Communion Blood (65 page)

“Alfredo Cervetti has just ridden over from Senza Pari at a canter; his horse is all but spent. There is a fire—” He did not go on.

“A fire?” Ragoczy repeated, intent on the answer.

“Cervetti says the stables and the storehouses are burning.” He met Ragoczy’s eyes. “With Niklos Aulirios in France, Cervetti thought it wisest to come to you.”

“Very prudent. Tell Matyas to saddle the Andalusian gelding for me,” Ragoczy said briskly; as Rugerius hurried off, Ragoczy said to Fiumara, “I regret that I cannot finish this tour just now. Tell your men that what I have seen thus far pleases me very much: there will be bonuses for all of them.”

Fiumara bowed again. “Of course, Eccellenza.”

Had he been alone, Ragoczy would have tossed away the cane and strode to the old building; as it was, he pushed his speed as much as he dared, pegging down the front stairs with increasing frustration: delay could mean destruction at Senza Pari. By the time he had crossed the courtyard and entered the old villa, he was eager to put his cane aside. He rushed to his apartment, changed his shoes for boots, dragged a black-wool riding cloak from its peg behind the door, took up his sword, and was out of the room as quickly as he could be. Leaving by the side-door, he went directly to the stable where he found Matyas and Rugerius. “Where’s Cervetti?”

“In the kitchen. He was worn out,” said Rugerius.

“So was his horse.” Matyas was securing the girths on the Andalusian. “I’ll do what I can for the gelding, but he may be done for.” “I’ll try to spare this one,” said Ragoczy as he swung his cloak around his shoulders and reached for the bridle. “Tell me everything you can, Rugerius.”

“Cervetti reports that the fire broke out in the stables about dawn, and he summoned the staff to help put it out. No sooner had they brought it under control, than another one burst out by the storehouses; he put the servants to fighting it and came to ask for your help. Cervetti says that the only household member he could not find is Bonifaccio.” Rugerius remained calm through his report.

“Ah,” said Ragoczy as he buckled the noseband into position, and lifted the reins over the snowy Andalusian’s head.

“You are not surprised,” said Rugerius.

“No; not surprised. Niklos said something about the man, oh, more than a year ago; I know he was concerned about him.” He buckled on his sword and vaulted into the saddle. “Be sure Cervetti is given a chance to rest.”

“And what of men to help? Should we dispatch any?” Matyas asked.

“Yes. Half a dozen of the strongest who can be spared.” Ragoczy was ready to go. “Send them along in the smaller coach as soon as you can round them up. Put my red-lacquer chest of medicaments on the roof of the coach.”

Rugerius inclined his head. “I know what is to be done.”

Ragoczy shot him an understanding look. “Your pardon, old friend. I was maladroit.” Gathering up the reins, he swung the Andalusian about with the pressure of his leg and said, “I will send word when you are to expect me if I am delayed until morning.”

“Very good,” said Rugerius, standing back to let Ragoczy ride out of the stables; he and Matyas watched Ragoczy put the Andalusian to a fast trot before they went about their duties.

The Andalusian was strong, with excellent stamina; the day was warm and just windy enough that it took the weight from the heat but the road was dusty, which the wind made worse. With distressing thoughts for companions, Ragoczy rode toward Senza Pari, certain that the two fires were not accidental, if for no other reason than that they were too convenient, what with Niklos Aulirios gone. He did not like to consider who might have wanted the fires set: those were the most bothersome notions of all. The irony of the situation provided him grim amusement: Olivia had died the True Death in an explosion at his Villa Vecchia, and now he was riding to a calamity at Senza Pari; had Niklos Aulirios not prevailed in his claim, this would not be happening. The possibility that the decision of the Magistrates’ Court made in Niklos’ favor might have something to do with the fire did not escape Ragoczy’s attention; it added to his anxiety as he rode. After two leagues he pulled the gelding into a walk so as not to wear him out; at half a league farther on, he put the horse into the trot again.

There was a coil of dark smoke rising over the brow of the hill, marking the place of the fire. Ragoczy saw it as he came over the rise between Roma and the turn to Senza Pari. It was not large enough to suggest the fire had spread far, nor was it so faint that it would mean the fire was dying.

“Been like that all morning,” remarked an elderly man on a donkey coming the other way; he looked unconcerned for the fate of those

fighting the fire. “The monks are moving their treasures out of the monastery, in case the wind should blow it their way.”

Ragoczy did not slow his horse, calling out, “Thank you for telling me.”

