Communion Blood (32 page)

Maurizio listened to this recitation with a mixture of emotions that he could not define. He did not look directly at Scarlatti, but kept craning his neck as if to remove himself from the good sense he knew was being imparted to him. “I do not expect you to sympathize: I have no wish to compromise her penitence.”

“No, of course not,” said Scarlatti, almost maintaining a straight face. “You want only to adore her in her inaccessibility.”

“Do not speak to me as if I were a boy!” Maurizio bristled at the implied derision. “I am old enough to comprehend the desires of the young woman, and I would be beneath all contempt if I were to— to interfere with her vocation.”

Ragoczy did not appear to be watching; he had given his full attention to the brass astrolabe that stood on a small table at the side of the room. Rugerius remained near the side door, seemingly lost in thought.

“I am not here to castigate you for your affections,” said Scarlatti, recalling his purpose. “I have two new pieces that must be ready for the celebrations to welcome the new Pope to San Pietro’s Throne. And for this I need your talents.” He saw a flicker of interest in Maurizio’s eyes. “Yes. Consider well. You have the opportunity to play at the coronation of a Pope. Who knows when such providence will appear again?” He crossed himself to make it clear he did not want such an occasion to occur too soon.

“You want me to play?” Maurizio said with such obvious ambition that Scarlatti chuckled.

“You would have to devote your time to the music. It would mean more practice—practice, not serenading.” He came to Maurizio’s side. “You mayn’t believe it, but I do have your best interests at heart, lad. Talent like yours is rare; it must be fostered if it is to fulfill its promise. I urge you to think of this gift God has bestowed upon you. If the woman were well-connected and returned your devotion it

might be another matter, but as it is, I can only encourage you to seize this opportunity to advance your art.”

Not wanting to be too blatant in his curiosity, Maurizio asked, “What sort of work are you preparing?”

“More than one. I have an Oratorio that has a Symphonetta in the middle of the work that has a long solo passage for violin, and a longer contrapuntal passage against the rest of the strings. You are the most accomplished player in Roma that I know of; I would be a fool to choose another if I can have you as my soloist,” Scarlatti told him with a candor that was as persuasive as it was flattering. “I would like to get the part tomorrow and have you get to work on it at once. My time will not be my own, and so I will rely on the Signor’ Conte to assist you in your preparation”—he saw Ragoczy give a single nod of agreement—“and I expect you to devote yourself to mastering the work. I cannot spend my days shepherding you through your groundwork; you are to heed the Signor’ Conte in my stead.” He flung up his hand as a demonstration of how much he had to accomplish. “You are not accustomed to this kind of haste, I realize it, but you must acquire the capacity to develop a work without extensive rehearsal. It is not convenient for either of us, but we cannot change what is, and therefore we must accommodate our circumstances.” He went back to the chair in which he had been sitting and flung himself into it again. “I have more than enough to do in the next days; I will need you to come to rehearsal ready to play. Well?”

Maurizio blinked his eyes. “I cannot turn away from this,” he said. “From what?” Scarlatti demanded. “The penitent or the Oratorio?”

“The Oratorio, of course,” said Maurizio, an expression of mild annoyance flickering on his features; his dejection was fading, giving way to the satisfaction of great opportunity.

“Very good,” Scarlatti approved. “Excellent. I will provide a copy of the score and your part by tomorrow. Conte,” he went on to Ragoczy, “you can do a reduction from the score, can you not?”

“On sight, if I must,” said Ragoczy. “I have a harpsichord here; it will do for practice.”

“I knew I could rely on you,” said Scarlatti. “I will want to hear

you play in a week. I only pray that the Cardinals do not elect a new Pope before then.” He looked upward as if expecting some response from beyond the ceiling.

Ragoczy preserved his tranquil demeanor though his dark eyes shone with amusement. “We will be ready for you, I am confident of it.”

Now Maurizio looked startled. “Could it happen so quickly? Could the new Pope be elected in less than a week?”

“He could be,” Ragoczy allowed, “but it is unlikely.” He remembered conclaves seven hundred years ago that lasted well over a year; this one, he knew, would not be so long, for the Church could not afford to be without a leader for so long a time. “The Holy Roman Emperor’s requirements do not march with those of the Church just now, and there are problems to the east and the west of Roma. It may be they will elect one of the more senior members of the College to fill the post while the factions work out who is to hold the reins over the next decade. The Cardinals will need time to decide which is the most important—the New World, the Protestants, or the Turks.”

