Communion Blood (28 page)

“The Pope has sent for his physician. The French are pressing their advantage to get their Four Points accepted while the Pope is ailing.” Ettore Colonna read on. “My cousin advises me to have no contact with our French associates, for that would give the Holy Office the excuse it needs to take me into custody for acting against the Church.” He read the rest in silence, saying when he was finished, “How can the cousins of Cardinal Mazarin pretend to have no associates in France? His nieces married into the nobility, for gli Occhi della Santa Lucia!” he exclaimed impatiently. “But it would seem that the French are all devils now.”

The courier nodded as he took his last bite of melon. “They are saying the French are trying to influence the election of the next Pope.” His accent was north-eastern, though not Venezian: possibly Udinese.

“Innocenzo is not dead yet,” Ettore Colonna reminded them all sharply. “Until he is, his policies are beyond question, no matter what the French would like to think.”

“But he will not live forever,” said the courier with a shrug. “We must reflect on what is to come.”

Ettore Colonna eyed him, a sardonic glint in his eyes. “You are a bit young to be so indifferent to the end of life.”

“He is not indifferent,” said Ragoczy. “He is unable to imagine it happening to him, and so he hopes that if he is not distressed by Death, it will ignore him.”

The courier jumped as if stung, color rising in his face as he stood up to defend himself. “Who are you to say I am afraid?”

“I do not recall saying you are afraid, only that you would like Death to pay you no heed.” Ragoczy’s manner was courteous and mild but there was enough of an edge an his tone that warned the courier not to force the issue.

“That’s different, I suppose,” he said as he sat down again. The servant put a goblet of freshly poured wine into his hand and the courier took a long draught.

“When did the Pope send for his physician, do you know?” Ettore Colonna asked as the courier accepted his goblet of wine.

“Last night sometime; very late, in any case,” He drank again, then went on. “They say it could be the mal aria, but that is what they always say in the summer.” This time his studied lack of concern went unremarked.

“Last night. Then the news must be all over Roma by now. No wonder my cousin is troubled. The French will be preparing dispatches for Louis.” He shook his head. “Difficult times. Even for Colonnas.”

“The Pope may rally, and then the French will have troubles of their own; they are already at odds with the Holy See,” said the courier.

“No more than any other Kingdom in Europe, if the truth were told; the French are just more obvious,” said Ettore Colonna. He put his letter down. “I had better write to my cousin immediately. If you will excuse me?” He rose from his place and left the room without greater ceremony, leaving Ragoczy and Bruschi to deal with the courier.

“My horse is too tired to ride back to Roma this afternoon,” the

courier remarked to the air. “Signore Colonna will have to remount me.”

“I will order a horse be saddled,” said Celestino Bruschi with a careful lack of inflection. “There should be fresh horses in the stable.” He stepped out of the room briefly.

“They say the Cardinal wants to protect his cousin,” said the courier to Ragoczy, an arch look in his clever eyes.

“Such is the way of blood relatives,” said Ragoczy, taking an ironic pleasure in knowing this was as true for him as for any Colonna.

“For such a family there is reason to be, for all their long power, they are not always in the shelter of the Pope,” said the courier with a trace of bitterness in his words. “Others have no such protection.”

“That, too, has its advantages,” said Ragoczy, glancing toward Bruschi as he came back into the dining room.

“There will be a bay mare saddled and bridled by the end of the mid-day nap,” said Bruschi. “The groom will have her waiting for you.”

“The Cardinal will be grateful, I have no doubt,” said the courier, drinking the last of his goblet of wine; the servant refilled it at once. “At least this way I can be in Roma by sunset. In this heat no horse can be ridden all day at more than a walk, and for that, I might as well ride a donkey.”

Bruschi studied the courier for a long moment, his handsome features marred by a frown. “Bishops ride donkeys,” he reminded the brash young man.

“So they do,” he agreed, and had some more wine.

Bruschi gave the courier a long stare, saying nothing as he studied the young man; when he spoke, it was to Ragoczy. “In what way may I be of service to you, Signor’ Conte?”

“How very gracious,” said Ragoczy. “Just at present I would like to retire to the music room.” He knew he would be left alone while he played the clavicytherium, for he wanted time to think.

