The Sheen on the Silk by Anne Perry

Palombara said simply, although the answer was anything but simple. The two-hundred-year-old schism between Rome and Byzantium was deep and had resisted all previous attempts at reconciliation. They were now not only doctrinally apart on many issues, most intractably the issue of the Holy Spirit proceeding from the Father and the Son or the Father only. They were also culturally different in a hundred patterns, beliefs, and observances. These distinctions had become a matter of human pride and identity.
    “The emperor Michael Palaeologus has consented to send delegates to the council I have called in Lyons this June,” Gregory continued. “I wish you to come also, Enrico. Listen carefully to everything that you hear. I need to know my friends, and my enemies.”
    Palombara felt a surge of excitement. Healing the schism would be the greatest single achievement for Christianity within the last two centuries. Rome would control all the land and command the obedience of every soul from the Atlantic to the Black Sea.
    “How can I serve this cause?” Palombara surprised himself with how honestly he meant it.
    “You have a fine mind, Enrico,” Gregory said smoothly, the harsh lines of his face softening. “You have great skills, a nice balance between caution and strength. You understand necessity.”
    “Thank you, Holy Father.”
    “Do not thank me, it is not flattery,” Gregory said a trifle tartly. “I am merely reminding you of the qualities you possess which will be needed. I wish you to go to Byzantium, as legate of the Holy See, with special duties to end this quarrel which divides the Christian Church.”
    A smile curved Gregory’s wide lips. “I perceive you have grasped the vision. I knew you would. I know you better than you imagine, Enrico. I have great faith in your skill. As always, of course, you will be accompanied by another legate. I have chosen Bishop Vicenze. His abilities will be the right complement for yours.” There was a flicker of amusement in his eyes, almost too slight to be seen, yet for an instant it was unmistakable.
    “Yes, Holy Father.” Palombara knew Niccolo Vicenze and disliked him profoundly. He was single-minded, unimaginative, and dedicated to the point of obsession. He was also completely without humor. Even his pleasure was ritualistic, as if he must follow a precise order or lose his control over it. “We will balance each other, Holy Father,” he said aloud. It was his first lie of the encounter. If he were pope, he too would have sent Niccolo Vicenze as far away as possible.
    Gregory permitted himself a wide, generous smile. “Oh, I know that, Enrico, I know that. I will look forward to seeing you in Lyons. I think perhaps you will enjoy it.”
    Palombara inclined his head. “Yes, Holy Father.”
    In June, Palombara was in the central French city of Lyons. It was hot, dry, and dusty underfoot. He had watched and listened all week as the pope had commanded, and he had heard a score of opinions, most with little presentiment of the danger from the east and south that Gregory perceived so sharply.
    The promised delegates from the emperor of Byzantium were not here yet. No one knew why.
    Now he walked up a flight of shallow steps to the thoroughfare above. Ahead of him was a cardinal in purple, his robes vivid in the June sun. Lyons was a beautiful city, dignified and imaginative, built upon two rivers. This month, the men and women in the streets and byways were used to the sight of princes of the Church and they took no more notice than a polite bow or curtsy, and moved on about the business of their lives.
    Palombara turned, hearing a disturbance in the street ahead, movement, men stepping aside. There was a flowing of color, purples and reds and whites, and flashes of gold, like wind in a field of poppies. King James l of Aragon came out of one of the great palace entrances, surrounded by courtiers. Everyone made way for him.
    He was totally unlike the bold and arrogant