The old man laughed, waving his hat as if for a grand occasion. “Too bad old Nerone is long gone: he would enjoy this.”

At the turn, Ragoczy came upon the monks, all bustling to load up ox-carts to bear their chapel-goods away from danger. They worked in silence, still maintaining their vow; only one looked up as Ragoczy rode past. Then the monks were behind him and he was bound for Senza Pari, the smoke beckoning him on, undulating on the increasing heat of early afternoon. Finally he reached the approached to the villa itself, and finally let his gelding canter; the horse was tired and the smoke made him nervous, but he answered the nudging of Ragoczy’s heels. Nearing the villa itself, Ragoczy pulled his horse around to the south-east side of the house, away from the stables. Ry now the air stank of burning, and the shouts of those fighting the fire added their own confusion.

Demetrio, the under-coachman, was the first to notice Ragoczy’s arrival. His face and arms were smirched and sooty and his hair was singed, but he bowed to Ragoczy and grinned. “You are bringing help,” he shouted. “Cervetti said you would.” He ended this with a hacking cough and wheezing inhalation.

“In a while,” Ragoczy responded. “They are coming by coach.” “We need them as soon as may be.” He stopped still, gasping. “We’ve put out two, but now there is a third going, in the coachhouse.”

“A third fire?” Ragoczy frowned as he found a tree-branch to which he could tie his Andalusian’s reins. “When did it begin?” he asked as he dismounted and secured his horse.

“More than an hour ago.” Demetrio sighed, suddenly exhausted. “We had the second fire half-out, and the new one began. We can’t spare anyone to search, but someone must—” He looked over his shoulder warily. “Ottorino and Felice have been sent into the house with barrels of water, in case anything more should happen.”

“Do you expect anything more?” Ragoczy peered into the smoke

feeling uneasy; fire was as deadly to him as to any man, and he had a keen understanding of what it could do.

“We did not expect any of this,” said Demetrio. He pointed to the twenty or so men who were busy with buckets, drawing water from the troughs and the stream that cut through the nearest paddock. A few of the women-servants tended to those who had been hurt, and another pair of women were helping to fill buckets at the old well. “And when Cervetti left, we were in disarray until old Montecchi— the one who runs the winepress—assumed command.”

“And where may I find Montecchi?” He knew the vintner by sight, but did not want to try to search without direction through the chaos for him.

“He was over on the far side of the coach-house, the last time I saw him, on the west side of the villa,” said Demetrio. “I have to sit down a moment; I’m getting dizzy.”

“Better lie down,” Ragoczy recommended, hoping his men would arrive shortly, for he could see Demetrio would need something to help clear his lungs; the medicament that would do it was in his red- lacquer chest. “Let the others deal with the fire.”

“But I should try to save the coach-house. It is my responsibility,” he protested weakly.

“It may be, but if you collapse while fighting the fire, no one will benefit.” He saw the chagrin in Demetrio’s eyes. “Make sure my horse doesn’t panic. That will help me.”

Demetrio nodded. “I will,” he said, and lay back, pasty under the smuts.

Satisfied that Demetrio would not overexert himself now, Ragoczy hurried toward the flames, looking about for Montecchi amidst the confusion of servants. Servants were rushing about through the thickening smoke, a few of them clearly suffering; ordinarily he would have stopped to help them: he would do that later, when his men arrived. He saw the stable was partially destroyed, the tack-room nothing but charred beams. There was no sign of burned horses, which was some consolation; he hoped they had been got out of their stalls in time.

“Who are you?” one of the servants exclaimed as he grabbed hold of Ragoczy from behind. “I have him!” he shouted before receiving an answer.

Some of the servants stopped what they were doing and gave their attention to Ragoczy and his captor. Questions and accusations jumbled with the snap and clamor of the fire; a few of the servants hurled pebbles and singed wood at Ragoczy.

“Do not!” Ragoczy said sharply as a number of the servants converged upon him. “I am not your enemy. I am Ragoczy. Alfredo Cervetti asked me to come!” He ducked as a wet rag flew by his shoulder; a few of the servants looked angry or troubled but most of them were disbelieving until the chief cook, the massive Nobile Co- fano, trundled forward, squinting with blood-shot eyes.

“He is our master’s friend. The foreign Conte.” He motioned to the man holding Ragoczy. “Release him, Ebbo.”

