Communion Blood (31 page)

In accord with the discharging of my office, I commend myself and my recommendations to your consideration, and I pray that God will guide us all to the truth in this most unhappy time,

Narcisso Lepedio della Rovere Podesta

From Bella Rovere in Tevere, on the 15th day of August in 1689

4

“I cannot linger,” said Alessandro Scarlatti as he alighted from his carriage at the Villa Vecchia. He was dressed in mourning for the Pope and wore a spot of ash on his forehead to show his penitent state of mind. Lines of sweat ran from under his wig, leaving damp trails in his lace neck-bands. “This heat is beastly, and there are two more Cantatas and an Oratorio for me to finish before the conclave is ended: who knows how long it will be?”

Ferenc Ragoczy, elegant in his habitual black, with no sign of discomfort from the weather, inclined his head as he indicated his open door. “Then come inside and have a glass of wine and a little cold ham. You can pause long enough for that, certainly.”

“Gracious as always,” said Scarlatti, shutting the coach door. He patted his black clothing and shook his head at the gloriously clear sky as if deploring its cerulean perfection. “At least it rained the day he died.”

“And would have, no matter what the Pope did that day,” Ragoczy said with a slight, ironic smile.

“Make sure God’s Hounds do not hear you say so,” Scarlatti warned, only half-joking. “They are at their most zealous between Popes, and they would not hesitate to act against you if they deemed it advisable.”

“I shall keep your warning in mind, Maestro.” Then Ragoczy raised his voice. “Matyas! Please tend to this carriage. Signore Scarlatti will want it again in an hour or so. The horses will need water and a handful of grain.” Confident that his instructions would be followed, Ragoczy ushered Scarlatti into his villa.

Scarlatti paused in the doorway as his coach rumbled off toward the stable. “Generous, too, Signor’ Conte.” He gave a sudden, intense stare at Ragoczy’s face. “Not a bit of sweat, and you in black from neck to toe.”

“More sensible than generous; your horses are hungry and thirsty,” he said, responding only to Scarlatti’s first observation. He was about to close the door when he hesitated, indicating the new building behind him. “It is more aggravating to pay the Artei for the labor they cannot do.”

“Of course. They have provisions for continuing pay during formal mourning; the Artei sees to that,” said Scarlatti. “Does it trouble you to have the same arrangement with our musicians?” The interior of the villa was cooler than the day outside but it was still warm enough to make proper clothing and wigs uncomfortable. Scarlatti unbuttoned his justaucorps, murmuring an apology for his lapse in manners.

“Not at all,” said Ragoczy. “I know that the musicians continue their practicing while the mourning is enforced, unlike the builders. It may be inconsistent, but there it is. At least they will be allowed to resume work on the thirteenth, the day after—”

“—the month of mourning concludes. Yes, I know. I have two choirs I cannot rehearse with until then. One of them has been singing Requiems and Stabat Maters since Innocenzo died. I know what it is to count the days.” He looked a bit impatient. “I would rather be working on our opera. But—” He shrugged. “When a Pope resigns his office for Heaven...”

“We knew there would be delays already. Giorgianna has made it inevitable. One more is not significant, not given what has happened,” said Ragoczy, directing Scarlatti toward his library with an elegant gesture. “It is the most comfortable room in this old place,” he explained. ‘When the men are working, you can scarcely hear the hammering, and it is never too hot or too cold.”

“A pity, then, that it is so much out of fashion. When do you think you will be able to occupy the new villa?” Scarlatti inquired, as he chose a comfortable Turkish chair. “Ah. This is much better than a lurching coach.”

“Yes, it is,” Ragoczy agreed. “And the builders tell me that, barring a hard winter, I should be in my new villa by the Paschal Mass.”

“Good progress, to have a villa of that size built in a year. You must have a large crew working on it.” Scarlatti sighed as he pulled off his gloves. “I have not had time to visit my family since the Pope died, although the Queen has offered to procure a travel dispensation for me, for which I am deeply grateful, but I fear that once I reach Napoli, I will find it difficult to return, and that would be very bad, very bad.”

Rugerius came into the libraiy through the rear door. “I have told the kitchen to prepare fruit and ham for Signore Scarlatti. I have brought the wine with me: Lachrymi Christi nel Vesuvio.” He held up the carafe.

