Communion Blood (35 page)

“Indeed, I am not,” said Ragoczy.

Leocadia scrutinized him, her head lifted with something of the hauteur Ragoczy had seen that evening at II Meglio. “Perhaps not,” she allowed. “If you think tomorrow is best, then so be it.”

“I will leave before first light, so that I may bring him immediately after morning Mass. I trust that will be soon enough.” He did not add that he would stop on his way to Santissima Redentore to pass an hour with a spinster from Livorno who had the most intense dreams, dreams she never repeated to her Confessor; she would be glad of his ephemeral company, and he would be nourished.

Before Leocadia could speak, Clarice murmured her thanks. “This young woman has need of her Confessor.”

Ragoczy would have asked her why this need was so pressing, but realized that if he sought to discover more, his curiosity could put the seal on Leocadia’s distrust. “Then I will bring him here before noon.”

“May God speed and guide you, Signor’ Conte,” said Leocadia, with another mercurial shift in demeanor; she was filled with humility and supplication. “I will pray for you tonight.”

“What can I be but grateful,” said Ragoczy as he slipped out of the room.

Text of a letter of response written in German from Ahrent Rothofen to Archbishop Siegfried Walmund, carried by the Archbishop’s personal courier.

To His Excellency, the Archbishop of Oldenburg, Seigfried Walmund, the attentive greeting of his most devoted servant, Ahrent Julius Rothofen.

I regret to inform you, Excellency, that I have been unable to find any more information on Leocadia Calaveria y Vacamonte than what I supplied you ten days since. I have done all within my powers to continue the search for her, all without success. The on-going conclave makes it difficult to proceed, for without Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte to give his permission for. what I am doing, I have no authority to pursue the woman, and, should I do so, you know I would attract the attention of the familiars, which neither you nor I would want, not only for the immediate suspicions they would have regarding my intentions in hunting for her, but for the more problematic issue of the circumstances in which the Cardinal’s sister might be living, should I discover her. This second consideration perplexes me greatly, for if she has fled to a lover, the whole arrangements for the marriage would be in jeopardy.

There is no progress on my suit, of course, and will not be until the Magisterial Courts are convened again by the new Pope. There are a few things I want to do in this time that may turn the outcome to my benefit. Who would have thought that Aulirios would have such a vast knowledge of the history of the Clemens estate? He has thwarted me at every turn, and because of that, I am at some disadvantage because of the delay and find myself in more straitened circumstances than I could wish. I am at something of an impasse because my advocate is asking for some payment on my account, and I may either do that or purchase a new wig, which I must have if I am to make a proper appearance in the world. It would be a mistake to refuse to pay my advocate, but it would also be an error to make a poor showing so to obtain a bit more wherewithal, I will gladly undertake any errands or other services Your Excellency may bestow on me.

The conclave cannot last much longer. For one thing Louis of France is increasing his disobedient ways in this unsettled time, and the Church cannot be seen to concede anything to the French, or who knows where it will stop? If the Church continues leaderless for much longer, the French may rally to the Protestant cause, if only to help their King. The sad example of the Protestant turmoil is everywhere before us in the German States, and the Holy Roman Emperor is at odds with the Holy See because of it. I fear that there is more discord to come. Without a new Pope, and soon, this disorder will increase and that can only lead to the disunity Innocenzo himself so decried. Hourly I anticipate the white smoke, as do all Catholics, for the sake of our lives and our souls.

I thank Your Excellency in this uncertain time for the stalwartness of your purpose and I condole with you: if only the marriage between your brother and Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte had been celebrated before this crisis, we might have used this time to secure new alliances for Oldenburg that would give us access to the Spanish colonies in the New World, which would bring not only gold and silver but land, and the natives to work it for Oldenburg. How much we should rejoice on the day we make this dream a reality. The New World is a treasure, and it is fitting that Oldenburg have a share of it; the Spanish have need of us, whether they admit it or not. They will have to have allies or lose precious possessions to the French, or so it appears to me; I have been watching the activities of the French in the New World, and I know that any of the German States would manage better, had we been given such an opportunity as the French have had in Canada, or in Mexico. If we have learned nothing else in the German States, we have learned the importance of maintaining order amid disruption. We value the firm hand that gives direction and dignity to all endeavors; these are lessons we should bring to the Americas. It is unthinkable that we should he deprived of our rightful place among colonial powers because of the caprice of one young woman.

