the people.
He set out to look for lodgings, hoping to find a family of ordinary local people who would take him in, so he would have an opportunity to share at least some part of their lives and their less guarded opinions. The first two had no extra room. The third one welcomed him.
The house looked like any other from the outside, simple, badly weathered, fishing nets and lobster pots set nearby to dry. On the inside, the poverty was more apparent. The floor of earthen tile was worn uneven by passing feet. The wooden furniture was well used, and the dishes of beautiful, heavy ceramic in tones of blue were occasionally chipped. They offered him a room and food at a price he thought was too little, and he was uncertain whether to offer more or if it would make his comparative wealth ungraciously obvious.
He ate supper with them, Giuseppe, Maria, and six children of ages from four to twelve. It was noisy and happy. The food appeared plentiful although simple, mostly vegetables from their own rich earth. But he noticed that every scrap was eaten, and no one asked for more, as if they already knew that there was none.
The oldest boy, Francisco, looked at Giuliano with interest.
"Are you a sailor?" he asked politely.
"Yes." Giuliano did not wish to be obviously Venetian, but any lie or evasion would betray him in a way he could not afford.
"Have you been to lots of places?" Francisco went on, his face eager.
Giuliano smiled. "From Genoa right around to Venice, and to Constantinople and all the ports on the way there, and twice as far as Acre, but I didn't go overland to Jerusalem. Once I went to Alexandria."
"In Egypt?" Francisco's eyes were wide, and Giuliano noticed that no one else around the table was paying any attention to food anymore.
"Are you here to see the king?" one of the girls asked.
"He wouldn't be staying with us if he were here to see the king, stupid!" one of the other boys told her.
"Why would anyone want to see that fat bastard?" Giuseppe asked with a savage edge to his voice.
"Hush!" Maria warned him, her eyes wide, conspicuously not looking at Giuliano. "You mustn't say that. And anyway, it's not true. They say Charles is not fat at all. And his father died before he was born, but he's legitimate. It's not the same thing as being a bastard."
Giuliano knew she was not criticizing her husband, she was trying to protect him from indiscretion in front of a stranger.
But Giuseppe was not so easily silenced. "Forgive us," he said. "We take our taxes hard. Charles doesn't tax his own Frenchmen as heavily as he does us." Giuseppe could not keep the edge of bitterness out of his voice that betrayed the hatred close under the surface.
Giuliano had heard it already, even in the few hours he had been here. "I know," he agreed. "It might be unwise to criticize him, but I think it would make you an outcast to praise him. And a liar."
Giuseppe smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. "Wise man," he said cheerfully. "You're welcome in my house."
* * *
Giuliano spent four weeks with Giuseppe and his family, listening to their conversations and those of the other fishermen and farmers in the local taverns. He heard the undertones of anger and also a sense of helplessness. He mentioned Byzantium once or twice, and the responses he heard were so open in interest and sympathy, on weighing them afterward, he thought they were innocent of intent.
But the anger was there. It would not take a great deal to ignite it, one act of stupidity that intruded into the fabric of their lives, one desecration of a church, one abuse of a woman or child, and the flame would be lit. If he could see that, then if Michael had spies here, they would see it, too. The question was not if the will was present, but if the coherence of effort could be organized well enough to succeed. If the Sicilians rose up and were crushed, it would be a tragedy Giuliano was not prepared to incite. It would be the ultimate betrayal of hospitality. To eat a man's bread in his own house and then sell him to the enemy was beyond pardon.
Guiliano presented himself at the court of Charles of Anjou, or, as he was known here in Palermo, the king of the Two Sicilies. Giuliano was not