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.

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 could 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.”