Communion Blood (2 page)

Those of you familiar with the three Atta Olivia Clemens novels (A
Flame in Byzantium, Crusaders Torch,
and A
Candle for D’Artagnan
) will recognize her ghoul-manservant Niklos Aulirios, as well as the now-aged Gennaro Colonna from A
Candle for D’Artagnan
and
Mansions of Darkness.
Although Gennaro and Ettore Domenico Agnolo Colonna are fictional, the Colonna family is very real and was an imposing presence in Roman politics for centuries.

Thanks this time around are due to (in no particular order) Jordan Scharf for his expertise on the long rivalry of the Papacy and the Holy Roman Empire; to Jeff Montgomery for laying out the terms of the Peace of Westphalia; to Laura Peligrino for allowing me to read her Master’s thesis on Alessandro Scarlatti; to Jenna Cole for providing information on textiles and tailoring of the period; to Hugo Conners for information on the trading centers of Europe in the second half of the seventeenth century; to Christian Patterson for providing me with research materials on colonialism and the Papacy; to Mark Patterson for giving me access to his material on the musical and artistic world of Rome at the period of this story; and to Derek Tate for straightening out the tangle of eastern European politics of the period—as much as that is possible. On the other end of the process, thanks to Jim Taylor, Lois Davis, and Alicia Grant, who read the manuscript for clarity; to Ted Harrison, who read it for accuracy; and to Maureen Kelly, Stephanie Moss, and Sharon Russell, who read it out of habit. Thanks are also due to my agent, Donald Maass; to the good people at Tor, who keep Saint-Germain going; to Wiley Saichek, who keeps them on their toes; to the many independent bookstore owners who continue to carry the series; to my attorney, Robin A. Dubner, who preserves Saint-Germain’s legal interests; to Lou Puo- polo, whose long dedication to Saint-Germain is most gratifying; to Lindig Hall, whose newsletter
Yclept Yarbro
(Lin Digs the Book, P.O. Box 8905, Asheville, NC 28814 or
[email protected]
) keeps my readers up-to-date on Saint-Germain’s doings, as well as my own; to Rick Trykall of Trykall’s Tees for the Saint-Germain shirts; to Ellen Holte and Carol Jenrette of Stone & Wing for the eclipse jewelry; to Stephen Chamas for securing trademark status on Saint-Germain’s eclipse; to my sister Ann Erickson, who prepared the style sheet; to Tyrrell Morris, who understands computers and Web pages far better than I; to Alice Horst for those hours in the saddle; to Alison Scott and the Popular Culture library at Bowling Green University in Ohio; and ultimately, to my readers, for without you, none of the above would be much use.

Chelsea Quinn Yarbro September, 1998 Berkeley, California

PARTI

Ndklos Aulirios

J. ext of a letter from Niklos Aulirios in Roma, written in Latin to Ragoczy Sanct’ Germain Franciscus at the Abby of Sanct’ Parasceva above Brasso, or Kronstadt, in the Transylvanian region of the Kingdom of Hungary.

To the Abbe of Sanct’ Parasceva, in Transylvania, the greetings of Niklos Aulirios in Roma, in the hope that the worst of the fighting now going on in the Carpathians that we hear reported here in Roma has passed you by;

It was my intention never to trespass on the friendship you have extended to me on behalf of my late domita, Atta Olivia Clemens, but I find I must do so, and I apologize for this urgent summons, and assure you that were not my situation dire, I would not have asked your help. I have done my utmost to resolve the matter without resorting to this appeal, and I have failed in every attempt. No other can aid me; if there were another, I would not approach you, for I know Roma is not wholly safe for you at this time. I would not ask your support had I any other recourse: could I avail myself of other counsel, I would not have to entreat you to expose yourself as you must do in this city.

Regretfully, I must add to the burden I impose, for I tell you there

is no time for delay: my circumstances are grave and without your intervention must have an outcome none of us would like. Here is what has transpired that has led me to seek your help: as I know you must be aware, Domita Clemens left the whole of her vast estates to me, releasing me from all bondsman obligations, and giving me full rights over her properties, her goods, stock, and movables. I, in turn, have done all that 1 might to preserve her holdings as she kept them, in accordance with her wishes. It is my sad duty to inform you I may not be able to continue this any longer, for a suit has been filed against my legacy, and the inclination of the court is against me.

