Communion Blood (6 page)

“Yes, we have. Unfortunately something of his condition has become known to my sister. She is reluctant to pledge herself to one who is
so...
so clearly afflicted.” He paused delicately. “I told you of my own reservations in this regard, and you answered my inquiries most frankly.”

“As well I should,” Rothofen could not resist saying. “I have done all that I can in order to ensure a good marriage contract between your sister and the Archbishop’s brother. Anything that will hasten the happy day I must make it my obligation to accomplish.” He drank again, a bit less than before.

“I am aware of that,” said Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte soothingly. “But when a girl is pretty, she thinks she can dictate to the whole world.”

“So she does.” Rothofen wagged his finger sagely. “They are not easily instructed, pretty girls.”

“No, they are not,” the Cardinal agreed. He paused as if what he was about to say had just occurred to him. “And yet, if Hubert Wal- mund is as far gone as they say, it might be fitting to make provision for his illness in the contract. Oh, I know it is agreed she can five on her own when she has provided him with two sons, and the settlements will specify an annual pension for her. What troubles me,” he said, choosing his words, “is that the pox sometimes brings ... well, madness can be the only word for it. If that should happen, my sister must have assurance of protection from her husband. It should not have to fall to her to provide for him in his ... decline.”

The waiter appeared in the door, standing respectfully just inside the dining room. As the Cardinal paused, he coughed discreetly. “Eminenza?”

“Yes?” Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte inquired politely.

“She says she will not come.” He repeated the message he had been told to give, and the shame of the fie made his fie more convincing.

“Will she not?” the Cardinal mused. “Well, perhaps she will change her mind. Leave the setting, in case she does.”

The waiter blinked, for good manners required that the place setting be removed; if Leocadia escaped from her locked room, a place would be laid for her then. Still, he was unwilling to challenge this breach in manners. He bowed and prepared to bring in the tureen of oxtail soup.

Rothofen was aware of this lapse as well as the waiters. “You expect her to relent?”

“Eventually,” said the Cardinal with studied indifference.

“Then so be it,” said Rothofen, and drank in salute. “Capricious, is she?”

“She is young, the youngest in the family, and the only girl to survive—my mother indulged her because of that.” He realized he may have gone too far, and added, “Not that she is irresponsible, like those flighty women one sees everywhere. Not she. She has mettle, and wants careful handling.”

“Like a high-bred mare?” Rothofen suggested, and sniggered.

“High-bred and very valuable; of impeccable breeding, in fact,” said the Cardinal haughtily. “I will not permit the Archbishop to have a free hand with her where his brother is concerned. She must be protected from his ailment.”

“That is clear,” said Rothofen, stopping to sniff the aroma of the soup as the tureen was put before the Cardinal. “Most savory,” he approved.

The Cardinal nodded to his servants, leaning back in his chair as much as the high, straight back would let him. “I know certain concessions have already been made, but I am certain it is wiser to make provision in the marriage contracts before the question arises.”

“If
it arises,” Rothofen dared to correct his host. He stared at the vacant place setting across the table, and bit his lower lip. “There are those the pox abandons. It is not unknown. The Archbishop’s brother has been in the care of a Greek physician, and it is said he is improving.”

“That must please all his friends; I will pray for the success of his physician,” said Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte. “Yet I am certain it would be appropriate to include allowances for
that...
unhappy turn.”

Now Rothofen frowned, for such a concession would mean the Archbishop would have to pay more money than he wanted to. “I will mention it, and I will inform you of the Archbishop’s decision as soon as he has reached one,” he said, watching for the Cardinal to pick up his spoon.

“I would be most thankful if you would,” said Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte, his silverware untouched. “And a few other minor matters, as well, if you can see your way to? For I think we are agreed that this union is an ineluctable necessity.” He finally picked up his spoon and took his first taste of soup. He paid no apparent attention to the fervor with which Rothofen fell to.

Only when he had finished his plate of soup did Rothofen say, “Yes, Eminenza, we are agreed on that.”

“Very good,” said the Cardinal and signaled to the waiter to remove their plates in preparation for the scallops in saffron sauce that was the next course.

