‘This time?’ said Sphrantzes. ‘You have spoken to the council before then?’
‘Not to the Council of Ten,’ she replied. ‘My petitions have never been granted an audience before.’
‘But you speak of petitions. Then this is not your first attempt at persuading the Venetians to let you build your church?’
Her eyes swung down onto him like an axe. ‘No, kyr Sphrantzes, this is not the first time I have tried. I have written. I have begged. But I have never brought my petition to a full, formal council session before, and I have never had with me a delegation of eminent men to strengthen my case.’
Sphrantzes could tell she was trying very hard to maintain the veneer of her goodwill towards him, but there seemed a great reservoir of anger lying like a cistern beneath her surface.
She sat forward. The colour was coming back into her cheeks. ‘Don’t worry, kyr Sphrantzes,’ she said. ‘I am under no illusions as to how things stand. For all my wealth and title, for all the currency of my family name, I am still just a woman in their eyes - just as I am, perhaps, in your own?’
He gave an involuntary cough. ‘In truth, my eyes are still trying to decide what you are.’
The bluntness of his answer seemed to please her. The volcanic glare cooled, replaced by a half-convincing smile.
He turned his own gaze up to the ceiling and toyed with the hat on his lap. He should not have come. What had he thought to gain? In many ways he blamed the skull. It had started there. Palm Sunday in Rome, when the crowds had flocked to witness Thomas Palaiologos, the exiled Byzantine heir, hand over the head of St Andrew.
Sphrantzes could see it now: the old Roman bridge, crowded to the point he had feared it would collapse; the dignitaries on the presentation platform, a predominance of cardinal red to one side and mournful black to the other. Three men at the front of the stage: Pope Pius for the Latins, splendid in pure white; representing the Greeks, Thomas Palaiologos, stately and dignified, his cloak brocaded with the Golden Rose - the symbol of virtue - which the pope had recently bestowed upon him; and Cardinal Bessarion, the Latin-Greek, the Byzantine cardinal, the bridge between two worlds.
The relic-skull sat on a plinth before Thomas. The casket which enclosed it was made of worked silver and shaped to resemble the head and shoulders of the saint. Its home for centuries had been Patras, but now that town lay in the hands of the Turks, along with every other scrap of Greece.
Sphrantzes could barely recall the ceremony. The pope had made a speech. Bessarion had stepped forward and with a half-bow of recognition towards Thomas, lifted the casket as high as he could manage so the crowd could see as it was placed, with deliberate care, into the waiting hands of Pope Pius.
A cheer broke across the crowd. Bessarion, tears beading his cheeks, waited for it to ebb before he made his own address. He expressed his hope that the Turks would soon be driven out and the saint returned home. That was greeted with another cheer but much diminished from the first.
No time had been allocated for a speech by Thomas.
A procession mustered; the golden cathedra bearing the pontiff glowing at its tip, the fiery comet tail of cardinals trailing in its wake all the way back to St Peter’s.
Sphrantzes, slowed by age and deep melancholy, followed some way behind the others. He felt as if they had just marked the passing of an epoch. Now that this last Byzantine treasure had been pawned by this last Byzantine heir, there would at least be an end to the relentless erosion of his world - for Greece had nothing more to give up.
When he reached the crumbling exterior of St Peter, one of the churchmen, eager perhaps to show a Greek how much his lord was being honoured, pointed to a stone figure as they passed. ‘Do you recognise the handsome face on this new statue?’
Sphrantzes considered the cleverly rendered beard, the regal nose, the hair - thick on the temple and thin on the crown - the haggard cheeks and a pair of eyes which considered the book in its marble hand with a slightly startled stare. It was a fair copy, he could admit. How Thomas must have swooned to see himself immortalized in stone as Saint Paul.
It disgusted Sphrantzes. The courtship was so obvious; the conclusion inevitable. Thomas Palaiologos, rightful Emperor and thus head of the Greek faith, would soon be taking the Latin Eucharist.
Dropping his eyes from the statue, Sphrantzes said, ‘You shall find a man who swallows oaths like cabbages makes a poor model for a saint.’
He did not wait for a reply. They had entered the reception room where the invited churchmen and lay persons were congratulating one another on the success of the ceremony. A quick glance about the assorted heads brought into view Cardinal Bessarion and beside him, a fresh-faced youth with glacial eyes and the sort of shock of blond curls which brought to mind Apollo.