How can this come about? Well may you ask. There is here in Roma a man who claims to be the grandson of the legitimized son of Olivia’s late husband’s father, and therefore a proper heir, entitled to his widow’s property as she had no legitimate children to leave it to, or near relations such as a niece or nephew or cousin who might have a claim upon it. At first this would seem easily addressed as the deliberate fraud it is, but I fear there are reasons that cannot be done. The assertion is a precarious mendacity, and under ordinary circumstances there would be no difficulty in exposing the claimant as the opportunist he is, but, as you know, mine are not ordinary circumstances. Of course Olivia’s late husband was a convenient fiction, of the sort she created for herself many times over the centuries, as you yourself taught her; this is the heart of the issue, for to reveal her deceit brings many more aspects of her life into question, including that of her true nature. Her position as a widow was as well- established in the years before her true death as it had ever been. She had arranged for a number of well-forged testaments that set the place of her husband’s death many leagues away from Roma, so that it should not be considered strange that no one remembered her spouse. You know how well she kept up this benign deception, and how much would be forfeit if that deception were brought to light. Should the courts ever suspect she was a vampire, all her estates would be claimed by the Church and I would have to flee or face eternity in an Inquisition cell.

The courts have long preferred the claims of relatives over that of servants, and I cannot yet imagine how to preserve Olivia’s good name without sacrificing my claim to all she left me, and which I promised her centuries ago to maintain as she would maintain her holdings herself. Also, I am disinclined to surrender what is legitimately mine to a clever charlatan. I am also aware that if I capitulate, ceding my claim without contesting the other claim, I will raise the very suspicions I am seeking to obviate.

Therefore I appeal to you, Sand’ Germain, for I can think of no other who can help me in this coil. If not for myself, then for the memory of Domita Clemens, come to Roma and help me. Her bond with you was that of blood, which is a claim I do not possess, but I beseech you to consider what she would do were she still alive to supplicate. I will do all that is in my power to ensure your protedion while you are here, and to keep you from those who may have had reports on you while you were in Church prisons in the Americas, though their number is few and decreasing with every passing year. Your discovery would be as catastrophic for me as it would be for you, and I will make every effort to ensure that you will be in no more danger than I am. I reiterate, I am fully aware of the hazards that await you in this city, and I am reludant to put you in a position that might expose you to unacceptable repercussions on my behalf; had I any viable alternative, I would not ask this of you, and I will understand fully if you decide the risks are too great. But for the sake of Olivia, tell me you will come.

Niklos Aulirios former bondsman to Atta Olivia Clemens

By my own hand at Senza Pari in Roma, the 11th day of September, 1688; entrusted to Laszlo Czerny, laybrother of the Cistercian Order, for delivery.

“Actually,” Ferenc Ragoczy, Abbe of Sanct’ Parasceva and Count Saint-Germain, went on as he strolled down the length of the old- fashioned atrium at Senza Pari on the outskirts of Roma, “Olivia would probably have issued stem orders rather than have pleaded with me.” The pain of speaking her name had faded but was not yet gone, and it showed in a slight tightening of his attractive, irregular features, and the momentary hesitation in his speech. “Of course I had to come, for her, as well as you. And she would have not accepted any delay; storms would have been no excuse.” His ankle-length Hungarian dolman and mente of black silk made him an emphatic shadow in the rich Roman winter sunshine; the white chaconne at his neck identified him as an Abbe, his sole indication of his position; instead of a crucifix, he wore a pectoral of his eclipse device on a heavy silver chain.

Beside him, Niklos Aulirios was able to chuckle. “Yes, that would be more like her.” His handsome face grew somber. “I could not make such demands, nor would I.”

“No. You have too high a regard for her memory to do that,” Ragoczy said. “But I apologize for taking so long to get to Roma. Had the messenger reached me sooner, I would have been here in No-

vember. The weather slowed my journey, unfortunately. I had hoped to be here before the Nativity, but Evangelista Giovan’s Feast will have to do. At least it is only late December and we have a few days to make a response to the claim before the end of the year; the magistrates will expect that.” They stopped by the fountain. It was larger than Ragoczy remembered, with a fine marble faun holding up his pipes, from which the water flowed. “This is new.” They had been speaking Greek but now changed to Italian.

