Communion Blood (60 page)

The land, I am overjoyed to tell you, is in good heart, and I am further happy to inform you that our orchards have been especially bountiful in the last two years. The vineyards are not quite as ample in their yield as the rest of the crops, but this is more than made up for by the quality of the wines that we have produced in the last four years. I know you will be satisfied with the standards we have established in that regard. In terms of grains, the wheat has done relatively well, but the barley has been excellent, due in part, I think, to our regular tathing of fallow fields. We have tried rye in one field, but it has not been a very promising crop thus far.

The damage to the house has long since been repaired, and all neglected rooms have been put in order. During your absence, and the absence of Madame Clemens, we have had the honor of housing Louis le Roi not once, but twice. He brings a vast household with him, and our resources were strained, but not beyond limits. My father supervised the first of these visits, and I supervised the second. We have kept the memoranda of commendation he was gracious enough to leave with us, so that you, too, may see how well the King was satisfied by our service.

You say you will leave Roma at the end of August, which will likely bring you here toward the end of September, as you will be traveling by coach with a good-sized staff with you. You say you have made arrangements for new teams along the way, but we will send horses to the places you have requested, so that you will be brought to your house by your own horses.

Currently we have nineteen mares in foal—fewer than last year. There are thirty-one yearlings, thirteen colts and eighteen fillies in the paddocks, and a total of sixty-two mares, eleven stallions, and forty- nine geldings in the stables. This is a smaller number than Madame Clemens maintained, but we have thought it advisable not to expand the herd until you can review the stallions and their get.

I send to you my most sincere esteem, and on behalf of all who are your household, I anticipate your coming with inestimable cheer.

May your journey be swift and safe, may you make the journey without illness or mishap, and may you be as elated to return here as we will be to greet you.

Your most devoted Jean-Louis Manager

By my own hand on the 7th day of August, 1690

7

Heat hummed on the air like a vast, invisible mosquito; Roma was stifled by it. Along the streets traffic moved lethargically where it moved at all, and for those hardy few who ventured out, they were hotly enveloped as if in an oven. The marble-fronted buildings shone, baking streets and interior alike; 11 Meglio was no exception, and even in the second-floor salon with all the windows opening, it was sweltering.

“If only there were a breeze,” said Ettore Colonna as he fanned himself; he was reclining on a Turkish sofa, his head back against the rolled-and-padded arm. He had taken off his wig, justaucorps, and waistcoat, but even his fine linen camisa was too heavy a garment in this surly weather. Glancing at his newly arrived guest, he said, “Not a hair out of place, and your brow dry as a brick. You astonish me. Does nothing ruffle you, Ragoczy?”

“Yes. But fortunately not the heat.” Ragoczy was dressed in a Hungarian dolman and mente of black damask silk; his eclipse device hung on a ruby-studded silver chain, making a striking pectoral. He wore his own slightly-wavy dark hair clubbed at the nape of his neck and secured with a small, neat bow. His shiny high boots were laced Hungarian-fashion and he carried a small staff in one hand to indicate his rank, and wore a rapier in the scabbard that hung from his belt; his appearance was very elegant and very foreign.

“Then you are blessed among men,” said Ettore Colonna with a sigh. “Only two o’clock. In another hour I won’t be able to breathe. God must be sending us this foretaste of Hell as warning. Or the Devil has already taken up residence here.” He pointed to Ragoczy with a languid hand. “Why on earth have you come to Roma on such an impossible day?”

“I received a summons from the Holy Office. I am to present myself at the Gesu at four o’clock, to answer their questions, which, for the moment, are only questions, as they made a point of telling me in their missive.” He gestured to show he was more annoyed than upset. “It is more of the same: they are determined to find out how correct their information is regarding the parentage of Leocadia’s daughter.”

“Not that still!” He sat up. “They are trying to fix some blame on you, my friend. Mark my words: they will not be satisfied until they have reason to condemn you.”

“That is what Ursellos Calaveria y Vacamonte would like, and probably his brother-in-law as well.” Ragoczy’s tone was drily sardonic, but his expression was sad. “And Leocadia is caught between them.”

“How can you defend her, after her accusations?” Ettore Colonna asked as he sank back down on the sofa. “I can comprehend Christian forgiveness to a point, but this is absurd.”

