Communion Blood (64 page)

“But it is,” said Ettore Colonna, rounding on him. “You demanded blood and you have had it. Ragoczy has the victory, and you should be glad to be alive. If you make any more attempts on this man, the story of this evening will get out, and you will have to bear the condemnation of those who matter in Roma.”

Ursellos hung on to his wrist. “I think it’s broken,” he said, and started away toward his coach.

“The physician will look after Rothofen,” Ragoczy called out, steeling himself against the stripe of agony down his leg. “He was probably aiming for my back.” There was an ironic note in his voice that mixed with the stress of his pain; a bullet in the back would have meant the True Death for him as surely as it would for any living man.

“Let the blaggard bleed,” said Ettore Colonna as he began to help Ragoczy gingerly make his way toward his coach. “It’s no more than he deserves.”

“But I do not need it whispered that I conspired in his suffering,” said Ragoczy, wincing as he limped. “It will be bad enough when this duello is talked about.”

From his place on the driving box of Ragoczy’s coach, Amerigo kept his musket trained on Ursellos, prepared for trouble.

Ettore Colonna said very little as they went on; he was concentrating on supporting Ragoczy over the ruts. He noticed that Ragoczy’s compact body was very strong, far more so than it appeared to be. As they neared Ragoczy’s coach they saw the physician come bustling forward from the smaller carriage. “He says you’re to help Rothofen—the fellow on top of that coach.” He pointed.

“But I should attend to the Conte first,” the physician protested. “I will offer my services to—”

Ragoczy interrupted him. “Go to his aid. My wound is not mortal.” He waved the physician away, secretly relieved that he would not have to endure an examination or answer any of a number of questions that might arise. “Help me into my coach, if you would, Colonna,” he said.

Ettore Colonna did as he was asked, lifting and shoving until Ragoczy was leaning back in the rear-facing seat. “I’ll fetch your manservant.”

“Thank you,” said Ragoczy just above a whisper; the hurt was growing, burning like poison but he strove to preserve his self- possession. Only when the door was closed did he catch his lower lip between his teeth, holding back a groan.

“My master?” Rugerius asked, letting down the stairs and climbing into the coach. “Are you badly hurt?”

“Not really. Nothing like Baghdad, or Mexico.” He did his best to offer a brief smile. “It will be sore for a while.”

“Shall I take your boot off so your breeches can be removed?” He kept his emotions in check, maintaining the pragmatism that he had learned before Ragoczy had restored him to life over sixteen hundred years ago.

“Not yet: when the coach is on a decent road.” He pressed his lips together, a thin vertical line forming between his brows.

There was a knock on the door of the coach. “Do you mind if I borrow your other coach, Conte?” Ettore Colonna asked. “I want to be sure that Rothofen gets home alive, and that Calaveria y Vaca- monte does not take it into his head to try something petty.”

“Do, please,” said Ragoczy. “And be good enough to see the physician back to his house when his work is over, if you would.”

“Eccellenza, you are too gracious,” said Ettore Colonna. “I will call upon you tomorrow afternoon, to return your carriage and your coachman.”

“I anticipate your visit—” Ragoczy began.

“—with happy enthusiasm. Yes, I know,” said Ettore Colonna before calling out to Matyas, relaying Ragoczy’s instructions, and then giving sharp orders to Ursellos.

Beyond the coach there was a bustle of activity; inside the coach, Ragoczy reclined on the seat, saying, “Tell Amerigo to take us back to Villa Vecchia.”

Text of the testimony of Gennaro Colonna given to the Holy Office.

In the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen.
As
a faithful Christian and a dedicated Catholic, I swear by all I hold sacred that this account will be accurate, without guile or flaw, as if it were to stand before God’s Judgment, and I will answer for what I state here as true with my body in this life and my soul in the life that is to come.

