Communion Blood (23 page)

The bailiff was a stout man of middle years, stiff with self- importance and pride of office. He stood waiting for Narcisso della Rovere in the attitude of a man accommodating an inferior. Only when the Magistrate approached him did he change his demeanor, bowing della Rovere through the door to the courtroom with dignity and respect.

Half a dozen men sat on the plain benches, ready to hear the proceedings. Four of them were priests and each carried a portable desk equipped with sheaves of notepaper, pens, quills, standishes, and sand. At the foot of the Magistrate’s high bench was a long table where the bailiff and the clerk sat, the clerk with writing equipment laid out, the bailiff with his staff laid in front of his chair. The windows were open, cooling the room but letting in flies; the noise from the street was so common that no one paid any heed to it.

“Have the parties come in,” said della Rovere, showing his authority grandly.

The bailiff went to open the door, and called in Rothofen, Aulirios, their advocates and their supporters, then stood aside to allow all these to enter; he directed the litigants to the long table in front of the Magistrate’s bench, indicating that only those four men could be allowed a place at the table. Niklos Aulirios took his place with Ferenc Ragoczy, Ahrent Rothofen with Enzio Frantume; they remained standing while all the rest sat down.

When everyone was seated, Podesta della Rovere cleared his throat and began to speak. “I have reviewed all the material presented to me, and it is my opinion that your dispute is apt to be long. I cannot suppose that all the points may be disputed and resolved in less than a month.” He paused to let either advocate speak up. When no one did, he went on, “I have decided that both parties need more time to make a full presentation of their bona fides, and for that reason, I have concluded that it would serve the Court to recess this hearing until the end of the mal aria. It will be dangerous to remain

within the city while the fevers are abroad. I therefore decree that we shall commence this hearing in the third week of September at this place. I am going to retire to the country while the mal aria is in Roma; while I am there I will be at pains to make every effort to consider any and all pertinent material either disputant may see fit to present to me.”

Enzio Frantume spoke up in the silence that greeted this announcement. “We are prepared to present our cause now, Podesta.” “Then you may spend your summer in salubrious retreat,” said della Rovere. “Were I in your position, however, I would seek to use these weeks as advantageously as possible, as I have no doubt Signor’ Aulirios will.”

Ahrent Rothofen glowered at the Magistrate. “How can you do this?” he muttered. “I thought everything was in order.”

Beside him, Enzio Frantume had the grace to look discomfited. He whispered something to his client, then addressed della Rovere. “I apologize for the outburst, Podesta. It is only that Signore Rothofen is eager to have his claim recognized which leads him to make inappropriate remarks.”

“I can understand his disappointment,” said della Rovere. “But I pray he will use the time between now and September to strengthen his presentation to me.” He turned to the other litigants. “Signor Conte, have you nothing to say?”

Ragoczy made a gesture of concession. “I have brought another bona fides for your examination, Podesta,” he said. “Other than that, I can think of nothing that would be suitable, given your ruling.” This courtesy earned Ragoczy a favorable nod from della Rovere. “You may present it to me now,” he informed Ragoczy, and motioned him to hand the material to the clerk. “What is it? And why have you not produced it before now?”

Ragoczy offered the rolled parchment to the clerk. “We have only just found it, among a stack of ancient records stored in the attic of Senza Pari,” he explained. “At first we did not understand its importance, for it was among so many other records that until the parchment was cleaned, we did not know what it addressed. Fortunately most of the ink has neither faded nor flaked.” He had spent nearly

a week preparing the old parchment for its new use, and then another five days aging the writing. “If you will take the time to read it, I think you may find it will clarify Signor Aulirios’ position.”

Della Rovere handled the parchment with care. “How old is this?” “The seal is that of Pope Sergius IV, the date August 9, 1011, in Roma,” said Ragoc
2
y with a calm that suggested that such documents were commonplace. “The style of writing is antique, but it may, with patience, be read. The Papal seal is very fragile and brittle with age, so it must be handled carefully; one section of the edge is chipped already.” He bowed slightly, continuing in the accepted form, “I commend it to your consideration.”

“What does it assert?” della Rovere asked, as he ran his fingers over the parchment, feeling its age in its texture.

