by Anne Perry
“The resistance is mostly among the monks,” Palombara continued. “And high clergy whose offices will no longer exist once the center of power has moved here to Rome. And there are the eunuchs. There is no place for them in the Roman Church. They have much to lose, and as they see it, nothing to gain.”
Gregory frowned. “Can they cause us trouble? Palace servants? Churchmen without …” He shrugged slightly and coughed again. “Without temptation of the flesh, and therefore without the possibility of true holiness. Is it not better for all that their species die out?”
Intellectually, Palombara agreed with him. The mutilation repelled him, and if he thought about it in detail, it frightened him. Yet when he had said the word eunuch, he had been thinking of Nicephoras, the wisest and most cultured man he had encountered at Michael’s court. And of Anastasius, who was even more effeminate; there was nothing manly about him at all. Anastasius’s intelligence, and even more the fire of his emotions, had caught Palombara in a way he could not dismiss. In spite of his loss of manhood, the healer had a passion for life that Palombara had never felt. He both pitied and envied him, and the contradiction of it was disturbing.
“It is an offense, a denial, Holy Father,” he agreed. “And yet they have merit, even if their abstinence is enforced. I doubt it is of their own choosing in most cases, so there can be no blame….”
Gregory’s expression hardened in the pale winter sun slanting in through the windows. “If a child is not baptized, it is not the child’s choosing, Enrico, yet it is still lost to Paradise. Be careful when you make such sweeping statements. You tread on delicate ground where doctrine is concerned. We do not question the judgments of God.”
Palombara felt a chill. It was not the warning or the chastisement, it was far deeper than that. It was the denial of passion, of certainty, of knowing everything was perfectly and brilliantly true, beautiful to the mind and the soul, as the things of God should be. Did he know an unbaptized child was lost to Paradise? He knew that was taught, but was it by God? Or was it by man, in order to enlarge the flock and therefore the power of the Church, ultimately their own dominion?
How did Gregory, and the Church, conceive of God? Were they creating Him in their own image, essentially shallow, seeking more and more praise, obedience, purchased by fear of damnation? Was man seeking anything beyond himself, not curtailed by the boundaries of his own imagination?
Who dared beyond that, crashing alone into the bright, silent world of … what? Infinite light? Or just a white void?
Palombara knew now, in this beautiful winter-pale room in the Vatican, that in his soul he believed that Gregory had no more idea than he had, simply no desire or compulsion to ask.
“I apologize, Holy Father,” he said contritely, sorry for having disheartened an old man whose life hung upon his certainties. “I spoke hastily, because I gained respect for the wisdom of some of the eunuchs at the emperor’s court, and I would exclude no one from the saving grace of truth. I fear we have much work yet to do in Byzantium before we win any loyalty deeper than the fear of our physical violence toward them if they fail.”
“Fear can be the beginning of wisdom,” Gregory pointed out. He looked up suddenly and met Palombara’s eyes. He saw the skepticism in them, and possibly something of the darkness inside.
Palombara nodded in acquiescence.
“But I have other plans to discuss,” Gregory said with sudden vigor. “The momentum is building for a new crusade, without the bloodshed of the past. I have decided to write to the emperor Michael inviting him to meet us in Brindisi next year. I will be able to speak to him, make better judgments of his strength, and his sincerity, and perhaps allay some of his fears.” He waited for Palombara’s reaction.
“Admirable, Holy Father,” he said with as much enthusiasm as he could put into his voice. “It will stiffen his resolve, and perhaps you will be able to suggest to him ways in which he can deal with his bishops of the old faith, and still retain their loyalty. He will be grateful to you, as will the Byzantine people. More important than that, of course, it is the right thing to do.”
Gregory smiled, quite clearly pleased with the response. “I am glad you see it so clearly, Enrico. I fear not everyone will.”