It is all God’s Will, no doubt, but for one such as I, who am no
1
theologian, His Favor seems to be bestowed with little regard for His Church. I do not say this heretically, for I have no doubt that His Purpose is beyond understanding, and I am willing to accept His Will in all things, including His seemingly perverse advancement of Protestants.

I will do myself the honor of calling upon you tomorrow at mid- afternoon, unless some news comes from Saint Peters. Know that I hold you in highest esteem and commend my service to your will,

In devotion and dedication Yours to command, Ahrent Rothofen

On the 2nd day of October, 1689

“Pietro Ottoboni is Pope!” Ettore Colonna cried out, laughing. He flung the note from his cousin into the air, much to the horror of the young monk who had carried the news from Giancarlo, Cardinal Colonna, to Ettore Colonna. “The French will be celebrating when they hear the news.” He swung around to face Alessandro Scarlatti, holding out his hands. “Come drink a toast with me, to the health of Alessandro VIII. You can spare a moment for that, can’t you? Such a momentous occasion. It will not make me pay you less for your music.” He clapped his hands and one of the footmen came in answer to his summons. “Wine! Bring the best we have. Let us taste the Blood of Christ in honor of His new Pope; let us share in God’s joy at this good news. Wine and sweets.” He laughed again so that the marble halls of II Meglio rang with it.

Alessandro Scarlatti sighed. “The sheets of music paper are so thick on my worktable they are like a pelt. And the press of work is only just beginning, for now the coronation will be celebrated and I must have new works for that, as well. I will have to be up all of the night to finish the last of the orchestration on my Cantata,” he said, then let his curiosity dictate his questions. “Why are you so delighted, Signore Colonna? Do you favor Ottoboni?”

The young monk ducked his head. “I must return to—” He gestured toward the dome of San Pietro.

Ettore Colonna waved him away, then gave his attention to Scarlatti. “I am delighted because Ottoboni is a Venetian. I am more pleased that he is old, and will not reign long, so there will be more confusion among the Cardinals which he will be unable to stop. The disputes of the last reign will not end with Ottoboni, no matter what he tries. At least he will not be locked in conflict with Louis of France. He will care nothing for the Jansenists. He will spend his time trying to keep the Ottomites in check, to stop their advances into Christian lands, when he is able to do anything at all. The Curia will keep him

in check, and the Ottomites will be a silent presence in Church affairs again. This should demand more cordial relations with the rulers of the West. The austerities will lessen. The Lampones may come back from England without harm. Who knows, the tax on snuff may come to an end.” Ettore Colonna stopped still for a moment. “Ragoczy will have to be informed. Who knows,” he repeated “he may even be pleased with the new Pope for reasons of his own: the Turks are greedy for his homeland.” He clapped again, summoning another footman. “Bring me paper. Tell them to ready a fresh horse in the stable. And send for Celestino Bruschi. I have work for him.”

The bells of Roma began to ring, San Giovanni in Laterano sounding the first peal to honor the new Pope, then San Pietro joining in its bass note, then San Lorenzo Fuori le Mura, then San Clemente, as each of the Basilicas heralded Alessandro VIII, sounding their bells before the churches began. The sound was as powerful as thunder, shaking the air with brazen joy.

Alessandro Scarlatti clapped his hands to his ears. “I cannot
think
in this din. It is going to get louder, of course, I do not know how I will finish my work if I have to listen to this clamor all night; I will have nothing but bells in my head.”

“You will accomplish it all,” said Ettore Colonna with steady confidence. “You have managed thus far. There is no reason you cannot continue.”

“Very likely,” said Scarlatti in a sarcastic tone. “You can say so because it is not for you to do.”

