He had seen the smoke stains of the crusader invasion in the city and was ashamed of it. Here he saw the scars of poverty also: the tapestries unmended, the mosaics with broken pieces, columns and pilasters chipped. For all their pretense in serving God, what barbarians of the heart the crusaders were. There were many kinds of unbelief.

They were conducted into the presence of the emperor in a magnificent hall with huge windows overlooking the Golden Horn. The view of the city far below was a vast panorama of roofs and towers, spires, masts of ships in the harbor, and clustered houses on the far shore.

The hall itself was marble-floored with porphyry columns that held up a ceiling ornately decorated with mosaic arches that flickered here and there with gold.

But all that was only a fleeting impression. As Palombara walked toward the emperor, he was startled by the inner vitality of the man. He was dark, with thick hair and a full beard. His clothes were silk, heavily embroidered and jeweled, as one would expect. He wore not only the customary tunic and dalmatica, but also a sort of collar that ended with something like a priest’s breastplate at the front. This was crusted with gems and ringed around the edges with pearls and gold thread. He wore it as if he were accustomed to it and it were of no importance. Palombara remembered with a jolt that Michael was considered to be Equal of the Apostles. He was a brilliant soldier who had led his people through battle and exile and back to their own city. He had regained his empire by his own hand. They would be foolish to underestimate him.

The emperor gave Palombara and Vicenze all the appropriate formal greetings and invited them to be seated. The protocol for the signing of the agreement had already been arranged, there did not seem to be anything further to discuss, but if there were, it would be done with less senior officials.

“The princes and prelates of the Orthodox Church are aware of the choices facing us, and the necessities driving us,” Michael said quietly, glancing from one to the other. “However, the cost to us is high, and not all are willing to pay.”

“We are here to be of any assistance we may, Majesty.” Vicenze felt compelled to fill the silence.

“I know.” A faint smile played on Michael’s lips. “And you, Bishop Palombara?” he asked softly. “Do you also offer your assistance to our cause? Or does Bishop Vicenze speak for both of you?”

Palombara felt the blood burn up his face. He must not give Michael leverage so quickly.

The emperor’s black eyes reflected his laughter. He nodded. “Good. Then we wish for the same result, but for different reasons, and perhaps in different ways-I for the safety of my people, and perhaps for the survival of my city; you for your ambition. You do not want to return to Rome empty-handed. You will get no cardinal’s hat. Not for failure.”

Palombara winced. Michael was rather too much of a realist, but life had given him little chance to be anything else. The emperor chose union under Rome as the only chance for survival, not for any meeting of beliefs. He was letting them know that, in case they cherished any notions that they could reach him with a religious conversion. He was Orthodox to the bone, but he meant to survive.

“I understand, Majesty,” Palombara answered. “We are faced with hard choices. We pick the best of them.”

Vicenze bowed so slightly, it was barely discernible. “We will do what is right, Majesty. We understand that haste would be unfortunate.”

Michael looked at him dubiously. “Very unfortunate,” he agreed.

Vicenze drew in his breath sharply.

Palombara froze, dreading the clumsiness of what Vicenze might say and yet a tiny part of him wishing for his downfall.

Michael waited.

“There would be little to recommend failure, in any way,” Palombara said quietly. As a matter of pride, he wanted Michael to see him quite separately from Vicenze.

“Indeed.” Michael nodded. Then he looked beyond them and signaled for someone to come forward. He was obeyed by a person of curious stature, walking with an oddly graceful gate. His face was large and beardless, and when he spoke, with the emperor’s permission, his voice was as soft as a woman’s and yet not feminine.

Michael introduced him as Bishop Constantine.

They acknowledged each other formally and with some discomfort.

Constantine turned to Michael. “Majesty,” he said emphatically, “the patriarch, Cyril Choniates, should also be consulted. His approval would be of great service toward persuading the people to accept unity with Rome. Perhaps you have not been advised of the depth of feeling there is?” He phrased it as a question, but the emotion in his voice made it into a warning.

Palombara found him an uncomfortable presence because of his indeterminate masculinity, but the strange person also seemed to be laboring to hide some passion he was afraid to show. Yet it was so powerful that it broke through in the ridiculous gestures of his pale, heavy hands and now and then in a loss of control in his voice.

Michael’s face darkened. “Cyril Choniates is no longer in office.”

Constantine was not deflected. “The monks are likely to be the most difficult section of the Church to convince that we should forfeit our ancient ways and submit to Rome, Majesty,” he stated. “Cyril could help with that.”

Michael stared at him, the expression in his face changing from certainty to doubt. “You puzzle me, Constantine,” he said at last. “First you are against union, now you are addressing me how best to smooth the path for it. You seem to change like water in the wind.”

Suddenly Palombara had an acutely awkward awareness, as if someone had taken a blindfold from his eyes. How could he have been so slow to see? Bishop Constantine was one of the eunuchs of the court of Byzantium. Palombara found himself looking away and was aware of a heat in his cheeks and a disturbing consciousness of his own wholeness. He had associated passion and strength with masculinity, and effeminacy with change, weakness, lack of decision or courage. It seemed Michael felt the same.

“The sea is made of water, Majesty,” Constantine said softly, staring at Michael without lowering his glance. “Christ walked upon the lake of Gennesareth, but we would be wise to treat it with greater caution and respect. Or else lacking faith, as Peter did, we may drown without a divine hand reaching to save us.”

The silence prickled in the great room.

Michael drew in his breath slowly, then let it out again. He studied the bishop’s face for a long time. Constantine did not waver.

Vicenze drew in his breath to speak, and Palombara poked him sharply, with his elbow. He heard Vicenze gasp.

“I have no confidence that Cyril Choniates will see the necessity of union,” Michael said at last. “He is an idealist, and I am guardian of the practical.”

“Practicality is the art of what will work, Majesty,” Constantine replied. “I know you are too good a son of the Church to suggest that faith in God does not work.”

Palombara barely hid a smile, but no one was looking at him.

“If I decide to seek Cyril’s help,” Michael said carefully, his eyes unwavering, “I know you will be the man to send to him, Constantine. Until then I look to you to persuade your flock to keep faith both in God and in your emperor.”

Constantine bowed, but there was little obeisance in it.

A few moments later, Palombara and Vicenze were permitted to leave.

“That eunuch could prove a nuisance,” Vicenze said in Italian as the Varangian Guard accompanied them on their way out into the air where there was a breathtaking view of the city beneath them. He gave a little shiver, and his lip curled with distaste. “If we cannot convert people like that”-he carefully avoided using the term man-“then we will have to think of a way of subverting their power.”