Communion Blood (36 page)

“The Pope will not mind,” he said, and drank. “And if he does not, how can God?” With an ironic laugh he drank down half the glass.

Scarlatti shook his head but acknowledged the toast; he smiled approval as he tasted the wine. “Very good. Truly.”

Ettore Colonna opened his mouth to reply, then turned his head as Celestino Bruschi came into the room. “There you are at last,” he said in a jolly tone. “As you can tell by the noise there is a new Pope, and one who should be most interesting.” He held out the sealed letter. “Here. I want you to carry this to Ragoczy for me. At once. He may or may not give you an answer to bring back.”

Bruschi made a leg. “I am all readiness,” he said, smiling courteously.

“Let us hope that a horse is, too,” said Ettore Colonna. “Barring chaos in the streets, you should be able to reach Ragoczy within the hour.”

“The bells will summon the people,” Bmschi said just as the noise increased.

“Then hasten,” said Ettore Colonna, indicating the stairs. “There should be a horse ready by the time you reach the stables. If there isn’t, saddle one yourself. When you return tonight, I will have other errands for you, so come to me before you seek your chambers,” Ettore Colonna warned as Bruschi departed. He glanced toward Scarlatti. “He is a most excellent fellow, is Bmschi.”

“He seems so,” Scarlatti answered carefully; in his long association with aristocrats he had learned it was unwise to contradict them, or to agree too fulsomely.

“How very careful you are, Maestro,” said Ettore Colonna, who understood Scarlatti’s caution. He indicated the wine in Scarlatti’s glass. “If you want more—”

“No; no. Grazie.” The last was punctilious. Scarlatti was growing restless; he set his glass down and began to pace. “You say you do not think it will be long until Alessandro’s coronation?”

“No,” said Ettore Colonna, comprehending the reason for the composer’s disquiet. “It would be wise to have the coronation as soon as possible; these interim periods can become treacherous if they are allowed to continue too long.”

Scarlatti shook his head. “I hope there is time enough for me to finish the works that have been commissioned, and to rehearse them.”

Ettore Colonna drank down most of the rest of his wine. “I do admire your industry, Maestro, and I know I do not share it. Still,

given our various gifts, it is probably just as well that God ordered us as He did.” He inclined his head. “I will not keep you if you would rather be away; I thought it was wise of both of us to salute our new Pontiff as soon as we heard the happy tidings. Neither you nor I can afford to look laggard in our devotions—for vastly different reasons, of course.”

Scarlatti made a leg. “Thank you, Signore Colonna. I rejoice with you.” With that, he went to retrieve the cloak he had flung over the back of one of the chairs, swung it around his shoulders and left Ettore Colonna to his private festivities. As he emerged from 11 Meg- lio he saw Celestino Bruschi, mounted on a feisty red mare, heading toward the eastern gate of the city; the composer had a moment’s wistful longing that it was he and not Bruschi bound for Ragoczy’s villa, but he dismissed such lackadaisical notions from his thoughts and continued on his way, reminding himself that there was work to be done.

Celestino Bruschi rode at a brisk trot—the fastest pace that was safe in the crowded streets of Roma—doing his best to avoid the revelers newly appearing in answer to the clamor of the bells; his short cloak spread out behind him on the rump of his horse. Once he was beyond the limits of the city he gave the mare her head, covering the distance to the villa at an easy canter half the way, and a jog-trot for the rest; the sound of her hooves soon became louder than the bells. Around him the rich Roman sunlight buttered the lovely curves of the hills; a few of the leaves were showing the first burnishing of autumn, but Bruschi hardly noticed, for he was intent on his mission. The mare obliged him, never falling back to a walk until they passed the gates of the Villa Vecchia, where Bruschi found Ragoczy standing in the doorway of his partially completed villa, a slight frown on his attractive, irregular features. “Signor Conte,” he called out as he pulled the mare in and came out of the saddle.

Ragoczy looked around. “Signore Bruschi,” he responded, suggesting a leg. “I hope I see you well.”

“You see me here on behalf of Ettore Colonna, and with some urgency,” said Bruschi, holding the mare’s reins with one hand and

offering the sealed note with the other. “He sent me to give you this as soon as the announcement was made.”

Ragoczy came down the steps, a frown forming between his brows. “Now, what—?” He took the note.

