Communion Blood (9 page)

Lampone shook his head. “I do not make it a habit to discuss my work, Signore Conte.” His politeness was turning frosty.

“No, no, Signore Lampone, you misunderstand me.” His cordial urbanity did not waver. “I have done some studies in a related field and I hoped to benefit from an exchange of information. It is not often I find someone with the interests and skills I myself have pursued for many years. When I do, I am eager to engage in such exchange as will—I hope—stimulate both of our endeavors.”

“Is it so?” Lampone asked, his hauteur fading a bit. “I might be kinder to refuse you. Well, let me give it some consideration. There may be some advantage to speaking with you after all.” He motioned to indicate Ragoczy could come a bit nearer. “In a place like this, it is wise to guard one’s tongue. There are those who hear heresy in eveiy word.”

“That is the case throughout Roma; I too, rejoice when I discover a colleague who knows truth is always acceptable to God,” Ragoczy agreed, and encouraged Lampone to talk, all the while keeping a close yet covert watch on the parade of guests. In the next half hour he learned the old scholar was a widower with three grown sons, two in holy Orders, one in self-exile in London; Lampone had considered joining him in England but could not bring himself to leave his native language behind. “Rufio is young: learning another tongue is not a burden for him. But for me—?” He shrugged to show impossibility.

“But having your son gone must make the Church more wary of you,” said Ragoczy.

“Possibly,” said Lampone, “though a man in my position is generally regarded with some suspicion, no matter what his sons might do.” He glanced toward some of the new arrivals, his expression unguarded enough to show dislike for an instant. “There are those who do the Church more honor than others,” he muttered, distaste curling his lips.

Ragoczy understood this was critical of the guests who had just entered the reception hall—a Cardinal with a handsome young woman in striking apparel on his arm and a sulky exquisite behind him. “Who is that?”

“Martin, Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte. The woman is his sister, Leocadia, and the dandy is his brother,” said Lampone, his eyes bright with contempt. “He is a great believer in stringent adherence to dogma, except where his family is concerned.”

“So many of the Spanish are dogmaticians,” Ragoczy said, his words neutral enough in case they were overheard. His years in Spanish prisons in the New World had left a powerful impression upon him; his reserve returned. “Perhaps we should select another time to converse? There are so many people here—”

“My notion precisely,” said Lampone, clearly relieved. “I am at home to callers every morning after Mass. The Villa Santa Lucia. Go to II Gesu and turn east.”

“I shall find you; thank you for your most gracious invitation,” said Ragoczy, and moved away from the old mathematician.

There were more than two hundred guests at II Meglio now, all of them turned out in their grandest style to show their high social standing and their regard for the Colonnas. The reception room rang with conversation and the footmen and waiters passed busily through the glorious throng.

Ragoczy moved to the side of the fireplace, out of the heat and away from the drops of wax falling from the candles in the chandelier above. From this vantage-point he could look over the crowd without appearing to do so. He noticed that among the fifteen Cardinals attending the festivities there was an ill-concealed rancor just beneath their veneer of politeness. The most acrimonious of all was Martin, Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte, who openly rebuked one of his fellow-Princes of the Church, making no apology for his conduct. The startled guests waited for an escalation of their dispute, but the offended Cardinal chose to walk away, disappointing those hoping for scandal. Deprived of sport, the guests moved away from the Spaniards. Ragoczy continued to watch as an angular young man in unflattering German finery approached Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte. The Cardinal greeted the German with an affable display that was in sharp contrast to his sister’s response.

“That is the man you should be wary of,” said Ettore Colonna in Ragoczy’s ear.

Ragoczy gave no sign of being startled. “Why do you say so?”

“That is Ahrent Rothofen,” said Colonna. “He is the man you will have to prevail against in your petition. Be wary of him, for he is a hungry cur.” He smiled with genuine amusement. “He is trying to arrange a betrothal between the Cardinal’s sister—you see her there with him—and the brother of his patron, Archbishop Siegfried Wal- mund. The Cardinal and the Archbishop are for the match, but the woman refuses, which is wise of her.”

Ragoczy turned to his host. “Why do you say that?”

“Because Hubert Walmund is poxy,” said Ettore Colonna with unusual bluntness.

