Communion Blood (33 page)

“Is she improving?” asked.

“Yes. She will have scars, but she had some already, old scars that looked to be the results of beatings: most not self-inflicted, by the look of them. I can only guess who has done this to her, and guesses are worth nothing.” He rubbed the line of his jaw. “What am I to do? She tells me nothing, and I do not want to demand an explanation

from her. If she is determined to maintain her anonymity, I will not betray her.”

“No,” said Rugerius, thinking of Csimenae and Pentacoste and Tamasrajasi. “You will not.”

Ragoczy lowered his voice. “If only she would trust me.”

“Why should she? No doubt she is uncertain of your motives for caring for her as much as she is eager to take advantage of them.” Rugerius shrugged.

“Do you think she is as deliberate as all that?” Ragoczy said, one brow rising for emphasis. “I have thought from the first that this was a kind of desperate escape, that she is like a hunted animal, crouching in a den to avoid the hounds.”

“And if they are God’s Hounds, what then?” His austere expression became more forceful. Their kennel is the Pope’s—”

“—Little House,” Ragoczy finished for him. “How could I permit her to go there.”

Rugerius sighed. “You could not. And you can only conjecture about her circumstances while she tells you nothing.”

“You recommend waiting,” said Ragoczy, his expression revealing nothing beyond what good manners required. “That may be a luxury we can ill-afford.”

“And if you force her hand, what then?” Rugerius challenged Ragoczy. “She runs away again, or denounces you as a kidnapper, or worse.”

“What would Olivia advise, do you think,” Ragoczy said, bemused humor giving a slight curve to his mouth.

“That is hardly to the point,” Rugerius said, his exasperation making his voice sharper than most servants would dare to use with an employer. “If Olivia were here, we would not be.”

“And our Penitent Guest would be in the hands of a woman, beyond any rumors but the most outrageous ones.” Ragoczy nodded, and paused to listen as the first sounds of Maurizio’s practicing began. “A remarkable lad.”

“That he is,” said Rugerius, accepting this adroit shift in subject for the time being.

“Perhaps you could offer him the rest of the ham and grapes?”

Ragoczy indicated the tray that had been brought for Scarlatti.

Rugerius took his dismissal in good part, picking up the tray and saying as he did, “And where will you be?”

Ragoczy’s smile was at once sardonic and wistful. “I will be in my apartment; I find the heat of the day oppressive. An hour or so in my bed will restore me.”

“I will rouse you at sunset,” Rugerius told him, relieved that Ragoczy was finally going to seek his native earth.

“Thank you, old friend,” said Ragoczy from the hall door. “You are very good.”

Text of a letter from Ennio Lampone in Roma to Ferenc Ragoczy at Villa Vecchia, carried by Antonio Scorda.

To the most Excellent, the Conte da San Germain, the sincerest greetings of Ennio Lampone, mathematician, with the fervent hope that this will not be deemed an intrusion on what is so slight an acquaintance,

Eccellenza, I hope you may remember that I had the honor to meet you at II Meglio, the palazzo of Giancarlo, Cardinal Colonna, some months past. Your may also recall that my son, Rufio, is currently residing in England, calling himself Rufus Berry, and it is on his behalf, at the suggestion of Ettore Colonna, that 1 make so bold to address you in this most irregular manner.

It is my understanding that you have occasional commerce with England, and that you can arrange travel for those seeking to make such voyages. I must ask you to receive me before the end of next week so that I may explain how it comes about that I make this irregular request. I am sure you are aware that mathematicians can have enemies as easily as any man may, and that some of them will go to desperate ends to demonstrate their enmity. I fear that has happened in my case, and I am in no position to present an acceptable defense against those things of which I am accused. Flight is ignominious but it is my only salvation at this point. While Innocenzo reigned, I had little to fear, but now that he is dead, I have learned I am about to be denounced for certain thoughts I have been so un-

wise as to publish, and which now are to be subjected to the scrutiny of the Holy Office for the Faith; I am certain some of my conclusions will not meet with their approval. It is not my wish to bolt in this unseemly manner, but I am left with no choice but absconding with all my papers, or staying to be imprisoned as a heretic because of them. I pray you understand something of the nature of my predicament, for surely an exile is cognizant of these matters.

