“They always do,” Pietro responded, taking more wine himself. “They’ll have to find something to complain about. Or people will say they aren’t doing their jobs. You can’t win.”

“What could he do wrong, for God’s sake?” Giuliano demanded angrily. “They kept him under surveillance all the time! He couldn’t open dispatches from foreign powers without them peering over his shoulder and reading behind him.”

Pietro laughed. “It’s human nature. Venetians will always be pulling someone apart. Be glad he wasn’t a pope.” He grinned suddenly. “They dug one of them up and hanged the poor sod. Ambrosius the Second, I think. Twice! Buried him, then a flood in the river uncovered the grave and washed him away, or something of the sort. All after a proper trial, of course. Didn’t matter the accused was a corpse, God rest his soul.”

Pietro put his empty glass on the table. “Do you want to go down to the canal near the arsenal tomorrow night? I know a great café where the wine is excellent and the women are young, rounded in all the right places, and smooth-skinned.”

“You make them sound like something to eat,” Giuliano said, but the idea appealed to him. Easy pleasure, music, a little anonymous kindness with no obligation, no one to hurt or be hurt by. And Pietro was good company, kind and funny, and he never complained. “Yes,” he agreed. “Why not?”

The process for electing a new doge was vastly complicated. It had been instituted by Tiepolo himself, in the year of his accession. It was intended to reduce the power of the great families who had led the city from the reign of the first doge five hundred years before. Giuliano wondered if Tiepolo had had the Dandolo in mind specifically.

In the end, when all the due process had been filled to the letter, a new doge was duly elected. He was Jacopo Contarini, an octogenarian cousin of Pietro’s.

A week later, he sent for Giuliano.

He was uncomfortable going to the Doge’s Palace and finding someone else in Tiepolo’s place. The halls and corridors were just the same, the marble columns, the pattern of sunlight streaming through the windows onto the floor. Even the servants had not changed except for a few of the most personal. It was probably right that the sense of continuity be so powerful, but it made him painfully aware that Venice was so much larger than the individual men who were its life.

“Come in, Dandolo,” Contarini said formally, still unused to his office, although he may well have coveted it most of his life.

“My lord,” Giuliano replied, bowing and waiting until he was told to relax. This was not Tiepolo. To this new doge he meant nothing.

“You have recently returned from Constantinople,” Contarini said with interest. “Tell me what you learned. I know Doge Tiepolo sent you, God rest him. What is your judgment of the emperor Michael, and of the king of the Two Sicilies?”

“The emperor Michael is a clever and subtle man,” Giuliano answered. “A strong soldier, but without the navy he needs to defend from a sea attack. The city is recovering slowly. They are still poor, and it will be a long time before trade brings in the kind of wealth they need to rebuild the sea defenses sufficiently to withstand another assault.”

“And the king of the Two Sicilies?” Contarini pressed.

Giuliano remembered Charles of Anjou with sharp clarity and told the doge how as king he lacked the loyalty of his people.

Contarini nodded. “Indeed. And did Doge Tiepolo tell you his reasons for seeking this information?”

“A crusade by Charles would require a vast fleet, and either we or the Genoese will build it. If the crusade should succeed, the spoils will be enormous. Not as rich as in 1204, because there are not so many treasures left, but still well worth the taking. We should make a contract now, and secure the wood we will need. It will be far beyond our usual purchase.”

Contarini smiled. “Tell me, did Tiepolo assume that a contract made with Charles of Anjou would be kept?”

“It would be to his advantage to do so. Charles would not wish to make an enemy of Venice until after he has conquered Byzantium, Jerusalem, and possibly Antioch. And we have long memories for an injury,” Giuliano answered.

The smile reached Contarini’s eyes. “Very good. And your time in Constantinople?”

“To consider the mood and the loyalties of the Venetians and Genoese there, Excellency. There are many of them, mostly in the harbor areas.”

Contarini nodded. “And would they be with us or against us?”

“Those who are now married to Byzantines might find their loyalties torn. And there are surprisingly many.”

“To be expected.” Contarini nodded. “In time I will send you to look again, to keep me informed. First I would like you to go to France and secure wood for us. You will need to make careful bargains. We do not wish to be committed, and then learn that the crusade is delayed, or worse, canceled. The situation is lightly balanced.” His smile lost its warmth. “I need you to be very precise, Dandolo. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Excellency.” He did understand, but oddly the sense of excitement had died away. It was a good task, necessary. It could not be given to a man whose skill or whose loyalty was not absolute. Yet it was also impersonal. There was none of the fire he had shared with Tiepolo.

Giuliano took his leave and went out into the sun in the piazza. The light off the water was as clean and bright as always, but it was cold.

PALOMBARA AND VICENZE ARRIVED BACK IN ROME IN January 1276. They had been at sea for nineteen days and were both glad to make landfall at last, even though they knew that it was a race to report to the pope, which of course they would do separately, neither knowing what the other would say.

Two days later, when the messenger finally came to conduct Palombara to the pope’s presence, they walked together along the street and across the windy square, robes swirling. Palombara tried to think of anything he could ask the man that would tell him if Vicenze had already been or not, but every question sounded ridiculously transparent. He ended by walking the entire distance in silence.

His Holiness Gregory X looked tired, even in the quiet sunlight of his room and the magnificence of his robes. He had an irritating cough, which he tried to mask. After the usual ritual of greeting he went straight to the subject, as if short of time. Or perhaps he had already seen Vicenze, and this was merely a courtesy to Palombara and of no more meaning than that.

“You have done well, Enrico,” he said gravely. “We did not expect that such a great undertaking as the unity of all Christendom could be achieved without difficulty, and some loss of life among the most obdurate.”

Palombara knew instantly that Vicenze had already been here and reported a greater success than in fact they had had.

He had a sudden acute sense that the man opposite him was weighed down beyond his ability to bear. There were heavy shadows in his face. Was that repetitive cough more than a cold come with the beginning of winter?

“There are too many people whose reputation, and all the honor or power they have, lies in their allegiance to the Orthodox Church,” Palombara replied. “One cannot claim divine guidance and then change one’s mind.” He wished to smile at the irony of it, but he saw no glimpse of humor in Gregory’s eyes, only indecision and a coming darkness. It frightened him, because it was one more piece of evidence that even the pope did not have that bright certainty of God that surely came with true sanctity. Palombara saw only a tired man searching for the best of many resolutions, none of them complete.

“The resistance is mostly among the monks,” Palombara continued. “And high clergy whose offices will no longer exist once the center of power has moved here to Rome. And there are the eunuchs. There is no place for them in the Roman Church. They have much to lose, and as they see it, nothing to gain.”