Communion Blood (30 page)

“Go with God, my son,” Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte said automatically, and sketched a blessing in the air. “Be thankful that you have not been beaten for your insolence. You carry tales, which is the Devil’s work.”

This threat, blandly voiced, cowed Giovanni Mandria as he left the Cardinal’s presence; he muttered a phrase of thanks, not seeking to worsen the impression he had made.

“One of you footmen, show him out,” the Cardinal called out, and paid no heed to see if he was obeyed. “I have nothing but detestation for Ragoczy, but I do not think he would risk the condemnation of the Church just now.”

“Not so near Roma,” said Rothofen, who had strolled along the gallery and listened to the whole of Mandria’s report with a mixture of incredulity and amusement. “He thought he might be able to pry a reward out of you, Eminenza: a reward for a rumor.”

“No doubt; unless Ragoczy sent him on this errand for purposes of his own,” said the Cardinal, and frowned as he left the reception room. “I see you have more wine.”

“Yes,” said Rothofen with an unsteady smile. “You have an excellent cellar,” he said with a smirk before he drank.

“I am aware of it,” said the Cardinal as he walked back toward his dining room, Rothofen in tow.

On the landing below them, Giovanni Mandria stood fuming, inwardly cursing arrogant foreigners who used the Church to better themselves at the expense of good Romans. The Spanish Cardinal might be a Prince of the Church but he had nowhere near the courtesy and manner of Ferenc Ragoczy; he wondered if he had done his employer an injury by coming here. The thought rankled as he prepared to continue his descent. He might have been inclined to fight with the footman approaching him if a young man in ordinary garments had not made his way to the landing, motioning the footman away.

“I will tend to this fellow, Ottavio,” said Jose Bruno. His smile was tentative. “I fear I do not see things clearly except when they are very close,” he said to the builder. “I am the Cardinal’s half-brother, and I am very interested in what you have to say.”

Mandria was puzzled, but he did not pull away when Jose Bruno laid his hand on his arm. “You mean about the penitent?”

“Yes. You spoke of a young woman living in a penitent’s cell?” Jose Bruno prompted. “I heard some of your conversation,” he added, not explaining that his eavesdropping had been deliberate. “I fear my brother is worried about the health of the Pope and so could not give you his full attention: I am interested in what you have to say, if you will tell me the whole.”

“Yes. I am a builder at the Villa Vecchia, to the east of the city.” Mandria was delighted to have someone listen to him with real curiosity. “I am a stonemason and I am putting in a marble staircase for the Signor’ Conte. It is very grand.”

“I am sure it is,” said Jose Bruno as he made his way down to the loggia. “But about the penitent?”

“Oh,” said Mandria as if he had become bored of the matter. “They say there is a young woman in the old villa, one who has been living in a penitent’s cell beyond the coach-house. I have not actually seen her myself, but the whole staff talks of nothing else.”

“She has been sequestered?” Jose Bruno asked as if the matter were only of passing interest.

“I said she was a penitent,” Mandria snapped. “What else would she be? The Signor’ Conte would not flout the Church on such matters.”

Jose Bruno managed a single nod. “Indeed. And yet how very perplexing. No wonder you came to speak with my brother. I am sorry he did not receive you better.” He leaned nearer to Giovanni Mandria so he could see him a bit more clearly. “I cannot help but think that you would be wise to watch your back, good builder.” “Watch my back? Why should I do that?” Mandria asked, becoming suspicious of Jose Bruno.

“Only that Roma is full of spies, and no one who comes to speak with a Cardinal does so unobserved,” Jose Bruno said. “God’s Hounds have followed the cook to his daughter’s wedding. If you are not careful, you will find familiars on your trail as well.”

Mandria did his best to look brave but his face was pale. “What would they want with a stonemason?”

Jose Bruno shrugged. “Who knows? They do not have to account for their actions to anyone, not even the Pope.” He crossed himself as he reached the loggia. “May God preserve Sua Santita in these times, and return him to vigor and health.”

“Amen,” said Mandria, crossing himself as well. He stood in the loggia, looking a bit uncertain as to what to do next; the lowering sky was looking thicker by the moment, casting the whole of Roma into a sepia sketch of itself. He lowered his voice. “I do not think I will be followed, but I will use caution.”

