Communion Blood (42 page)

Ahrent Rothofen arrived with Ursellos Calaveria y Vacamonte, who made sure that everyone understood he was representing the Cardinal as well as himself in this gesture of support; both young men were rigged out in their most impressive, formal clothes, one in

dark red satin, the other in a somber ochre damask; both wore new, expensive wigs, and both had three tiers of lace at their cuffs and their throats. They carried their display of confidence further by wearing valuable rings in place of gloves; both men had perfumed themselves with attar of roses, and Ursellos had painted his face.

In contrast, Niklos Aulirios looked almost drab: his justaucorps and breeches were of a dull-silver silk twill, and he wore only simple ruffles, not lace, at his neck and cuffs. His wig was of the first quality, but not extravagant, and he had added no jewelry to his ensemble. Besides him, Ferenc Ragoczy was equally austere, elegantly dressed in heavy black silk with white silk bands and unomamented cuffs; his wig was unostentatious in style and his only jewelry was his signet ring, his eclipse device in silver with a round black sapphire at the center beneath the displayed, erect wings, all fitting to the dignity of the Court and the gravity of the occasion. Niklos and Ragoczy remained standing while Rothofen and Ursellos sat down, pointedly ignoring the two men at the other table facing the Magistrate’s Bench and the gathering crowd.

A nearby clock struck the hour and the susurrus of conversation faltered and halted as all those attending gave their attention to the Magistrate’s Bench. It was the moment della Rovere had been dreading; he met the gaze of his audience with a single, furtive sweep, then stared again at the pages before him. He crossed himself and muttered, “May God give me to see His Will aright,” and saw his gesture copied by everyone in the courtroom. He cleared his throat and looked up. “This has been a protracted case, and all parties deserve to have it ended. I will not ask you to wait for my decision, nor will I hear any more arguments from either claimant: we have all had to wait too long for this case to be decided. It will be over now.” He sat a bit straighter. “I have examined all the records and testimonies submitted to me in the matter of Ahrent Julius Rothofen’s claim on the estate of the late Atta Olivia Clemens and her heir, Niklos Aulirios.” He took a long breath, wanting to be done with the task before him as expediently as possible without compromising the dignity of the Magistrates’ Court. “I am forced to put primary importance on the dispensation granted to another Clemens woman—also called

Atta Olivia—by Pope Urban III, who, in 1186, allowed that inheritance in the Clemens family would pass through the female line in perpetuity. The records show that this mandate has been followed from that time to this with no deviation: the Clemens estates have gone to nieces and daughters and granddaughters, according to the records maintained by the Clemens family and by the monks at Sacra Carita in unbroken line from the time of Urban III. This fact cannot be disputed. I have information from the monks that show that the Atta Olivia Clemens, who made the Will being contested, was the last of her line, male or female, and so her disposal of her estate was not bound to a female heir: there was no surviving woman in the family who could claim the estate in accord with the terms of the Papal dispensation granted in 1186.” He saw that Rothofen’s face was distorting with anger; della Rovere hurried on. “Had this not been the case, I would have decided in favor of the Rothofen claim, for the male line, even through an illegitimate heir, must be given precedent over the female in any dispute where there has been no provision to allow the female line to inherit and dispose. In this case, however, there can be no doubt that the claim of Ahrent Rothofen cannot be sustained. The Court must find that the Will of Atta Olivia Clemens must stand, there being no female claimant to the estate.” He took his gavel, saying formally, “God grant wisdom to the findings of this Court,” before he struck it on the polished surface of his Bench. He rose at once, gathered up the papers, and left the courtroom, bound for his study; he paid no heed to the eruption of noise and consternation behind him.

Rothofen was on his feet, pointing to Ragoczy in fury. “You did this!” he accused.
“You!”

From the clamor in the courtroom came echoes of this from some of those who had favored Rothofen’s claim. A few others shouted their derision for Rothofen. The room quickly became electric with hostility as the men prepared to demonstrate their support; a brawl was brewing, and the guards were uneasy.

Niklos Aulirios stood slowly, a hint of a tired smile on his handsome features. He made a leg to Rothofen and Ursellos, as good manners required. “The matter is settled, Signori.”

