Communion Blood (44 page)

The deposit of fifty gold Apostles with the upholsterers’ Arte is necessary before suitable furniture can be made, and another fifty gold Apostles paid to the drapers’ Arte is required before any draperies can be installed. We will require another forty ounces of gold to pay the gfazers for the installation of windows, as well as one hundred ounces of gold for the laying of floors. The price is high, I agree, but you know that as a foreigner you must pay in advance for all the services you seek to engage. I have offered to vouch for you, so that only half the amount need be laid out, but this is not acceptable to the Artei in question, so I will stand by their order and require that you do all that the Artei demand, and in a timely manner. I do not doubt your probity, but I am a member of my Arte, as the others are of theirs, and we all abide by the strictures of our contracts.

Incidentally, I have been informed by four of my men that officers of the Holy Office have been asking questions about you. They were under the impression that the clerics were seeking information on the events surrounding your Penitent Guest, for that was the primary thrust of their inquiry, although one of my men was questioned extensively regarding your status of Abbe in Transylvania. My man thought that Pope Alessandro VIII might be trying to determine the amount of support he would receive if he ordered another drive against the Turks. That is only a guess, but it is in accord with all the stories one hears coming from San Giovanni in Laterano; being

Venezian, the Pope is eager to do what he can to lessen the power of the Ottomites. Whatever the purpose of the Holy Office might be, I am sure you should know about the questions that have been asked. You will be well-advised to prepare yourself to address the Holy Office, or resign yourself to the hospitality of the Pope’s Little House.

In that regard, my sister has asked me to thank you for your generosity—paying her a full year’s salary for the time she waited upon your Penitent Guest was lavish indeed, and I must join with her in expressing the gratitude of our family, for such magnanimity is rare, and it is fitting to acknowledge it where it is found. She has said that if you have need of her services again you have only to ask and she will be willing to put herself at your disposal once again. My family is deeply obliged to you, Eccellenza, and we do not forget our obligations.

As soon as the monies required are received and the terms endorsed, I will begin engaging such craftsmen as you need for the continuing work on your villa. I must soon be in contact with roofers so that as soon as our outer work is complete, the roof may be installed. Whatever amounts their Arte will demand, 1 will tend to the matter of making arrangements and the transferring of monies in the sums the Arte will ask of you as a deposit on the work to be done. The spring rains are persistent but not so heavy that our work has been much delayed. If the weather does not worsen, you may expected your roof to be in place by July.

With my most sincere respect and the high regard of all those who have the honor to work for you. May God send such ethical conduct to all men wanting villas built in and around Roma. Our Artei would not have to be so strict in the matter of deposits if half the world conducted their business affairs in as forthright a manner as you do.

Believe me, Eccelenza, Yours to command, Bonaldo Fiumara Masterbuilder

At Roma, on the 13th day of March, 1690 A true copy of this letter is on file with the Console dei Artei.

Her wedding dress was nearly complete, a heavy garment lavishly shining with gold embroidery and gems, a visible declaration of the importance of the marriage it was intended to grace; Leocadia sighed as two of the seamstresses worked on the corsage, sewing pearls to the points of lace that made a frame for her face and bosom. She told herself that she would not have to go through with the ceremony, that Jose Bruno would indeed find a way to save her from that fate, but her certainty of deliverance was fading fast. Realizing she was weeping, she motioned the seamstresses to stop their work.

“Did I prick you?” the younger seamstress asked, holding her needle as if it had suddenly caught fire. The sewing-room was littered with fabric and lace, with several boxes of jewels and beads standing open on the long cutting-table, along with measuring tapes, scissors and shears, and papers riddled with pins. A bolt of fine muslin lay at the end, chalk marks on a section of it showing the pattern that would later be cut in silk.

“Yes,” said Leocadia, knowing it was not true. “I’m sorry. I am very tired.” She touched her only jewelry—the antique golden crucifix that hung on a golden chain around her neck. “I must ask you to excuse me.”