Palombara wondered instantly if Vicenze had argued. That would have been daring of him, or, more likely, simply highly insensitive. Had he seen Gregory’s failing health and already changed his allegiance? Perhaps Vicenze had information Palombara did not; otherwise it would be out of character. He never took risks.
“Others will understand in time, Holy Father,” Palombara said, despising the hypocrisy in himself.
“Yes indeed.” Gregory pursed his lips. “But we have much to do to prepare.” He leaned forward a little. “We need all Italy with us, Enrico. There is much money to raise, and of course men, horses, armor, machines of war. And food, and ships. I have legates in all the capitals of Europe, and Venice will come because there is so much profit in it for them, as there always has been. Naples and the south will have no choice, because Charles of Anjou will see to it. It is the cities of Tuscany, Umbria, and the Regno that concern me.”
In spite of his desire to be impervious to the fires of ambition, Palombara felt a flutter of excitement inside himself. “Yes, Holy Father….”
“Begin with Florence,” Gregory said. “It is rich. There is a stirring of life and thought there that will reward us well, if we nurture it. They are loyal to us. Then I want you to seek out what support we have in Arezzo. That will be harder, I know. Their loyalties are to the Holy Roman Emperor. But you have proved your mettle in Byzantium.” He smiled bleakly. “I know what you have told me of Michael Palaeologus, Enrico, and I am not as blind as your tact imagines. I know what you have not told me, by virtue of your silences. Go, and report back to me by the middle of January.”
“Yes, Holy Father,” Palombara said with an enthusiasm he could not conceal. “Yes, I will.”
• • •
On the last night before leaving Florence, Palombara dined with his old friend Alighiero de Belincione and Lapa, the woman he had lived with since the death of his wife. They had two small children, Francesco and Gaetana, and Alighiero’s son Dante, from his previous marriage.
As always, they made Palombara feel welcome, gave him excellent food, and afterward sat around the fire and brought him up-to-date on all the latest news and gossip.
They were fascinated by Palombara’s experiences in Constantinople. Lapa wished to hear all about the court of Michael, particularly the fashions and the food. Alighiero was more interested in the spices and silks in the market and the artifacts to be purchased from the fabled cities farther east along the old Silk Road.
They were discussing the life of those who traveled it when a boy came into the room, tentatively at first, knowing he was interrupting. He was about ten years old, slender, almost thin; the bones of his shoulders were visible even through his winter jerkin. But it was his face that held Palombara’s attention. He was pale and his features were already losing the softness of the child, and his eyes burned with a passion that seemed almost to consume him.
Lapa looked at him with anxiety. “Dante, you missed supper. Let me get you something now.” She half rose to her feet.
Alighiero put out his hand to restrain her. “He’ll eat when he’s hungry. Don’t worry so much.”
She brushed him away. “He needs to eat every day. Dante, let me present you to Bishop Palombara, from Rome, then I’ll make you something.”
Alighiero sat back again, probably in deference to Palombara, rather than have a disagreement in front of him, which would have been embarrassing.
“Welcome to Florence, Your Grace,” the boy said politely.
Palombara looked into his eyes and saw in them an emotion so powerful that it seemed to light him from within, and Palombara had a sudden conviction that he himself scarcely impinged upon the boy’s world. He wanted to make some mark on this extraordinary child.
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“Thank you, Dante,” he replied. “I have already been given the hospitality of friends, and there is no greater gift of welcome than that.”
Now Dante looked at him, then he smiled. For an instant Palombara was real to him, it was there in his eyes.
“Come,” Lapa said, standing. “I will make you something to eat. I have a little of your favorite caramel.” She led the way out of the room, and with a brief glance at Palombara, the boy followed her obediently.
“I apologize for him,” Alighiero said with a smile to cover his embarrassment. “Ten years old and he believes he has seen heaven in a girl’s face. Portinari’s daughter, Bice, Beatrice. He barely saw her. It was last year, and he still can’t get over it.” His eyes were puzzled. “He lives in another world. I don’t know what to do with him.” He shrugged slightly. “I suppose it will pass. But at the moment poor Lapa’s worrying about him.” He picked up the jug of wine. “Have some more?”