“Ah, you knew what I long for,” he said, nodding. “Say what you will about red wines, I like the pale ones when they are as fine as this one.”

“If you will pour a goblet for Signore Scarlatti?” Ragoczy told Rugerius, and went on. “I assume you want to know something of Maurizio’s progress?”

“Yes, of course,” said Scarlatti, a trifle embarrassed at his own candid admission. “I pray he has not been driving you mad while he has been here?”

“Since he divides his time between this place and Senza Pari, there is some respite; he does not spend the evenings here, as you recall, nor his early mornings,” said Ragoczy with a trace of ironic humor.

“True enough,” Scarlatti allowed. He took the goblet Rugerius

handed to him, sniffed the wine, and prompted, “You say he is improving?”

“Yes; he is practicing, which is what you and I both wanted him to do. He is still lax about bowing exercises; he finds them boring, or so he tells me.” Ragoczy waited while Scarlatti took a sip of the wine and signaled his approval of it. “The weather has been hot enough to exhaust him, and with the Pope’s death I have permitted him some reduction in his practice hours.”

“But he is keeping up,” Scarlatti asked, seeking reassurance.

“Oh, yes. He wants to impress the young penitent I have been housing: I have mentioned her to you before. She is recovering from the ... rigors of her devotions, and Maurizio has taken it upon himself to play for her every afternoon.” Ragoczy held up his hand to forestall any questions. “He does not enter her chamber, but plays in the garden outside her window.”

“It sounds troublesome to me,” Scarlatti said, his expression filled with doubt. “He is young and his mind is not disciplined. He is entranced by his own abilities, which are considerable. But an infatuation? This could prove too much of a distraction for him. He has raw talent and believes that it and passion will be enough to carry him through, which it will do for a short time. He needs to steady himself if he intends to be more than a sensation. And if he takes it into his head to fall in love, well—” He made a gesture of helplessness.

“I don’t think it has come to that yet,” said Ragoczy, “although I suspect he is smitten with the
idea
of her; he does not know enough about her to be more than fascinated.”

“Worse and worse; she is a mystery about whom he can weave his own tale, and make himself the hero of it,” Scarlatti cried in mock dismay. “What on earth are we to do about his attachment?” He had straightened up and set his goblet aside. “He does not know what folly he—I should speak to him at once.”

But Ragoczy shook his head. “I would not recommend it, not to condemn his captivation, in any case. If he thinks his infatuation is dangerous enough to require opposition, he may try to show his devotion by stubbornness, which will suit no one, including that penitent.”

Scarlatti nodded slowly. “I take your point, Signor’ Conte, and I concur. He is such a hotheaded youngster that he could very possibly decide to behave just as you suggest.”

“That is what I think,” said Ragoczy, looking up as one of the servants carried in a tray with slices of ham and a bunch of grapes set out on a fine china plate. “This will relieve you.”

“It looks wonderful,” Scarlatti said. “And I am not one to abstain from meat during the month of bereavement, although some think it pious. This is not Lent, it is mourning, and that is different.” He licked his lips in anticipation as the servant put the tray down on the tall stool and moved it to his chair. “Your staff does you credit.”

“I hope so,” said Ragoczy, adding, “Pray, take what you want. It is not my habit to eat at this hour.” He leaned back negligently against a short set of shelves. “I have kept Maurizio busy with a few transcriptions of old melodies, ones he does not know.” Ragoczy had played those melodies himself when he had been in the north of France, making his way in the world as a troubador; this he kept to himself.

“Very good,” Scarlatti approved. “I will need him to learn a difficult part in this Oratorio I am finishing. You’ll like it,” he said as he pronged a bit of ham on his fork. “The counterpoint is very innovative.”

“I am looking forward to hearing it,” said Ragoczy. “Is this for Innocenzo, or for his successor?”

“The successor. I’ve already completed the various lamentations for Innocenzo, including a setting of the Dies Irae. The Church is inclined to remind the faithful of sin at such times as these. It isn’t my best work, but then, I had less than six days to compose it.” He chewed busily, continuing to talk as he did. “Do you think Maurizio will complain if I take him away from here for a week or two?”

“He may,” Ragoczy allowed. “Rut if he does go, it may provide him a chance to reassess his passion.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Scarlatti. “It is more likely to become more intense.” He selected a few grapes and prepared to devour them. “Oh, dear. This is the worst possible time for him to succumb to his heart.” “Very likely,” said Ragoczy. “And yet we are too late to stop it.”

