The Sheen on the Silk

by Anne Perry

  The following evening he returned, and this time Anastasius was there. The physician turned and smiled but did not speak for several minutes, as if the sea spread before them were eloquent enough.

  “It is a perfect place,” Giuliano said at last. “But perhaps it would be wrong for any one person to possess it.”

  Anastasius smiled. “I hadn’t thought of that. You are right, it should be here for everyone who can see, and no oaf who can’t.” Then he shook his head. “That’s too harsh. I have been dealing with fools all day, and I am short-tempered. I’m sorry.”

  Giuliano was oddly pleased to find him fallible. He had been a trifle daunting before, although he realized it only now. He found himself smiling. “Did you know a family named Agallon in Nicea?” He asked the question before considering it.

  Anastasius thought for a moment. “I remember my father mentioning a name like that. He treated many people.”

  “He was a physician also?” he asked.

  Anastasius looked out across the water. “Yes. He taught me most of what I know.”

  He had stopped, but Giuliano sensed that there was more, an intimate memory that was so sweet, it was painful to bring it back now when the reality was gone. “Did you learn willingly?” he asked instead.

  “Oh yes!” Suddenly Anastasius’s face came alive, eyes bright, lips parted. “I loved it. From as far back as I can remember. He had no interest in me when I was born, but as soon as I could speak, he taught me all kinds of things. I remember helping him in the garden,” he went on. “At least I imagined I was helping. I expect I was far more of a nuisance, but he never told me so. We used to tend the herbs together, and I learned them all, what they looked like, smelled like, which part to use, root or leaf or flower, how to harvest them and keep them safe and from spoiling.”

  Giuliano envisioned it, the small boy and his father teaching him, telling him over and over, never losing patience.

  “My father taught me, too,” he said quickly, memory sharp. “All the islands of Venice, and the waterways, the harbor, where the shipyards were. He took me to see the builders, how they laid the great keels and attached the ribs, then the timbers, and the caulking, how they seated the masts.” It was the same thing, a man teaching his child the things he loved, the skills he lived by. He remembered it so clearly, always his father, never his mother.

  “He knew every port from Genova to Alexandria,” he went on. “And what was good and bad about each.”

  “Did he take you?” Anastasius asked. “Did you see all those places?”

  “Some of them.” He remembered the close quarters of the boats, feeling seasick and shut in, then the strangeness and the excitement of Alexandria, the heat and the Arab faces, and language he did not understand. “It was terrifying, and wonderful,” he said ruefully. “I think I was petrified with fear more than half the time, but I would rather have died than said so. Where did your father take you?”

  “Nowhere much to begin with,” Anastasius replied. “Mostly to see old people with congested chests and bad hearts. I remember the first dead one, though.”

  Giuliano’s eyes opened wide. “Dead one! How old were you?”

  “About eight. Can’t be squeamish about death if you’re going to be a physician. My father was gentle, very kind, but on that visit he made me look at what had killed this patient.” He stopped.

  “And what was it?” Giuliano tried to picture a child with Anastasius’s solemn gray eyes and delicate bones, that tender mouth.

  Anastasius smiled. “The man was chasing a dog that had stolen his dinner, and he tripped and fell over it. Broke his neck.”

  “You’re making it up!” Giuliano accused.

  “I’m not. It was the beginning of a lesson in anatomy. Father showed me all the muscles of the back and the bones of the spine.”

  Giuliano was startled. “Are you allowed to do that? It was a human body.”

  “No.” Anastasius grinned. “But I never forgot. I was terrified he’d be caught. I drew a picture of everything, so I’d never have to do it again.” There was a sudden sadness in his voice.

  “Were you the only child?” Giuliano asked aloud.

  Anastasius looked momentarily taken aback. “No. I had a brother … have a brother. He is still alive, I believe.” He looked disconcerted, annoyed with himself, as if he had not meant to say that. He looked away. “I have not heard from him for some time.”

  Giuliano had no wish to pry. “Your father must be proud of your skills if you treat the emperor.” He meant it as a simple observation, not flattery.

