Communion Blood (57 page)

“I think they are sensible,” said Scarlatti as they went into the small reception area between the taproom and the private dining rooms. “You would think the same yourself if you thought about it for any time.”

“No doubt you are right,” said Ragoczy, following Scarlatti down the narrow corridor and into a good-sized chamber with windows propped open. Two lavish sconces of candles framed a mirror of Ve- nezian glass, giving the room a brilliant glow; Ragoczy took care to keep away from the line of sight for the mirror. “This is a handsome place.”

“Yes. So I thought. And one where we may be private.” Scarlatti took his seat at the foot of the table, reserving the head for Ragoczy. “The servants know how to keep their mouths shut. It’s one of the many things I approve of here.”

“And what is it you do not want them to overhear?” Ragoczy asked in his mildest tone.

Scarlatti paused. “I want you to know that I am leaving for Toscana in two days. I know I said I would delay a bit longer, but I find th:

I cannot. So this will have to serve as our farewell.” He looked en barrassed to say this much. “With Cicogna and Cervetti asked to giv their testimonies to the Holy Office, I do not think I can postpon my departure without—”

"—without putting yourself at risk. So you have indicated before and I cannot dispute your decision. Yes, it is apparent to me, as wel that you would be wisest to put some distance between you and Rom. just now.” Ragoczy did his best to smile. “Were I in your situation I would probably do the same thing.”

“My wife and children will join me in a few months’ time,” Scar latti went on as if afraid that if he fell silent, he would not be able to speak again. “You see, Conte, those of us who survive on the patronage of the great cannot have the Holy Office poking about oui work, or we may find ourselves unable to secure a living anywhere in Catholic lands. You must know this, after the help you gave to Maurizio. Were I a young man like him, it would not matter so much. But I have my family to consider.”

“And your career, which you do not want to compromise,” said Ragoczy. “I understand completely.” He looked up as someone scratched on the door.

“Enter,” said Scarlatti, and smiled at the cook who appeared. “Te prego, Eccellenza, tell this good man what will please you.”

“I will dine later, thank you; but have what you would like,” Ragoczy said. He tossed a gold Angel to the cook so the man would not be offended by his refusal of food.

Scarlatti shrugged. “Then I will have the Spanish soup, cold; the fish in olive oil and garlic; the veal stuffed with mushrooms in cream- and-wine; the ripe cheese with red wine and walnuts.” He glanced at Ragoczy. “You won’t change your mind? The kitchen here is superb.”

“I do not doubt you,” said Ragoczy. “But it is best if I decline.” “As you always do,” said Scarlatti heavily. “Very well. You will have to endure the torture of watching me consume an excellent meal.” “I am resigned to it,” said Ragoczy with a touch of amusement; he saw that Scarlatti was uncomfortable, so he added, “And I hope I

will not interfere with your enjoyment.” He waited, knowing there was more Scarlatti wanted to tell him; he knew it was pointless to hurry the man.

“Let me tell you how grateful I am to you for your efforts on behalf of our violinist,” he went on. “I know I have expressed my feelings before, but I sense them more keenly now that I, too, am leaving.”

“It was a privilege to help him,” said Ragoczy, still curious what Scarlatti might say.

“The familiars of the Holy Office have decided that it was the violinist who murdered the Cardinal. They have come to the conclusion that the Cardinal disapproved of the attention the violinist was paying to his sister, and when the Cardinal ordered him to go, the violinist killed him in a rage. They have been demanding that those of us who know him confirm what they have decided is the truth.” He had lowered his voice and spoke all in a rush. “That is what they believe.”

“As they have every right to do,” said Ragoczy, loudly enough to be overheard by whomever was listening.

“But that puts a double burden upon you, Eccellenza, and upon me,” said Scarlatti apologetically. “I would not have wished this predicament upon anyone, but it is apparent that your role in his escape is not unknown.”

“How do you hear these things?” Ragoczy marveled.

