Communion Blood (15 page)

“Are you disagreeing with me?” Colonna challenged, expressing his indignation with a wink. He looked toward the far wall, lined with cosdy mirrors, and said, “You would think half of Roma were here.”

Three young men, two in women’s dress, all in elaborate masks and luxurious clothes, careened by them, laughing as they went.

“Not at all; I have nothing to disagree with,” responded Ragoczy. “But you are at double risks with such a gathering as this, and with such sentiments.”

“So might you be,” Ettore Colonna pointed out. “You are here, and we are talking. Many would think that grounds for suspicion.”

“True enough,” Ragoczy agreed, with hard-won self-possession; his years in the prisons of the Inquisition in the New World were still fresh in his mind.

“Of course,” he went on, “you are keeping that soprano—everyone knows it. That should gain you some protection, for with such a mistress, the worst you can be accused of is tolerance. Not that tolerance isn’t a sign of heresy, according to Sua Santita.” He clapped his hands for a waiter. “More wine. More for everyone.” Then he cocked his head to Ragoczy. “Except for my friend, who does not drink wine.”

“Grazie,” said Ragoczy.

“You have nothing to thank me for,” said his host, turning once again to look out into the balmy spring night. “It is a rare thing to find a man unlike us who is not revulsed by what we are.” He laid his free hand on Ragoczy’s shoulder. “You surprise me, and I am not often surprised.”

Ragoczy studied Ettore Colonna’s face for a brief moment. “I don’t know why that should be,” he said, though he knew well enough what Colonna meant. “We must, all of us, be true to our natures, or live a sham.”

“Very true,” said Ettore Colonna as his servant brought him another glass of wine. “Alas; if only my Confessor could see it that way.” He smiled lopsidedly as he drank deeply. “Perhaps I should embrace

the Ottomite faith and have all the youths I could desire.”

“Others have,” Ragoczy reminded him. “The Sultan would be proud of such a convert as you would be.”

Ettore Colonna sighed. “It would come to that, wouldn’t it?” “That you would be displayed? Oh, yes; I think so. The Sultan would not be able to resist such a triumph. Of course you would not be able to drink wine or spirits, for your conversion would have to be exemplary.” He had seen it happen when he was in the Carpathians, often for someone no more important than an army officer. To have the cousin of a Cardinal convert to the faith of the Prophet would result in fanfares and celebrations that would be as sumptuous as they were oppressive.

“Because I am a prize?” He laughed. “How my family would boggle at that.”

“Perhaps. Some of them would be shocked, but most, I think, would be saddened. They have protected you thus far, haven’t they.” Ragoczy knew enough about the Colonnas to realize that such a defection would be a terrible blow to them. As much as they might deplore Ettore’s tastes, they would never recover from his loss.

“Yes. I depend upon them to continue,” he said archly. “As long as we Colonnas stand in good stead with the Lateran and the Curia, I am proof against the whispers. For which I am heartily grateful.” “They would be shamed to have you taken to the Pope’s Little House,” Ragoczy said, and watched Ettore Colonna flinch at this home truth.

“As would I,” Ettore Colonna admitted. “So I must worry for my friends and pray my cousins do not run afoul of the Pope.” He chuckled. “It may be foolhardy of me, but I cannot see myself anywhere but here, not when I think about it.”

“I doubt it would please you to have to leave Roma,” said Ragoczy lightly but with intentional severity.

“You’re right about that. I’ve smelled camels. Vile creatures.” He drank as if to clear his thoughts of the remembered odor. “And I cannot see myself in sand, but in the fancies of an idle hour, nor can I live without art or the stage. To have to exist as the Ottomites do, I think I would perish.”

“It is a hard life for many of them. But then, it is a hard life for many Romans,” Ragoczy observed, thinking of the beggars who daily huddled in the streets.

“Perhaps I should consider the New World. Though if it is as wild as my ancient cousin Gennaro says, then I doubt it would be to my taste, either. I have become very spoiled, I confess: if I cannot have pheasant and truffles and sweet wine and the paintings of Raphael, oh, and Scarlatti’s music, I cannot bear to live.” Ettore Colonna sighed in self-mockery. “So it would appear I am condemned to Roma.”