The cardinal, generally a serious man, seemed to be sharing a joke with his companion. Sphrantzes tentatively approached and was relieved when Bessarion caught his eye and said with genuine glee, ‘George! Good to see you again old friend! Have you met Johannes de Monteregio?’
Apollo held out a hand. ‘An honour to make your acquaintance, kyr Sphrantzes.’ His Greek was excellent, if a little clipped.
‘Monteregio? But you are not Italian I think,’ said Sphrantzes.
‘But I am a writer and an Italianized name is better received in these parts. My home is Konigsberg which in my tongue means king’s mountain.’
‘Monte regio. I see. How clever,’ said Sphrantzes without warmth.
‘Perhaps Latin would be preferable: Regiomontanus,’ Bessarion offered.
‘Latin is never preferable,’ said Sphrantzes pointedly.
‘Be civil, George, or Johannes might fear to tell you what it is that he writes.’
‘Chivalric romances by the look of him.’ It was not a compliment. Bessarion was known to surround himself with a coterie of mathematicians, philosophers and astrologers not aspiring troubadours.
Turning to his young companion, Bessarion said, ‘Please forgive kyr Sphrantzes. This morning’s ceremony will not have been easy for him to witness.’ He turned back to Sphrantzes. ‘Would you believe, George, that it was not easy for me either?’
‘It appeared all too easy for the despot,’ said Sphrantzes. Others had taken to referring to Thomas as the Emperor, but Sphrantzes could not bring himself to afford that man the honour. His Emperor, Constantine, had died fighting at the walls. Thomas had cut and run from his own capital in the Morea before the Turks were even in sight.
‘Still,’ added Sphrantzes, ‘what’s a dusty old skull to him, if pawning it returns a pension of five hundred ducats to spend on all the distractions of Rome?’
‘You appear to be one of the few from his court who feel that a generous sum,’ said Bessarion. ‘Ever since Thomas landed at Ancona, I’ve been inundated with demands from those who believe an emperor - even one in exile - cannot exist on an income of less than seven hundred ducats. Thomas brought seventy in his household today, all on borrowed horses.’
‘He did not bring me,’ said Sphrantzes. ‘I left his court shortly after the retreat from the Morea.’
Bessarion nodded his grand old head. ‘But you have not left his service entirely. He entrusted his wife and children into your care, did he not?’
‘The mother is frail, the journey to Korkyra took a heavy toll on her,’ said Sphrantzes. ‘The children’s education is my concern. Thomas has no more knack for fatherhood than he does for administration. It is best he is not involved in their rearing. The mature crop of Palaiologoi are spoiled, we must place our hopes in the next generation.’
‘You still have hopes then. Good,’ said Bessarion. ‘I was beginning to wonder.’
Sphrantzes rubbed his beard. ‘It has been a difficult day. Perhaps I should have stayed in Korkyra and spared myself, but I felt a duty to bear witness.’
‘It will return to Patras one day,’ Bessarion said. He meant the skull. ‘The Holy Father is committed to his crusade. All that has been lost may
be restored.’
‘All?’ said Sphrantzes sharply.
‘Sorry, that was crass of me. I’m so sorry for your loss, George.’
‘No one was untouched,’ said Sphrantzes. ‘For their sake we go on. Forgive my doubts, but the pope has been committed to his crusade for years and nothing has ever come of it. When he called upon the princes of Christendom at Mantua, they ignored him completely.’
‘Times are changing,’ said the cardinal. ‘A coalition is forming. The Holy Roman Emperor has made his peace with King Corvinus of Hungary, so now the Black Army can look to the Danube frontier without concern for their northern borders. The French have come to terms with Burgundy. Even the succession wars for the English and Neapolitan crowns might soon be over. God is granting us a chance to pull together and chase off the Turk.’
‘Then we can start to dream of a restoration,’ said Sphrantzes without much conviction.
‘Well that is a question, isn’t it? Who to crown should Byzantium be restored?’ Bessarion made it sound as if they were discussing nothing more than which rules to follow in a game of tarocchi.
‘I fail to follow,’ said Sphrantzes. ‘The precedence is straight forward. Thomas is the rightful Emperor.’
