Communion Blood (56 page)

“It will be done,” said Rugerius. “I have made arrangements for those tasks to be done.”

“Reliable as ever,” said Ragoczy in approval. “You are very good to me, and I know how fortunate I am, though I apologize if I have failed to show it these last few months.”

They were nearing the door to his apartments. “I have no doubt of that, my master.”

Ragoczy offered a slight bow. “Thank you.”

“Get some rest,” Rugerius recommended. “You are tired.”

“And not even two hours in the lovely arms of La Ferrugia can change that,” said Ragoczy, deep sadness under his frippery manner. He held up his hand to catch Rugerius’ attention. “Perhaps I do not want to be run off again: perhaps this time I would prefer to choose for myself when and how I leave.”

“Just so,” said Rugerius as Ragoczy went through the door. Only when the door was closed did his faded-blue eyes fill with worry.

In his elegantly appointed sitting room, Ragoczy undressed quickly, hanging his clothes over the backs of chairs, and placed his jeweled rings in the small chest on the narrow table against the wall. That done, he opened the armoire and took out his sleep-wear; he pulled on a black silk dalmatica in the style of Imperial Roma. Then he went through to his bedroom, where his bed was made up on a chest filled with his native earth. He lay down upon it, pulling the light coverlet up to his shoulders and in a short while lapsed into that stupor that among vampires passed for sleep.

The sound of builders hard at work greeted him as he woke; Rugerius was nowhere in sight, so Ragoczy assumed some sudden noise had jarred him awake. He sat up, stretched, was remotely pleased that he was somewhat restored from his short sleep. He swung around and got off his bed, all the while listening intently to the shouts and scrapes and hammering and trundling that marked the labor on his new villa. Nothing suggested any reason he should have been so disturbed, and this troubled him. He straightened his bedding, then went into his sitting-room to dress, noticing that the day was hot and close, its heaviness promising a thunderstorm before sunset. The clothes he chose were grander than what he usually wore for a meeting with Scarlatti, but he had promised to visit with Giuseppe, Cardinal Trasilvi when he was done, and that made him decide upon formal elegance instead of more ordinary garments. His boots, tall and thick-soled, were glossy with polish. He dressed quickly, unperturbed by the heat, for weather—hot or cold—had little effect on him. He found the lack of mirrors no inconvenience: he had not seen his reflection in more than three and a half millennia; by now, its appearance would have been more disconcerting than useful.

A short while later Rugerius knocked on his door. “Bonaldo Fiu- mara is here, my master. He wishes to speak with you.”

“Then, of course, he shall,” said Ragoczy, taking a lace handkerchief and pushing it under the ruffles at his wrist so that the lace cascaded beneath his hand. He then secured his eclipse pectoral, placing the black sapphire in the middle of his chest. Satisfied, he left his chamber, strolling into the hall with an air every dandy in Roma would strive to emulate. “Where is Fiumara?”

“In the library. He is watching the books being taken from the shelves.” Rugerius indicated the corridor. “What would you like me to bring to serve him?”

“Some wine and cheese should be sufficient,” said Ragoczy, his face showing nothing more than mildly polite interest. “Thank you again, old friend.”

Rugerius stepped aside and watched as Ragoczy went along toward the library, no indication of any apprehension in his demeanor.

Bonaldo Fiumara was staring at the books as Ragoczy let himself into the room; his smock was stained with sweat and the smell of him was a sharp presence in the room. “A most astonishing collection, Conte,” he said, not turning to face his host for a short moment. When he did turn, he stared, and bowed.

“You need not bother with such courtesies,” said Ragoczy. “I am dressed for Roma, not for this place.” He paused. “What did you want to see me about?”

“It’s about the room on the second floor—the one with the tall windows and the double doors?” He looked acutely uncomfortable. “A familiar from the Holy Office has requested more information on that room.”

It was Ragoczy’s alchemical laboratory, but Ragoczy knew it would not be wise to admit so much. “Surely the Holy Office knows I dabble in the sciences. That room is set aside for any work I may decide to do.”