“Very good,” Jose Bruno approved. “I do not like the thought of you being put-upon for so thoughtful an act as coming to my brother.” He was able to put enough sincerity into his voice that Mandria actually smiled.

“I have fourteen years as a stonemason, apprentice, and journeyman, and I have never wanted to bring misfortune on anyone who employed me. But the Cardinal is the Cardinal and if he looks for a young woman, I must report that I know of one, must I not?” Mandria looked directly at Jose Bruno, hoping for reassurance. “What could I do, given what I know?”

Jose Bruno patted him on the arm. “Do not fret. Your Confessor

would have told you to do this, or carried your message himself.” Far likelier the latter, he added inwardly to himself, knowing how ambitious priests could be.

“Just so,” said Mandria. He stepped down to the street. “Well. I have done my duty, and that’s that.”

“Yes, you have,” said Jose Bruno, and waved in the general direction of Mandria’s voice. “God be with you.”

“And with you,” said Mandria as he made his way into the desultory confusion of traffic.

Suddenly a pedal E shuddered the air like thunder: the great bell at San Pietro’s was tolling, which could mean only one thing.

“The Pope!” Mandria shouted along with a babel of other voices. He dropped to his knees in the middle of the piazza with the rest of the people in the street and crossed himself. The sudden silence was broken only by the sound of whispered prayers and weeping, punctuated by the bell of San Pietro.

Jose Bruno knelt by the pillar in the loggia, aware of the meaning of the bell as well as any Roman: Innocenzo was dead and the Church was in mourning, which meant the whole of the Papal States were, as well. He did his best not to smile, since he knew that Martin’s plans would have to be delayed while one Pope was grieved and another elected. During that time he would be able to make inquiries that the Cardinal could not. He began to recite Psalm 88, relishing the despair it expressed.

Inside Martin, Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte heard the tolling and cursed inwardly. “Not now! How can he die now? Why could he not have held on for a month more?” he asked as he crossed himself and knelt, beginning his prayers for the dead Pontiff. Beside him, Ahrent Rothofen did the same, crushing the sculptured velvet of his German-cut breeches on the cool marble floor.

“God’s Will is mysterious,” said Rothofen. He would like to have yelled in vexation at this turn of events.

The Cardinal glared at him. “You are presumptuous.”

Rothofen bit back an acidic reply and made himself say, “Surely the Pope’s death is God’s Will or we are all damned.”

For an answer, the Cardinal began to pray more loudly as the bell

continued to make its lament. “Everything will have to wait,” he said when he had finished his first orison. “Much as it is an imposition on both of us, I will not be available to you until after the elevation of the new Pope.”

“And when will that be?” Rothofen demanded as he got to his feet.

“When it is done,” said the Cardinal. “The Archbishop will have the same constraints upon him.” He closed his eyes as to block out pain. “The marriage will have to wait. Even if we find my sister today, we cannot have the wedding until the new Pope is elevated, and the elections may be difficult. I will try to speak with Archbishop Wal- mund myself, but he certainly understands that the delay is unavoidable. There is nothing we can do about it now.”

“Then I should use the time you are sequestered to continue searching for her,” said Rothofen. “My suit will not be heard during that time.”

“No, it will not. Very well, do as you think best, but have a care: do not dishonor the Pope or the conclave,” said the Cardinal, then clapped his hands loudly. “Ottavio! Order my coach. Have it draped in black. I want it ready within the hour.” He turned back to Rothofen. “You will want to be at the Archbishop’s service as soon as possible. He may have tasks for you to undertake for him as well.” “Yes,” said Rothofen with the kind of automatic piety that made the Cardinal regard him with contempt. ‘When it is fitting, we will talk again. You may rest assured that I will devote myself to our mutual interests while you are in conclave.”

“I cannot imagine how you will do that, given the mourning that must be observed,” said Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte with the full hauteur of his high office.

“Not all Roma grinds to a halt. The people still must eat, and where there are markets there is information,” said Rothofen. “And the tailors will be hard at work making mourning clothes for half the titled residents. They will be busy, and they will hear things. I will listen and do all that I can to act upon my gleanings.”

