The artist who had painted it had known, and the passion, the suffering, and the beauty of soul were attempted in the lines. It was not his imagination, not an ideal, he was trying to capture in line and shading what he saw in front of him.
Zoe Chrysaphes had sent the eunuch physician to Jerusalem to bring it back. It was a gift not to the Church, but to Michael personally.
Of course, Michael knew why Zoe had given it to him. She was afraid that he was aware of her part in Bessarion Comnenos's plan to usurp the throne and that one day when Michael would have no need of her, he would take his revenge for that. This was to buy him off. It had succeeded. If it was not the greatest relic in Christendom, it was certainly the most beautiful, the most moving to the soul.
Very slowly he bent to his knees, the tears wet on his cheeks. The Blessed Virgin was back in Byzantium again, in a way she had never been before. How strange that Zoe, of all people, had caused her to be brought.
Sixty-seven
IN CONSTANTINOPLE, THE SUMMER OF 1278 WAS HOT AND still. Palombara was again in the city, surrounded by its vivid mixture of sounds and colors, its racing ideas, its passionate religious debate.
Unfortunately, he had once more been accompanied by Niccolo Vicenze. The Holy Father had told Palombara that Vicenze knew nothing of his real mission, which was supporting the emperor in obeying the act of union with Rome. And naturally to preserve the emperor's life and power, should they be threatened. It was implicit that it was also Palombara's task to be sure he was aware of such threats, whoever posed them.
Of course, what the Holy Father had actually said to Vicenze could be completely different. That must never be forgotten.
The priority now was to deal with Bishop Constantine. He was foremost among those still irrevocably opposed to the union. Arguing with him was pointless. He must be defeated. It was an ugly thought, but too many lives rested on it to be squeamish. The question was one of means.
At Constantine's side, through hunger and disease, had been the physician Anastasius. If anyone knew the bishop's weaknesses, it was he. And what was equally certain in Palombara's mind was that Anastasius would never willingly betray them, least of all to Rome. Deceiving him was not something Palombara looked forward to.
Another thought occurred to him, subtle and dangerous. If he were in Constantine's place, determined at any cost to save the freedom of the Orthodox Church, the one man above all others who stood in his way was Michael himself. Remove the emperor, put an Orthodox believer in his place, without either his intelligence or his steel, and all this other maneuvering would be unnecessary.
His urgency to see Anastasius doubled. Fragments of conversation came back to his mind, old plots and murders, imperial names like Lascaris and Comnenos, his intimacy with Zoe Chrysaphes, that most Byzantine of women, and his treatment of the emperor.
It was over a week before the opportunity came without forcing it. He had been attempting to cross Anastasius's path by chance, and eventually they met on the hill above the docks. Palombara had just arrived by water taxi, and Anastasius was walking along the cobbles. It was early evening, the sun low and hazy, healing the jagged scars of violence and poverty beneath a patina of gold.
"My favorite time of day," Palombara said quite casually, as if it were a natural thing they should meet again after so long a space of time.
"Is it?" Anastasius said. "You look forward to the night?"
He stood still, and courtesy demanded that Anastasius do the same. "I was speaking of these moments only, not what came before, or will follow."
There was interest in Anastasius's eyes. Palombara knew they were dark gray, but facing the sun as he was, he thought they could have been brown.
Palombara smiled. "There is a tenderness in the shadows," he continued. "A mercy the hard light of morning doesn't allow."
"You like mercy, my lord?" Anastasius said curiously.
"I like beauty," Palombara corrected him. "I like the unreality of the softer light-the permission to dream."
Anastasius smiled, the quick, warm gesture lighting his face. Palombara had the sudden thought that he was beautiful; neither man nor woman, but not a distortion of either.
"I need to dream," he explained quickly. "Reality is harsh, and its fruits will come quickly enough."
"You refer to something