Communion Blood (66 page)

Something struck him a glancing blow: a beam had fallen, black and hot. Ragoczy had to crawl under it, tugging the man behind him. The fire was much closer, fuming like a maddened animal, almost alive in its malignity. With a last, grueling effort, Ragoczy dragged himself and his burden onto the flagstones of the kitchen; they were hot to the touch, but by contrast to the corridor, they seemed cool. It was tempting to lie there for a time, to recoup his energy before trying to go on. Deep within himself, Ragoczy knew this was deadly folly. He pulled himself forward, using his forearm; he had not yet let go of the unconscious man. Each hand’s-breadth of progress felt like leagues, but he kept on.

Then suddenly he was soaking wet, and there were shouts all around him. Ragoczy sputtered as a second bucket of water splashed over him, and he looked up to see Matyas bending over him, horror in his eyes. “The house?” he croaked.

“Most of it is gone,” said Matyas, hauling Ragoczy to his feet. ‘Tour clothes were burning.”

“Small wonder,” Ragoczy muttered, letting himself sag on Matyas’ shoulder; they made their way out through the old stone arch of the kitchen, now bedecked with broken and charred sections of walls, beams, and flooring. “Did anyone else—?”

“No,” said Matyas, and paused to cross himself. “May God welcome them as martyrs.” There was furious activity around them as four of the servants rushed forward to take the man Ragoczy had dragged out of the house in hand. Their urgent shouts made it hard for Ragoczy to think.

Montecchi rushed up to Ragoczy. “Oh, Saints and La Virgine be thanked,” he shouted, patting Ragoczy with a familiarity he would not dream of in ordinary circumstances. “You are alive.”

“As much as I was before,” said Ragoczy, clearing his throat.

“That was too near a thing,” said Montecchi. “Much too near.” He glanced back at the ruin behind him. “What will Signor’ Aulirios think? How can I tell him?”

“I will do that,” said Ragoczy. They were a dozen strides away from the villa now, and there was less activity. Ragoczy could see his coach standing a short distance away, Amerigo on the box, holding the restive team in order. Fatigue had him in its grip, and it would not be alleviated until he was revived with blood and intimacy or by his native earth. “Take me to my coach,” he murmured. “I need to lie down.” The floor of the coach was lined with his native earth.

“Just a while. An hour at most.” He staggered as he attempted to climb into the coach, but he refused Matyas’ help. “Go. You are needed elsewhere. Amerigo can guard me.”

“That I can,” said Amerigo at once. “I will see no one disturbs you,” he assured Ragoczy as Matyas reluctantly went to assist the servants.

As he lay on the floor of his coach, Ragoczy let the annealing presence of his native earth envelop him; as he lapsed into what for him passed for sleep, he thought, I have spent too much time recovering in carriages; two times in as many months is too often. He did not know how much time had passed when he was jarred awake by persistent pounding on the coach door and Amerigo calling to him to waken.

“Conte! Signor’ Conte! Eccellenza!
Wake up!”
Amerigo sounded worried.

“Another fire?” Ragoczy asked, his voice hoarse, his eyes feeling brittle and sore. He knew where every bum, scrape, and braise was on his flesh; it was an effort to ignore them.

“No.” Amerigo flung the door open. “You must come at once. Montecchi is beside himself.”

“Why?” Ragoczy made himself sit up. “Give me a moment,” he said without waiting for an explanation. He could see the light was beginning to fade, turning the hills a deep golden color and giving the sky a depth of color greater than the sea. The scorched stench hung on the air, but it was no longer new; now it carried dust with it, and the smell of water-logged wood. It was not easy to climb out of the coach, to leave the comfort of his native earth behind. Getting out of the coach with great care, he stood for a long moment hanging on to the grip on the side of the coach. Then he straightened up. “All right. What does Montecchi want?”

“He is with those who were hurt. He says there is something you have to see.” Amerigo went to the head of his team. “I can’t leave them—not with that milling herd out in the field.” He jutted his chin in the direction of the pasture beyond the gutted stable where most of the horses of Senza Pari fretted.

