Communion Blood (27 page)

Your most unassuming petitioner, Niklos Aulirios

At Senza Pari, on the 2nd day of July, 1689

2

Age had not been kind to Gennaro Colonna; his face had lost all its handsomeness in a fretwork of wrinkles, his nose had become beaklike, his eyes were clouded, his voice was reedy, and his joints were knotted. All that was left of his once-glorious dark curls was a wispy fringe of white, insubstantial as gossamer. He sat in a chair on the terrace of Ettore Colonna’s villa, his head cocked so he might hear the sound of the birds more clearly, for he could no longer see them as more than agile shapes moving against the sky. “There are birds

in the New World no larger than a budding rose; they are too small to have songs. They hover on invisible wings to drink the sweetness of flowers.”

“He is often fanciful,” said Ettore Colonna to his guest as the two strolled beyond the terrace and into the garden. “He tells tales of the New World that have more to do with the realms of dreams than the world, no matter how New.” He studied Ragoczy for a moment. “Did your kinsman tell you nothing of those birds?”

“In fact, he did,” said Ragoczy, who had found the humming birds one of the few consolations of his prison cell that looked out into a defile full of tall flowering trees—the little birds had lived there, and Ragoczy had studied them. “He said much the same thing about them, and how bright their colors were.”

“Then his wits may not be quite gone, after all,” said Ettore Colonna with a sardonic note in his voice. The day was warm and he wore his long brocaded waistcoat over his fine linen camisa; his satin justaucorps was back in the villa. He had also left his wig on its block, and his short-cropped dark hair showed flecks of grey.

“Perhaps not,” said Ragoczy uneasily. He, too, was casually dressed in a lightweight riding-coat of fine black Florentine wool over a short silk waistcoat and camisa of glossy white silk, cuffed and banded in lace. His breeches were narrow, of the same material as his coat, and his high black boots shone beneath a new haze of dust. He wore no hat or wig; his dark, loosely curling hair was caught at the back of his neck in a black satin ribband. In spite of the heat, no trace of sweat was on him.

“Would you like to talk to him? He has many stories of your kinsman,” said Ettore Colonna as he made his way on the gravel path between the roses.

“Oh, I think not,” said Ragoczy with a feigned indifference. “There is no reason to disturb him, is there?” He had no desire to risk having Gennaro Colonna recognize him, for that would be more difficult than he cared to think: Gennaro Colonna could ask questions that would turn scrutiny upon him, a scrutiny that was dangerous to more than himself.

“He isn’t easily disturbed,” said Ettore Colonna, his long legs covering the ground at a pace many would find difficult to match. “He has few opportunities to tell his tales these days.”

“That’s unfortunate,” said Ragoczy, and waited for Ettore Colonna to say more.

Ettore Colonna walked a little faster. “I suppose it is. But some of his recollections could be dangerous.”

Ragoczy, nearly a head shorter than his host, kept up easily. “I cannot recall if you told me before: how long was he in the New World?”

“Oh, decades. He went there in the forties—I forget the year. He says he misses it, though how that can be, I do not know.” He glanced at Ragoczy. “What did your kinsman think of it?”

“Wild; sad; beautiful,” said Ragoczy, as if reciting from memory. “He found it an amazing place.”

“My cousin told me your kinsman was jailed by the Church. He said it was a miscarriage of justice.” He waited for a response as they reached the end of the walk, where a plantation of mulberries forced them to turn to the south.

“No doubt my kinsman would agree,” said Ragoczy, making no apology for the irony in his voice. The prisons had been no worse than many he had known, and not so bad as some. He had been able to see the world, albeit through small windows; that was preferable to the oubliettes in Nineveh and Babylon, the memories of which could still appall him. The recollection of the cell beneath the Circus Maximus was a more recent recollection, keener for being close at hand, and for Olivia, who had sought him out and saved him.

“And you? What would you say?” Ettore Colonna considered Ragoczy with bright, black eyes.

“I would say that what may be justice to one man is rankest iniquity to another,” Ragoczy said.

“Oh, bravo, bravo,” said Ettore Colonna, applauding his sarcasm. “Very adroit, my friend.” He had reached a sundial set in a small fountain; here he paused again, squinting up at the sun before looking at the angled shadow. “Almost noon.”

