Communion Blood (14 page)

“But where will I go?” Now that she was getting out of the Cardinal’s palazzo, the problems facing her seemed enormous, far worse than anything her brother had ever done to her. “What will become of me?”

“You had better leave Roma,” said Jose Bruno. “The convents in the city will not take you in—Martin has seen to that; it was not an idle threat. But if you go north, toward Toscana, you will probably find an Order that will receive you. If you remain here, you will be forced into whoredom.” He stopped and looked back at her. “Say you are on a pilgrimage, and don’t admit you’re Spanish, and you should do well enough.”

“But—” She was once again filled with desolation.

“In penitent’s clothes, you will be able to ask for food anywhere. Mendicants are not left to starve. Whores are.” He held up an admonitory finger. “Stay away from the big churches. They will look for you in such places first.”

“Do you mean they will hunt for me?” Leocadia demanded, nausea coursing through her. From a cell to the fate of a rabbit in the field. What did God want of her, that she was made to suffer so?

“You know Martin. He wants you to marry. Do you think he will allow you to slip through his fingers without complaint?” Jose Bruno resumed walking. “Think of how he has been behaved.”

Leocadia trailed after him. “He is
not...”
She lost the sense of what she was saying; she was trying to imagine what her life would

be like now, and for a hideous few heartbeats wondered if she should go back.

“Come. It is only a dozen steps more. Then you can change and I will go back and do what I can to delay the discovery of your disappearance.” He relished the prospect. “How angry Martin will be.” “Yes,” Leocadia whispered. “He will be furious.”

“Furious,” said Jose Bruno with abiding satisfaction. “And he will be embarrassed. Better still, Archbishop Walmund will be dissatisfied.” “Why does this make you so happy?” she asked, summoning up all the courage she could.

“It makes me happy. That is all you need to know.” He pointed ahead to a slight lessening in the darkness. “See? You are nearly out.” “You aren’t close to that,” she said, growing apprehensive again. “Yet you see it.”

“Light and dark are not the same as the shapes and details of things,” he said patiently. “At half an arm’s-length, the things become hopelessly skewed. Right now you appear to me very tall and longfaced, with a twist in your stance. I know this is not how you really look, but that is ... not important.” He motioned her to come a step closer. “You will have to change here. Do not worry. I will take your old clothes. Martin will never find them.” He felt along the wall and found a small ledge where he set his candle. Then he reached into the packet he carried and lifted out the penitent’s dress he had brought for her. “Here. Put this on. There are underhose in the sleeves. I will give you the shoes when you have gone hallway across the field here, so that no one can track you. Go on. I will step outside. Make haste. Leave the candle. I will fetch it on the way back. We do not have much time.”

She made a gesture of consent, and watched him move out of the small glow of the candle. He might well watch her from the dark, the way Martin had done since she was a child. But this held no terrors for her. She skinned out of her old clothes, touching them with a distaste that surprised her. When they lay at her feet, she took a little time to inspect her bruises, the new ones purple, the old ones yellow and green, that mottled her body. Then, with a sigh, she leaned against the wall of the tunnel and slipped off her felt slippers so she could draw on her underhose, fixing each just below the knee with simple garters before she donned the slippers once again. That done, she pulled on her rusty-black penitent’s gown; it hung shapeless as a miller’s sack on her, the pleating at the shoulder making the body and sleeves voluminous, the high neck had a small, neat ruff— the only indication that she was a person of means and not a poor widow or orphan. She tugged the garment into place, then made her way out into the small field where fallen columns of long-vanished times lay amid the weeds and brambles. A pile of bmsh lay near the entrance to the tunnel, providing cover for its entrance. Some distance away a grand palazzo, still being built, loomed up against the fading night sky.

“You see?” Jose Bruno said, looking up. “Dawn is coming. You must be out the gate while the night-guard is still on duty.” He took her by the elbow. “When we have crossed the field, I will give you your shoes and some food.”