“That is what I told them, but I don’t think he believed me,” said Fiumara, looking quite miserable. “He insisted that you send them a statement of the use you intend. If you fail to do so, it would be the worse for all of us, for we have built your villa.” He held on to the hem of his dusty smock. “I don’t like to have to say any of this to you, but my Arte must accommodate the Church or lose the right to bargain for our wages.”

“I do not blame you for anything the Church may do; I comprehend the way these matters are handled.” He gave a short, aggravated sigh. “Very well. I will prepare a report to be submitted to them. You need not worry that you will be held accountable for what I have had you build for me.”

“You are very good, Signor’ Conte.” He shifted on his feet, his expression more apologetic than ever. “The glazers will not be allowed to come until the room is given the approval of the Holy Office.”

“Dear me,” said Ragoczy in mock distress. “What motive do they assign me? What do they imagine I will do with such a room, with windows everywhere.” He saw that his question was not amusing Fiumara, and he made a gesture to show he had intended no distress. “Forgive me: I am maladroit.”

“Nothing of the sort, Conte, nothing of the sort,” said Fiumara, too hurriedly.

Ragoczy shook his head. “You need not coddle me, Masterbuilder. I have given you dismay, for which I ask your pardon.” He began to wonder what the familiar had said that was so troubling to Fiumara; it was useless to ask the man directly, for that would serve only to make him more upset. “Of late I have often thought,” he said as if discussing a theory, “that Pascal was right when he said that men never do evil so wholly or gladly as when they act from religious belief.” That he had come to a similar conclusion many centuries ago he did not mention.

Fiumara paled. “You must not say such things, Eccellenza. Truly, you must not.”

“Which only serves to show that it is true,” said Ragoczy, turning as Rugerius came into the library with a tray. “Something for you, Masterbuilder. I hope it will make your labors easier.”

“You are always generous, Signor’ Conte,” said Fiumara, glad to have a chance to refresh himself and to turn their discussion to less dangerous subjects. He reached for the wedge of cheese and a slab of bread, and ate eagerly. “We will have a long nap after our midday meal,” he said through the food.

Rugerius filled the goblet on the tray with wine and set it down for Fiumara. Then he put the tray on a crate and, bowing slightly, left the two men alone.

“A very good man, Rugerius,” said Fiumara, putting down the bread and reaching for the wine. “I didn’t take to him at first, but now I am convinced he is a most worthy fellow.”

“As am I,” said Ragoc
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y.

“Been with you a long time?” He drank and set down the goblet.

“Almost half my life,” said Ragoczy. “I first met him here in Roma.” That it was about the time that Vespasianus became Caesar he kept to himself.

“Long enough to know the value of the man, then,” said Fiumara. He chewed the cheese, not able to talk, and glad of the respite. “The familiar—”

“I will deal with the familiar. As I am bound for Roma, I will prepare the material for the Holy Office and take it with me. If I give it to Cardinal Trasilvi, he will doubtless see it gets into the proper hands.” He read relief in Fiumara’s face. “You have nothing to worry about, Masterbuilder.” He paused. “I trust your sister is well?”

“Clarice?” Fiumara was mildly surprised. “She is. How good of you to ask, Eccellenza.”

“She did me good service while she was here,” said Ragoczy, knowing it would please her brother to hear this, particularly since the Holy Office had been asking information of them.

“That she did,” said Fiumara, actually smiling. “It’s good of you to say so.”

Ragoczy bowed slightly. Then he said, “I am dispatching the money to the Arte of the glazers today. They will be able to work next week.”

“Very good,” said Fiumara, a bit apprehensively. He did not want to doubt anything his patron said, but he was certain the Holy Office would have something to say about the glazers.

“You have done well by me, Fiumara. You will have no reason to fear me.” He inclined his head again and turned toward the door. “I am going to prepare the report for the familiar. Then I am riding to Roma. You may tell your men that I have taken the action needed. That should make the day easier for all of you.” He paused in the doorway. “Enjoy the wine, Masterbuilder. I will have more of it delivered to your crew at day’s end.”

“After such heat, we will be glad of it.” Fiumara was looking more at ease now.