“Oh, I do not forgive her,” said Ragoc
2
y. “I understand her.” He saw the puzzled frown settle on Ettore Colonna’s brow and went on. “She has been a tool all of her life, and it has made her lose her knowledge of herself. She now only defines herself by what she opposes. If I had grasped that earlier, she would not be in the predicament she is now.”

“And you are not in a predicament?” Ettore Colonna batted his fan in Ragoczy’s direction. “What do you expect me to believe? that you are allowing her to blacken your reputation because she has suffered?”

“She has not blackened my reputation,” said Ragoczy with the hint of an ironic smile.

“Not for want of trying,” said Ettore Colonna mordantly.

“Perhaps.” Ragoczy went to stand by the open window and looked out on Roma. “I am sorry to have to leave this place.”

“You mean you have come to your senses at last?” Ettore Colonna did not wait for an answer. “And not before time. The Franciscans and the Dominicans have sent to the New World for the records of
your...
kinsman’s ... incarceration there. They have already asked my cousin Gennaro for testimony, which should give you some indication of their intentions.” He held up his fan, now closed, as if it were a warning finger. “You may think that they will not try to tie you to that other Ragoczy, but that would be a foolish assumption. The Holy Office does not want to be proved wrong. Ever.” He rolled onto his side to face Ragoczy. “Your case is no exception.”

“Then it is my good fortune that they have not yet defined their suspicions sufficiently to be proved wrong.” He turned his back on the open window and the city beyond. “That, and the Pope has uses for my troops in the Carpathians.”

“My, my. You are almost as cynical as I am,” marveled Ettore Colonna.

Ragoczy shook his head. “Not cynical: experienced.” He shut away his recollections of the cells in the New World, only to have it replaced by images of Anastasi Shuisky, of Girolamo Savonarola, of Eudoin Tissant, of Obispo Andreas de Zaragosa,
of...
In order to interrupt his memories, he said, “You have more reason to be cautious with the Church than I do.”

“Cynical
and
naive,” remarked Ettore Colonna. “Oh, yes,” he went on at his most urbane. “I have my differences with the Church, but so far I am not in harm’s way, nor am I likely to be as long as the current Pope reigns; Alessandro VIII is more concerned about Turks than he is about how I, and men like me, spend my time. If we have another Innocenzo on San Pietro’s Chair, then I, too, may need your help to leave the country. Only where would I go?” He reached out for his wineglass that stood on an end-table at the head of his sofa, and lifted it in a silent toast.

“You must have plans,” said Ragoczy, deliberately indirect.

“Of course I do, very practical ones, but I never expect to use them.” He drank the butter-yellow wine and smiled. “That is undoubtedly idiotic, but—”

When Ettore Colonna did not go on, Ragoczy said, “Roma is your home; you do not want to leave it.” He chuckled. “I am familiar with the draw of native earth; few bonds are stronger than those of earth, or blood.”

“Then it might be best if you sought out your native earth. In the Carpathians, is it not? Transylvania?” Ettore Colonna smiled at Ra- goczy. “A long way from Roma.”

“And the Holy Office, you mean?” Ragoc
2
y sat down on the chair facing Ettore Colonna’s sofa. “I suppose you are right.”

“Then heed your own advice and leave here.” He propped himself on his elbow. “You have friends here, but none of them will favor you over the washes of the Holy Office—not even I will do that.”

“I appreciate your exhortation,” said Ragoczy at his most affable. “I have no doubt you are right. But I am the oddest creature: I do not like false accusations against me to go unchallenged.” He studied Ettore Colonna for a short while. “I am exasperating; I realize that. Yet I think this trouble with Leocadia must be settled.”

“It may be beyond settling, if half the gossip I hear is correct,” Ettore Colonna warned. “I hear
everything
that is whispered in this city, from the urchins to the Cardinals, and the Cardinals are the worst.”

“Gossip is inconvenient,” said Ragoczy. “Sometimes it reveals tidbits of worth; most of the time it is nothing more than babble.” He made himself appear less concerned than he was.

“But they are saying that Leocadia has said dreadful things about you,” Ettore Colonna said, summoning up more energy than he had earlier. “She is in a position to cause you harm.”