An elderly man with gnarled features and a cloud of white hair now tarnished by the smoke arrived. He took one look at Ragoczy and burst out, “You came very quickly, Signor’ Conte,” he said as he bowed and attempted to kiss Ragoczy’s hand.

“Never mind this,” said Ragoczy, trying not to snap. “We can worry about form when the fires are out.” He regarded Montecchi. “Where do you need help the most?”

Montecchi pointed toward the coach-house. “It is still wild, as you can see.” He made a helpless gesture. ‘Whoever is doing it—” To finish his thought, he shook his head.

“Then you are certain the fires are set,” said Ragoczy, who had no doubts.

“One might have been an accident,” said Montecchi. “But three? And starting suddenly? We haven’t time or men enough to find the bastard.”

“Then let us keep pouring water on the flames; the sooner the fires are out, the sooner we may discover who has set them,” said Ragoczy, pulling up his sleeves and throwing his cloak toward the hitching-post where he usually tied his horse. “I have more men coming in a short while.”

As if his presence encouraged them, the servants redoubled their efforts; for the better part of an hour they labored ceaselessly to quench the flames. Ragoczy carried water from the troughs to the men, showing no signs of fatigue, although he was bothered by the nearness of the fire. Finally the fire began to fade; most of the coachhouse was in ruins, but the blaze had not spread. Ragoczy made sure most of the men who had been fighting the blaze were accounted for, and then carefully walked around the smoldering coach-house, doing his best to assess the damage.

“The house!
The house!”
came the horrified cry, and Ragoczy saw a curl of smoke rise from the north-eastern corner of Olivia’s villa. There were howls of dismay and deep-felt curses, and the servants tried to muster the strength to stop another conflagration, and that in the part of the villa farthest from the well-fed troughs and the stream.

Ragoczy ran toward the smoke, not bothering to hide his extraordinary speed; running, he asked himself where his coach was, and why had no other help arrived.

The fire had started from a bundle of straw and rags that gave off the odor of burning pitch. There were dark streaks on the walls, as if they had been smeared with the flammable material in order to spread the fire more quickly, and the smoke it gave off was oilily black.

“Eustazio is inside!” The cry was from a woman, high and terrified. “He’s sick! He can’t get out!”

Others shouted, and Nobile Cofano made a ponderous rash at the kitchen door, only to be ordered back by Montecchi. “There is fire inside already.”

A window on the second floor burst, and fire raged out. The servants drew back, a number of them weeping in futility and frustration. The woman who had shouted began to scream for her brother.

“Look!” shouted Ebbo. “Another fire. There, on the stairs!”

“What about Ottorino!” shrieked one of the stable-hands. “He’s in the house!”

“And so is Felice!” Ebbo yelled, trying to make himself get closer to the fire.

From his place on the flank of the house, Ragoczy could see smoke filling the rooms, and knew that anyone inside would have to get out quickly or be stifled. Hating fire as he did, he hesitated only for a moment, and then ran toward the narrow windows of the old withdrawing room that looked out on the grapevines of the estate. He hit the glass with his arms folded over his head; it shattered around him, and the fire boomed on the floor above him. Looking up, he saw little flames running along the ceiling in waves; he had very little time to find anyone, let alone get him out. Over the pandemonium of the fire, he could hear a man coughing and trying to pray. Using this sound as a guide, Ragoczy went through the withdrawing room toward the corridor, his hands still raised to shelter his head. The heat was enormous, and the smoke made it worse.

In the corridor the smoke was thicker, concealing any flames that might be burning there; Ragoczy crouched low to avoid the heat, for he did not need to breathe, and now he was glad of it. He followed the sound of the voice, hoping that the man would not be overcome before Ragoczy could find him. The raging of the fire grew louder, and Ragoczy could feel it fan his face, crisping his eyebrows and singeing his hair. “Anyone!” he shouted, and coughed as smoke filled his lungs.

There was a faint cry ahead of him near the door leading down into the cellars; this was followed at once by a sound of choking.

Ragoczy made a quick rush toward the voice, nearly tripping over the prone figure. Blinking furiously, he reached down and grabbed the fallen man’s arm, then started dragging him along the corridor toward the kitchen, where there had been the least fire when Ragoczy went into the house. Lacking tears, Ragoczy’s eyes felt like cracked glass in his head, and he knew it would be many days before they would stop hurting, assuming he averted greater harm in this burning building. The weight of the man he was dragging seemed to be heavier; the fire was sapping Ragoczy’s tremendous strength, making every step more arduous than the last; he could not bring himself to abandon the man.