by Anne Perry
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.
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.
She took his hand in hers. “We all make mistakes. You are right, I have made some for which I have not yet repented, and I need to. But we are here to help, not to judge. Only God can teach you how to do that, not even the best of men, not when the pain is beyond bearing. Be gentle. Reach out. What gain is in it for you doesn’t matter.”
His face was ashen, his lips dry, as if he were already dead. He said the words so softly she had to strain to hear: “I am become Judas …”
She bathed his face and hands, his neck. She wet his lips and touched his skin with the perfumed unguent. It may have eased the pain for a while. Certainly he seemed calmer for it.
After a few moments longer, she stood up and went out of the room to ask for water to wash some of the dust and blood off herself. Every part of her body hurt. She had not realized it until now, but her left arm was soaked with her own blood, and her ribs were so badly bruised that it hurt to move. One side of her face was painful and swelling up so that her eye was half-closed, and now that she moved, she limped badly.
It was half an hour later when Anna returned to the upper bedroom to sit with Constantine again, in case there was something she could do for him. Perhaps as much as anything, it was so as not to leave him alone.
She stopped abruptly just beyond the door. The candle was still burning, although the flame was wavering. The bed was empty. Even the sheet was gone. Then she realized that the window was open and it was the slight draft of air from it that was moving the candle flame. She walked over to close the window and saw the torn end of linen tied around the central bar. She leaned out slowly and stared downward.
Constantine’s body hung about four feet below her, the sheet tight around his neck, his head lolling sideways. It was not possible that he could still be alive. His last words came back to her, and the Field of Blood beyond Jerusalem. She should have known.
Dizzy and sick, she staggered back into the room and sat down hard on the bed. She remained motionless for some time. Was she guilty of this? Should she have done more to prevent Constantine from ever being involved in trying to create a miracle?
Vicenze had designed it to fail. They should have known that from the start. Palombara knew it. And at the thought of Palombara she leaned forward, buried her face in the blanket, and wept. It was a kind of ease after all the horror and the fear to let the tears come and simply to grieve.
She had lost too much. Constantine was gone in a way that left only pain and a bitter grief. Palombara was different, yet she felt an ache of loss for him, too, because she would miss him.
Later, Anna went back to see Teresa Mocenigo and gave her whatever comfort she could. When it was daylight, she went with her to face the remnant of the crowd still left. Quietly and with the dignity of grief, Teresa asked them to honor Mocenigo’s life by behaving now with the honor that was the best in them. They must deal with Vicenze according to the law. Guilty as he was, to murder him would be to stain their own souls.
Finally, Anna returned to her home to tend to her own wounds of heart and her bleeding, aching body. She wept for her own painful emptiness, for Giuliano, for the loneliness that was at the back of everything.
Ninety-four
IN MARCH OF 1282, THE VAST FLEET OF CHARLES OF ANJOU anchored in the Bay of Messina in the north of Sicily. Giuliano stood on the hillside above the harbor and stared at its size and power, and his heart sank. The force under Charles was enormous, and more ships were expected from Venice. Maybe Pietro Contarini would be with them. He had spoken of it the last time they had met, before that final parting. And it was final. They would not meet as friends again, Pietro had made that clear. His loyalty was always to Venice first. Giuliano could no longer promise that.
He watched now as the fleet commanders walked along the quay and then up the broad streets to be welcomed by the royal vicar and governor of the island, Herbert of Orleans. He lived in the great fortress castle of Mategriffon, known as “The Terror of the Greeks.” That was the thought uppermost in Giuliano’s mind as he thought of the crusader forces pillaging the countryside for food and beasts, in the name of Christ’s war to recover the land of the Savior’s birth and set it again under Christian rule.
Giuliano set out to walk back over the rough terrain of the central mountains, the cone of Etna always on the skyline. He wanted to be back in Palermo before the French forces reached it. If they were to make a stand, he would do it with the people he cared for most, with Giuseppe and his friends.
Not only did his legs ache—his blistered feet remind him with each step—but he was sick at heart at the senseless violence of it, the hatred that drove ignorant men to plunder and destroy. The loss would be immeasurable, not only in life but in beauty and glories that took the breath away, such as the Palatine Chapel with its great soaring Saracen arches and exquisite Byzantine mosaics. Centuries of profound and exquisite thought would be wiped out by men who could barely write their own names.
Perhaps worst of all was the lie that this was done in the service of Christ, the blind belief that sins would be forgiven, that this sea of human blood could wash anything clean.
How had the message of Christ ever come to be twisted into this atrocity?
Giuliano reached Palermo tired and dirty and went quickly through the familiar streets in the clear early morning sun. There was little sound but the music of the fountains, the occasional hurrying footsteps, then the breathless hush of waiting.
Maria was already up and busy in the kitchen. When she heard him at the door she whirled around, carving knife in her hand. Then she saw him and her face flooded with relief. She dropped the knife and ran to him, throwing her arms around his body and hugging him to her so hard that he was afraid she would hurt her own soft flesh in doing it.
Gently he disengaged himself and stepped back.
She looked him up and down. “Food, then clean clothes. You’re filthy!” She turned away and began to get out the bread, oil, cheese, and wine, frantic to do anything useful. He saw over her shoulder how little there was in the cupboards.
“When are they coming?” she asked finally when she set a generous plate of food—too generous—on the table in front of him.
“Share it with me?” he asked.
“I’ve already eaten,” she answered.
He knew it was a lie. She never ate before her family did. “Then eat some more,” he insisted. “It will make me feel at home, not like a stranger. It may be the last meal we can eat like this, together.” He smiled, tears prickling his eyes for all that would be lost.
She obeyed, taking bread and a little well-watered red wine. “They’ll be here today?” she asked. “Aren’t we going to fight, Giuliano?”
“Probably tomorrow,” he answered. “And I don’t know if we’re going to fight or not. The whole island is angry, but it’s just under the surface, and I can’t read it well enough.”
“It’s Easter Monday tomorrow,” she said very quietly. “The day our Lord rose from the dead. Can we fight on Easter Day?”
“You fight on any day, to save the people you love,” he replied.
“Maybe they won’t fight?” she said hopefully.
“Maybe.” But he had seen them and knew otherwise.
Easter Monday was beautiful. The justiciar, John of Saint Remy, celebrated the feast in the palace of the Norman knights as if he and his men were unaware of the tension and hatred churning around them in the people they oppressed. But then, they had refused to learn the Sicilian customs or even their language.