The mention of Gennaro Colonna’s name caught Ragoczy’s attention, alarming him. “Regarding the New World, you should listen to your cousin, I suspect.” This said, Ragoczy changed the subject. “When is your little ball going to begin? I know Scarlatti has his musicians in place.”

“Shortly, very shortly, although why a man who does not dance would want to know, I can’t imagine,” said Ettore Colonna, and ambled back into the grand salon, motioning to Ragoczy to follow him. From the way he presented himself now he might not have a care in the world. “He tells me you have composed some airs for that new violinist. You are a man of many talents, it would appear.”

“I am an exile. An exile has need of talents,” Ragoczy replied.

“Like that alchemical workshop you have?” He did not wait for an answer but went on, “I know about that, and your efforts to build an automaton. Be careful you do not succeed, for no doubt someone in the Curia would find it heretical.”

Ragoczy smiled wryly. “I am a long way from success. The clockwork alone is more complex than you can envision.” He was relieved that the automaton was uppermost in the rumors about his alchemy; his real work—the making of jewels and medicaments—was disguised by this diversion.

“Just as well.” Ettore Colonna had almost reached the platform where a consort of ten musicians sat. Maurizio Reietto was in the first chair of violins, his lanky auburn hair powdered white, in accordance with proper appearance for the consort. The other musicians followed the same fashion but for the one whose hair was already

turning white. Ettore Colonna motioned to Alessandro Scarlatti, who sat in the alcove near the platform, a sheaf of scores in his hands. “We’re about ready. You may begin as soon as I announce our start.”

Scarlatti looked up. “Very good.” He caught sight of Ragoc
2
y. “Ec- cellenza. A great pleasure to see you at last.”

“And you, Maestro,” said Ragoczy, making a leg to the musician, a compliment that caught the attention of the musicians as well as Ettore Colonna.

“Oho!” he exclaimed. “You
do
have a high opinion of il Maestro.”

“Only what is deserved,” said Ragoczy steadily.

“No, no, Eccellenza. You do me
more
honor than I deserve,” said Scarlatti, answering this courtesy with a formal bow.

“Nonsense,” said Ragoczy, and stepped aside so that Ettore Colonna could proclaim the beginning of the dancing.

It was nearly an hour later that Scarlatti called a short halt to the music, sending his musicians off for refreshment, and went to fetch a glass of wine for himself. That done, he searched out Ferenc Ragoczy, who was seated in the gallery above the salon, where there were no mirrors. He began to bow only to have Ragoczy wave him to stop. “You had my letter?”

“In very good time,” said Ragoczy, indicating the chair across from his own. “Prego. Sit down.” He waited until Scarlatti was seated before continuing. “I appreciate your suggesting we work at Senza Pari. Signore Aulirios has consented to the arrangement you recommended. I thank you; we must all be very well-pleased.” It had not been difficult to gain Nildos’ permission, for such a project was welcome to him. Ragoczy regarded Scarlatti steadily. “Tell me, how long should this little opera be? I had thought no more than two hours, but that may be too short.”

“Two hours is short,” said Scarlatti. “The current fashion is closer to three, with two or three intervals, so that the audience may relieve themselves in whatever manner they like.” He paused and went on as if the idea were new to him, “But if you would permit me to include a ballet within it, as the French do, then it could be a respectable length.”

A

A sudden eruption of laughter from below caught their attention

for a moment. A single voice rose above the hilarity, declaiming in exaggerated accents that he had just had a vision of God surrounded by the Saints in a celebration exactly like this one. “In Heaven, God’s love is felt by all, and all glory in it according to how they are given to show grace.”

“Would not a French form offend the Pope?” Ragoczy asked, anticipating the answer.

“Not if the Queen of Sweden sees it first,” said Scarlatti with a quick smile. “I could have the ballet performed at Napoli for her, before your opera is premiered; she would not withhold her approval, I am confident of it. That would forestall any suggestion of offense to the Pope.”

Ragoczy nodded. “I assume you have a ballet already composed and that you have been looking for an opportunity to present it.” He saw the hesitation in Scarlatti’s eyes and went on. “Oh, do not deny it. I am not slighted by such a ploy; in fact, I am inclined to think it is a very good strategy.”

Scarlatti relaxed. “Very kind of you, Eccellenza.”

“And prudent, too,” said Ragoczy, a touch of irony in his dark eyes.

The noise from below abated as the dramatic visionary finished his outrageous recitation; a smattering of applause followed.