1
You good Fathers have reviewed the reports of the Dominicans and Franciscans regarding the Conde de San Germanno whom I had

the honor to know many years ago in South America, and for whon I came to have the highest esteem. He was a man of strong principle: and great learning, and it was through his skills as a physician that my life was saved as it was through his kindness that 1 came to my vocation. This good man was accused of many nefarious things by powerfu: men within the Church who sought to use their offices to maintain earthly power among the people, and who found San Germanno a staunch opponent to all their efforts to hamper and denigrate the people they had conquered. In spite of his long imprisonment, I never saw any trace of the crimes of which he was suspected, and at no time in his long ordeal did he behave in any way that suggested he had deserved his incarceration. I never heard any heresy spoken by him, nor did I ever see any sign of diabolism in anything he did, unless healing those our physicians could not heal could be thought diabolistic.

It is true I counted him my friend, and it is true 1 am not inclined to speak ill of him, but as I am sworn to speak to you as I would before God, I say that I have no doubt now, as I had none then, that this man had integrity that we would all do well to emulate: he has been my high example for many, many years, and I shall continue to hold his memory first in my heart. Because he was so much a part of my salvation, my recollection of him remains much more clearly defined than many another I have from that time in my life.

Your table of inquiry asks about Ferenc Ragoczy, currently residing at Villa Vecchiajust beyond Roma. You want to know how closely this Ragoczy, who is Conte da San-Germain, might be related to the man I knew in the Viceroyalty of Peru: this man in Roma admits to being related to San Germanno, and, though my eyes are not keen anymore, I see a resemblance. But this man in Roma is not so tall as San Germanno, and is thicker of body. Also, there is a similarity of
I
voice, as one often encounters in families, but this man’s is more flexible than San Germanno’s, which I assume is the result of his years as a musician; my friend had some ability to play the guitar, but he had nowhere near the accomplishments of his relative, whose talents are very great.

Regarding scars, I must tell you that I did not have many occasions to see San Germanno unclothed; on the two occasions I remember, I did not notice such scars as you say San-Germain has. I would have

noticed anything so severe. Of course, being a man of wide experience, he had a few marks on his body, including a knot of bone on his clavicle, the remnant of an old break. You make no mention of such an injury on this man, so they cannot possibly be the same man, for I take it you are entertaining so astonishing a possibility.

Had San Germanno been alive now, he would be at least a decade older than 1 am, possibly two decades, not a hale fellow of forty years or so. Why should you come to so preposterous a conclusion as this: that the San Germanno I knew and San-Germain are one in the same? Surely you are being swayed by credulous or devious persons who seek to abuse the Holy Office by bending it to their purposes. I do not single any person out for criticism, for that is not my place, but I tell you that if you allow yourselves to be swayed by such fallacious testimony, you will be doing San-Germain a grave injustice as well as compromising the legacy of the truly great man who saved me so long ago.

I pray you will scrutinize all that you have gathered on these two men, keeping in mind that neither one has ever been proven to be inimical to the Church, not even after you, good Fathers, have conducted all but the most stringent inquiries into their lives. I believe it would serve the Church poorly to continue this long investigation into allegations that are so ludicrous as to be laughable if they did not impinge on the honor and reputation of two men of excellent lineage and character.

As one who counted San Germanno my most essential friend, I speak on behalf of his kinsman, both out of my obligation as a Christian to bear witness to the truth, and as the only person who can tell you beyond any question that Ferenc Ragoczy is not San Germanno. I will maintain this no matter what tales ambitious and jealous persons tell you, and I will challenge anyone to prove I am in error.

In true devotion and humility, and without recourse to my title, either familial or religious, I am

Your most obedient, Gennaro Colonna

On the 15th day of September, 1690. By my own hand.

Deo Gratias

Although he no longer needed it, Ragoczy walked with a cane because it was expected after such a wound, and not to use one would attract attention that would be awkward to have just now; he was supervising the placement of furniture in his new villa, Bonaldo Fiu- mara at his side. He was simply dressed in a plain waistcoat over a linen camisa and simple breeches; his shoes were thick-soled and practical, without ornamentation and he wore neither hat nor wig. It was almost mid-day, when the workers would eat and then rest for two hours.

“The rafters will be carved, of course.” Fiumara could not conceal his pride in the superior craftsmanship his men had produced. “But that will be done when the weather turns colder, which it will do in four or five weeks. I don’t want the workers to waste the last of the sun and the warmth.” He pointed to where three young men were struggling to get a marble tabletop into place. “They will be finishing the shutters on the second-story windows when they have completed this.”

