Communion Blood (22 page)

According to the servants who were roused in answer to the screams and imprecations of the Barone’s niece, your brother, Emi- nenza, attacked the Barone with a chair, breaking his shoulder with the force of the blow, and causing him to lose consciousness for a quarter of an hour. Your brother then turned his attention to the niece, a virtuous girl of spotless character, and with the aid and encouragement of two of his companions, ravished her. My servants who tried to restrain these young men were beaten for their trouble, one of them so severely that his right eye has lost its sight; the other still has bruises to show for the drubbing he took at your brother’s hands.

The Barone has informed me that he will seek no legal retribution for the sake of his niece, who has withdrawn to a convent in the wake of your brother’s deplorable activities. Her family does not want to expose her to the vilification that must result if your brother’s debauch of her becomes known. The Barone blames himself for this tragedy. His silence will insure his niece’s continued good name. It therefore falls to me to pursue all remedies at my disposal. As your brother has

admitted that he has gravely injured my inn and the persons of my servants and has stated that he will render compensation, I have not brought my complaint to the Magisterial Court. If, however, some portion of the amount promised is not put into my hands before the last day of this month, I will have to reconsider my position, for to fail to do so will not only cost me money, it will leave a terrible blot on the reputation of my establishment, which will inevitably lead to a loss of clientele

I have no wish to bring embarrassment upon you or your family, Eminenza, and I will not unless I am driven to it by the continued refusal of your brother to provide the monies he has promised to me. I most sincerely wish to accommodate you in any way I might, short of resigning my claims in this most egregious business. To that end, I reluctantly submit my claim to you, and hope that my messenger will bring your assurance that my petition will be honored promptly. I give you my word I have no desire to cause your family any humiliation, but I will be forced to do so if you decline this petition. I am willing to extend you the same courtesy I have shown your brother, and give you my word that if my very reasonable demands for recompense are met there will be an end to my actions against Ursellos or any other member of your family in regards to this instance. Should you be willing to provide me reasonable compensation, you may rely on my discretion in regard to the activities of your brother and his reprobate companions. If you cannot provide me with any certainty of remuneration then I must, with utmost regret, place my claim before the Magisterial Courts and permit the judgment of the worthy Podesta to determine how I shall have my losses compensated for. I beg you to think about the Barone and his niece as well as your brother as you ponder your decision, for their fates are as much in your hands as is that of your brother.

With every assurance of esteem and regard, I am your servant, Delfinio Credone Landlord, the Sorcio Buffone

By my own hand and under seal, at Roma, on the 11th day of May, 1689

In the study just off the courtroom Narcisso Lepidio della Rovere sat at his imposing writing table, a pen in his hand poised over a pristine sheet of paper, stacks of parchment and vellum spread out around him. His wig was in the highest fashion, with cascades of ordered rust-colored curls falling to his shoulders. His neck-bands, seen at the top of his official robe, were of layered lace, an affectation perilously close to dandyism for one holding a post of such dignity as he did. He signaled his clerk impatiently. “How much longer?”

“The parties are supposed to be here in an hour, Podesta,” was the answer.

Della Rovere muttered something that might have been a curse; feeling uneasy for that lapse, he glanced at the crucifix hanging over the hearth on the far wall. “I may not have finished my reading,” he said fretfully.

“They can be told to wait on your convenience,” the clerk reminded him with a gesture of respect. “It is your right as Podesta to determine when the case will be heard.”

“I know; I know,” said della Rovere. “But Archbishop Walmund is pressing for a resolution in favor of Ahrent Rothofen, and I have assured him that I will render a decision quickly. If I do not, he will have reason to complain of me.” He coughed. “Of course, the Archbishop will be pleased if I delay, should it seem I must uphold Au- lirios’ inheritance. Which,” he added with a fatalistic sigh, “on the strength of what is here, I must do.”

The clerk shook his head in commiseration. “If you have to disappoint the Archbishop, do you think your decision might be reviewed?” This was a development no Magistrate could face with equanimity.