Bruschi made a leg and stepped aside to allow Ragoczy to leave the room, saying quietly as Ragoczy went by him, “The fellow is a fool.”

“True,” Ragoczy said, “but that is no sin.” He left Bruschi with

the courier and made his way into the music room; it was on the north side of the villa, with a bowed window overlooking the orchards. There were half a dozen instruments in the room: a violin, a viola da braccia, a viola da gamba, a flute made of silver, an oboe da caccia, and the clavicytherium, its keys polished, its upright case elaborately inlaid with precious woods and mother-of-pearl. Fingering the keys idly to be sure they were in tune, Ragoczy took a short while to adjust a few of the strings, then sat down and began to play; he let melodies meander through his fingers as he put his thoughts to the complexities a new Pope would mean to his efforts on Niklos’ behalf. Then he became aware of someone listening from the hall, and he stopped picking out tunes.

“Oh, pray do not stop,” said the quavering voice of Gennaro Co- lonna; the old man felt his way into the room. “It has been years since I heard that song.”

Belatedly Ragoczy realized he had been playing one of the songs he had learned in the Americas, and that Gennaro Colonna had recognized it. “I. .. did not mean to disturb you,” he said with complete sincerity.

“Hardly disturbing. An old man such as I am has little but his memories to sustain him, and they become sharper and more poignant with each passing day.” He found his way to one of the chairs. “Pray do not let me interrupt you.”

Ragoczy began to play again, this time deliberately choosing a keyboard reduction of Lully’s
Isis.
He knew the old man was disappointed not to hear more music from the Viceroyalty of Peru, but this should help to shift his attention from his memories to the present. He played uninterrupted for nearly a quarter of an hour, then ended his impromptu recital.

“Very pretty,” said Gennaro Colonna when the clavicytherium fell silent. “French, I think?”

“You are very land,” said Ragoczy. “Lully may have been bom in Firenze, but he is French now.”

Gennaro Colonna nodded. “So it seems.”

Ragoczy closed the fid of the clavicytherium and swung around on the bench. “It is almost time for prandio; the cooks will have the food

ready in a short while. Is there a servant to bring you to the dining room?” The odor of roasting pork had insinuated itself throughout the villa, as successful a signal as any bell.

The ploy did not succeed. “Time enough for that when we are finished here. My cousin tells me you are a man of middle years— perhaps forty-five?” Gennaro Colonna remarked, unwilling to be distracted. “Of average height with a deep chest and small hands and feet?”

“I believe that is my appearance, although I am somewhat older than that,” said Ragoczy, staying with what he had told Ettore Colonna, as well as the truth.

“I knew a man, oh, years ago, in the New World. He saved my life, and perhaps my soul as well. I understand he is, or was, your kinsman?” He did not wait for Ragoczy to answer. “Over the years one does not forget voices. Faces may fade, and they certainly change, as my mirror would tell me if I could see well enough. But the voices remain, as much as music does.” He said nothing more for a short time, then, when Ragoczy did not respond, went on, “Hearing you speak, I might have thought your kinsman was talking.”

“It is sometimes thus,” said Ragoczy very carefully.

“And I thought as I listened how much I owe your kinsman, including my silence now,” said Gennaro Colonna. “Although I cannot help but wonder: how old are you?”

“Older than you can imagine,” said Ragoczy. “All my blood are long-lived.”

Gennaro Colonna nodded slowly. “For the sake of your kinsman, you have nothing to fear from me.”

“On his behalf I thank you,” said Ragoczy, not wanting to say much more to this ancient who, such a short time ago in Ragoczy’s sense, had been a hale and active young man.

“You may thank me again when I tell you that when he was finally released from prison I was able to remove the most heinous accusations against him from the records of the Church. I thought he had been unjustly condemned, and I believed it was correct to remove the blot on his name.” Gennaro Colonna smiled. “Given how much he helped me, it was the least I could do for him.”

“Then on his behalf, I am grateful,” said Ragoczy, astonished by this casual admission, on Gennaro Colonna’s part to an act that would send him to the Pope’s Little House if it were ever discovered.