“Or the French. Louis is still demanding a voice in the appointment of Bishops and other Church officials in France.” Scarlatti nodded. “There is much in what you say, Signor’ Conte. And whatever God inspires the Cardinals to do, He will need to allow me at least ten days to finish all I have begun to honor His new Pope. I would also like more than a week to rehearse.” He reached for the goblet and drank the last of his wine. “So: Maurizio, you must apply yourself.”

“That I will, Maestro. I will.” He was beginning to look excited, and his face brightened in anticipation. “Is it a very long passage, this one you want me to perform?”

With a sudden laugh Scarlatti turned to Ragoczy. “I am relieved,” he said, then directed his comments to Maurizio. “Not only is it fairly long—the solo passage is more than sixty measures, but the counterpoint passage is more than twice that length, with some tricky patterns of emphasis.”

“I am looking forward to this piece,” said Maurizio, his enthusiasm

overwhelming his cultivated melancholy at last. “I will practice five hours every day, no matter how hot it may be. I will master what you have given me to learn, and I will be prepared to rehearse as soon as you have made the proper arrangements.”

“Very good,” said Scarlatti, adding in a level tone, “And remember, if you would, that this work is for a celebration, a very solemn celebration. None of your flamboyance, if you please—just meticulous technique and solid musicianship.”

“Per natura,” said Maurizio, his handsome features lighting with pride. “I will not disappoint you, Maestro.”

“I knew you would not.” Scarlatti clapped him on the shoulder. “And no distractions, mind. We haven’t the time for it.”

The young man bridled at this reminder. “I have said I will spend my time practicing, and I will not fail in this.” He crossed his arms on his chest, affronted that Scarlatti would suggest such a thing.

“Very good,” said Scarlatti, soothing Maurizio. “But remember, the builders will be working again shortly.”

“If there is too much noise, we will go to Senza Pari. Signor’ Au- lirios will not begrudge us a place to practice.” Ragoczy made a gesture of approval to Maurizio. “You will decide if the noise here is too intrusive.”

Maurizio realized it was foolish to be angry. “Do not worry on that account,” he said, his expression mild.

“Sta’ bene,” Scarlatti approved. “Then I will leave you to decide how you will put this to the test. My messenger will bring you the part and the score by mid-day tomorrow.” He reached for his gloves, buttoned his justaucorps and drew the gloves on. “I must go. I have two soloists I must speak with yet today—a contralto and a soprano, both castrati, of course. The Church does not like to have women sing sacred music unless they are nuns; nuns do not sing solos in Oratorios, so—” He gestured his exasperation as he swung around to Ragoczy. “Thank you for the food and wine. Both were excellent.” He made a leg, then started toward the door.

Rugerius appeared as if by magic, ready to usher the composer out to his carriage. “I have sent word to the stable, Maestro,” he said. “Thank you,” Scarlatti said, and continued on toward the front

door, Rugerius coming with him. “I am grateful to you for all the opportunities you and your master have provided Maurizio. In time he may realize what extraordinary good fortune he has had in gaining your interest and patronage. For now, I will appreciate it for him, and pray he comes to his senses.” He winked at Rugerius. “And do not tell me it is Ragoczy alone who does this. I have played in many great households, and I know if the servants are not in favor of musicians, it matters little what their masters may say.”

“I have served Ragoczy for many years; if I did not like music at the start, I have developed a taste for it over time,” said Rugerius as he opened the front door for Scarlatti. “May you have a safe journey, Maestro.” The afternoon heat made the very air lethargic; even the mosquitos seemed torpid.

“Amen to that. This is not the time for a broken wheel or a foundered horse,” Scarlatti said as his coach came up to them; Rugerius opened the carriage-door and let down the steps for the composer. “For good service,” he said, handing Rugerius a coin before he got into the vehicle. “Tell your master I will send a messenger tomorrow, as arranged. My poor copyist will have to be up all night, but that is nothing new for Natale.”