You are reputed to be a man of tolerant character and intellectual principles. It is in these capacities that I make bold to send this to you, and pray you will not add it to the condemnations of my work that are even now being heaped up at the Pope’s Little House in the Via Sacra.

If you are willing to receive me, pray tell the messenger who brings this what time and day would suit your convenience, and I will make haste to wait upon you then. You may trust this messenger, who has been my student for nearly ten years, and who shares my peril.

I confess I fear for my life. I can offer no account for my thoughts that have brought me to this dreadful pass but that I have gone where logic and numbers have led me, for no other reason than a desire to understand the nature of mathematics. If this is a sin in God’s eyes, I am appalled to think that God could bestow the gift of reason and then demand it be denied in His Name. If you are willing to help me, I will sing your praises from my haven in England until God Himself silences me.

This brings with it my hopes and my highest opinion,

Your humblest petitioner, Ennio Lampone By my own hand and under seal

At Roma, on the 3rd day of September, 1689

It was the second day of grape harvest and the air smelled of new wine, an aroma so palpable that the wind seemed inebriated with it. Twilight lay blue and intense over the Roman hills, soft and warm as a caress. Sporadic bits of music drifted up from the crushing sites where tired peasants struggled to go on with their celebrations as long as they could.

“It will be a good vintage,” said Niklos Aulirios to Ragoczy as they rode out from Senza Pari toward the road leading into Roma. “The grapes are plentiful and their sweetness balances with their tartness. Olivia would be proud.”

Ragoczy laughed. “More likely she would be satisfied. She expected her lands to produce good wine, and would expect an explanation if they did not.” He fell silent after he spoke, and so did Niklos. It had been just such an evening when Nero ruled Roma that Ragoczy had attended a dinner at the house Titus Petronius Niger; he recalled he had brought his host a remedy to keep from sneezing at the roses in the garden next door, as well as provided Indian temple dancers to entertain Petronius’ guests. That was the first time he had met Olivia, in that long-vanished, lamp-lit garden. “I miss her,” he said at last.

“So do I,” Niklos agreed. “It has been more than thirty years since she died, and I have not lost the habit of listening for her voice or looking for her. Occasionally I think I hear her speak to me. Often I anticipate a glimpse of her when I come suddenly into a room.” He caught his lower lip in his teeth.

A night-bird called overhead, and another answered from some distance away; the drowsy wind hummed with mosquitos.

“Do not fault yourself for that. You served her for well over a millennium. It would surprise me if you could put her behind you in a mere three decades.” Ragoczy did not add that he had memories going back to long-vanished Thebes and the Temple of Imhotep

which still had a sense of immediacy about them. “In time you—”

“I will not forget!” Niklos said with some heat.

“No, of course you will not,” Ragoczy said, unperturbed by Niklos’ outburst. “But you will cease to wait for her.”

“And you?” Niklos said accusingly. “Will you continue to wait for her?”

Ragoczy’s face showed his sadness. “Ah, but for me it is different. She was blood of my blood. I know she is gone, but I cannot lose her.”

“But you do not long for her,” Niklos said, perversely jealous of Ragoczy’s blood-bond, although Olivia had often told him that it was as much anguish as consolation.

“That would be folly,” said Ragoczy, and knew he had said too little. “I cannot bring her back again; if I deny her loss, I will lose her utterly: if I accept it, I will have her memory. I prefer the latter, whenever possible.”

Five hundred years ago Niklos would have demanded a justification of such a remark, but now he nodded, his handsome features revealing little; he changed the subject. “When do we return to court, do you think?”

‘When the new Pope allows it, and we do not yet have a new Pope. Podesta della Rovere will not hear this case one instant sooner than he must.” He pointed toward the crossroads ahead. “You are bound for Roma and I am going on to the Villa Vecchia.” He sighed. “At least the workers are busy again now that the month of mourning is over. Still, I will have to increase their numbers by half again what they are now if I want the roof on the new building by winter.”

Niklos drew in his glossy blue roan. “Are you planning to stay there long?”