Text of a letter from Marcaurelio dal Prato to Niklos Aulirios, delivered by private courier on February 10th, 1689.

To the most worthy Niklos Aulirios, the greetings of Marcaurelio dal Prato,

It is my sad duty to inform you, Signore, that the magistrate Benedetto Silviano has ruled that I may not represent you in his Court. Word has come from the Lateran that in a case where the Church may he involved, the magistrate must be persuaded my presence in the process would not he acceptable to those in authority. I have asked if there is any appeal I may tender, but I have been informed this is impossible. Magistrate Silviano has agreed to take into evidence all the material you have vouchsafed me, and for which I include a receipt. The materials provided by the Abbe Ragoczy will have to be submitted again, for only my direct dealings with you have been allowed as acceptable to the magistrate.

I must also tell you that it is the intention of the magistrate to put the hearing into his calendar for March. I apologize that so little time is granted to you to find other representation and to appear before him, but such is his will, and the Pope, as Bishop of Roma is the only one who may change this if the magistrate will not reconsider his decision.

Please accept my apology for being unable to fulfill your commission in this case. If there is any way by which I might assist you in your case as it continues, it would be my honor to put myself at your service. Should it be your decision not to do this, I will comprehend your decision fully.

You will find enclosed forty-four Venetian ducats, the unused balance of the fifty Venetian ducats you advanced me for the trying of this suit. Again, I regret I was unable to do more for you.

With sincerest regards, I remain,

Marcaurelio dal Prato

On the 9th day of February, by my own hand, at Roma

3

By the time the tailor departed, Ragoczy was as tired as he was well- dressed; the fruits of the visit were strewn about the room, resting on tables and flung over the backs of chairs—new clothes sufficient to half a dozen occasions, and two riding ensembles as well, the very minimum of what was regarded as respectable. During the five-hour fitting the tailor had passed on every rumor circulating in Roma, while Ragoczy had been treated to the significance of every nuance of current fashion and was by now prepared to go out into the world in his new finery, happily confident that his appearance was as faultless as money could make it.

Rugerius, who had watched most of the procedure, sighed. “It’s endless. Ribbons and bands and justaucorps and cloaks and jabots and breeches and hose and boots and gloves and wigs and hats
...”
He flung up his hands in mock surrender, then began to pick up the various articles of clothing with the purpose of taking them to Ra- goczy’s private apartments to pack them away. “What can I do about it? There is so much to remember.”

Outside the sound of builders at work provided a steady level of noise that was constant enough to be unnoticeable; there was a sudden emphatic bang, but as no shouts or screams followed it, both Ragoczy and Rugerius ignored it.

“You will do as you have done so well in the past: managed expertly.” Ragoczy glanced down at his thick-soled, broad-heeled boots from Antwerp that were decades out of fashion. “I don’t like to think about finding a new bootmaker.”

“No,” Rugerius agreed. “Explanations will be needed in regard to the construction.”

Now it was Ragoczy’s turn to sigh. “I suppose you will know what to tell him.”

The smile that greeted this was rare. “All servants complain of eccentric masters.”

“And you as well,” Ragoczy said. “How wise of you.” He did not bother to look for a mirror, knowing he would have no reflection in it.

Rugerius noticed his careful omission and said, “The tailor was curious about the lack of mirrors, and your claim that you had none to avoid the sin of vanity might not be as readily accepted by him as by others living far from Roma.” He indicated Ragoczy’s finery. “You have given him ample cause to wonder.”

“True enough,” said Ragoczy. “But fortunately I am still an eccentric foreigner.” He lowered his head. “Wigs again, with curls this time.”

“And hats atop them,” said Rugerius. He shrugged and summed up his thoughts in a single word. “Fashion.” He looked about the room. “To think this was once your laboratory. This is the place where you restored me.”

“Sixteen hundred years ago, more or less,” said Ragoczy. “Yes. But it is laboratory no more. The baths are gone, too, which is unfortunate. I should like to spend an hour or so in the calidarium. Perhaps I will have baths built in the new villa.”

“The men will talk about it,” Rugerius warned.