“People talk.” Scarlatti cleared his throat. “They do not pay attention to musicians; they speak in front of us with never a thought that we might listen, though they would not do so before their servants.” He looked about uneasily. “So. I happened to overhear two Franciscans talking at the gala for which I performed two nights since. They say there is some mention of your kinsman in the New World in their records which they would supply to the Holy Office. No doubt Ettore Colonna can confirm what I say; he hears everything.”

This last brought Ragoczy fully alert although there was no change in his comportment. “Franciscans, you say?”

“Yes,” said Scarlatti. “At least it isn’t Dominicans. Or Jesuits.” He was doing his best to cheer his foreign guest. He looked up uneasily as thunder blundered through the lowering sky.

“Or Passionists. Small comfort,” said Ragoczy, then did his best to look unconcerned. “You are very good to tell me these things, Maestro. I thank you for it.” The memory of Church prisons, only a few decades behind him, came back to him full force; he made himself show nothing of this outwardly.

“It was what any man in my position would do; I am sorry that I will not be able to remain here to help you, but you understand why I am leaving,” said Scarlatti, and called out as there was a scratch at the door, “Enter.”

The cook and one assistant came in with the soup, bread, and wine, all of which were presented with a flourish. “The fish will be brought when you call for it,” he told Scarlatti, bowing deeply to the composer while completely ignoring Ragoczy.

“Thank you, thank you,” said Scarlatti, grateful for more than the meal. “The aroma is heavenly.” He took up his spoon to show his enthusiasm as the cook and his assistant withdrew. But once the door was closed, he put the utensil down again. “I seem,” he said to Ragoczy as if confessing to a sin, “to have lost my appetite.”

Text of a letter from Niklos Aulirios to Ferenc Ragoczy, written in Byzantine Greek and carried by private messenger.

To Sanct’ Germain, my hurried greetings.

The Holy Office has summoned my houseman Cervetti to testify, and has said that others of my servants may be called as well. From what I can determine, this is part of the investigation into the death of Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte as well as the flight of Maurizio Reietto, events that are thought now to be connected. The inquiry has also extended itself to you, as you are aware, for it is now understood that the young violinist left on one of your ships. The Holy Office would seem to be looking for a conspiracy, or at least a larger plot than what they originally thought was the case, and are trying to discover anyone who might be implicated in the Cardinal’s death. This is a most ominous sign, or so it appears to me. I must urge you to consider leaving, for your own sake, if for no other.

I do not say this out of ingratitude: were it not for you, my own

situation would have been extremely difficult. You have done all that could reasonably be asked of you—-far more, if the truth were told. I never intended to put you in danger, but it would seem that I have, and for this I most earnestly beg your pardon. Had I understood what was involved in this ordeal, I might have tried to find another way to protect my inheritance, but I confess I cannot imagine what that would be.

No doubt I will be asked to reveal what I know of the matter of the Cardinal’s death and Maurizio’s escape, and if the Holy Office should seek me out, I will not attempt to deceive them: ghoul I may be, but that does not make me immune to torture. As soon as the most pressing part of the inquiry is over, I shall find my way to France, to Olivia’s horse-farm there. King Louis will provide me some measure of protection against the Church, and that is what I will be glad to have.

Olivia would not ask either of us to remain here in danger to no purpose. She herself often left Roma precipitously when trouble loomed. I know you do not want to increase the burden you carry, nor do I wish to throw more suspicion on you, but as I am bound to France, I am convinced you would be well-advised to develop a plausible reason to leave Roma as soon as may be. The Pope will not object if you express a desire to return to your homeland to fight the Ottom- ites: as a Venezian, he is looking for leaders to hold off the Turks, and you have already proven yourself a worthy ally. If you appealed to him as a protector of the Carpathians, he would give consideration to removing any barriers that might hinder your departure.

You have been all that is kind, all that is gracious in circumstances neither of us anticipated when I first asked you to come to Roma. I am in your debt. Yet I would be worse than craven if I did not now do my utmost to persuade you to leave. I cannot say enough to impress upon you the seriousness of the danger which is increasing around us steadily. Follow my example, and be gone from here before July is over, I beseech you. Once Leocadia’s child is bom, I do not think you will have an opportunity to go unhindered, for it is said that when she is delivered, she will be examined again by the Holy Office, regarding the murder of the Cardinal. From what Cicogna

and Cervetti have said, the good Fathers are hoping to place the blame of this on you as much as on Maurizio.