“They are celebrating in Roma,” said Bruschi as he watched Ragoczy break the seal on the note. “As I came away, I could not hear anything but the pealing of bells.”

“For an old Venetian Pope, I see,” said Ragoczy as he read through the missive. “Well, Signore Bruschi,” he went on briskly, “you are welcome here, bringing me such news. Now, perhaps, the builders can get back to their work.” He gave a single shake of his head, and any trace of annoyance vanished. “Come in and let me ask my cook to feed you. It is the least I can offer you.”

“You are most gracious,” said Bruschi, pausing as the sound of an expertly played violin came from a short distance away. “Very pretty?” He could not correctly ask for an explanation, so he hoped his compliment would bring some further information.

“Oh, that is the very talented but undisciplined young man Scarlatti persuaded me to tutor; he spends his afternoons practicing; we have become used to him and hardly notice his playing,” said Ragoczy at his most affable as he stepped into his old villa; as he held the door for Bruschi, he indicated the corridor. “If you will go along to the library—I trust you remember the way?—I will find my manservant and see about getting you a meal for all your trouble.”

Bruschi bowed, and although he was curious to know what else Ragoczy might do, as a guest he was constrained to accept the hospitality he was offered. He made a leg and did as his host instructed him. As he went along to the library, he tried to place the piece the violinist was playing but did not recognize the plaintive strains. Shrugging out of his cloak, he took a seat on the upholstered settee near the window and spent a short while looking out into the small formal garden beyond. Pleasant as the days were, he knew they would not last, for the days were shortening and the weather would not hold; in another week or two the rains would come and the roads would turn to mires, the leaves would fall and the world would be stark and bare. He sighed, deliberately putting such thoughts out of his mind.

There would be time enough to deal with winter when it came, he told himself as he directed his attention from the garden to the library. Idly he picked up a leather-bound volume of botanical prints and thumbed through the pages. He was puzzling out the descriptions of New World aloes when Rugerius came in bearing a tray.

“Buona serra, Signore Bruschi,” said Rugerius.

Bruschi nodded his acknowledgment; only then did he notice that the playing had stopped. He rose and went to the trestle table where Rugerius was clearing a space for the tray. “The Conte told you?” “About the new Pope?” Rugerius asked politely. “Oh, yes. We must be grateful that the wait is at an end.” He put the tray in the cleared space. “My master is composing a note to Signor’ Colonna. He asks you to indulge him by waiting for it.”

"I will do so with pleasure,” said Bruschi, and looked at the light meal he was being given: cold duck with pureed raspberries over it, a cup of vegetable broth covered with baked cheese, a wedge of polenta with mushrooms and onions, and sliced apples cooked with cinnamon and covered in heavy cream. “This is an excellent repast.” “I will bring you wine in a moment,” said Rugerius, and watched as Bruschi sat down to eat.

“Very good,” said Bruschi, both to the meal and to the promise of wine. “I will need a lanthom to light my way when I leave.”

“One will be provided,” Rugerius assured him, and went to get the wine, returning with it promptly. “This is from the vineyards of Senza Pari,” he said, pouring out the wine from the newly opened bottle.

“The disputed villa,” said Bruschi, to show he was abreast of things. “A pity to see it fall into German hands.”

“Truly,” Rugerius agreed, and left the bottle for Bruschi. He went along to Ragoczy’s suite of rooms at the rear of the old building, knocking twice on the heavy oaken door before admitting himself to the six-sided chamber that served as a private sitting room; Ragoczy’s cell-like bedchamber was on the north side of the hexagon, and a larger room cluttered with scientific equipment was on the south-east side. Two walls of windows overlooked the darkening pastures, a sight that both men ignored. “He will be ready to leave in an hour,” he said to Ragoczy, who sat at a small desk with two sheets of vellum before him; he was writing on each simultaneously, using both hands. He had removed his justaucorps and draped it over the back of his chair; the lace at his cuffs had been tucked up so as not to be stained by the ink, and he had unfastened the bands around his neck. Rug- erius went and took the justaucorps, hanging it on a hook by the bedroom door.

“And so shall I,” said Ragoczy. “Have the Andalusian mare saddled for me. I should take this to Niklos myself. He and I will have much to discuss, if he is actually at Senza Pari.” He sounded distant; all his concentration was on the message he was writing on the two sheets.