“Is it?” Ursellos said. “The Magistrate may have spoken, but the Pope has not.” His expression was snide; he made no apology for his demeanor. “There are grounds to take this to the Pope for review, I think.”

These remarks were overheard, as Ursellos intended they should be. The noise in the courtroom was increasing; the guards were beginning to try to move the crowd out of the building, for it was increasingly likely that fights could break out among the various adherents.

“Do not press your luck,” Niklos said, his smile fixed, all amiability gone. “You brought this action in a desperate ploy to enrich yourself. You have failed to gain what you sought. Why compound your error: what can the Pope do, but support the dispensation?”

Before Rothofen could manage an answer, Ragoczy spoke up. His voice was conversational in tone but the purpose behind his words was unmistakable. “And do not add to your folly by trying to find a woman to put forth a claim; you have played that card already in this attempt. The records of the Clemens gens is clear: Atta Olivia was the last of her line, and as such she could dispose of her estate as she wished. Any woman making a claim now would be known as a fraud before she entered the courtroom. The monks of Sacra Carita would prove that, for they have records of all the women in the Clemens line going back to the time of Attila.”

Rothofen glowered at Ragoczy. “What makes you think I would employ your methods?”

To Rothofen’s vexation, Ragoczy chuckled. “I think nothing of the sort, Signore Rothofen. That is why I trust you understand my meaning.” He made a leg in good form, took up his small portfolio, and prepared to make his way through the crowd.

“You cannot walk away!” Ursellos challenged as he managed to get in front of Ragoczy; his face was flushed and his breath smelled of brandy. He stood with arms akimbo and legs apart, as if expecting an onslaught.

“But I can,” Ragoczy said coolly. “The Magistrate has ruled. It is fitting that Signor’ Aulirios and I leave. As should you.”

Ursellos did not budge. “You have much to answer for.”

Ragoczy motioned Niklos to keep back. “No doubt. But not here, and not to you.”

The guards had succeeded in getting half the crowd out of the courtroom and were jostling them along toward the stairs, making a point of keeping them moving so that there was no opportunity to escalate their disputes; the rest of the crowd continued to swarm in the courtroom, a few of them hoping to see something more dramatic than Podesta della Rovere’s announcement.

“You are contemptible,” said Rothofen, sneering at Niklos. “Hiding behind the Court for your protection.”

Niklos stiffened, and murmured something in Greek; Ragoczy replied in the same tongue, then looked at Rothofen. “If you believe you have been imposed upon, you may seek another trial, but I would advise against it. The evidence presented will not change.”

“Of course you would advise me to capitulate,” said Ursellos, and spat at Ragoczy’s feet.

This deliberate insult held the full attention of those remaining in the courtroom; even the remaining guards stopped their efforts in order to see what the foreigner’s response would be. The silence was taut.

Ragoczy studied Ursellos a moment. “You demean this Court, Signore.”

“I demean
you,”
Ursellos persisted, unwilling to give way; beside him, Rothofen was grinning. “And you demean the Court.”

A guard came up to the rail. “Spitting is forbidden,” he said. “I will have to escort you from the building.”

For a long moment it seemed that Ursellos might fight the guard. Then he shrugged. “Why should I sully myself with this charlatan? He is not worth the time he has already taken from me. Why should I give him anything more?” he asked the air, moved his leg as if squashing a bug underfoot, and shouldered his way past the guard, gesturing to Rothofen to follow him.

The tension in the room ended as abruptly as wine ran from a broken glass. The crowd became subdued, almost sheepish, as they began to disperse, opening up to let Niklos and Ragoczy leave.

“He is not going to be willing to let this go; he will try to find another way to get Olivia’s estates,” Niklos said in Greek as he and Ragoczy made their way down the corridor, a dozen men in pursuit.

“He may not want to admit defeat, but he would be stupid to do anything direct, either in the Courts or in the streets, for the finger of blame would point directly at him if you should come to harm.” Ragoczy paused to acknowledge the congratulation from a young advocate while a Barone whose land marched to the west of Senza Pari clapped Niklos on the shoulder and declared that he had always known that Niklos would prevail. As soon as these two well-wishers passed on, Ragoczy continued. “I know there is reason to be careful, for Rothofen is not beyond plotting vengeance. You and I would do well to be heedful of our surroundings for some time to come, I think.” He nodded ahead to the foot of the stairs where Rothofen and Ursellos were getting into the Calaveria y Vacamonte carriage. “They will not forget a slight, I fear.”