“Just so,” said Ragoczy, starting across the yard, feeling every hour

of his age; he paid no heed to the stares the servants gave him as he passed. He caught sight of Matyas, and called to him. “Where is Montecchi?”

Matyas left off clearing away the fallen walls of the stable and came up to Ragoczy. “He’s with the injured.” He pointed to the makeshift table where wounds were being dressed.

“Thank you.” Ragoc
2
y saw his red-lacquer chest at the far end of the table and made his way toward it. Nearing Montecchi who stood guard over the chest, he raised his voice. “You wished to see me?” Montecchi turned around, consternation on his seamed features. “Signor’ Conte,” he said, and faltered.
“I...
I don’t
know...
how to—” He stopped himself by pointing. “That is the man you pulled out of the house, whose life you saved. He is still unconscious.” ‘Who is he?” Ragoczy asked.

“I do not know him,” said Montecchi. “I pray you do.”

This announcement served to perplex Ragoczy. “He is not part of this household?” He saw Montecchi gesture in the negative; suddenly he felt cold to the marrow. “Do you think he set the fires?”

“Who else could have done it?” Montecchi said, stepping out of the way so that Ragoczy could approach the supine figure lying on the ground under a horse-blanket. “If you know him, tell me.” Ragoczy looked down, his frown deepening; at first all he could make out was the soot and scrapes, then the countenance beneath became visible. “I know him,” he said distantly as he stared into the face of Ursellos Calaveria y Vacamonte.

Text of a letter from Conte Balletti in Salzburg to Ettore Colonna, delivered by courier.

To the most excellent of good friends, Ettore Colonna, the greetings from one who had not been in Roma for almost a year.

Your kind letter of March 10th finally reached me through my holdings in Amsterdam, and I apologize that it has taken me so long to respond. For an explanation of this conduct I can only plead the exigencies of my new circumstances that have compelled me to place many obstacles between me and my life in Roma.

In that regard, as you see, I have taken your advice and used a name that is in no way connected to Ragoczy or Saint-Germain; as Conte Balletti I have a most worthy disguise. Rugerius is calling himself Rudiger, which is nearer his name than my alias is to mine, but different enough that it should not attract more than passing notice; he has used a walnut stain to make his hair a dark-brown and he has affixed a mole to his cheek.

So Ursellos Calaveria y Vacamonte and Ahrent Rothofen have become residents in the Pope’s Little House; Rothofen’s shoulder wound is still troubling him, I suppose, and to have the Holy Office added to his woes
—
appalling. As despicable as their acts were, I can find it in my heart to pity them, for no one deserves the hospitality the Holy Office offers its guests. Their condemnation by Magistrates’ Court and the judgment of fines and prison against them seemed sufficient to me, but over the years I have become less inclined to exact vengeance masquerading as justice; not that these two have not earned the abhorrence of Roma for their crimes. Still, I would not wish the dungeons of the Holy Office on any offender, no matter how grievous their offenses might be. I have some experience of them myself and I know whereof I speak. You tell me that Leocadia has returned to Spain and entered a convent; may she find some peace there, for surely it has eluded her in this world.

I am indebted to you for all you have done on my behalf; your report on Bonaldo Fiumara’s custodianship of Villa Vecchia is reassuring, although not surprising. I am also cheered to know that the rebuilding at Senza Pari is under way. When Niklos Aulirios finally returns he will have a home to inhabit, and a working estate that will once again be flourishing. Know that I am obliged to you for all you have done, and if there is anything I may do to show my appreciation, you have only to name it and it will be arranged.

Extend my thanks to your cousin, Gennaro, for I understand that his heroic account of San Germanno in South America has relieved Ferenc Ragoczy of any stain of connection beyond the accident of family. I have no way to acknowledge the great service he did me without compromising its good, so if you will convey my indebtedness to him, I would count it among your many kindnesses. Sadly, I must decline to answer the question you put to me regarding my age: suffice it to say that it is much greater than you have speculated; be content with that answer, I ask you for both our sakes.

If you would have more of my gratitude, tell me: have you any notion who will be elected Pope now that Alessandro VIII is dead? You hear all the whispers and know what will happen before the rest of the world. I ask only because the policies of the next Pope may take a toll on my homeland; the Carpathians are troubled enough without another shift in Roman procedures.