  Anastasius relaxed. “He would be.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He did not speak for a while, then he turned his back to the sea. “Is Agallon part of your family? Is that why you look for them?”

  “Yes.” Giuliano had no thought to lie. “My mother was Byzantine.” He could see instantly from Anastasius’s face that he understood the conflict. “I have made some inquiries. There are people who may be able to tell me more.”

  Sensing his reluctance, Anastasius said nothing more of it but started to point out some of the landmarks on the dark outline of the opposite shore, beyond which lay Nicea.

  Giuliano continued in his quest for hard facts that pointed to the likelihood of a crusade by sea stopping here for provisions and support, rather than going by land, a choice that still allowed for the possibility of passing the city before crossing to Asia and south.

  If only Michael could persuade his people to yield to Rome! No crusader would dare attack the sovereign realm of a Catholic emperor! No crusader or pilgrim would gain absolution for that, whatever shrines he visited afterward.

  But as Giuliano watched, weighed, and judged, he still felt like a man assessing the chances and profits of war, and he was ill at ease with himself for doing it.

  Toward the end of the month, he received a message from Zoe Chrysaphes saying that she had managed to learn some facts about Maddalena Agallon. She was not certain that he would wish to hear them, but if he did, she would be pleased to receive him in two days’ time.

  Of course he went. Whatever the news was, he was compelled to hear it.

  When he arrived at Zoe’s house and was admitted by her servants, he was struggling to keep a veneer of composure. She pretended to notice nothing.

  “Have you seen more of the city?” she asked conversationally, leading him again toward the magnificent windows. It was early evening, and the light was soft, blurring the harsher lines.

  “I have,” he answered. “I have taken time to visit many of the places you spoke of. I have seen some views lovely enough to hold me spellbound. But nothing as good as this.”

  “You flatter me,” she said.

  “Not you—your city,” he corrected with a smile, but his tone allowed that the distinction was minimal.

  She turned to look at him. “It is cruel to stretch out the response.” She gave a slight shrug. “Some people find spiders beautiful. I don’t. The silken thread which traps flies is clever, but distasteful.”

  He felt his pulse beating so hard, he was surprised she did not see it in his temples. Or perhaps she did.

  “Are you certain you wish to hear?” she asked quietly. “You do not have to. I can forget it and tell no one, if you prefer.”

  His mouth was dry. “I want to hear.” In that instant he was not sure if he meant it, but he would be a coward to retreat now.

  “The Agallons were an excellent family, with two daughters,” she began. “Maddalena, your mother, eloped with a Venetian sea captain, Giovanni Dandolo, your father. It seemed at the time that they were very much in love. But after less than a year, in fact only a matter of months, your mother left him and returned to Nicea, where she married a Byzantine of considerable wealth.”

  He should not have been surprised; it was what he had expected. Still, to hear it in words so clear in this exquisite room was the end of all denial, all escape into hope.

  “I’m sorry,” Zoe sa
id quietly. The muted light from the window removed all lines from her face, and she looked as she must have in her youth. “But when Maddalena’s new husband discovered that she was already with child, he threw her out. He would not raise another man’s son, and a Venetian’s at that. He had lost his parents and a brother in the sacking of the city.” Her voice cracked, but she faltered for only a moment. “She did not want the responsibility and the burden of a child, so she gave you away. News of it must have reached your father, and he came and found you, and took you with him back to Venice. I wish I could have told you something less cruel, but you would have learned this sooner or later, if you had persisted in searching. Now you can bury it, and not think of it again.”

  But that was impossible. He was barely aware of thanking her or of struggling through the rest of the evening. He did not know what time it was when he finally excused himself and fumbled his way out into the night.

  Forty

  THREE MONTHS LATER, GIULIANO ARRIVED BACK IN VENICE to report to the doge. Even more important for him was the need to recapture the old sense of belonging. This was the home where he had been happy, yet he felt a part of him had already left Venice for the last time.