‘Thomas is a disaster,’ Bessarion said. ‘You have just been saying as much. His misrule in the Morea hardly lends him any credit and since arriving in Rome he has shown all the bad traits of his father – the drinking, the melancholia- and none of the good.’
‘I share your misgivings, Cardinal, but there is no choice in the matter. The line of succession is clear. We must suffer him and pray the children prove worthy in time.’
‘Unless.’ Bessarion held up a finger. ‘Unless Constantine’s wife was to be crowned?’
Sphrantzes stared at him for a moment. ‘I am more than a little confused by that remark. Constantine died a widower.’
Bessarion opened his palms. ‘What if I were to tell you that there is one whose behaviour in exile has been in marked contrast to Thomas Palaiologos? A lady who is an inspiration to some among the many exiled Greeks of Venice. Someone I feel has the makings of an excellent leader for our poor displaced people.’
‘She sounds almost saintly,’ said Sphrantzes. ‘But it doesn’t change a blessed thing as regards the porphyry throne.’
‘It could,’ said Bessarion. ‘The lady in question was once betrothed for a brief time to Emperor Constantine. Who is to say that betrothal was not consummated into marriage in the final days of the siege?’
‘I for one,’ said Sphrantzes and halted. ‘Ah. I see. You are looking for an accomplice who will give your little coup the whiff of legitimacy.’
His mind was not as sharp as it had once been, but now it caught up. Of all the palace ministers, he had been the most involved in the attempt to find a suitable bride for Constantine after Caterina’s fatal miscarriage. He recalled the candidates clearly enough: the Serbian, the Georgian and the local girl, the one put forward by her powerful father, Loukas Notaras.
‘Anna Notaras?’ His voice shot up to the heavens. ‘You’re speaking of Anna Notaras! Do you expect me to help her onto the throne? That grasping little harpy? That selfish, immoral harlot? You must be mad!’
The outburst sent Apollo a step back in shock. A few heads around the room turned their way. Calm as St Nicholas before the sea, Bessarion said, ‘Those are unkind and unfair words, George. Times change and so do people. She was practically a girl when you knew her. We are all older and wiser for the experiences of the past nine years, are we not?’
‘I apologise,’ said Sphrantzes. ‘I may not be wiser, but I am certainly older and more cantankerous.’ He lifted his hands and let them drop back down by his side. ‘I’m so haunted by the horrors of those days, I sometimes forget time has continued at all. Nine years already – a third of her lifetime I suppose - of course she is not the child I remember. Has she married? I seem to recall there was a later betrothal to a Venetian merchant.’
The cardinal winced. ‘Paolo Barbo. Yes, that ended very badly, before the siege had even begun. I am not one to engage in tawdry gossip, you understand, but I believe kyria Anna and the soldier who rescued her were… close.’
‘Ah yes, I remember him now. Another Johannes.’ Sphrantzes glanced at Apollo. ‘One of Podesta Maruffo’s men. How could I have forgotten?’
‘In any event, the mercenary died getting Anna out of the city,’ said Bessarion. ‘Perhaps the combination of his death and the two aborted engagements have put her completely off the idea of marriage. She lives with her widowed sister in a magnificent palazzo on a Venetian canal. A sad house in many ways, but her inheritance means she has no material need to wed. Recently she has been badgering the Venetian senate for permission to build a small commune with a Greek church on land she owns towards Treviso. Not much, a manor and a small enclave where Byzantine laws and custom might endure. It’s why I am shortly to travel to Venice. She thinks that if I lend my weight – give the pope’s blessing so to speak - the Venetians will consent. Even those confirmed worshipers of mammon like to stay in the Vatican’s good graces. Why not come with me? Meet Anna. Judge her for yourself. If after that you still hold to Thomas Palaiologos as the next Emperor, then I will respect your judgement, but I hope you might see how a small falsehood over Constantine’s non-marriage constitutes a little sin for a greater good.’
Sphrantzes was taken aback. ‘I must be the last person she would wish to see.’
‘Because of the broken engagement to Constantine? A lifetime ago, remember? Come. What is there here for you but the continued poor example of Thomas?’
Recalling that conversation on the padded bench of the senate antechamber, Sphrantzes once more considered the phantom throne and Bessarion’s false Empress.