“So it is,” said Ragoczy, aware of the passage of the sun more surely than the sundial could ever be.

“I presume it is useless to ask you to dine with me?” Ettore Co- lonna raised one emphatic eyebrow.

“You may always ask; I shall thank you and decline,” was Ragoczy’s punctilious answer.

Ettore Colonna shook his head. “You are so composed, Ragoczy.”

His amusement was short-lived. “The Church has again begun looking into the lives of my associates. I thought I had better warn you.”

“Thank you,” said Ragoczy. “But why should they concern themselves with me?” He did not want to reveal the extent of uneasiness this warning aroused in him.

“They need no reason,” said Ettore Colonna with sudden bitterness. “If they should decide to suspect you, their suspicions are reason enough. They have only to say that you may be heretical, or blasphemous, or diabolical, or not devout enough, or lacking in faith, or obstinate in sin, or irreligious in conduct, or sympathetic to those who are, or anything they decide will justify their suspicions.” He kicked at the gravel, his face set.

“But you are safe?” Ragoczy thought of Ettore Colonna’s certainty that no inquiry could touch him, and wondered if this were still true.

“I think so,” came his reply. “The Curia knows how much power the Colonnas have in the Church, and they know that I know many things that could embarrass the Church if they sought to harm me. The family may not approve of me, but no one wants a Colonna to fall into the hands of the servants at the Pope’s Little House.” He
¹
laughed without mirth. “I have several written accounts held in France that cannot be opened while I live. The Curia knows this, and it makes for circumspection. If I had not bothered with such precautions, I would be afraid of what might happen to me, Colonna or no. As it is—” His shrug was eloquent and he resumed walking, putting the sundial behind him.

Ragoczy kept pace with his host. “What is the Church looking for, do you know?” he asked, aware that Ettore Colonna was deeply troubled. “Among your associates?”

“Other than our loves?” he countered. “Why, anything that could be used as an excuse to take my associates into custody. If they cannot reach me directly, they will find other means to bring me to heel. I

have warned Maestro Scarlatti of this development, and I pray he takes heed of my warning.”

“What do you advise we do? your associates.” Ragoczy had stopped at a hedge of juniper, his expression expectant.

“Be aware that you are watched. Observe every stricture the Church could wish upon you, and if that is not possible, bring as little attention to yourself as you can.” He chuckled. “You are building a new villa and you are enmeshed in a lawsuit. You are not inconspicuous as it is.”

“Would I not create suspicion if I were to abandon either project?” Ragoczy suggested.

“Yes; you would. You are a foreigner, and even in this newly liberal Rome, foreigners who are not pilgrims are objects
of...
Shall we call it inquiry? And since Archbishop Walmund is looking for anything that might serve to blacken your character, the Curia has an ally in their efforts.” He folded his arms, looking down directly at Ragoczy. “I know I have spoken of this before, but it has become more urgent.”

“You have heard something?” Ragoczy asked, making no apology for the tension in his voice. “What is it?” He took a few steps away from the juniper.

Ettore Colonna shrugged. “Nothing specific. But then, I would not hear that in any case,” he said, strolling toward a small plantation of rosemary and thyme; their fragrance was as strong as the scent of roses. “No, that is not what troubles me.”

Ragoczy was hard put not to demand an explanation. He walked a few steps farther along the path, then said, “You can read these matters better than I, Colonna. I must rely on your comprehension.”

“So you must,” said Ettore Colonna, stopping beside Ragoczy and looking out across his garden. “And I do not want to alarm you. You have plenty to contend with as it is. But I have heard there are questions being asked about the penitent to whom you have given shelter. Oh, yes. There has been gossip about her. Builders and coachmen talk, and the familiars hear.”

Ragoczy managed a nonchalance that he did not feel. “Well, what are they saying? Until her exercises became too severe, she was left in the cell of her own devising.” He saw no surprise in Ettore Co-

lonna’s long face, and knew this was part of the rumors being circulated. “How can I be suspected for that?”

“She may not be worthy of your charity,” said Ettore Colonna; the implications of his words struck Ragoczy as his host waited for a response.

“How do you mean?” Ragoczy asked; as much intrigued as apprehensive.