  That afternoon, the doge sent for him and he reported to the palace. It still felt faintly alien to find Contarini there and not Tiepolo. That was foolish: Doges died, like kings or popes, and were succeeded by the new. But Giuliano had cared for Tiepolo, and he missed him.

  “Tell me the truth of the union,” Contarini asked after the formalities had been conducted and all but his secretary had left.

  As Giuliano told him the real depth of the dissension that faced Michael Palaeologus, Contarini nodded. “Then a crusade is inevitable.” The doge looked relieved. No doubt he was thinking of the wood already negotiated and in part paid for.

  “I think so,” Giuliano agreed.

  “Is Constantinople rebuilding its sea defenses?” Contarini pressed.

  “Yes, but slowly,” Giuliano replied. “If the new crusade comes through in the next two or three years, they will not be ready.”

  “Will it be two or three years?” Contarini demanded. “Our bankers here need to know. We cannot commit money, timber, shipyards, or a hope which may be years away. At the beginning of the century, we stopped all other business and threw everything into building for the fourth crusade, and if your great-grandfather had not finally lost his patience with the devious Byzantines and their endless arguments and excuses, then the losses to Venice would have ruined us.”

  “I know,” Giuliano said quietly. The figures were clear enough, but the fires and the sacrilege still shamed him.

  He looked up to see Contarini watching him. Were his thoughts so clear in his face?

  “What if Michael wins his people over?” Giuliano asked.

  Contarini thought for several moments. “The new pope is less predictable than Gregory was,” he said ruefully. “He may choose not to believe it. The Latins will see what they want to see.”

  Giuliano knew that was true. He despised himself for what he was doing, although he had left himself no choice.

  Contarini was still guarded, his eyelids heavy, concealing. “Our shipwrights must work. Trade must continue: Whose ships they are is a matter of judgment, careful planning, and foreknowledge.”

  Giuliano knew exactly what he was going to say next. He waited respectfully.

  “If Constantinople is still vulnerable,” Contarini went on, “then Charles of Anjou will hasten his plans so he can strike while it remains so. The longer he waits, the harder his battle will be.” He paced across the checkered marble floor. “This month he is in Sicily. Go there, Dandolo. Watch, listen, and observe. The pope has said the crusade will take place in 1281 or 1282. We cannot be ready before that. But you say Constantinople is rebuilding, and Michael is clever. Which man will outwit the other, the Frenchman or the Byzantine? Charles has all of Europe on his side, bent on regaining the Holy Land for Christendom, not to mention an overweening ambition. But Michael is fighting for survival. He might not care whether we win Jerusalem or not, if it is at the expense of his people.”

  “What can I learn in Sicily of his plans?” Giuliano asked reasonably.

  “Many a man’s weaknesses lie at home, where he does not expect them. The king of the Two Sicilies is arrogant. Come back to me in three months. You will be provided with all you need of money and letters of authority.”

  Giuliano made no demur, saying nothing of the fact that he had only just arrived back, that he had had no rest and barely time to speak to his friends. He was more than willing to go, because Venice had not healed the ache inside him as he had believed it would.

  Forty-one

  GIULIANO’S SHIP DOCKED IN THE SICILIAN PORT OF PALERMO two weeks later. He stood on the harbor wall in the harsh, eye-searing sun and stared around him. The glittering light off the water was blue to the horizon. The town rose on gentle hills: the buildings pale, soft colors like the bleached earth, with occasional splashes of colored vines or bright clothes strung across the street from window to window in the hot air.

  In time he would present himself at the court of Charles of Anjou, but first he wanted to arm himself with some knowledge of the town and its people. He should never forget that he was in what was essentially an occupied city, French on the surface, Sicilian at heart. For that he needed to be among 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 c
ould 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 surprised by the lavish beauty of the palace, but beneath it all was the comparative austerity of the court. The exorbitant taxes Charles drained from the land were for war, not pleasure. Men dressed simply, and the king himself counted only on the power of his presence to command respect. He was as burning with energy as usual and welcomed Giuliano with an instant recollection of exactly who he was.