He remembered Anna Notaras as a girl who had always drawn attention with the spring-fresh beauty of her youth, and there was much of that still in the face of the woman opposite, but the ensuing decade had seasoned her, bloomed her, into something quite beyond the adolescent flower of his memory. She had pulled the heavy veil back onto her shoulders, revealing hair - how had he forgotten - of an unusual, dark auburn tone. Her features held much of her father’s steel in them. The high, slightly angular cheekbones and the almond eyes gave her face a whiff of Anatolian ancestry. Unlike his own, the Notaras were a mongrel family; latecomers to the upper tier of Byzantine society. For all her airs and graces, she was only three or four generations removed from pirates. Still, Sphrantzes had to admit, it was in many ways a face that seemed to encapsulate Byzantium: Roman spiced with the east, a form of beauty that was intricate and polished, but could never be described as delicate. Most of all, the ghost of his empire called out from the hauteur of her eyes, which held within them the appraising gaze of an eagle.
Studying her pushed Sphrantzes’s thoughts towards his own daughter, who would now never reach womanhood. He felt his throat begin to prickle just as the clip of a shoe on marble brought his attention back into the room. A silver haired man in a black overgown had entered. When Sphrantzes took in the neatly bearded face, he recognised Venice’s last ambassador to the Morea. The shock brought him to his feet. ‘Messer Sagundino!’
The Venetian brow shot towards the roof. ‘Bless all heaven’s angels! George Sphrantzes! Well the devil can expect a blizzard now you are to be found among the Notaras entourage!’ He came storming across the room.
‘I’m not exactly a part of…never mind. When did you leave the Morea?’
‘Not long after your good self.’ Niccolo Sagundino embraced him and kissed both cheeks. ‘I was glad to get out, if I’m honest. Even then a confrontation between Venice and the Turks seemed forthcoming.’
Sphrantzes nodded. This was better. At last someone worth talking to. His finger rubbed the enamel portrait on the hat in his hand.
Bessarion had risen from beside Anna to join them. ‘Messer Sagundino has been a great help in approaching the Council of Ten about the commune.’
‘It is kind of you to say so, Eminence, but I have been a carrier pigeon, nothing more.’
‘You are being needlessly modest,’ said Bessarion. ‘I hardly think the council would grant an audience in such turbulent times were it not for your arm twisting. Are they ready for us?’
Sagundino’s eyes widened at the question and he did not immediately answer. Instead, turning towards the seated Anna Notaras, he hovered like Gabriel for a moment before her. ‘Ah, um, yes. Basilissa, they are ready.’ But when Anna rose and took a step towards the council chamber doorway Sagundino called her back. ‘Not that way, Basilissa. If you would follow me?’ He thrust a hand towards the door he had come through and moved off.
‘That is not the way to the council chamber,’ said Anna as she stepped after him.
Sagundino turned and grimaced. ‘No. Basilissa, I regret that the council is inundated with other matters. A new doge. You understand. But I have managed to persuade a couple of the most eminent senators to listen to your petition today.’
The wellspring of anger was bubbling to the surface once more, Sphrantzes noted, as they followed Sagundino down the palazzo’s staircase to another, less ornate, antechamber.
Turning at the threshold, Sagundino assumed the pained, sympathetic look of one practiced in breaking bad news. ‘My deepest apologies, kyr Sprhantzes, but it would be a little cramped with us all in there, so perhaps you would be so kind as to wait out here while the cardinal and the basilissa are seen?’
‘Not on your life,’ said George Sphrantzes. He set the skaranikon on his head and surged in behind them.
4.
The Republic of Venice, May 1462
Three Venetians sat waiting at the room’s table. Anna recognized them all. The ducal consigliere, Nicolo Marcello, and two senators: sallow-skinned Ludovico Foscarini and Andrea Vendramin, purveyor of soaps and sons.
While Anna and Bessarion seated themselves, Vendramin began speaking, ‘I apologise that we are not the full council, Basilissa Anna. Your father was a good friend of ours. I admit a personal degree of shame that Venice was unable to aid him – or indeed your husband – at the end. We have noted your petition, and in due course we shall discuss the subject with our colleagues. However, in the meantime, the council wishes us to seek your help in a delicate matter. One, you understand, whose satisfactory resolution would leave Venice deeply in your debt.’
Porphyry and Blood Page 5