Palombara accepted, and they spent the rest of the evening in agreeable conversation. For once, Palombara was able to indulge in friendship and forget about the moral ambiguities of the crusade.
When he left to ride to Arezzo the following morning, he could not rid his mind of the solemn, passionate face of the boy who was convinced he had seen the face of the girl he would love all his life. The fire had consumed the boy, had lit him from within. Ahead of him were both heaven and hell, but never the corrosion of doubt or the yawning wasteland of indifference. Yes, Palombara envied the boy, and whether he dared to grasp at it or not, he needed to know that heaven existed.
Palombara rode through the winter rain, feeling it on his face, smelling the wet earth, the tangle of fallen leaves rotted beneath the trees. It was a clean, living odor. The day would be short and dark, night crowding in from the east, closing the colors across the sky into hot reds on the horizon. Tomorrow he would be back in Rome.
Palombara sought out old friends in Arezzo and put to them the same questions he had to others in Florence. By January 10 in the new year of 1276, he was back in Rome, to report to Gregory.
He was crossing the square toward the broad steps up to the Vatican Palace, aware of a certain hush in the gray winter air, like a presage of rain. It was late afternoon, and it looked as if darkness were going to come early.
He saw a cardinal he was acquainted with walking toward him with a heavy tread, his face pinched.
“Good evening, Your Eminence,” Palombara said courteously.
The cardinal stopped, shaking his head from side to side. “Too soon,” he said sadly. “Too soon. We don’t need change at the moment.”
Palombara was seized with a presentiment of loss. “The Holy Father?”
“Just today,” the cardinal replied, looking Palombara up and down, seeing the marks of travel on his clothes. “You’re too late.”
Palombara should not have been surprised. Gregory had looked exhausted both in body and in spirit when he had last seen him. Palombara was touched with a grief greater than his disappointment at his own loss of office or the confusion of the future, everything plunged into uncertainty again. There was an emptiness where he had had a friend, a mentor, someone whose judgments he understood.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “I did not know.” He crossed himself. “May he rest in peace.”
It rained all day, and he stayed at home, supposedly writing a report on his work in Tuscany to give to the new pope, should he want it. Actually he paced the floor, deep in thought, turning over all the decisions he would have to make. There was everything to win … or lose.
He had been in high office several years now and earned both friends and enemies. Most important, perhaps, he had earned favors, and chief among his many enemies was Niccolo Vicenze.
Over the next few weeks, if he was to retain any power, he would need more than skill, he would need luck. He should have been better prepared for Gregory’s death. The signs of it had been there in the hollows around his eyes, the constant cough, the pain and weariness in him.
Palombara stopped at the window and stared out at the rain. The new crusade had been a passion with Gregory, but what about his successor?
He was surprised how much Constantinople dominated his thoughts. Would the new pope care about the Eastern Church, try to bridge the differences between them and treat them with respect as fellow Christians? Would he begin a real healing of the schism?
During the following days, tension mounted, speculation was rampant, but for the most part concealed by the decencies of mourning and of Gregory’s burial in Arezzo. Above all, of course, was expediency. No one wished to wear his ambition naked. People said one thing and meant another.
Palombara listened and considered which faction he should be seen to back. This was much on his mind when a Neapolitan priest named Masari fell into step with him, crossing the square toward the Vatican Palace in the feeble light of the January sun only a week after Gregory’s death.
“A dangerous time,” Masari observed conversationally, avoiding the puddles with his exquisite boots.
Palombara smiled. “You fear the cardinals will choose other than by the will of God?” he said with only the barest suggestion of humor in his voice. He knew Masari, but not well enough to trust him.
