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.

“Ah! Returned again, Dandolo,” he said enthusiastically. “Come to see how our preparations for the crusade are progressing?”

“Yes, sire,” Giuliano answered, investing his expression with far more eagerness than he felt.

“Well, my friend…” Charles slapped him on the back. “All goes very well. All Europe is stirring to the call. We are about to unite Christendom. Can you see it, Dandolo? One army under God.”

There was only one possible answer. “I can see it in my mind,” he replied. “I look for the day when it is more than a vision, an army in the flesh.”

“More than the flesh,” Charles corrected him, looking at him sideways with sudden acute perception. “We need it in the steel and the wood, the wine, the salt, and the bread. We need it in the will and the courage, and in the gold, do we not?”

“We need all those things,” Giuliano agreed. “But we need them supplied willingly, and not at a price we cannot pay. The cause is to win back the Holy Land for Christendom, not to enrich every merchant and shipbuilder in Europe-except justly, of course!”

Charles roared with laughter. “Ever the careful diplomat, eh? What you mean is that Venice will not promise anything until they see which way everyone else jumps. Don’t be too cautious, or you’ll invest too late. Anyone can tell you are traders, not soldiers.” It was said with a smile, but it was an insult nevertheless.

“I am a sailor, sire,” he replied. “I am for God, adventure, and profit. No man who will face the sea deserves to be called a coward.”

Charles spread his arms wide. “You are right, Dandolo. I take it back. And any man who trusts the sea is a fool. You are more interesting than I thought. Come and dine with me. Come!” He held out his hand, then turned and led the way, certain that Giuliano would follow.

Every time Charles invited him to join in a game of chance, Giuliano accepted. Apart from the fact that one did not easily refuse a king, even if one was not his subject, he needed to be in Charles’s company to make any judgment as to his immediate intentions. Everyone knew what they were eventually, he had made no secret of it, but the timing was of intense importance to Venice.

When they played at dice or cards, Charles was highly competitive, but Giuliano learned easily that although he did not like to be beaten, he resented even more bitterly being condescended to. Giuliano needed all his wits to play well and still lose. Once or twice he failed and won. He waited with muscles clenched, ready to defend himself, but after a moment’s prickling silence, Charles swore briefly and with considerable inventiveness, then demanded a further game, at which Giuliano made absolutely certain he lost.

The word Byzantium awoke a fire in Charles’s eyes, as if some legendary treasure had been named. Giuliano saw his hands tighten and the muscles in his thick wrists knot as if to grasp something precious yet infinitely elusive.

It was at sea a few days after that that Charles’s more contemplative nature asserted itself. He was less sure of his own skills on the water and took some care not to attempt anything where it was possible he might fail. Giuliano twice saw him move to begin and then change his mind. It was more revealing than he could have known. He was still the younger brother, unwanted, afraid of failure, not confident enough to shrug it away. He needed to be seen to succeed every time.

Yet he had no hesitation in allowing the helmsman to take the boat through heavier seas, close in past jagged rocks of a promontory with the surge roaring past it. It was failure Charles feared, not death.

Giuliano felt a sudden understanding for him, born after his father’s death and unloved by his mother. His oldest brother had been king of France and perceived by many as a saint. What was there left for a man of hunger and passion to do except demand attention by achieving the impossible?

They passed the point and were out into calmer deep water, with the mainland falling away to the west and the islands of Alicudi and Filicudi far to the north, Salina, Panara, and beyond that the smoking crown of Stromboli staining the horizon.

Charles swiveled round, ignoring the current now, his face toward the east. “That way lies Byzantium,” he said jubilantly. “We’ll be there, Dandolo. Like your great-grandfather, I shall leap from my ship to the sand and lead the assault. We too shall storm the walls again and break them down.” He lifted both his arms, balancing in the rocking boat, his hands locked into fists. “I shall be crowned in the Hagia Sophia myself!”

Then he turned and smiled at Giuliano, ready at last to talk details about money and ships, numbers of men to be transported with all their armor, horses, engines of war, and other necessary equipment.

IN THE EARLY EVENING, ANNA STOOD IN THE PLACE HIGH on the hill overlooking the sea where she had stood with Giuliano Dandolo and spoken of the glory of the city spread below them. It was still as beautiful, but it was the shore of Asia beyond that she stared at now. Above it, the sun was making shining towers of the slow clouds sailing like ships around the edges of heaven.

The silence was heavy in the air. Lately she had been so busy with patients that she had had little opportunity to come here, and the solitude was welcome.

Yet she would have liked to be able to speak to Giuliano or even simply meet his eyes and know that he saw the same beauty in it that she did. Words would be unnecessary.

But even as the thoughts came to her, she was conscious of her own foolishness. She could not afford to think of him in such a way. His friendship was something to savor, then to let go, not to cling to as if it could be permanent.

She could stand here and watch the light fade over the water only for a little longer, see the shadows turn gold and then darken and color fill the hollows in purple and amber, blurring the outlines, splashing the windows with fire.

She had not accomplished much in clearing Justinian’s name. He was still in a desert monastery, imprisoned and useless, fretting away the hours, let alone the days and the years, while she gathered shreds too small to weave into anything.