“Very good,” said Ragoczy, and left the library to return to his own apartments. In his sitting room, he went to the small secretary that stood at the far side of the room, took out a sheet of vellum, a goose- quill, and the standish, then began to write an account of his intended use of the room in question. He spoke of his known interest in science, and his intentions to grow medicinal plants, and to make observations of the heavens, all of which was true enough: he did not, however, mention any of the alchemical equipment he would install there, for the Church disapproved of alchemy; instead he told the Holy Office that he might do chemical experiments, which, again, in a limited sense, was the truth. When he was done he signed the report in his neat, small hand, set his eclipse device below it in hot wax, then folded and sealed the vellum. As soon as the wax was cool, he slipped the report into the pocket inside the front of his justau- corps, took up his hat and strode out of his room.

Matyas was waiting in the stable, his old, seamed face flushed from the heat. “Devilish time to be on the road,” he said as he saw Ragoc
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y approaching him.

“I hope that is what all the robbers think,” said Ragoczy. “Don’t worry. I will not press the horse, not in this weather.”

“There will be a proper storm,” Matyas remarked as he went to the stall of the dappled seven-year-old mare Ragoczy would ride. “She’s going to be fresh. I could run her a bit before saddling her up, to get the frisks out of her.”

“Never mind,” said Ragoczy. “She will need it for the ride. I can handle her.”

“I don’t doubt that, Conte,” said Matyas. “But it would be an easier ride if you’d let me ran her a little.”

“It would not be easy if she became exhausted,” said Ragoczy, indicating his best saddle. “Use the lightest saddle-pad you have. 1 do not want her sweating after half a league at a walk.”

“As you wish,” said Matyas. “I will be here when you return tonight, in case she needs walking.” He went into the stall to brush and saddle the mare, leaving Ragoczy to amble out into the stableyard, where he stared up into the clouds overhead. Ordinarily he would have saddled his horse himself, but Matyas took umbrage at what he saw as the usurpation of his duties and had insisted that he be given the opportunity to do the work he was paid for. When Matyas led the grey out a short while later, he was scowling. “She’ll need new shoes in a week.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Ragoczy, mounting the mare and taking her reins. “You’re right. She’s fretful.”

“She’s fresh and the weather makes her spooky,” said Matyas. “Be careful with her as you go.”

“That I will,” said Ragoczy, and rode away from Villa Vecchia toward the road leading to Roma. Centuries ago, before the barbarians sacked the city, there had been another road, a straighter one that cut the distance he traveled in half; but a thousand years ago such roads, with the exception of the old military roads, were torn up, and a long, outer ring-road built around the city, to make the approach to it more easily controlled. On days like this he missed that old road. The mare was sweating, but more from the heat than the activity; Ragoczy could tell that she would tire quickly. He kept his eyes on the turns ahead, his ears alert to any sound that might indicate danger; today the worst that happened was that the mare was startled when a large hawk suddenly swooped from the top branches of a trees, passing not much more than an arm’s-length overhead. The mare snorted and curvetted until Ragoczy pressed insistent knees into her, holding her steady and putting her at ease once again.

Scarlatti was waiting for him as he drew rein in front of the very respectable rooming-house where he had taken lodging some time ago. The composer was well-dressed, aware that he was known throughout Roma and therefore had to make a creditable appearance at all times. He made a leg as Ragoczy dismounted. “There is a very good inn a short distance from here. Fiorello will take good care of your horse.” He indicated the young servant standing near the end of the building. “He tends to all the mounts of those living here.” With a snap of his fingers, he called the young man over. “This man is my guest. His horse needs a stall for a few hours.”

Ragoczy handed him a silver Leo and gave the lad the reins. “She should be given water when she is cool, and an armful of hay. Loosen her girth, but do not unsaddle her, or remove her bridle.”

“Sta bene,” said Fiorello, doing as he was told.

Scarlatti motioned to Ragoczy. “Come with me, Signor’ Conte. I am glad of your company.”

The streets were crowded but almost everyone moved lethargically; there was a warning rumble of thunder in the distance, but no sign of rain. Scarlatti moved more quickly than the rest of those on the street. He looked about with the kind of curiosity that revealed he was afraid they were being watched. As they reached the inn, the La Piuma Nera, Scarlatti said, “I have already reserved one of the private dining rooms. The staff will not disturb us there.”

“Do you think such precautions are necessary?” Ragoczy asked, although he would have done the same himself in Scarlatti’s position.