How good to know that Maurizio is such a sensation in London, although I am not surprised to hear it. One day I may travel there again and attend one of his concerts.

A letter to Count Balletti will find me here, and in the autumn in Praha. I will let you know where I will go from there when I have decided.

Know that this brings the most profound appreciation of one who signs himself only with his sigil:

(the eclipse)

On the 24th day of April, 1691, at Salzburg and by my own hand

EPILOGUE

X
ext of a letter from Giorgianna Ferrugia to Ferenc Ragoczy, Conte da San-Germain, entrusted to Ettore Colonna for delivery.

To Su Eccellenza, Ferenc Ragoczy, Conte da San-Germain, the affectionate regards of Giorgianna Ferrugia:

Caro Conte, I have taken advantage of Ettore Colonna, who assures me he can get a letter to you within two months, and am entrusting this to his good offices. I am giving it into his care just before
:
we—my husband and children and l—depart for Lago di Como
I
where we are to spend August and most of September; with four \ children now—three sons and a daughter—it is a relief to get out of Roma in the worst of the heat and the mal aria.

Although it is more than seven years since you left Roma, I have been thinking of you of late, and I wanted to tell you at last how ashamed I am of how I tricked you for the Holy Office. I did not want our last time together to be so sullied, but the good Fathers insisted, and so I did as they bade me, and I have been sick in my
I
soul ever since. You may not be able to write to me now, but I beg you to forgive me for what I did. It was a most unworthy act and I can only account for it because I was so frightened. My husband may
\1
be a Marchese, but to the Church, this is nothing. Had I protested,

my twins might have been in danger, which was intolerable to me.

There. I have said it, and now I will pray that you will read and understand. I had no choice but to do their bidding, as many have before me. You were always understanding, always compassionate, which leads me to hope that my petition is not in vain.

Also, I hope you can now comprehend why I did not want to know any of your secrets, for a generous a lover as you were to me, I could not endanger my children: anything you told me I would have revealed to the Holy Office. It is just as well I would not let you tell me much. And yet, I am sorry I did not have the opportunity to know those things you tried to impart to me. I believe I have missed some ineffable part of you that I will regret missing; that is not your fault, it is mine. I fear it may be a much greater one than I assumed it was at first. Since you have been gone, I have become acutely aware that you did not ever treat me capriciously, or as an ornament; therefore anything you wished to impart was not of a trivial or cajoling nature, but intrinsic to the man (I nearly said creature) you are. I cannot ask you to remedy that now, for it would mean putting things on paper that are better left unrecorded. But if, sometime, you might send a message to me through Ettore Colonna that would tell me what I would not let you say, I would thank you in my prayers every night. I do that anyway, but I would thank you doubly.

Innocenzo XII is restricting travel to France yet again; he and Louis are as locked in disputes as much as Innocenzo XI was. I have had to refuse an engagement to sing in Parigi because of the Pope’s ruling. Maestro Scarlatti has offered to try to find a way to arrange matters for me, but I do not hold out much hope. I tell you this in case you might be in France. I have understood you may be, or could be. I would like the opportunity to see you once more, not as lovers, but to talk, as friends do. If this would be welcome to you, as well, inform Ettore Colonna and I will strive to find a way to reach you. It will be more easily accomplished in a Catholic country than a Protestant one, of course, but even that is not impossible.

I have sung the
Nerone
four times since you left, and always to enthusiastic reception. I cannot begin to tell you what satisfaction that give me. It is as if the link between us remains unbroken. I have felt

that about you for some time; I thought at first it was nostalgia, but now it seems to be something more, and it has occasionally seemed to me that you must sense it, too. 1 wonder if this is female silliness, or the bond you spoke of? Then, 1 did not appreciate what you offered me; now, 1 have intimations of your intent, and 1 know I have been the poorer for declining the gift you were prepared to give me. It is probably beyond us now, but I want you to know that I have come to recognize that I have deprived myself of more than the rapture of the body—I have also lost the touching of souls. I did not perceive at the time what you and I achieved. Now that it is lost I apprehend what it was.