For Leocadia, her freedom still seemed wholly unreal. She felt light-headed and almost foolish, as if she were trusting a dream. “I am very hungry,” she said, and yelped as she stubbed her toe on a broken capital. At once she hunkered down, her arm raised to protect her head from the blow she expected.

“Hush!” he ordered in an undervoice. “If we are discovered now, it will the worse for both of us.”

This was certainly true; she did not need a second reminder. Ducking her head in mute apology, she hobbled after him. Only when they reached the limit of the field did she dare to speak again, in a whisper. “I don’t want you to get into any trouble.”

“I won’t. I’m simple, remember?” Making a face that was pleasantly vacant, he held out the packet. “Your shoes are on top. The food is wrapped in a cloth. I couldn’t get you much. And you will have to make it last until you are beyond the city walls; do not eat it all at once, or you will be hungry at mid-day. Try not to speak to anyone until you have covered seven leagues at least.”

“Seven leagues?” she protested. “That will take most of the day.” He shrugged. “No doubt. But if you walk steadily, you should be able to go as many as nine, I daresay. You have little to carry, and the shoes I brought you are stout.” His face was near enough for her to see the determination in his features. “You will need to find a place for the night. Try a bam or a stable. You do not want anyone seeing you if you can avoid it, not for a day and a night at least.”
“But...
I am tired,” she said, afraid to tell him she was in pain. “If you want to elude Martin, you will manage to do these things,” said Jose Bruno, so purposefully that he reminded Leocadia of her oldest brother. The resemblance troubled her and she shook her head to rid herself of the image. “Leocadia,” he went on, “I can help you only this far. From now on your fate is in your hands. I will pray for your safety and deliverance from our brother-Cardinal.”

It was a feeble joke, but Leocadia obliged him by smiling. “And I will thank you in my prayers every morning and every night,” she said, opening the packet and taking out her shoes. Now that she had them in her hands, she sensed the finality of the moment. “Jose Bruno,” she said as she bent over to remove her tattered slippers and put on the shoes, “if I never see you again in this life, I will still hold you my dearest friend in all the world.” It was difficult to say this, the words coming slowly.

“Find yourself a powerful husband and send for me,” he recommended with a chuckle that convinced neither of them. Then he turned away and started back toward the tunnel entrance.

“Jose Bruno,” she called after him, afraid now to be parted from him. “Don’t go yet. Please.”

But he continued walking, steadfastly refusing to answer her call. As he reached the tunnel entrance, he pulled the pile of brush up to the entrance, blocking it as he made his way back into the darkness.

Leocadia found she was weeping; she reminded herself her bruises were sore, and taking what consolation she could from this, she began her journey to the north-eastern gate and the road beyond the walls of Roma. The streets were nearly empty but for occasional servants and mendicants out on pre-dawn duties, and she made her way through the streets without attracting any attention. For the first time it struck her that she might never see the Eternal City again once she left it this morning. She was still trying to comprehend the significance of this when she informed the sleepy watchman that she was bound for the convent of San Chrysogonus at Aquileia, in the north.

Behind her, the first of the churchbells began to ring, heralding the brightening sky.

The watchman waved her through, muttering,
“Pax vobiscum,”
to her, because she was on a religious journey and the law required that all such pilgrims leave Roma with a blessing.

Text of a letter from Alessandro Scarlatti to Ferenc Ragoczy, Conte da San-Germain.

My greetings, Eccellenza, with the assurances that your scores have arrived in Napoli intact. I will bring them with me on my return in two weeks, when I trust I will have the pleasure of seeing you at the entertainment at Ettore Colonna’s country villa.

I am particularly struck with the violin pieces you have been kind enough to compose for Maurizio; I have wanted him to play music other than mine, to hone his skills. Your work shows your understand- ing of the instrument, which is rare in a man of your position, if you will pardon my making such an observation. You do not compose like one of the dilettanti. I might almost suppose you have been a practicing musician, for your work is that of depth and artistry.