“This is hardly a slight; the case was founded on a lie,” said Niklos, starting his descent as the Spanish carriage pulled away. “Rothofen had no claim, illegitimate or otherwise.”

“They would not agree.” Ragoczy started down the stairs, his thoughts far away. As they reached the bottom, he held up his hand to summon his coach. “Come. I will take you home.”

Niklos smiled. “It
is
home, isn’t it? truly my home.” He glanced up into the sky where heavy clouds scudded in from the west. “It will rain before night.”

“So it will,” Ragoczy said as Amerigo brought Ragoczy’s best carriage, drawn by his best team of greys, to a halt before them. Ragoczy himself let the steps down for Niklos, and climbed in behind him; this show of respect was not lost on those lingering around the Magistrates’ Courthouse; there would be tales all over the city by nightfall that the foreign Conte da San-Germain had made himself a lackey for Niklos Aulirios.

Roma was crowded and the Ragoczy carriage made slow progress toward the Porta Pia; inside neither passenger had much to say as the Magistrate’s decision was mulled over in silence. Finally, as they passed the ancient church of Santa Constanza, some distance beyond the walls, Niklos said, “Thank you. I should have—”

“You have nothing to thank me for,” said Ragoczy quickly. “Think of this as an obligation I have owed Olivia for many years.” His dark eyes were distant. “What else could I do for her, but this.”

It was a difficult moment for Niklos, who wrung his hands and coughed delicately. “I still feel in your debt. What can I do to show my gratitude? It is useless to offer you money, and you would be offended by such an offer.”

“How well you know me,” Ragoczy said, ironic amusement shining in his dark eyes.

Niklos sighed. “There must be something you would accept. I do not want it said that I ignored your goodness.”

“Then continue to allow the opera rehearsals at Senza Pari and we will consider the debt discharged.” Ragoczy was doing his best to divert their discussion.

Niklos did not protest. “Very well.” He leaned back. “I suppose I should make some effort to celebrate this occasion.”

“There would be comment if you did not,” Ragoczy observed. He let Niklos consider his new situation without offering further prompting.

“There will be comment in any case,” Niklos said with a trace of bitterness in his voice. “Still, it will be less if I behave as if I am vindicated than if I do not.”

Ragoczy gestured his accord. “You know the Romans of old.”

They went on to the turning near San Procopio. “You do not have to remain here now,” Niklos pointed out. “There is no reason for you to remain in Roma.”

“If I leave before the new villa is complete, I will have more questions to answer than I would care to deal with, and I would leave behind speculation that could redound to you. After this case, I doubt you would welcome further scrutiny into your life; something might be discovered that would lead to official investigations,” Ragoczy said drily. “Besides, the builders are eager to finish the villa; if I abandon the project, they will complain.”

“You need not be here for the builders to work and be paid,” Niklos said. “I could take care of such things for you.”

Ragoczy smiled slightly. “Maestro Scarlatti would never forgive

me. The opera is incomplete; he is looking forward to its premiere.” “Oh,” said Niklos. “That is another matter.”

They fell silent again as the coach rattled on.

The reaction at the Calaveria y Vacamonte palazzo was not so sanguine: Ursellos had arrived with Rothofen, both in filthy moods. Neither had been civil to the other during their fairly short carriage- ride, and now they had settled into a vitriolic quiet that boded ill for any who crossed their path.

Ursellos had demanded brandy as soon as he was at the top of the entry stairs, and had gracelessly given a glass to Rothofen in the same manner that he might toss a coin to a crossing sweeper. “You have as many sorrows to drown as I,” he remarked as his servant brought their drink to them in the larger reception room.

“I have more,” said Rothofen contentiously; he was spoiling for a fight and was not fussy about whom he fought.

Ignoring this, Ursellos took his glass and drank deeply. “To have that impudent foreigner gull the Magistrate in that way!”