“Ah.” Ragoczy watched the Spanish family more closely. “And the gaudy young buck? What of him?”

“The Cardinal’s brother? Ursellos is a wastrel, without any means but what his brother provides. You need not fear him unless he takes you in dislike. He is one of the wild set.” Colonna gave a languid sigh. “What he would do without his brother to vouch for him, I cannot think.”

‘With so high an opinion of the family, I am surprised you have numbered them among your guests,” said Ragoczy, more interested in Colonna’s answer than he revealed.

“Men like Calaveria y Vacamonte are best kept under watch. I would rather have them here, where I can see them, than let them go unchecked and be forced to speculate on their dealings.” He smoothed the front of his justaucorps, sensual as a cat. “It is foolish to think that they cannot be our implacable enemies simply because they exchange compliments with us. Calaveria y Vacamonte has thwarted Giancarlo at every turn. The Pope has spoken sharply to them both about it.”

“One day you must tell me the cause of their dispute,” Ragoczy said carefully. He suspected that his host was testing him so he chose his words carefully.

“True enough; this is no time to gossip of such matters when there is so much more to talk about. We have many rumors flying tonight. If you listen, you will hear them like themes in a concerto. The Pope has been ill, and at his age, all the Church is abuzz with tattling whenever he sneezes. When the weather is cold, half the Cardinals rush to the Lateran to keep vigil, and to promote their own chances.” He pointed to an Austrian Cardinal. “He has been hard at work, trying to convince the other Cardinals that he can preserve the Church in the east, reclaiming lands from the Turks and the Orthodox.”

‘Will he succeed?” Ragoczy asked, knowing it was expected of him as one who had lost his holdings to Ottoman encroachment.

Colonna shrugged. “I doubt it.”

“Too much opposition?” Ragoczy ventured.

“Too many Italians,” said Colonna, chuckling. “We are in the Papal States and our allies are Italian. If the Church wants help in the east, she will elevate a Venezian, not someone who is surrounded by Protestants.”

“If not the Austrian, what of Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte?” Ragoczy inquired. “Is the Spanish influence still strong enough to elect a Pope?”

Ettore Colonna nodded. “Very astute, Conte. Yes. He seeks to achieve for himself what Rodrigo Boija y Lara did.”

“Would that be impossible?—if he became Italian by name?” Ragoczy recalled the powerful Spanish Pope Alessandro VI, who had Italicized his name to Borgia in order to make his way in Roman politics; corrupt as the man had been, Ragoczy still could not despise him, for it was Alessandro VI who had put an end to Savonarola’s pillaging Fiorenza in the name of Christ almost two centuries ago.

“Not in these times,” said Ettore Colonna. “It would be too blatant an indication of intent.”

“What about your cousin, then?” Now that he understood his host’s game, Ragoczy was truly curious.

“Too young. Giancarlo will have to wait awhile before he is considered.” The scented, azure handkerchief Ettore Colonna dangled between his long fingers gave emphasis to the wave of his hand. “Innocenzo has been strong in his Poping, therefore most of the Cardinals have had firm alliances during his reign, to advance or hinder Innocenzo’s work. Once he dies, those alliances will falter and dissolve. If the next Pope is equally forceful, then we might have a level of steadiness. But if the Cardinals elevate one of their number who is capricious or a poor leader, then everything will be thrown into disorder.” He raised his thick, well-shaped brow. “It has happened before.”

“So I understand,” said Ragoczy, who had avoided Roma for centuries for just such reasons.

“There is also the question of the Protestants,” added Ettore Colonna with a frankness that startled Ragoczy. “Little as the Cardinals say they are influenced by the Protestants, of course they are. They have much to consider in that regard, for it is hard enough to hold the Turk at bay—as I need not tell a Transylvanian—without having to contend with half of the German states as well.” He sighed again. “When Innocenzo dies, there will be a scramble, and the rest of us will have to weather the storms the Cardinals, in their inspired wisdom, make.”

Ragoczy studied Ettore Colonna for a moment. “Tell me,” he began lightly, “do you not worry about what might be reported of you? You must be aware of those listening to you—do you make it a practice of saying provoking things?”