“I think it would be more suitable for you to determine that for yourself, Podesta,” said Ragoczy. “It would not be fitting for any remark of mine to influence you in your assessment of its importance.” Della Rovere nodded his approval. “I applaud your respect of this Court, Signor’ Conte, and I hope that you will provide an example that others may follow.” He punctuated his remark with a glare in Rothofen’s direction.

Enzio Frantume folded his arms. “How can you accept
this..
. this blatant attempt to introduce false testament into this proceeding?”

The Magistrate glowered at Rothofen’s advocate. ‘Were I you, Signore, I would not raise such questions, lest your own submissions come under scrutiny.”

“I resent the implication of your remarks, Podesta,” Frantume blustered, more for his client’s benefit than with any hope of changing della Rovere’s mind. “We have given you genuine proofs of our claims, which we fully expect to be upheld.”

Leaning forward on his bench, della Rovere said, “If you are so confident, you have no reason to fret at delay.”

“But we do,” Enzio Frantume protested with a swift glance at the outraged Rothofen. “Every hour that Niklos Aulirios enjoys the bounty of the Clemens’ estate is robbery from Signore Rothofen.” His deliberate omission of
Signore
in reference to Niklos carried the sting he intended it should.

“Say nothing,” Ragoczy warned Niklos in an undervoice.

“Unless the estates are legitimately Signore Aulirios’,” said della Rovere at his most ponderous. “Then you may be certain that your client can have no reason to feel abused.”

Ahrent Rothofen looked directly at Niklos. “You are contemptible. My claim is just, and you know it.”

The bailiff took his staff of office in his hand and pointed its head in Rothofen’s direction. “Silence,” he ordered.

Frantume lifted his hands as if it were beyond his power to control his client’s outburst. “You cannot blame him for his indignation, Po- desta.”

“There you are wrong,” said della Rovere, suddenly genteel in his manner. “This is my Court, and you are the petitioner coming to redress the wrong you claim has been done. I will decide if your proofs of claim are genuine, and make an appropriate judgment. In the autumn.” This last was more pointed.

“But Signore Rothofen fears his inheritance will be abused by the man holding the Clemens’ estates now,” Frantume asserted.

“He has not done so before,” said Ragoczy mildly. “And since he has honored the Will of Atta Olivia Clemens, and will continue to honor it, how can Signore Rothofen assume that Signore Aulirios will forget what he owes to his legacy?”

“An excellent point, Signor’ Conte,” approved della Rovere; he paused and added, “If it will ease your worries, Signore Rothofen, I will enjoin Signore Aulirios to sell no portion of the estate and to maintain it at the standards he has maintained in the past decade. Will that do?”

Rothofen stared down at his hands, watching them gather into fists as if they had volition of their own. He did not speak for a short while, and then folded his arms, tucking his fists in. “If you will lay down penalties for fading to uphold your order, I suppose I must. But when you decide in my favor, I will demand recompense for all I have lost in the intervening months.”

“Very well; if Signor’ Aulirios fails to maintain the estates of Atta Olivia Clemens in the manner he has done so in the past, and if no act of God may account for his failure to do so, he will be fined three hundred florins. As to additional monies allocated to you, Signore

Rothofen, if I should uphold your claim, I will entertain such a petition.” Della Rovere sat very straight, his imposing posture somewhat marred by the presence of a fly that persistently tried to find a place on the Magistrate’s wig to alight.

Enzio Frantume laid his hand on Rothofen’s shoulder—it was shrugged off, but the advocate spoke as if this slight meant nothing. “Podesta, your fairness is our surest hope. We will use the time to good advantage.” With that, he sat down once more, indicating he had finished.

“And you, Signor’ Conte—are you satisfied?” Della Rovere studied Ragoczy, making an effort to look unimpressed with the compelling foreigner.

“Certainly; why should I not be.” Ragoczy inclined his head in a display of respect. “As to your instructions, Podesta, I give you my Word that, barring Heavenly or Hellish intervention, Signor’ Aulirios will do nothing to diminish the quality or quantity of the estate in question—indeed, why should he? for they are his.”