“I fear that without a little help they may be fallible, like all men,” Masari replied, an answering gleam in his eyes. “It is a fine thing to be pope, and great power is destructive of all manner of qualities, regrettably, sometimes most of all of wisdom.”
“But far from ending with it,” Palombara said dryly. “Give me the benefit of your knowledge, brother. What, in your opinion, would wisdom dictate?”
Masari appeared to consider. “Intelligence rather than passion,” he replied at length as they continued up a flight of steps. It was starting to rain harder. “A gift for diplomacy rather than a tangle of family connections,” he went on. “It is most awkward to owe one’s relations for the favor of their support. Debts have a way of requiring payment at most inconvenient times.”
Palombara was amused and interested in spite of himself. He felt the quickening of his pulse. “But how is one to gain any level of support without obligation, probably of several kinds? Cardinals do not cast their ballots without a reason.” He did not say “unless they are bought,” but Masari knew the sense behind his words.
“Regrettably not.” Masari bent forward, shielding his dark face from a spout of water off a high roof guttering. “But there are many sorts of reasons. One of the best might be the belief that the new pope, whoever he is, would succeed in unifying the whole Christian faith, while not yielding any holy doctrine to the false teaching of the Greek Church. That would surely be most displeasing to God.”
“I do not know the mind of God,” Palombara said acerbically.
“Of course,” Masari agreed. “Only the Holy Father himself knows that beyond doubt. We must pray, and hope, and seek after wisdom.”
Palombara had a fleeting memory of standing in the Hagia Sophia and the beginning of his understanding of how much subtler a thing the wisdom of Byzantium was than that of Rome. For a start, it incorporated the feminine element: gentler, more elusive, harder to define. Perhaps it was also more open to variance and alteration, more nurturing to the infinite spirit of humanity.
“I hope we don’t have to wait until we find it,” he said aloud. “Or we might not elect a new pope in our lifetime.”
“You jest, Your Grace,” Masari said softly, his black eyes steady on Palombara’s face for a moment, then moving swiftly away again. “But I think perhaps you understand wisdom more than most men.”
Again the stab of surprise jolted Palombara, and the racing of his heart. Masari was testing him, even courting him?
“I value it more than wealth or favors,” he answered with total solemnity. “But I think it does not come cheaply.”
“Little that is good comes cheaply, Your Grace,” Masari agreed. “We look toward a pope who is uniquely fitted t
o be leader of the Christian world.”
“We?” Palombara kept walking, but now unmindful of the wind, the puddles gathering in the stones, or the passersby.
“Such men as His Majesty of the Two Sicilies and lord of Anjou,” Masari answered. “But of more import to this issue, of course, he is also senator of Rome.”
Palombara knew precisely what he meant—someone with a powerful influence over who would become pope. The implication and the offer were both plain. Temptation roared through his mind like a great wind, scattering everything else. Already? A serious chance to become pope! He was young for it, not yet fifty, but there had been far younger. In 955, John XII had been eighteen, ordained, made bishop, and crowned pope all in a day, so it was said. His reign had been short and disastrous.
Masari was waiting, watching not only for the words, but for all the unspoken patterns and betrayals in his face.
Palombara said what he believed was probably true, but also what he knew Charles would want to hear. “I doubt Christendom will be wholly united by anything except conquest of the old Orthodox patriarchies,” he said, hearing his own voice as if it were someone else’s. “I have recently returned from Constantinople, and the resistance there, and in the surrounding countryside especially, is still strong. A man who has given his career to one faith does not easily sacrifice his identity. If he loses that, what else has he?”
“His life?” Masari suggested, but there was no seriousness in his voice, only satisfaction and a passing regret, as for the inevitable.
“That is the stuff martyrs are made of,” Palombara retorted a trifle sharply. The triple crown was closer to his grasp than it had ever been, perhaps than he had ever seriously believed possible. But what would he have to pay for such a favor from Charles of Anjou and whoever else was in his debt?