“Provoking things,” Ettore Colonna repeated, savoring the words. “I have been saying such things since I was a boy and the despair of my tutors.” He laughed, this time with underlying sadness. “I have seen for myself how the Papacy runs; perhaps I saw it too clearly, too young, before the pomp and glory overwhelmed me. There was a time that I feared the Church, but no longer.” He studied the rings on his fingers. “Now I look upon the pageant without awe.”

“Do you like playing with
the...
hosts at the Pope’s Little House?” Ragoczy challenged, though he spoke genially enough.

“No. And I do not like to see anyone be invited there. It happened too often when I was younger and did not comprehend the purpose of the Inquisitors. I have learned my limits, and theirs. I am aware of as much as they are.” He smiled with vulpine satisfaction. “You may mention what I have said to your Confessor. The Church is riddled with Colonnas: it will not harm me.”

“If I do not, it could harm
me,”
said Ragoczy, far more bluntly than good manners allowed.

“I doubt it, but speak of it if you will.” Ettore Colonna bowed slightly, no indication of annoyance in his polished conduct. “Come, Ragoczy. You have heard far worse, I am certain of it. Defending the Carpathians from the Ottomites must have revealed heresy and apostasy and tergiversation at every turn, as you must have told your Confessor by now. A few worldly slights such as mine must be seem more amusing than dangerous.”

“Pray God my Confessor will find it so,” said Ragoczy, adding, “Those who listen report who hears as well as who has spoken.”

“True enough,” Ettore Colonna said, conceding the point. “And I should be a most egregious host to expose my guests to the tender mercies of the servants in the Pope’s Little House. Your point is well- taken.” He gestured gracefully. “Then perhaps you should come with me and spend a little time with Alessandro Scarlatti before his consort begins to play. Once the music begins, there will be no opportunity for conversation for perhaps two hours.” He nodded to the cavernous door leading into a brightly lit hall beyond. “He is looking forward to knowing you.”

“So he said in the letter your Signore Bruschi was good enough to bring to me,” said Ragoczy, falling into step beside the tall Italian.

“He is an energetic man, Celestino Bruschi,” said Ettore Colonna, then changed the subject. “I have asked Scarlatti to perform an aria by Monteverdi. It will come toward the end of the concert, so as not to offend him by putting Monteverdi before him. I know Monteverdi’s work has gone out of fashion since he died, but I find it most appealing.”

“An aria? He has brought a singer with him?” Ragoczy asked, recalling Scarlatti’s boast about his new soprano.

“Yes. She will scandalize some of my guests, who still believe all soprano roles should be reserved for castrati. I, for one, can accept a castrato as a man, but not as a woman.” He held up a cautioning finger, his handkerchief emphasizing the implied admonition. “Yes, Signore Conte, it pleases me to scandalize them. And they expect it of me. Half my guests would be vastly disappointed if I did not do something outrageous.”

They had passed into the music hall, a high, vaulted room with a gallery along one side and tall windows along the other. At the far end of the room was a low platform where chairs and music stands were being set up for the musicians. Overhead five massive candelabra glowed, their shine echoed by tall mirrors set at regular intervals between sconces along the walls; small puddles of wax were already forming beneath the sconces and candelabra. The room lacked a fireplace and was uncomfortably cool, but neither Ettore Colonna nor Ragoczy mentioned this.

One of the musicians, properly dressed in black-and-white livery, emerged from a side room, part scores in his hands, and began to put them in place on the stands. When he finished, he took a long, thin strip of wood and lit it from one of the candle-sconces, then lit the music-stand candles. He turned and bowed to Ettore Colonna, reciting a few polite phrases before he withdrew.

“You are planning to have them begin shortly?” Ragoczy asked, and drew out his Dutch pocket-watch; it was nearly seven.

“In half an hour or so. While the musicians are playing my servants will lay out the buffet for supper.” Ettore Colonna fingered his neat little beard.

Ragoczy looked about the music hall. “Will you bring chairs for your guests?”

“My servants will be putting them in place shortly. I do not like to leave them here to be smirched by wax any longer than necessary.” He indicated the candelabra. “As you can see, they are something of a hazard.”

“Truly.” Ragoczy peered upward. “You have no cups to hold the wax under the candles?”

“I do, but they are not large enough.” Colonna slapped his thigh through his justaucorps. “If they were large enough to hold all the wax, they would also block the light, so I must make do as best I can.”