“How much do you know about her?” Ettore Colonna countered. “Only that she came to my villa, half-starved, saying she was a penitent, and asking for shelter. I provided a room for her in one of the out-buildings on my property, told the cook to feed her and give her water, and until very recently, left her to her devotions.” He paused. “Why should this alarm the Church?”

“What has changed?” Ettore Colonna sounded waiy; it was a delicate matter to know how much to learn.

Ragoczy’s answer was direct and candid. “She had been using a flagellum as part of her devotions, and the lashes had left unhealed weals; these became pustulant and required treatment, for which purpose I had her brought into the old building and given a room and a maid to care for her as she recovered. She has remained in that room since her treatment began. I see her twice a day, always with the maid present. Anyone who claims anything more has no notion of the truth.”

“You provided the penitent a maid?” Ettore Colonna asked, with some sense of relief coloring his tone of voice.

“Per natura,” said Ragoczy. “What else could I do that would not bring dishonor upon her, and upon me.”

Ettore Colonna nodded. “Prudent as well as adroit,” he approved, the severity fading from his long features. “I knew you could not put yourself in so exposed a position as the rumors hint.”

“If anyone doubts me, have them speak to my staff.” He held up his small, beautiful hand. “And do not tell me that they would lie to protect me; I am, as you say, a foreigner and they are Romans.” “And the penitent? What of her?” Ettore Colonna waited for his answer, a frown returning to deepen the vertical crease between his brows.

“She has told me nothing,” Ragoczy said truthfully. “She claims she is no one.”

“And what do you think?” his host asked. “Remember, Benedetto Oldescalchi was an attorney long before he was Pope.”

“I think she does not wish to be known, whoever she may be.” This was also the truth, and Ragoczy was relieved to have it so. “I cannot demand she tell me more than her Confessor would require.” Ettore Colonna sighed hard. “But what if she is a criminal?”

“All the more reason to aid her penitence,” said Ragoczy. “The Church cannot object to anyone seeking to expiate sin, can she?” “You would think not, but—” He stopped. “Lies and half-lies can turn an act of Christian kindness into the deepest vice.”

“As well as clothe the greatest depravity in the appearance of virtue,” Ragoczy said, recalling the many times he had seen both distortions happen.

“I will tell my cousin,” said Ettore Colonna, adding in a lighter tone, “Let us hope this will be the end of it.”

“Amen to that,” said Ragoczy as he crossed himself. They had reached a crosspath in the garden and they stood for a moment as if uncertain whether to return to the terrace or to continue their tour of the garden.

Their decision was made for them when Celestino Bruschi appeared in the tall doors opening onto the terrace, his hand raised to catch the attention of the two in the garden. “Signore Colonna,” he called. “A courier has arrived. He must speak with you. He says it is pressing.”

Ettore Colonna had sheltered his eyes with his hand the better to see Bruschi. “Whose courier is he?”

‘Tour cousin’s-—the Cardinal’s. The man is not a priest.” He motioned to Ettore Colonna to hurry. “I have sent him to the dining room. I thought you wouldn’t mind.”

Ettore Colonna was walking faster now, Ragoczy half a step behind him. “Very good. You did well.” He reached the terrace steps and went up them two at a time, making no apology to his ancient cousin as he rushed past him.

Ragoczy was more correct, pausing to make a leg to Gennaro Co-

lonna and say, “With your permission,” before following Ettore Co- lonna into the house.

The courier was eating a wedge of melon served with thin slices of ham when Ragoczy caught up with Ettore Colonna in the dining room; the young man wore the mantel of the Guardia Laterana, and his clothes were dusty from his ride. He had set aside his gloves and was busy with knife and fork. “I’m sorry, Signore, but I am hungry,” he said between bites. “I rode out from Roma as quickly as I could.”

“Then do not stop eating,” said Ettore Colonna a trifle drily. He pulled a chair back from the table and sat down. “What message have you for me?”

The courier had a mouthful of melon and could not answer immediately. He gestured toward a leather bag slung over the back of his chair.

“Bruschi, open it,” said Ettore Colonna, and clapped for a servant. “Wine for my guests. Not Ragoczy: he does not drink wine.”

The servant went to fetch a bottle from the pantry while Celestino Bruschi brought out the letter that bore the Colonna seal; he handed it and stood back while Ettore read the crossed lines.