“Where might Niklos be, if not at Senza Pari?” Rugerius asked.

“I have no notion,” Ragoczy replied. “He has the produce of his fields to take to market and he has other duties. I cannot expect him to wait upon my convenience.” He continued to write, his small, neat hand the same on both sheets.

“Which Andalusian mare?” Rugerius prompted. “You did not say which: there are four to choose from.”

“The six-year-old,” said Ragoczy. “Callista.”

Rugerius nodded. “Do you want Matyas to go with you?”

“That won’t be necessary: I will have Bruschi for company most of the way; I will not return until very late.” He smiled slightly as he signed the two notes.

“You know there is a risk in—” Rugerius stopped himself as he saw Ragoczy’s brow lift. “Of course you do.” He sighed.

“Considering all Roma is celebrating the Pope’s election, I should think all the roughians will make their way to the city to take advantage of the moment.” He folded the two notes and prepared to affix his eclipse signet to the wax. “For tonight the roads are safe. But I will go armed; do not fear.” He paused and went on reflectively. “Olivia would probably have greeted this night with exasperated amusement. I will do my best to see the occasion through her eyes.” He tested the two seals to be sure they were cool. “I will want my Hungarian coat; it is going to be cool tonight. And my riding boots.” He bent to remove his square-toed shoes. “My pistols—the French

ones with the Florentine locks, I think—and my Japanese sword; bring them here if you will.”

“All right,” said Rugerius, and stepped into the room with the scientific instruments, to a large leather trunk standing under an ancient red-lacquer chest. “No dirk? No poignard?”

Ragoczy considered a moment. “The francisca,” he decided. “If I have to fight from horseback, a throwing-axe is a better weapon than a dirk.” His smile was grim.

“Then you are expecting trouble,” Rugerius said as he took out the weapons Ragoc
2
y had specified and closed the trunk.

“Not expecting, but I shall be prepared,” he said. He had retrieved his boots from his bedchamber and was pulling them on as Rugerius brought him his pistols, katana, and francisca.

“The pistols are charged,” Rugerius pointed out as he laid them carefully on the desk.

“I should hope so,” said Ragoczy at his most urbane. “My coat?” Rugerius brought it and held it for Ragoczy. “Thank you, old friend,” he said as he fastened the frogs at his neck, mid-chest, and waist. He then accepted a wide leather belt which he buckled into place; the francisca he slid in under the belt at the small of his back, the katana went into a special scabbard that hung from the belt, and the two pistols were put into the deep pockets of the coat’s pleated skirt. “There.”

“I will tell Matyas to ready Callista,” said Rugerius, bowing slightly to Ragoczy as he prepared to leave the room.

“I am sorry that I disappoint you,” Ragoczy said quietly as he put his two notes into the top of his boots.

“Disappoint me?” Rugerius repeated, his faded-blue eyes showing faint alarm.

“Why, yes,” said Ragoczy. “You do not approve of my riding off to Senza Pari.”

“I did not say so,” said Rugerius.

“You did not need to,” Ragoczy responded. “It is plain that you think I am being reckless; I will have to meet with Niklos in a short while in any case, and there is a greater chance of being watched in a day or two. For now, we may be private.” He shook his head. “This

isn’t Russia, or Peru, or China. I have duties that the Romans expect me to honor.”

“Yes, and some will take advantage of that,” Rugerius said. “I ask only that you be cautious.”

“I have two pistols, a sword, and an axe with me: any more caution and I would need a cavalry escort, which would announce my intentions, as well as my fears, to the world.” He had reached for his spurs and was buckling them to his boots. “The Romans laugh at me for using petal-rowels, but the horses prefer them.”

Rugerius knew better than to press a point when Ragoczy had so obviously changed the subject. He nodded his compliance. “I will tell Signore Bruschi to ready himself to leave shortly.”

“Thank you,” said Ragoczy softly. When Rugerius was gone, he went in search of Maurizio, explaining his errand and recommending the young violinist plan to remain at the Villa Vecchia for the night. “Clarice is here, so there can be no impropriety as regards the Cardinal’s sister.”

Maurizio blushed as if taken with a sudden fever. “I would never do anything... not anything that would
...”
He became lost in the tangle of his thoughts.