“I would think it would be required.” He slapped his free hand on the shiny tabletop. “I have never had a decision reviewed before.” “The Church would surely consider that; your record is known.

They would not fault you for deciding against the Archbishop’s wishes this once,” his clerk said, making an attempt to soothe him.

“But they will,” said della Rovere with certainty. "The Archbishop is from the north, and the Pope is determined to ensure their support. If I cannot uphold Rothofen’s claim, the Pope will regard it as an opposition to his authority.”

“Are you definite that any action would be taken against you?” His clerk, who was only a few years younger than della Rovere, could not imagine a della Rovere being reprimanded by the Pope, even in such a case as this.

“I fear it would come to that,” della Rovere said, as he thumbed the sheets in front of him. "But, Ruperto, my hands are tied. I must not accept false testimony, and I am convinced that one of these bona fides is counterfeit. If I say so, it will redound to the Archbishop’s reputation, and the Church will have to make every effort to restore his good name or the smirching of his honor would be intolerable.” He stared at the crucifix. “Rothofen may have accepted the bona fides in the belief they were legitimate, so that perhaps it is no fault of his that this suit has been presented to me. However, I cannot overlook something that is so clearly—” He lifted his hands to demonstrate his predicament.

“Are you satisfied that it is counterfeit?” The clerk, Ruperto Smer- iglio, looked seriously alarmed now, for the submission of fallacious testimony was a very serious infraction of the law and carried stringent penalties. “Can the counterfeit be proved?”

“Yes. It is beyond cavil.” Della Rovere pulled out the suspect parchment. “See here, where it says the contents are verified by the canon of the Church of Saint John the Evangelist in Oldenburg?” He pointed to the seal. “The name of the Bishop there? The man was not yet Bishop in 1638, not even in November; he was made Bishop early the next year. I have proof of this. Oh, he was
in
Oldenburg, but
his...
promotion did not arrive until after the New Year. There are many letters from 1638 that bear his name as well as his location in Oldenburg, so it was easily overlooked. Anyone might have done so, in understandable innocence. And the declaration says the testimony was sworn to at the church altar. But the church was then under repair from damage done during Protestant riots. No Mass was

celebrated there that year, or for two years before. The records are scanty and not easily found, but Ragoczy has unearthed them and brought them officially to my attention: I cannot argue with the Church’s own reports—Oldenburg’s Saint John the Evangelist was finished being restored in the early spring of 1639; in February of that year it was rededicated and reconsecrated.”

“An oversight, perhaps?” the clerk suggested. “A slip of the pen? An eight and a nine can look very much alike.”

“That is what I have been trying to tell myself,” della Rovere admitted. “But I cannot make myself believe it. The declaration cannot be admitted in the suit, not with its contents being so questionable.” He shook his head. “If only the statement Rothofen presented were not so specific. Had they said winter, it might have been January or February as well as November or December that was meant, and so I would not have to disallow this statement, which is the key to the whole of Roth- ofen’s claim, for it purports to legitimize Rothofen’s grandfather.”

“Do you think you could explain it any other way?” The clerk went to the sideboard and poured out a goblet of wine for the Magistrate which he carried back to the writing table. “Here, Podesta. Drink this. This will calm your nerves.”

Della Rovere took the goblet eagerly. “You are very observant, Ruperto. I thank you.” He lifted the goblet as if offering the wine to the crucifix. “I am worried that I might be forced to make a decision in the name of justice that the Church would not like.”

As he watched the Magistrate drink, the clerk said thoughtfully, “What if you were to delay the matter again? Surely you can declare that you have insufficient material to make a judgment.”

“I have already told the Archbishop that I will make my decision known,” said della Rovere, his words muffled by the rim of the goblet.

“Then there must be another reason to postpone the presentation of the suit again.” He paced as if movement fueled his thinking. “What about the mal aria? They said the bad air is killing people in the city again. If that is the case, haven’t you a reasonable excuse to adjourn your Court for the summer? You would have to leave the city, of course, but that is not remarkable—so many others do.”

For the first time Narcisso della Rovere did not sound glum. “Yes.

