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 to 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?
If he hesitated now, Charles would never back him. A man fit to be pope did not need time to weigh his courage. Did he have that clarity of mind so that he would understand the voice of God telling him how to lead the world, or what was true and what was false? Did he have the fire of soul that could bear it? Did such a thing even exist?
He thought again of the strange, effeminate eunuch Anastasius and his plea for gentleness and the humility to learn, to crush the appetite for exclusivity, and to tolerate the different.
"You hesitate," Masari observed. The withdrawal was already in his voice.
Palombara was angry with himself for his equivocation, his cowardice. A year ago, he would have accepted and considered the cost, even the morality, afterward.
"No," Palombara denied it. "I have not the stomach to rule a Rome that starts another war with Byzantium. We will lose more than we gain."
"Is that what God tells you?" Masari asked with a smile.
"It is what my common sense tells me," Palombara answered him. "God speaks only to the pope."