“Very good,” Ragoczy said, looking around the handsome entry the builders had made, and thinking it would be sad to have to leave it so soon after completion. He studied the pattern on the floor, an old Roman design of grapevines and fruit done in inlaid mosaic tiles. “This turned out well.”

“So I think,” Fiumara said with a rush of pride. “After so many difficulties, it is a good thing to have it all turn out so well.”

Ragoczy did not say anything for a short while; he could not convince himself that all the adversities of the last year were finally behind him, or that the outcome had been a good one for everyone involved. He looked about the room and said, “Your efforts here have truly been exceptional.”

Fiumara smiled broadly. “So I think, too. The men worked very hard.”

“And were well-paid for their efforts,” said Ragoczy at his most cordial. “It was worth every Emperor.”

Fiumara coughed. “As to that, Eccellenza, it is the policy of the Artei to—”

“Yes, I know,” said Ragoczy. “Have I protested the cost?” He did not wait for an answer; he went into the reception room on the north side of the new building. “The drapers should come in a week or two, should they not?”

“They will be here as soon as the Florentine velvet you ordered arrives. If you will permit me to say it, Signor’ Conte, so much velvet might be seen as excessive. If you were part of the Papal Court, that would be another matter, but as you are a foreigner, living outside the walls of Roma, some could see so much luxury as ostentation, and could use it to discredit you again.”

“They may be right: so much velvet would be ostentatious if I could not afford it,” said Ragoczy. “I ordered four bolts of it be sent to the Laterano, as a gesture of appreciation.” A smile tweaked the comers of his lips.

“How clever you are,” Fiumara exclaimed, chuckling. “I should have known you wouldn’t be caught out.” He paced the length of the room. “It would be grander if you had mirrors along this wall.”

“So it would, but it would also be very French; the Pope—Alessandro VIII or his successor—might decide to lock horns with Louis again, and then where would I be.” He shook his head. “No. Mirrors are more problematic than velvet.”

Fiumara pursed his bps. “When the next Pope reigns—and Alessandro is old, so it will be sooner than later—we may have more cordial doings with France.”

“Or they might be worse,” Ragoczy said. “Have the kitchens been finished yet?” It was a deliberate change of subject, and both men recognized it.

“Yes. Your cooks may begin their labors at any time.” He paused at the window, looking out at the old villa. “That must have been very grand, a long time ago.”

“It was,” said Ragoczy, without a trace of nostalgia despite the

centuries of memories the old villa housed. He crossed the room toward the withdrawing room behind the reception room. “The Velasquezes are to hang in here. The
Death of Socrates
should go on this wall.” He indicated the eastern one. “There are some smaller works that can flank it; the Chinese chest should go under it.”

“I will see that it’s done,” said Fiumara. “Do you want the old building taken down?” His voice was tentative and he almost held his breath waiting for the answer.

“I suppose it would be wisest,” said Ragoczy distantly. He paused, then said, “Could you salvage enough of it to make a guest-house?”

“Of course,” said Fiumara quickly enough, then added more cautiously, “It would be an expensive business: first the old building would have to be carefully taken down, and the stones examined and prepared before any construction could begin on a new—”

Ragoczy gestured impatiently. “I will pay for it. Have your Arte inform me how much is required in deposit.” He smiled briefly. “It may seem an extravagance to you, but that villa has stood since the Caesars ruled in Roma. It seems a shame to lose it completely after so long.” He knew he was being whimsical, but it did not trouble him. “Regard it as another of my eccentricities.”

Bonaldo Fiumara bowed from the waist. “As you wish, Signor’ Conte.” He cocked his head in the direction of the study. “Do you want to inspect there next? The men are working on the shelving today.”

“That will not trouble me,” said Ragoczy, starting in that direction.

“My master!” Rugerius called from the reception room. “My master!”

Ragoczy stopped, turning awkwardly to face his manservant who hastened toward him; long experience with Rugerius told Ragoczy that although nothing in his demeanor expressed it, he brought bad news. “What is it?”