Yes, there is sense in that. I could declare a long recess for my Court in the name of prudence. It would not be wise of me to require these litigants remain in Roma if they stand in harm’s way doing so.” His face brightened, as he went on. “If the mal aria has come, it would not be sensible for any Magistrate to continue to hear cases; surely I cannot be faulted for my decision. Many another Magistrate has done so before. That way I could inform the Archbishop privately about the reservations I have in regard to Rothofen’s evidence. If the Archbishop decides to act upon this, I am not responsible, am I?”

There came the sound of a churchbell from the nearby San Er- asmo, a tiny, ancient building that could barely contain the windlass of the saint’s martyrdom. The bell, as hoary as the church, doddered through its sounding of the hour.

“Certainly not,” said Ruperto quickly. “You have very good reason to discuss your apprehensions with Walmund, since he has taken such an interest in the matter. You are known for your dependability in regard to your Church obligations.”

Now della Rovere was beginning to smile. “Yes. I have striven to do what is right. It is the responsible thing to do, is it not?”

“Veiy responsible,” Ruperto approved. “The parties in the suit need know nothing of it, for it does not deal direcdy with their causes, and the Archbishop cannot claim that you have not done your utmost to serve him as best you can.”

“Yes.” Della Rovere sighed, partly in relief, partly in dismay. “How difficult it is, Ruperto, to try to fulfill the law and keep the Church approving of one’s decisions; few understand the burdens we Magistrates have to bear.”

“Onerous, Podesta,” said the clerk, as he brought the wine carafe to refill della Rovere’s goblet.

Before he drank, della Rovere took hold of his clerk’s arm. “You are certain about the mal aria? There truly have been deaths from it? I do not want to be called a coward for recessing the Court.”

“There are four reported, which always means more; the poor do not usually report the mal aria,” said Ruperto. “You cannot be criticized for your circumspection.”

Della Rovere finished his wine. “Just as well. No doubt the Pope will want to remove from the city as well.”

“If Sua Santita is up to traveling. It is rumored he is not in good health,” Ruperto said in the manner of one used to communicating deferentially.

“You mean the College of Cardinals is already jockeying for San Pietro’s,” said the Magistrate. “It is all very sad.”

Ruperto refilled the goblet again. “You may find it best to send word to the Lateran, informing the Pope’s staff of your decision, so that it cannot be thought you are indifferent to Innocenzo’s health.” “A wise recommendation.” Della Rovere approved. “Yes, it would probably be best to make an effort to keep my bridges to the Pope in good repair. If he is ill, then it will be useful to have it known that I have not forgotten my obligation to the Church; I do not want to appear lax.” He smiled suddenly at his clerk. “I am grateful to you, Ruperto. I do not know how I could go on without you.”

“Nor do I,” said Ruperto with such a self-effacing tone that it was impossible to think him insolent.

Della Rovere sat straighter in his high-backed chair. “I will make a decree postponing all suits scheduled for my Court. If I order that the parties reconvene before me in September, there should be enough time for the Archbishop to sort out the matter of the questionable bona fides. Don’t you think?”

“Very likely. His man, Rothofen, will benefit from the additional time, which will suit the Archbishop’s purposes. He will be grateful to you for your warning, in any case.” Ruperto smiled his best obsequious smile and said, “The time, Podesta. You had best go into your courtroom. The litigants will be arriving shortly.”

“Yes. They will not want to wait for me.” He rose from his writing table. “Put those into a portfolio, if you will,” he said, pointing to the parchment and vellum.

“That I will,” said Ruperto, and stood aside so that della Rovere could kneel at his prie-dieu to recite his petitions to God before he went to consider those of men.

As della Rovere adjusted his judicial robe and placed his cap atop his wig, he cleared his throat. “I do not want to anger the Church.” “Or God,” Ruperto said conscientiously. “It is fitting that you do your work in the world so that the Pope may better fulfill his duties to man and God.”

This blatant flattery did not completely fool della Rovere, who shook his head. “You are too ready with your praise,” he chided his clerk, which Ruperto accepted with the semblance of humility as he went to summon the bailiff to announce the Podesta.