You cannot imagine how pleased I was to receive your commission for a little opera. I must suppose that Giorgianna is delighted. Not only is the money most welcome, to me, and to her, the text is a good one for Roma:
Nero’s Fire.
I look forward to your text, and I ask you to remember that Nerone’s role must reflect the degeneracy that everyone associates with him. Monteverdi portrayed Nerone in other light in
L’lncoranazione di Poppea.
I do not think it would be suitable in these times to cast him in such an heroic mold. The Pope is inclined to view that time with a more critical eye than was the case when Monteverdi created his splendid work. With that caveat, I turn myself and my talents over to your services, and anticipate the day we may perform the opera.

Since your villa is still being rebuilt, I wonder if it might be possible to arrange with your friend Aulirios to rehearse the opera at his villaP I have seen Senza Pari, and I know there is a reception hall of good size where the musicians can play and the singers may learn their movements for the stage. If you agree with me in this regard, will you add to your kindness by making such arrangements with Aulirios as may be appropriate for such usage? I imagine we shall have the beginning of our work ready for the first rehearsals at the end of summer. If the heat is not too oppressive, we may tentatively plan for the first days in September. With rehearsals and revisions of the work, we may present it in November. If you have some preference in regard to where you would like it to be premiered, you may want to consider that in how you prepare your text, for the stage often dictates the action as much as the reverse is true.

I look forward to seeing you once again, and until that happy day, I commend myself to your good opinion, and pray that God will look upon all your endeavors with favor.

Your most obedient to command, Alessandro Scarlatti

At Napoli, the 7th day of April, 1689

7

A great rope of pearls hung over Ettore Colonna’s open camisa, and he had rouged his cheeks; his perfume smelled strongly of roses, and his wig was a cascade of girlish ringlets. He lifted his wine-glass in an ironic toast. “To the Pope, who has done so much for us.” Glancing over his shoulder at the gathering in the villa’s grand salon, he said to the man standing beside him, “Not that I would be so cocksure in Roma. Here in the country, I can protect myself, and my friends.” Ferenc Ragoczy, dressed in subdued elegance, was conspicuously at odds with most of the guests; tonight he was in Hungarian clothing, his heavy black silken dolman and mente a reminder of his foreign-

ness as much as his faint accent and his pectoral eclipse hanging from his ruby-studded silver collar. Although he was noticeably shorter than his host, he carried himself with the easy authority of one his equal in height. He regarded his host with concern as they stood walked a few steps out onto the terrace. Twilight glowed, anticipating the rising of the moon. “Do you think you are safe, even here, amico?”

“As long as my family does not disown me,” said Ettore Colonna with a single, somber laugh. “The day they cast me out is the day I become a guest in the Pope’s Little House.”

“You say it without distress,” Ragoczy pointed out, his expression revealing very little of his thoughts.

“Because I cannot bear to think it might happen,” Ettore Colonna replied. “I know too well what becomes of those who venture into that place; I have had nightmares of it for most of my life. I am not so brave that I want to be of their number; I have no taste for martyrdom. And once accused, martyrdom is certain.” He shook his head and swung around toward the villa. “There can be no release from that house, for that would mean a blunder has occurred. But how can that be? The Pope is incapable of error. Therefore once someone is denounced it follows that he is guilty, for otherwise the Pope has made a mistake, either in his judgment of a man or in his selection of his deputies, and neither is possible,
so...”
His heavy, arched brows rose and he drank the last of his wine.

“I do not fault you, Ettore, I only express concern. The Church has a very long arm, and many fingers to grasp with.” Ragoczy indicated a fair young man in gorgeous women’s clothes, his face white with paint and his elaborate wig perfectly combed, crimped, and curled who flirted with a courtier in a flowered blue justaucorps near the terrace doors. More than half the guests were masked, some in fanciful creations that were as beautiful as they were capricious; some were simple white masks covering the upper face such as the Vene- zians wore at Carnival. “You see how many seek anonymity, even here. If one of your guests should be taken, might not the rest of you suffer?”

“Because of the Church’s three greatest sins?” Ettore Colonna

asked cynically. “Simony, sodomy, and heresy. No matter what they say, little else matters. And my family has profited from all three.”

“Succinct,” said Ragoczy, “and the more dangerous for being accurate.”