“Now you may escort me to the dining room,” said Gennaro Co- lonna in a tone that sounded very like triumph.

Text of a note from Alessandro Scarlatti to Ferenc Ragoczy, carried by Maurizio Reieto and delivered on the evening of July 25th, 1689

Mio caro Conte,

I have just received a visit from Giorgianna Ferrugia who has announced that she is with child and will not be available to sing for us until she is delivered of the infant. She apologizes for any inconvenience she may cause and promises her husband will pay for the delay in our opera; he is overjoyed with this news, she tells me. Whether this is true or not, it would be folly to say otherwise, for she knows she must have a child—preferably a male child—if she is to enjoy any of her husband’s fortune after his death; she no doubt has pinned many hopes on this pregnancy. She says it is early days yet but she is obeying her husband’s wishes and curtailing all activity for the sake of the child. Her delivery should be in late February or early March, and she will be prepared to sing again at the end of March or the beginning of April, assuming all goes well with the baby, and the wetnurse is suitable. She hopes you will not be so angry that you will not wait for her.

The timing of the child is such that you cannot be concerned. More than enough time has passed since their wedding to still any doubts in all but the most vindictive of souls. A young woman of less than noble birth married to such an one as Ilirio must anticipate that the spiteful will use this occasion to discredit her virtue if they can. Try as they will, they will not be able to impugn her honor, for she knows what her risks are. Besides, Ilirio is no Gesualdo, to kill his wife and her lover and then to spend his days composing penitent motets. Ilirio is delimited to get a child on such a woman as Giorgianna Ferrugia, and that she is his wife must delight him almost as much as it must annoy his grown children. You may find that they have rancor toward

her which may redound to your discredit, but no doubt Ilirio will soon put a stop to such nonsense.

If you wish to hold the performers for so long a period it will prove costly. I would recommend undertaking some smaller project while waiting for La Ferrugia, such as an Oratorio, which the Church would find pleasing. With the Pope in questionable health, it would be prudent to bring such a work to the fore in any case. Let me urge you to consider it, as it would be to our mutual benefit. We will discuss this situation when we meet again in three days.

With my abiding esteem and highest respect,

Your most obedient to command, A. Scarlatti

At Roma, by my own hand.

3

Martin, Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte, paced the room, ignoring Ahrent Julius Rothofen who sat in disgruntled silence at the table. “He cannot die now. God is not so pitiless as to claim Sua Santita now. There is too much at stake for him to die.” He was sweating in the August heat and his crimson garment was darkened at the neck and down the back; not even the attar of roses he had splashed on his body that morning could hide the sharp odor. He slapped at a persistent mosquito and continued to measure out the dining room in predatory strides.

Ahrent Rothofen watched him, his face sullen. “It will help none of us,” he said in disgust. “Court will be suspended until the elevation of the next Pope, and who knows what that bastard della Rovere will do in the meantime. He’s in the country until September as it is. I had thought the suit would be settled by now. I do not want to give the Podesta any excuse to drag it on.” He was miserable in the close air of the day; over Roma the sky thickened and darkened with clouds massive as furniture for giants.

“That suit has been more trouble than anyone anticipated,” said the Cardinal without much sympathy. “Do you regret undertaking it?”

“Of course not,” Rothofen said curtly. “What I regret is that the marriage between the Archbishop’s brother and your sister has been so long delayed.” He had intended this to mollify Calaveria y Vaca- monte, but his remark had the opposite effect.

“And so do I. Why can we not find my sister?” the Cardinal demanded in sudden fury. “Why is she not here?”

“What does that matter now?” Rothofen asked, still dwelling on his own sense of ill-use. “She is missing and the rumors continue to fly.”

“If we can find her before Innocenzo dies, we will be able to have the marriage,” he said, as if this were obvious to the meanest intellect. “If we do not, it will have to wait until the next Pope wears the tiara.” He glared at his servant who had dared to come into the room unsummoned. “What is it?”

“There is someone here to see you. He is a builder. He has heard you are looking for a missing woman.” The servant was staring at his feet as if he could make himself less visible if he did not look directly at the Cardinal.

“What would a builder know of her?” Rothofen asked the air. “And why should he be so impertinent to come here directly?”