“I doubt it; I would have to answer too many questions,” said Ragoczy. “But if I fail to rebuild, I will bring attention I would not like. This way I show the world I am wealthy without such ostentation that I would earn the disgust of the old families, and I avoid the suspicions of the Church, at least for a while.” He considered this a bit longer. “And I do not like the place looking as it did when Olivia died there; it is too troubling. Rebuilding has allowed me to be rid of all that without causing comment on my purpose.”

“I wondered if that might be part of it,” he said.

“That, and I suppose all those years in prison left me with a hankering for pleasant surroundings,” said Ragoczy, and gave his grey a nudge with his knee as they reached the main road. “This is where we part, I think. I will come again in a week or so to arrange for resuming our rehearsals.”

“When will that be?” Niklos asked, starting away down the road toward the city.

“As soon as the new Pope is on San Pietro’s Throne and Scarlatti has performed his last Cantata and Oratorio.” Ragoczy had to raise his voice to be heard.

Niklos made a broad gesture of farewell as he faded into the dusk; the sound of his horse’s hooves carried back to Ragoczy as he continued on his way toward the Villa Vecchia, needing nothing more than the stars to light his way. He had not made up his mind about how he would answer the note brought to him the previous day by a servant of Adina Bonasoli; she was tempting, but he had no wish to create false hopes by his attentions. She was eager to engage his interests, but she was far more eager to marry again, and he would never offer her marriage; she sought a husband, not an admirer. He knew better than to visit her in her dreams, for she might recall just enough of their somnolent tryst to feel the need to ask for absolution: that would never do. His mood was pensive and as he rode along, he let his thoughts drift back, without the longing of nostalgia, over the centuries to when he was Sanct’ Germain Franciscus, from Dacia but not a Daci. He remembered Tishtry and Kozrozd, and Aumtehoutep, all dead in the Roman arena so very long ago. He decided that these hills, as much as Niklos’ remarks earlier, had evoked the past; Roma had been so different then, and so much the same. Seven hundred years ago while he and Olivia had shared his villa, the city had been halfway to a ruin, but had resurrected itself in the intervening centuries until the explosion that had ended Olivia’s long life had also destroyed almost a half of the building. As he made the turning that led to the Villa Vecchia, which in those vanished days was Villa Ragoczy, he saw Matyas coming toward him with a lanthom in his hand, mounted on a nine-year-old mare. He drew in, his attention on his servant.

“Who’s there?” Matyas cried out, lifting the lanthom and opening its front to shine into the darkness.

“You need not draw your pistol, Matyas,” said Ragoczy in a tone of unconcern, and speaking in Matyas’ native Hungarian. “I will come peacefully.”

“Signor’ Conte!” Matyas exclaimed in the same language. “I came looking for you. I was sent to find you.” He brought his horse up to Ragoc
2
y’s. “The Penitent has been asking for you,” he said, lowering his voice as if he expected Hungarian-speaking eavesdroppers in the bushes.

“Has she: I wonder why,” said Ragoczy, careful to reveal the full extent of his curiosity. He started his horse to walking again. “When did this happen?”

Matyas shrugged. “Rugerius was summoned by the penitent’s maid about an hour ago; she told him she wanted to speak with you. That is all I know.” He shone the circle of light cast by the lanthom on the road ahead of them, making the dark seem greater by contrast with the puny brightness.

“Rugerius sent you to find me?” Ragoczy inquired. “He thought that perhaps I should speak with the young woman as long as she is inclined to talk.” It was not so much a guess as a summing-up of Rugerius’ nature.

“Yes,” said Matyas. “He ordered me to ride toward Senza Pari, to bring you back to your Villa Vecchia.” He hesitated before going on. “You have not seen her often, have you?”

“The Penitent? No: I have tended her injuries, that is all.” He heard an animal in the underbrush beside the road and calmed his horse at the sound. A thought came unwanted. “Did Maurizio do—”

“No, nothing. He has been playing for her, to help her, but he stays outside her room. He says nothing.” If Matyas hoped to provide some reassurance with this additional comment, he missed the mark.

“He leaves his eloquence to his violin,” said Ragoczy with gloomy certainty. “And she, no doubt, listens eagerly, hearing his passion. In her austerity, she may find sustenance in his playing, though she may not know what it signifies.”

“She says the music comforts her,” Matyas said, hoping he was not overstepping any bounds.