He stood nearer the corner of the room, occupied with packing away powders into little boxes. Palombara could smell the rich aroma of them: some sort of crushed herbs.
Zoe ignored the other person, so Palombara did also.
“I found a small gift I hope will interest you,” he said, holding out what he had brought, wrapped in red silk. It fitted neatly into the palm of his lean, outstretched hand.
She looked at it, her golden eyes curious, as yet unimpressed. “Why?” she asked.
“Because from you I can learn more of the soul of Byzantium than from anyone else,” he replied with total honesty. “And I wish to have that knowledge, rather than my fellow legate, Vicenze.” He allowed himself to smile.
A flash of amusement lighting her expression, she then opened the silk and took out a piece of amber the size of a small bird’s egg. Inside it a spider was caught perfectly, immortalized in the moment before victory, the fly a hairbreadth beyond its reach. She did not hide her fascination with it, or her pleasure. “Anastasius!” she said, turning to the person with the herbs. “Come see what the papal legate from Rome has brought me!”