He refilled Scarlatti’s goblet himself, saying to his manservant, “Rug- erius, would you be good enough to find Maurizio and bring him to us? Thank you, old friend.”

“I shall not be long,” Rugerius said, and let himself out the side- door.

“What shall we say to him?” Scarlatti asked, clearly apprehensive. “Do you think there is some way we can address this that will not cause him to cast himself in the role of amorous hero?” He had more of the wine. “It is a pity that you deny yourself this pleasure, Conte; it truly is.”

“But there are other pleasures I do not deny myself, and so it balances out,” Ragoczy said easily.

“Well, be careful that these pleasures do not displease the Church; I would not like to see such a patron as you end up a guest at the Pope’s Little House,” said Scarlatti, suddenly very serious. “With the new election coming, the zeal of the Curia is doubled.”

“ ‘Popes come and go but the Curia remains’?” Ragoczy quoted the Roman aphorism with a world-weary humor.

“Something of the sort,” Scarlatti agreed. “It is very distressing to think that we will have to do so much to put their attention elsewhere. And pity the poor bastards who claim their attention.” He had another sip of wine. “That suit you are trying: there is no reason to think the Curia might be caught up in that, is there?”

“I wouldn’t suppose so,” Ragoczy said carefully, recalling the many times he had misjudged the tenacity of fanatics: from Obispo Heman Guarda, who had hunted and imprisoned him in Latin America; to Father Pogner, who had made his mission to Russia so difficult; to Girolamo Savonarola, who had persecuted Fiorenza for being Fior- enza; to Padre Fortunatus, who had so relentlessly pursued Csimenae and her brood; to the Sultan’s knights outside Baghdad; to Tamas- rajasi, who sought to make a sacrifice of him; to the ... He forced his thoughts away from the past. “But I am not a familiar.”

“At least you have sense enough to be wary of them,” said Scarlatti. “Oh, yes; I have that,” said Ragoczy, and looked up as Rugerius scratched at the side-door. “Come in.”

Rugerius opened the door and stood aside so that Maurizio could

enter the library. “Do you wish me to remain, my master?”

“If you like,” Ragoczy said.

“You wish to berate me in front of a
servant?”
Maurizio demanded, his face darkening.

Ragoczy refused to be goaded by this outburst even as Scarlatti set his goblet down with some force. “You see, I have known Rug- erius much longer than I have known you, Maurizio,” he said mildly. “And it is not my intention to berate you.” Before Maurizio could speak, Ragoczy went on in the same affability. “Here is Maestro Scarlatti come to see you at a time his schedule is full. He wishes to hear of your progress.”

Maurizio made a hasty, graceless leg to the composer. “I am honored to see you,” he said in a flat tone of voice; he had an air of melancholy about him, accented with umbrage.

“Are you?” Scarlatti asked, making the most of Maurizio’s confusion. “So how is it that I hear you are devoting your time to something—to
someone
—other than your music?” He rose from his chair and faced the young violinist.

“You are mistaken,” said Maurizio, his cheeks flaming. “I occasionally play where the penitent can hear me ... because we are taught that music brings our thoughts closer to God.”

“We are also taught the Devil plays the fiddle,” said Scarlatti bluntly, all his intentions of restraint falling away. “Do not tell me you are not acting the moonling, for I will not believe you.” He began to pace, and although his voice did not rise, his speech became more clipped. “You think you have been taken with a noble passion, and that you are showing your devotion to an unknown. It is all one to me if you are enamored of a woman, but not at the expense of your studies. You have been given an opportunity to improve your art; if you do not make the most of it, you may regret your inattention in later years.” Then he stopped and smiled. “You think I do not know what it is to be besotted with a woman? Do you assume that I am without understanding of your feelings because I am older than you, or because I have a wife and children? You think that because I have work and am married that I no longer have fire in my veins? Not so, young man, not so.” He came up to Maurizio. “As long as we are

men, we will have these desires, but only a fool lets them overwhelm the things he values in himself.” His manner was now avuncular. “I do not wish to set myself at odds with you, Maurizio; I only want you to remember the opportunity you are putting at risk for a woman who, by her very penitence, has put herself beyond your ardor.”