“There is nothing in Roma that men do not talk about, from what I can tell; the worst they can think of me is that I am self-indulgent,” said Ragoczy as he slipped his heavy silver collar over his head, placing his eclipse device pectoral in the center of his chest. “Too foreign.”

“If you must go to court, certainly it is too foreign. To convince them you are a true Abbe it must be crucifixes and rosaries.” Rugerius hesitated. His arms were now full to overflowing with the clothes Ragoczy had just purchased. “On that head, what do you plan to do now that Nildos has lost his advocate?”

“Apply to the Court to fill that position. They cannot refuse me on grounds of religion—not this century. So unless they decide my foreignness disqualifies me, no doubt I will be permitted to address the Court, which is better than what faces Niklos at present. We are fortunate that the man making the claim is German: if he were Roman, I doubt we would encounter such leniency. To hear Rothofen, they will have to allow me to speak as well.” He went to the window and looked out on the work going on under grey skies. “We will lose a few days to rain, I fear.”

“It is February. What else would you expect?” Rugerius remarked. When Ragoczy volunteered nothing more, he assumed an expression of kindly exasperation. “You have said nothing about Olivia since our last conversation with Niklos.”

“No; I have not.” He paused. “You have been very patient. All right. I will tell you what has been in my thoughts since we arrived here: I mourn her.” He said it simply, stating what was obvious. “The grief never goes away, not entirely. The severity diminishes over time, but the loss continues, for the person is still gone. You have seen me after Xenya and Ranegonda and Demetrice and—” He gestured an end to his unhappy catalogue. “But I learned millennia ago that no one can be called back again, nor their time. The True Death cannot be circumvented. If I should cling to their memories, I would lose every one as much as if I thrust them away.” He turned his back to the window and looked directly at his manservant. “You fear I am trying to hide my loss, to escape from it, but that would be folly for one of my blood. As their blood and fife is part of me, so is their death. There are soldiers without arms whose loss is as keen and constant as mine. And like the maimed soldiers, I live with what is gone. I do not want to turn away from it, I want to know it so that I can continue to know Olivia, and the rest. If I grasp her memory too closely I will strangle it as surely as if I put my hands around her throat; I must hold it lightly. She is a part of me, and her death—” He stopped, holding up his hand. “Someone is at the door.”

Rugerius heard the knock repeated. “Is anyone expected?” When Ragoczy shook his head, Rugerius told him, “I will go admit him. And I will bestow these garments in the wardrobe on the way,” he said as he left the room that had been turned into a reception hall for Ragoczy and his occasional visitors. A few minutes later there was the sound of the door opening, and Rugerius’ courteous greeting.

Ragoczy sat down in the chair near the small hearth where a fire blazed against the cutting chill of the afternoon. He looked up as Rugerius brought a stranger dressed in fine riding clothes to him; Ragoczy nodded but he did not rise. “God give you good day, Signore.”

The stranger made a graceful leg. “I tmst I address Abbe Ferenc Ragoczy, Count of San-Germain?”

“You do,” said Ragoczy. “And you, Signore?”

“I am Celestino Bruschi, my father is Barone di Rilievoduro. I have the happy duty to be among those attending on Ettore Domenico Agnolo Colonna.” He obviously expected Ragoczy to know who this was, for he did not bother with titles or family connections. “He has been managing those Italian parts of the estates of his late great- uncle, Giulio Mazarini, which, as they include the holdings of Olivia Clemens, have been entrusted to his custody.” He smiled winningly, his handsome features slightly flushed.

“You mean Cardinal Mazarin,” said Ragoczy, a hint of a question in his tone.

“To the Colonnas he is always Giulio Mazarini, their most cherished cousin. The French may call him what they will.” His supercilious expression bordered on comic.

“Sit down, Signore Bruschi,” said Ragoczy, indicating the chair opposite his own. “Permit me to offer you some refreshment. I am sure we have much to discuss.” His courteous demeanor concealed his lively curiosity.

Bruschi remained standing. “Alas, I fear I must return; perhaps another time you will be good enough to extend your hospitality to me. I have come only to give you these.” He reached into the tooled leather satchel he carried on a wide strap over his shoulder and across his chest.