Ettore Colonna held up his hands in surrender. “I ask your pardon, Maestro Scarlatti.” He was still in high good-humor as he said this, his smile unchanged from his first reading of the note. “Habemus Papam,” he said:
we have a Pope,
reciting the traditional words of announcement to the world. “Come.” He clapped his hands again. “Pour us some fine, red, Communion blood that we may show our gratitude to God, and grow closer to Him.”

There was a long moment of silence, and then Scarlatti managed a chuckle. “I do not mean to be an ogre. I am only trying to keep myself from being caught in the madness.”

“A sensible thing, no doubt; in your position I would do the same thing,” said Ettore Colonna, breaking off to sit down at the wide, polished table as his servant appeared carrying a portable desk. “Very good. Put it here, if you would.” He patted the table in front of him and reached for paper as soon as the servant set it down.

“What are you going to tell the Signor’ Conte?” asked Scarlatti, his curiosity piqued.

“That there is a new Pope, that the Pope is Venetian and old, and that the Magisterial Courts will shortly be in session again.” He reached for a pen and began to trim the quill. “You haven’t forgotten Signor’ Aulirios’ plight, have you?”

“Certainly not,” said Scarlatti, who had. “There will be much for him to do in order to prepare to proceed with the case.” He began to pace. “And there is the opera. We must resume our rehearsals as soon as possible.”

The servant ordered to bring wine appeared, a newly opened, dusty bottle on the tray with the glasses. “I apologize, Signore,” he said. “I had to fetch this from the pantry racks.” He held up the bottle for approval. “Twelve years old. If you want older, I will have to go into the cellar.”

Ettore Colonna beckoned the man nearer and peered at the label on the bottle. “This is an excellent choice for our occasion,” he decided aloud. “Open and decant it so that we may show our rejoicing that the Holy Spirit has sent the Church a new Pope. Were it not a heretical notion, I would think that God has a sense of humor— inspiring the Cardinals to elect such a man as Ottoboni to San Pietro’s Chair.” He winked at Scarlatti. “I am often thankful that God chose good red wine to share Himself with us. He might have settled on seawater or turpentine, and then where would we be?” Seeing that Scarlatti was not laughing, he went on contritely. “Your pardon, Maestro. You were saying?”

Scarlatti fussed with his wide justaucorps cuffs. “I will not be able to get away for a while yet, not with the coronation coming soon, for they will not want to wait many days for the event,” he said, his face marked with new dejection. “I had hoped to have time enough to visit my family in Napoli, but it is not going to be possible. My children will not remember me by the time I return.”

Looking up from his writing, Ettore Colonna said, “You will have to demand time at the Nativity.”

“No,” said Scarlatti with a sad shake of his head. “I have too many commissions. I dare not leave until after the New Year.” He paused in his lament to watch the servant light the candle to begin decanting the wine. “I miss them all.”

“Hardly surprising,” said Ettore Colonna, and went on when he saw the startled expression pass over Scarlatti’s features. “Do not believe that because I have no wife or children that I cannot understand how you miss them.” His face lightened. “Why not send for them to join you?”

“It wouldn’t be prudent,” said Scarlatti shortly. “Roma being Roma, I must protect my family from the pitfalls of this place.” He bowed slightly to Ettore Colonna. “You must understand my concern, Signore.”

“Of course I do,” said Colonna with sincerity as he signed his name to the note with a flourish and tipped sand onto it. “Where is Celes- tino?” he asked of the air.

The servant who had brought the desk said, “He is coming, master.”

“Very good,” Ettore Colonna approved. “Go to the stable and tell them to ready a horse for him.” He waved his servant away before returning his attention to the note he had written. After folding the sheet carefully, he struck flint and steel to light the candle on the portable desk, then reached for his sealing wax. “I want this given to Ragoczy before nightfall.” He dropped a blob of red wax onto the folded paper and set the impression of his signet ring in it. “There.” He looked at Scarlatti as the servant handed the musician a glass of the newly decanted wine. “Taste this and tell me if it is not worthy of a Papal celebration.” He accepted his own glass and chuckled as he lifted it. “To Alessandro VIII, may he bring glory to Roma, and with this good Communion blood bring us to the love of God.”

Scarlatti stood as he raised his glass, moderately startled that Ettore Colonna remained seated. “Signore?” he ventured.