In spite of himself, della Rovere found himself warming to Ragoczy; the Magistrate recognized the authority in the distinguished stranger, and he responded to his elegance of manner, as well as his serene self-possession. “That remains to be seen. This suit addresses that question, does it not?” He smiled at his own witticism, then went on in more formal accents. “I will, of course, give this
new...
information my full attention, and when we resume this case, you will have my decision.”

The bailiff gave the signal for the litigants to rise; he tapped his staff smartly on the floor and the litigants all made legs to show their respect to the Magistrate. “This case,” the bailiff announced, “is recessed until the third week in September. God give wisdom to this Court and defend Sua Santita, Pope Innocenzo.”

Everyone in the courtroom made the sign of the cross; della Rovere stood. “Do not fail me, you advocates,” he admonished them before he returned to his study, trailed by his clerk.

“Well,” said Niklos to Ragoczy, as soon as the Magistrate was gone.

“Possibly,” said Ragoczy, nodding in the direction of the priests with their portable desks. “It might be advisable to discuss this later.”

He picked up his leather portfolio and tucked it under his arm, using the broad straps to hold it securely.

Rothofen had overheard this, and spoke up. “Yes. Later. So you can scheme without fear of honest men apprehending you.”

Niklos bristled but Ragoczy answered mildly. “We have nothing to fear from honest men, Signore Rothofen. Believe this.”

Before Rothofen could become abusive, Enzio Frantume laid his hand on Rothofen’s arm. “This is not the place, Signore.” His voice was soft but his caution did little to mollify his bellicose client.

“What is the point!” Rothofen exclaimed, and flung out of the courtroom with no regard for ceremony.

Looking abashed, Enzio Frantume turned to Ragoczy and Niklos. “I ask you to pardon his . .. lapse, Signor’ Conte, Signor’ Aulirios. He has been distressed by the many delays we have encountered, and this one is—” He shrugged to demonstrate how he felt about the Magistrate’s decision.

“Podesta della Rovere is a thorough official,” said Ragoczy smoothly. “For which we must all be grateful.”

Frantume was relieved to have this support. “Oh, most truly. When he finally reaches his conclusion, it will be unquestionably sound.” He slapped absentmindedly at a mosquito that landed on his face.

“Perhaps that is why he declared such a long recess,” Ragoczy mused aloud. “That, and the mal aria, of course.” He faced the crucifix above the Magistrate’s bench, crossed himself, and turned toward the door in the rear of the chamber; beside him, Niklos did the same.

As they left the room, they heard Enzio Frantume call after them, “Until September.”

“What do you think—” Niklos began as he and Ragoczy started down the wide marble stairs to the loggia and the street.

Ragoczy held up his hand. “In the carriage, I think, would be wiser.”

Niklos took this to heart, putting his head down as if in thought until they were in front of the building and Ragoczy had sent a footman to summon Amerigo to bring the coach around. “Why did Roth-

ofen leave so
..He
faltered, trying to find a tactful way to describe his opponent’s departure.

“So impetuously?” Ragoczy suggested, at his most urbane; one of the priests with his portable desk now slung across his back was emerging from the building, and he paused near them, not obviously listening. “No doubt he was disappointed at the Magistrate’s decision.”

“That was clear,” said Niklos with a tinge of sarcasm. “Did he hope to have a judgment in his favor? Today? How could that happen? You have just presented new information to the Magistrate-— he could not possibly render a decision until he has assessed what you’ve provided?” His doubt turned this observation to a question.

“As Signore Rothofen did not linger to explain himself, I regret I can only guess at what his expectations might have been,” said Ragoczy, glancing to the left as his black coach with its distinctive team of matched greys, came rattling up to the steps of the Magisterial Courts. “In buon punto, Amerigo,” he called up to the coachman.

Amerigo bowed from his position on the box. “Buon pomeriggio, Signor’ Conte,” he replied, calling for one of the two liveried footmen on the back to step down and open the door for their employer.

Knowing that Niklos and he were under scrutiny, Ragoczy waited while this service was performed. As he climbed into the coach behind Niklos—a courtesy not lost on the curious—Ragoczy handed the footman a silver Apostle as a gratuity. Then he stowed his portfolio in a compartment in the back of his seat and sat down with his shoulders comfortably against the squabs as he studied Niklos’ face. “You have no reason to worry,” he said, as he tapped the ceiling twice, signaling Amerigo to set off.