The older seamstress, a plain woman with a knowing eye, said, “Best to rest now, for once you are wed, you will not have an hour to call your own. We’ll leave you for now, Signorina.” She made a knot and snipped off the thread. “We will return tomorrow morning. We have another three or four days to go before the dress is finished. Plenty of time before the great day.”

The younger woman was making a knot as well. “Some brides have to be sewn into their dresses, they have so little time to prepare.” Her laughter was genuine but had a cynical note to it. “Here. Turn so I may unfasten the laces.”

Leocadia did as she was told, waiting patiently while the ties were

opened and the impressive garment was lifted up and over her head. She stood in her underclothes, her corset biting into her flesh, while the seamstresses hung the dress on a mannequin, then gave her her jonquil-satin wrapper. “Thank you. You are very patient with me.” She wanted her corset unfastened, too, but that was task for her maid.

“Nothing of the sort,” said the older seamstress. “In our work we see all sorts. You’re not the worst—not at all.” She found her shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Four hours of this is enough for any bride. Besides, the light will be gone soon enough. We will use the rest of the afternoon to work on your negligee; we have six tiers of lace to sew on yet.”

The younger woman sighed. “Lace is always difficult to work on; the threads are so fine and they must be made to lay smoothly.” “Yes,” the older agreed. “Put lace on poorly and it appears as if the bride’s neck is surrounded by caterpillars.” Laughing at her own description, she went on, “You don’t know how often we have to take extra stitches just to make it appear that we have taken none at all.” Leocadia nodded, not really hearing the two seamstresses. There was nothing she could say that would show the women that she prayed their efforts were for naught; if her hopes were realized she would never have to wear it. Her hands felt leaden and her body might as well have been put together from scraps of wood for all it seemed to be her own. “The embroidery is beautiful,” she said at last, knowing that her silence would be seen as a rebuke.

“We hope that it is,” said the younger woman as she made ready to leave. “The Cardinal has been most specific about his desires, and it is our wish to do as he has commanded. He will see it when it is complete.” She glanced at Leocadia. “Is the dress to your liking?” “It is splendid,” said Leocadia, hoping neither woman would notice she had not answered the question. How much more she longed for a nun’s simple habit and quiet, cloistered life! The seamstresses would not understand her emotions, and she knew it was useless for her to speak of them. She secured the sash of her wrapper and sat down on the chaise near the window where the watery early-spring sunlight provided illumination in the late afternoon. Leocadia gazed out at the thin film of clouds that veiled the blue expanse over Roma, making it pallid and flat-looking; it all looked like a sham, a trick from

the theatre, or a painter’s illusion; the slanting beams gave the buildings an artificial patina, as contrived as the sky. As the two seamstresses left her alone, she began to think that she was no longer anything more than a figure in a game. The crucifix she wore was no comfort to her; of late she had begun to fear that God had deserted her, and that prayer was empty. She closed her eyes and let her thoughts drift as she sought a respite. So lost was she in her reverie that she did not notice when the music began. At first she assumed her memories had evoked the melody; only gradually did she realize that she was hearing Maurizio, and that he was playing in the passage that led from the street to the stable behind the palazzo.

With a stifled ciy, Leocadia surged to her feet, the pinch of her corset forgotten, and her sense of futility fading with her daydreams. She was glad now that she was alone, for she did not want to have to account for her sudden delight. No candles had been lit and so the window where she sat was dark, a fortunate accident. Risky though it was, she opened her window to listen more easily. After a short while, she decided she must show her thanks; she looked about the sewing-room and noticed a knot of gold ribbons. She seized this and flung it out, hoping that Maurizio would find it and know it for what it was. The music went on, and she hummed along with the tune she had heard so many times at Villa Vecchia.

The playing stopped abruptly in the middle of a phrase, and Leocadia heard the rough sound of the steward ordering Maurizio away; she could not make out Maurizio’s answer, which frightened and saddened her. Closing the window, she looked about for flint-and-steel to light the candles; when she could not find them, she began to pace, going the length of the cutting table and coming back to the window; she was unaware that she was still humming the song Maurizio had played to her. Finally she made up her mind and called for her maid to dress her. “Feve, ask Jose Bruno to wait upon me as soon as I am dressed; and light the candles when you return,” she ordered, and pointed to the bronze silk ensemble hanging on a hook near the door. “That needs cleaning, by the way. There is a stain on the sleeve.”