“If you must,” said the Cardinal, making a quick blessing in Roth- ofen’s direction. “I will have to leave you now. I must prepare for

Innocenzo’s rites. Ottavio will send you a small purse for your expenses while you look for my sister.”

“Of course, of course,” said Rothofen making a leg; he was not quite obsequious, but the promise of an infusion of money filled him with a gratitude that felt like physical release.

“A pity about your suit,” said the Cardinal as he strode from the room. “It should have been settled months ago.”

“Truly,” said Rothofen to the Cardinal’s back, resentment flooding into his soul once more. “I must agree.”

The low E sounded again, and Rothofen heard it as being for him as much as it was for Innocenzo. He stood in the gallery door, glowering at the world that had treated him so shabbily. Just when there was a suggestion of progress, the Pope had to die! Why could he not find one opportunity unencumbered by obstacles? The unfairness of it all made him want to curse God. This was hardly the time to do that, he reminded himself. The familiars of the Inquisition would be particularly busy now, ferreting out apostasy and diabolism everywhere. Another somber note, more sensation than tone, rang over the city, and this time it was answered with an ominous thud of thunder.

“Shall I try to find a chair for you?” one of the servants asked Rothofen. “I fear there are few of them available, but I can—”

“No; never mind,” Rothofen said. The cost of a sedan chair was an extravagance he could not justify. “It will do me good to walk.” His lodgings were closer but the Archbishop would have need of him just now, he was certain of it. He drew his russet-colored cloak around him, thinking it too warm on this close afternoon, but aware that his peach-and-ivory-striped justaucorps was hardly appropriate dress to wear on the street now that Innocenzo’s death was announced. He took his hat from a frightened lackey and set out in through the eerily quiet streets toward the small palazzo Archbishop Walmund had recently occupied. He dared not walk too quickly for that might be seen as a sign of disrespect to Innocenzo XI, which could lead to a visit to the Pope’s Little House.

He had covered half the distance to the Archbishop’s home when the storm finally lived up to its threat, the skies opening with such a

deluge that a pilgrim kneeling in the street remarked that the angels must be crying for the Pope. Rothofen had an impious rejoinder in mind, but kept it to himself as he trudged grimly on, knowing he would be drenched long before he made a leg to the Archbishop.

Text of a letter from Narcisso della Rovere to Niklos Aulirios; carried to Senza Pari by Magisterial courier.

To the defending party in the Ahrent Rothofen suit, the formal greetings to Niklos Aulirios, on the sad occasion of the obsequies of Pope Innocenzo XI, whom God honor and welcome into Paradise.

Signor’ Aulirios, I know you will understand the necessity for the delay in the final hearing of your case. I will have my clerk notify the Signor Conte Ragoczy of the necessary changes in the hearing of your case. Until the new Pope is elected and his coronation celebrated, no civil matter may be heard in Roma: any other conduct would require a dispensation issued by two Bishops and an Archbishop, or by the Curia. You will agree that your cause is not so urgent that such drastic measures are necessary, and therefore I have informed the Court that your case will go forward within a month of the coronation of the next Pope. I am certain this is satisfactory to you, as no ships or specifically contested crops are focal items of the suit. As soon as a date is fixed, you will be informed by messenger.

I have been reviewing the material you have provided, and although I am not yet prepared to make a final judgment, unless Signore Rothofen can come up with some proof that Pope Urban’s dispensation was countermanded by a later Pope, it would appear to me that your legacy cannot be seized by anyone not specifically designated by the late Atta Olivia Clemens. Of course, if such an order is found and presented, I must uphold the decision of the later Pope, in accord with the authorizations of the Curia. I have informed Signore Rothofen of this as well, to allow him some time to discover any pertinent records that may have bearing on my decision. If you have supporting material, I advise you to present it to me once the official month of mourning is concluded. Any action during the mourning would be seen as possibly heretical, and would carry consequences of its own.

You must understand that I am bound by the law to make my decision within the strictures of our legal codes; I am powerless to do anything that is not in accord with what the precedents set down in the decisions of other magistrates in accord with the laws of Roma and the Papal States. I remind you of this so that you will not be under the misapprehension that I base my judgment on anything more than the laws of the Magisterial Courts, as I am sworn before God to do. Whatever my final determination may be, it will not fail to uphold the example of law.