“I suppose you expect la Ferrugia to sing the Vestal Virgin you mentioned in the notes you sent me?” Scarlatti asked, doing his best to show his concern.

“If she is interested, I should think it would be a triumph for her.” Ragoczy smiled at the composer. “You have the gift to make the role one that displays her strengths.”

With a nod, Scarlatti said, “It is always a pleasure to compose for so talented a singer.” He slapped his hand on his knee. “Very well. I will do that role for Giorgianna and you may supply the poetry for her. We are both devoted to her, in our own ways. She knows it and she will not take too much advantage of us. Retween us we should create a showcase for her talents.”

“And Nerone? What of that role?” Ragoczy had heard Nero sing on more than one occasion, and recalled that the young Emperor had not been without ability; his bass voice was well-trained but hollow in character, more booming than melodic. Ragoczy knew better than to suggest that the role be written for bass. “I suppose it must be a castrato?”

“What have you in mind?” Scarlatti asked, intrigued by the question. “What other voice will do?”

“Why not a tenor?” He said it nonchalantly in the hope that Scarlatti might consider the possibility.

“A tenor!” Scarlatti repeated, at first shocked and then less so as he weighed the notion in his mind. “It would create a sensation, wouldn’t it?”

“Is that unwise?” Ragoczy asked. “Sensation could be an advantage. If it serves the work, why not a tenor?”

“That is a
most...
unconventional notion,” said Scarlatti, his eye narrowing as he mentally tested the vocal potentials in the tenor voice. “It would be a startling idea. The sound is less heroic than the heights castrati achieve, but who knows? Nerone isn’t supposed to be much of a hero, so that might be in our favor. Some of the Churchmen would like it—they do not like to see the Emperors of Rome portrayed unless they are shown to be ambitious and untrustworthy. Tenors will do for that. It may also be of dramatic value, the octave contrast in the voices.” He looked into the middle distance. “Let me think about it, Eccellenza, and when next we meet, we may discuss this in greater depth.”

“Sta bene,” said Ragoczy. He rose to his feet, motioning to Scarlatti to remain seated. “You have been on your feet for some time and will be again. Take advantage of this respite for as long as you can.” He went to the low railing of the gallery and looked down on the gaudy assembly. “How very startling they are.”

“They intend to be,” said Scarlatti, fidgeting in his chair. Gracious as Ragoczy was to allow him to remain seated he could not be comfortable going so much against convention. He stood up, saying, “I should go down to my consort. They will drink far too much if I do not keep them from it. Signore Colonna is always generous with his wine, even in the servants’ rooms.”

“As he himself has said, he has the grand manner, and the wealth to support it.” Ragoczy gestured his permission for Scarlatti’s leaving, but said, “Maurizio is a very good violinist when he is given a difficult piece, isn’t he?”

Scarlatti stopped where he was. “You have hit upon it precisely, Eccellenza. When the work is demanding he puts his heart to it, but when it is not as engaging, he becomes sloppy. That Sarabande we performed—he was so lax that I wanted to take my stick and cuff him with it.” He indicated the tall, thin cane which he used to sound the down-beats.

“Poor youngster,” said Ragoczy, surprising Scarlatti. “He has so much to prove that he tries to make every piece a display of his skills.”

“That may be so, but he has much to learn,” said Scarlatti severely.

“As have we all.” Ragoczy held up his hand. “In our little opera, write him some long legato passages, the kind that must be done on a single down-bow, and long enough that he must ration his bowing carefully. That should give him something to think about.”

Scarlatti laughed once. “Yes, indeed. You are a canny one, Eccellenza, and no doubt about it.”

“I would not have said so,” Ragoczy remarked urbanely.

“Of course not,” said Scarlatti. “The canny ones never do.” He bowed shortly, retrieved his cane, and made his way to the stairs leading down into the grand salon.

From his vantage-place in the gallery, Ragoczy watched the musicians reassembling on the platform, shuffling with their music and tuning their instruments. He could see that the oboe d’amore player was bleary-eyed and slightly flushed with wine, and that the traverso flautist, who was older than the other musicians, was looking tired. The violinist seated behind Maurizio had attracted the attention of one of Ettore Colonna’s guests and the musician was enjoying the flirtation. The second part of the evening promised to be more troublesome than the first.