Rugerius put up the steps and closed the door, signaling the coachman. “Mille grazie,” he said, offering Scarlatti a polite salute as the coach pulled away at a slow trot, a haze of dust rising as it moved. As Rugerius stepped back into the villa, he heard the sound of Maur- izio’s violin as the young man began to practice.

“So what do you think, old friend?” Ragoczy’s voice came out of the shadows, and an instant later, he stepped into the wedge of light from the window above the door.

“I think we may have a difficult time for the next few weeks,” Rugerius said. “In spite of his good intentions, and his aspirations, I doubt Maurizio will set his veneration aside, not completely. That would be too much of a compromise for him. He is an impetuous young man with more fervor in him than he knows what to do with. And she—she is so alone in her suffering, how can he not want to end her isolation? He is an orphan: he will not abandon her, not even for sixty measures of solo playing.”

“I concur,” said Ragoczy, falling into step beside Rugerius. “His talent aside, Maurizio is of an edacious temperament, I suspect, and his appetites are never wholly satisfied. I have observed that is often the case when children are deprived—their want lasts a lifetime.” He said nothing for a dozen steps, then added, “She is asking to go back to her cell.”

Rugerius inclined his head. “Where she will beat herself again?” “Oh, yes; I think so.” He fell to pondering again. “What has brought her to this pass, that she wants to lose herself so utterly?” “You
could
find out,” Rugerius reminded him.

“You mean visit her in a dream and persuade her to reveal the cause to me?” Ragoczy shook his head as he said it. “No. I will not intrude on her. She has been manipulated enough; she will not have more from me.”

“You say she has been manipulated: are you certain that she has, or do you only assume it?” Rugerius did not ask unkindly, but there was a bit of doubt in his tone that caught Ragoczy’s attention. “She is the sister of a powerful Cardinal, one who is said to be looking to find a husband for her who will add to the strength of the family. She may be as ambitious as he is, or she may be seeking some husband other than the one her brother has chosen for her.”

“How
do
you contrive to hear these things?” Ragoczy asked, his incredulity showing itself in a quick smile.

“Servants boast. And they compete in knowing the most noteworthy gossip. Scandal is the finest choice, but political shenanigans are also worth attention. An arranged marriage with so many implications is always fodder for rumors.” He made a self-deprecating gesture. “I have little to offer the servants, but I do appreciate what I hear, and I show it with the regular standing of drinks.”

Ragoczy’s handsome, irregular features were shaped by irony. “I am grateful to you for being circumspect,” he said. “And for discovering what may be said about Leocadia. I had supposed it was complicated, but there is more here than we know. This is not simply a negotiation ploy for a political marriage; she has a need for hiding.” He caught himself becoming more curious, and he held up his hands to show he recognized this. “She is too much a puzzle, isn’t she.”

“Unfortunately, she is. It brings her notice for all she tries to disappear. This leads to speculation, and every day a new bit of gossip is added to the whole, and the whispers will grow louder. Eventually they will spread far enough: someone will persuade the Cardinal to seek her out, if not immediately, after the new Pope is installed at the Lateran.” Rugerius looked away from Ragoczy. “You have kept away from women since Giorgianna married.”

With a single nod of confirmation, Ragoczy said, “And you think it is unwise of me to do this, instead of visiting women in Roma in their sleep, thought you and I both know it would not be safe to make such forays closer to home.” He shook his head. “No doubt your reservations are astute, and were we not under such persistent scrutiny, I might look for a more regular connection, but not with the familiars snooping about.”

“You spoke of a woman you met two weeks since,” Rugerius suggested.

“Adina Bonisoli,” said Ragoczy. “Yes. I had not forgot her.”

“If she continues her interest, you might find it worthwhile to establish an understanding with her.” He nodded once, knowingly.

“My attentions might compromise her; she will want to remarry, and I cannot offer her that,” Ragoczy said, his dark eyes distant.

“They will speculate about you and our penitent guest, then,” said Rugerius with a certainty bom of long experience.

“She has had a maid to keep watch over her since she came in from her cell. I have seen her only to treat her wounds, and never alone.” Ragoczy began to pace. “If I make too much a show of caution, it could prove as damaging as if I had failed to show enough.” He stopped, his expression distant and troubled at once. “You are right, of course. If she remains here, it could prove dangerous to all of us.”