“I’ll attend to it. Jose Bruno is presently assisting the cook,” said

her maid. “When he is through, I will ask him to come to you.” “Assisting the cook?” Leocadia asked in surprise. “How should he do that?”

“Even the simple can help sort herbs,” said Feve primly.

“He
isn’t
simple,” Leocadia said, defending her half-brother vehemently. “He has something wrong with his eyes. He has told me himself. He does not see the world as you, or I, do.”

“And that makes him simple,” said Feve, setting the matter to her satisfaction. “But I will ask him to come to you. After you are dressed.”

“Then help me; I want to be ready as soon as may be,” said Leocadia, unfastening her sash and making an urgent gesture. “Bring me the deep-rose taffeta, I think, the one with the square neck.”

“As you wish,” said Feve, and hastened away to Leocadia’s room to fetch the gown in question, a fashionable toilette with a double skirt, the outer one pulled back to form a train and revealing a lining of shadow-striped rose-and-burgundy Siam-cloth. The garment was heavy, but in cool weather it was suitable for evening entertainments. Gathering up the ensemble, the maid hurried back to the sewing- room where she found Leocadia had become agitated in her absence. “God save us, Signorina, what is the matter?”

“My brother wishes to see me.” She crossed herself. “He is angry about something.” The room was in twilight, just enough brightness was left to allow her to read the words on the paper she clutched tightly.

“Jose Bruno?” asked Feve, who could not imagine it.

“No. Never Jose Bruno. My brother Martin.” She began to shake. “His manservant just brought me a
most...
uncompassionate note.” Feve put the taffeta gown on the cutting-table in a glorious heap before she went to Leocadia.
“You
must be mistaken, Signorina. There is no reason for your brother to be unkind to you.”

“He does not agree,” she said, and opened the hastily scrawled note she had been given a short time ago. “Look. See here? He says that I have been duping him, that I am conniving with his enemies to dishonor our House and that I am
...”
The words were lost as she began to cry in earnest.

Feve took her hand, patting it soothingly. “It is nothing. He is piqued about—”

“He is piqued,” said Leocadia between sobs, “because a musician ... played outside the ... this palazzo an hour
ago....
He is cruel and ... he is ... he
is...”

“He has the weight of the Church upon him. Occasionally the burden makes him testy with those to whom he should show only kindness. You must forgive him for his outbursts.” Feve did her best to smile a litde encouragement to Leocadia; she had seen for herself that Martin, Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte, could be capricious and ruthless.

“How? Why?” Leocadia asked, trying to contain her tears. “He does
not...
care about me. He cares
only..
. that I am marrying ... the man he wants ... me to marry.” She lowered her head into her hands in utter dejection.

“Signorina, Signorina, no. Do not cry. You are overwrought.” She took the crumpled note that dangled from Leocadia’s fingers; taking care to smooth it, she saw that some of the words were written in capital letters, but since she was unlettered she could not read what they said. “Come. Sit down. You will need to compose yourself,” she said, half-supporting Leocadia to the chair by the window.

‘Why should it
matter... if...
if someone plays music outside this palazzo?” Leocadia demanded of the air. “It is common enough in Roma. Musicians are always playing in the streets. Why does Martin assume the musician was playing to me? How would anyone know I am here?” She knew she was babbling but she could not stop; she had to keep Maurizio a secret. “Roma has many musicians who come to the great houses, thinking there will be better opportunities there. The musician is like any other, seeking money for his art. He was probably hoping to gain a few coppers, or a meal, or a commission to play
for...
for the household’s entertainment.” She was wiping her eyes now with the sleeve of her open wrapper; her hands trembled.

“Do
not...
you must not, Signorina. Do not be distraught.” Feve continued to try to calm her. “Speak to your brother. Tell him that his note was hurtful. I am sure it was not his intention to cause you pain.”