"If I'm clumsy, I could make it worse," Anna tried to explain. "As you said, whoever really killed Bessarion is still here."
Simonis froze, her body stiffening. "Are you in danger?"
"I don't think so," Anna replied. "But you are right. I should look more closely at money. Bessarion was very wealthy, but I can't find even a whisper that he came by it at anyone else's cost. He doesn't seem to have cared very much. He was all about faith."
"And power," Simonis added. "Perhaps you should look at that?"
"I will, although I can't see that it has anything to do with Justinian or Antoninus."
Twelve
PALOMBARA AND VICENZE WERE HELD UP BY BAD WEATHER as the year waned and did not reach Constantinople until November. But their first formal duty would be to witness the signing by the emperor and the bishops of the Orthodox Church of the agreement reached at the Council of Lyons. This was to take place on January 16 of the following year, 1275. After that, they would continue as papal legates to Byzantium. It was the job of each to report to His Holiness upon the other, which made the whole exercise a juggling act of lies, evasions, and power.
As envoys of the pope, it was expected that they would live well. Neither humility nor abstinence was expected of them, and their choice of house immediately made even more obvious the differences in their characters.
"This is magnificent," Vicenze said approvingly of a great house not far from the Blachernae Palace, which would be made available to them at a reasonable price. "No one calling here will mistake our mission or whom we represent." He stood in the middle of the tessellated floor and surveyed the exquisitely painted walls, the arched ceiling with its perfect proportions, and the ornate pillars.
Palombara looked at it with distaste. "It's expensive," he agreed. "But it's vulgar. I think it's new."
"Would you prefer some nice Aretino castle, perhaps? Familiar and comfortable?" Vicenze said sarcastically. "All little stones and sharp angles?"
"I would like something a little less brash," Palombara replied, trying to keep the coldness out of his voice. Vicenze was from Florence, which had been engaged in a bitter artistic and political rivalry with Arezzo for years. He knew that was what lay behind the remark.
Vicenze regarded him sourly. "This will impress people. And it is convenient. We can walk to most of the places we shall need to go. It is near the palace the emperor lives in now."
Palombara turned around slowly, his eyes stopping at the heavily crowned pillars. "They will think we are barbarians. It's money without taste."
Vicenze's long, bony face was bleak with incomprehension and a growing impatience. He considered preoccupation with the arts to be effete, a digression from the work of God. "It doesn't matter whether they like us or not, only whether they believe what we say."
Palombara settled to the conflict with a sense of satisfaction. The man was obedient without imagination, and dogged as an animal following a scent. In fact, there was something faintly canine in the way he sniffed. Vicenze sought nothing but a sterile, obedient power for himself.
"It is ugly," Palombara insisted with harshness in his voice. "The other house, to the north, has grace of proportion, and quite sufficient room for us. And we can see the Golden Horn from the windows."
"To what purpose?" Vicenze asked, his face completely innocent.
"We are here to learn, not to teach," Palombara said, as if explaining to someone slow of wit. "We wish people to feel comfortable when we speak with them, and let down their guard. We need to know them."
"Know your enemy," Vicenze said with a slight smile, as if the answer had satisfied him. He conceded to Palombara's choice of a more modest house.
"Our brothers in Christ!" Palombara retorted. "Temporarily alienated," he added dryly, the humor there only to please himself.
Palombara set out to explore the city, which in spite of the winter weather, brisk winds off the water, and occasional rain, he found fascinating. It was not particularly cold, and he was perfectly comfortable to walk. A Roman bishop's dress was not remarkable here in streets where so many nations and faiths passed one another every day. After a long day of studious walking, he was exhausted and his feet were blistered, but he understood the broad layout of the city.
The following day he was stiff, to Vicenze's sarcastic pleasure. But the day after, ignoring blisters, he