Ragoczy held up his hand to make a point. “Only if she is believed.”

“You are not afraid?” Ettore Colonna was incredulous.

“No; not of her.” Ragoczy hesitated before adding, “The Holy Office troubles me. I would not like to end up a guest at the Pope’s Little House.”

“So you have not wholly abandoned good sense,” Ettore Colonna approved. “You relieve me.”

Ragoczy inclined his head, saying nothing as a footman came into the salon to announce that Sergio Lombardi had arrived and wanted Ettore Colonna’s advice on the plans for the restoration of his country villa. “He says it is urgent, Signore Colonna,” the footman said expressionlessly.

“It must be, to bring him out in such heat; Sergio is a most indolent man, for all he fancies himself an artist,” said Ettore Coldnna. “Show him up, and bring more wine. And some of that rose-jelly on soft cheese.” He waved the footman away and turned apologetically to Ragoczy. “You will have to excuse me, my friend. Sergio can be obstinate, and never more so than when he is unsure of himself.”

“Of course.” Ragoczy rose. “I thank you for receiving me.”

Ettore Colonna swept his arm as if making a leg. “You will forgive me if I do not rise? You’re very kind.”

Ragoczy made a leg and made his way out of the salon and down the broad stairs; as he descended, he met Sergio Lombardi coming up. Ragoczy offered him as much of a leg as the stairs would permit, and noticed that Lombardi gave only a minimal nod in response; Ragoczy wondered what the man had heard that resulted in such cursory politeness. Reaching the loggia at street level, Ragoczy looked about in what seemed idle curiosity: he took note of three men lounging where they could watch the elaborate front of 11 Meglio. Without any sign of being aware of them, he signaled for his horse. As he rode off, he noticed two of the three men were following him at a discreet distance.

Arriving at the Gesu, Ragoczy was asked to hand over his weapon before he was ushered into the same study where Giorgianna and Leocadia had been received, and was confronted by the same trio of nameless priests.

“You are early,” said the tallest. He offered no other greeting, no polite phrases that would usually be required of men in their circumstances.

Ragoczy took his tone from the priests. “I finished my tasks in Roma more quickly than I had anticipated, and so I hoped you would be willing to advance the hour of my interview.” He was courteous, conducting himself as befitted a man of his high rank, but making no concessions to elaborate social forms.

“Very few come to us in haste,” said the oldest in what might have

been amusement. “Yet you are here an hour before the appointed time.”

“If it is an inconvenience for you, I will be willing to wait,” said Ragoczy, and regarded the three men with what seemed mild interest.

“It is no inconvenience,” said the shortest. “God willing, this can be settled quickly, and the lie uncovered.” He pointed to Ragoczy. “Remove your garments.”

Ragoczy did not attempt to conceal his surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“Remove your garments,” the shortest repeated in a tone of voice that was suddenly very stern.

“Good Fathers, may I ask why you wish me to do this?” Ragoczy inquired politely.

“You may not,” said the oldest. “If you refuse, we will summon aid and our servants will undress you.”

For the first time, Ragoczy felt a twinge of fear, though he concealed it: the Dominicans and Franciscans in the New World had made a record of his scars; if these priests compared the description with what they saw, they could discover more about him than Ragoczy wanted them to know. “You do not need to summon your servants. I am shocked by your request, but I will comply,” he said, giving no hint of capitulation. “It is my intention to cooperate with your investigation. He turned away and began to unfasten his clothes. “Shall I remove my boots as well?”

“No need,” said the tallest, an assurance that spurred Ragoczy’s apprehension.

It did not take him long to remove his dolman and mente, and as soon as he did, he made himself turn to face the priests, expecting harsh condemnation from them as soon as they saw the scars on his abdomen. “The injury is an ancient one.”

The oldest priest crossed himself, not in shock but in acknowledgment. “Per l’anima!” he exclaimed. “It is as the singer said.”

“He is deep-chested and strongly built,” observed the shortest eagerly. “He is not a feckless adventurer, not with such a body. Of average height, well-formed, and most compact; the scars do not de-

tract from his physical prowess. No wonder the woman was taken with him.”