“It was installed just before she died,” said Niklos, his brown eyes growing distant. “There was a fashion in statues and fountains, and she commissioned this. She was going to have more statues made, but—”

“Yes,” Ragoczy said thoughtfully. “But.” He had feared seeing Roma again would exacerbate the grief he had felt since Olivia’s death; he was relieved when that did not happen, although he had a kind of indefinable soreness within him that twinged from time to time, reminding him of his loss.

“The man who has made the claim must sense that there is some reason that her estate may be attacked in this way,” Niklos went on, determined to keep their conversation on the business at hand. His neat justaucorps was the color of wild honey, and his breeches, of the same cloth, were not quite as full as fashion required, but this conservatism in his dress was considered appropriately modest for a man in his ambiguous position. His jabot was edged in lace, but the ruffles at his wrists were moderate and unembellished. “I cannot think he would make the attempt if he had not some hope of gaining the prize he seeks.”

“Possibly; or he may believe he can prevail against a servant, if you will pardon my saying so,” Ragoczy observed. “He may be counting on the habits of the court, to favor heirs, legitimate or not, over servants, thinking that he will not have to do much to gain his ends.”

Niklos shrugged. “Perhaps,” he allowed. The two walked on to the nearest door that led into the house, entering the dining room where the steward, Alfredo Cervetti, was preparing an inventory of the silver. “The court has required it. We must inventory everything at her estates.”

“It would be expected in a case of this sort,” said Ragoczy. He glanced at the frescoes along the far wall that showed significant episodes in the history of the city, beginning with the building of the Flavian Circus, now called the Colosseum, for the huge statue of the Emperor Nero in front of it. The other events represented were the bribing of Attila, Pope Celestine III crowning the son of the Holy Roman Emperor, the death of Cola Rienzi, the elevation of Oddone Colonna as Pope Martino V, and the raising of the dome of San Pietro.

Niklos watched Ragoczy’s perusal, saying, “She decided to depict events that the Church would approve.”

“She was always a sensible woman,” Ragoczy responded steadily; his grief was banked now, like a slow-burning fire. “After so long, she knew how to protect herself.” He looked away.

“Not at the end,” said Niklos in an emotionless tone.

“No,” Ragoczy agreed. “Not at the end.” He turned his back on the mural. “So you must tell me how you have fared since this ... ambitious fraud began.”

Niklos shrugged. “I have tried to find an advocate to support me.” He stared toward the door into the corridor. “One has agreed to act for me: Marcaurelio dal Prato.”

“And is he doing his work properly?” asked Ragoczy. He suited his pace to Niklos’, ambling toward the reception hall. “Are you satisfied?”

“I don’t know; I have paid his fee and I hope he will prove capable of his task,” said Niklos. “I have never had to present a claim in court before, not on my own behalf. The man is not Catholic, which is both a strength and a disadvantage.”

“He’s not a Protestant, is he?” Ragoczy knew that Protestants were severely limited in access to court procedures.

“No. He’s a Jew.” He made a gesture to show he felt he had had no choice. “No Catholic would maintain an action against a member of an Archbishop’s retinue, and no Protestant could act against him.”

“Then you have chosen well, given what you must deal with,” said Ragoczy.

“Unless the Church decides I am deliberately acting to insult the court, which is possible,” Niklos cautioned him. “He has already told me this could happen. At which point I shall have no one to speak for me, unless you decide to.”

“If I had not decided to do so, I would not be here,” said Ragoczy quietly.

Niklos stared away, his brow contracted with emotion. “I did not mean to—”

“Yes; I know,” said Ragoczy, his voice gentle.

“It is because I find myself without allies that I sometimes forget that I am not alone in my fight anymore.” He stopped at the entrance to the reception hall. “It has been almost thirty years to the day since she died, but I still expect to see her come into the villa, or hear her voice.”

Ragoczy’s dark eyes were sad. “I know,” he repeated.

“I served her for thirteen hundred years. It does not seem right that she should be gone.” He stared into the distance. “I cannot forget her.”