Heed my warning, for Olivia’s memory.

Your most indebted, in haste Niklos Aulirios

By my own hand at Senza Pari, on the 19th day of July, 1690

6

Still pale with rage and terror, Giorgianna Ferrugia looked directly at Ferenc Ragoczy. “They kept saying I should tell them the truth, over and over and over,” she said, her voice shaking. “I had no idea which truth they meant, and they would not tell me. They were so cold, so unfeeling.”

The small palazzo her husband had engaged for the run of the opera was nearly empty: Ilirio himself and their twin sons had left nine days earlier to join his cousins for the summer in the north at Lago di Como; only a small staff remained to look after Giorgianna, and to pack up the household.

“Did they hurt you?” Ragoczy was very still, and his words were filled with compassion, but there was something implacable in his enigmatic gaze.

“No. No. They did nothing, and said nothing to threaten me.” She shook her head. “But they had these ... these
things
on a table before me, and I knew they were used to do terrible—” She began to weep, shivering. “They were smooth, as if they were carved statues and I nothing more than ... than
...”
Her afternoon gown of green-and- cream-striped taffeta was the very height of fashion and her hair was dressed in great style, but she looked as desolate as the poorest widow in Roma. “I am certain if I were not a Marchesa and well-known, it would have been otherwise.”

Ragoczy went to her side at once, taking her in his arms while she cried out her fury; he said nothing more than soft, loving words to

give her comfort until she sniffed, quivered, and stopped. “They should never have done this to you, dolcina.”

“No. They should not.” She fixed her attention on the far wall. “I was so
ashamed.
And I don’t know why.”

“Nor do I. If anyone should feel shame, it is the men of the Holy Office who have used you so disgracefully.” Some of his anger was in his voice, and he felt her wince. “It is their disgrace, Giorgianna, not yours. They are the ones who have dishonored themselves. You have done nothing to deserve such treatment; you have never.” Not that any zealot was ever stopped by such considerations, he added to himself.

Her fingers pressed against his lips. “You mustn’t say such things. It isn’t safe.”

“I say only what is true and just,” he told her, aware that her caution was well-founded.

“But if they call me again, I must report your words,” she said in a small voice. “I cannot refuse, for the sake of my children.”

Ragoczy bowed his head. “I have put you in danger again. I apologize, dolcina, from the depths of my soul.”

“You don’t have to. Just don’t say anything more. It is best if I am ignorant.” She dabbed at her eyes with the trailing lace at her sleeve. “It was
humiliating,
to be treated so.” She was trembling again.
“I...
I never thought a priest could be so cold.”

“Those men are not priests, no matter what they think, or what vows they have taken,” Ragoczy said softly. “They are only masquerading as priests.” He smoothed her hair back from her face. “The most reprehensible thing is, they do not know it.”

Her smile was brief and tight. “I hated them. May God have mercy on me, I hated them.”

“So must God, if He is what the Church claims He is,” Ragoczy told her as he held her face in his hands.

“Do you think so?” Her eyes brimmed again and her attempt at another smile was so forlorn that she gave it up at once.

“If you believe that Christ is love, how could the Holy Office serve His purpose? Those who claim sanctity in suffering when it is they ' who cause it—” He saw the flicker of panic in her eyes. “Very well. No more of this.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “This time is too precious to fill it with dread.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, and leaned her head on his shoulder “I am glad you are still here. I thought you and I would never be private together again, but I was wrong. This is something I have longed to have, but did not hope to enjoy.” Her wonderful voice was seductive now. “With Ilirio away, I would be alone if you were not here. Maestro Scarlatti left two days ago and now my only friend is you.”

“I have not been the friend I should be, if you are in such travail,” he said as he drew her closer to him in response to the need he felt within her. He was strangely glad to be with her, and to have this last, unexpected chance to know her love.

“You are always so kind to me, Conte,” she murmured as she clung to him. “You have never been cruel.”