Communion Blood (52 page)

“And you, as well. It is your libretto and you have been the patron of the work.” He coughed diplomatically. “I feared for a time we would not have the opportunity to perform it at all, but, thankfully, I was wrong.”

“Why would we not have done this opera?” Ragoczy asked, his voice sharpened more than he intended; he made himself pause and then went on. “I have gold enough to endure a year’s delay.”

“It might have been longer,” said Scarlatti darkly, “had they elected another Pope. This Venezian is not one to behave as if the faithful should take no joy in this world, although there are Cardinals who have such convictions—although they may not apply them to themselves.” He chuckled to show this was a joke. “Operas might have been found to be too frivolous and that would have meant this could not have been performed anywhere in the Papal States if the Pope had disallowed them. I would have had to leave, and promptly, as would many other musicians, in order to avoid any possibility of imprisonment.”

On the far side of the backstage area, Giorgianna Ferrugia was preparing to depart, her husband hovering near her, glowing with pride. Half-a-dozen courtiers were with him, fawning on Giorgianna, complimenting her outrageously. She had a new bracelet of pearls and rubies on her left wrist; she made many gestures so that she could show them off without actually demanding that anyone admire them.

“Surely the most stringent Pope would not go so far,” said Ragoczy, but with great reservations. “Nothing of that sort has happened since the Middle Ages.”

“That does not mean it could not happen again.” Scarlatti said. “As long as the Pope rules Roma and the Papal States, no one can think himself shielded from Papal decrees.” He began to peel off his justaucorps. “The King of France has his Ministers to keep him in check; the Pope has the Curia, but the Curia is not like Ministers.” He looked at Ragoczy. “You should not delude yourself, Signor’ Conte: Roma is in the hands of the Pope and those who want to be Pope. France’s Ministers cannot become King.”

Ragoczy understood the warning he was being given, and he took it to heart. “I understand. I will reflect on what you say.”

“Va bene,” said Scarlatti, and dropped his justaucorps over the back of a chair while he gave his attention to the buttons of his waistcoat. “Our success is assured for the moment, and that is a good thing for all of us. It may not last, however.”

“I will remember that, my friend.” Ragoczy bowed slightly, then picked up the composer’s justaucorps. “Where do you want this?” “You aren’t going to serve as my valet again?” He sounded genuinely alarmed. “Once was fine; I am grateful for your help. Twice, and it could be seen as more than it is.”

“How do you mean?” Ragoczy had a fairly good notion that he grasped Scarlatti’s intent, but he thought it best to ask.

“Any sign of favor to anyone of lesser rank can be seen as suspicious, Signor’ Conte,” said Scarlatti, using Ragoczy’s title with heavy emphasis. “Of those who are well-known, much scandal is spoken: only a fool provides fuel for that fire.”

Ragoczy put the justaucorps back on the chair. “Then I will do nothing to bring you into jeopardy.” He could not suppress an ironic smile. “No doubt the good Fathers will ask you about such lapses on my part.”

“Yes,” said Scarlatti, sounding sad. “And more than they.”

“You might tell them that in all the years I have fought to defend my native earth, I have come to think less of titles and more of allies than many who have not had to carry on this long battle. I do not think that a minor courtesy will upset the order of the world.” That his first campaign had taken place more than three thousand five hundred years ago he did not mention, nor that he had continued to defend his comer of Transylvania from various invaders in the intervening centuries; his recent actions against the Turks were known in Roma and he depended upon them to maintain his reputation in such matters. He had a quick, hard recollection of the demands of fame, and knew that Scarlatti’s warning was not unfounded; as much as he strove to maintain a good public reputation, for anonymity often led to suspicion, he was aware that fame could become a dangerous burden: that had happened often enough in the past.

“You have done much to oppose the Turks,” Scarlatti said with apparent relief. “And with this Alessandro VIII, action against the Turks means more than it did with his predecessor.” He managed a faint smile. “That will be a most useful reminder.”

“Then use it as you see fit, Maestro,” said Ragoczy, not quite making a leg. He glanced about at the diminishing confusion, and said, “Will you be bound for your lodgings, or are you going to dine and celebrate?”

Glad for this change of subject, Scarlatti replied, “I am a very tired man. Evenings such as this leave me exhausted. I will go home, have my landlord order up a tub of hot water, and I will soak in the bath for as long as the water is warm while I long for the embraces of my wife. Then I will have a meal—a small one; nothing more than pasta with onions and bacon and a spring soup—and a bottle of wine. I shall sleep until eleven in the morning, and take a meal with my friends at noon.” He bowed slightly to Ragoczy. “I would ask you to join us, but it would only add to the—”

“—problems you face because of me,” Ragoczy finished for him. “And I have chores to do between now and our next performance.” “You are a most gracious man, Eccellenza, and I thank you for it. Would that more patrons were so perceptive.” He bowed more properly, looking a bit ridiculous in his open camisa.

“Perhaps I have a better appreciation of your circumstances than you think, Maestro.” Ragoczy answered his bow with a profound leg. “Enjoy your meal. You have certainly more than earned it.”

“And you, Signor’ Conte? Where are you going now?” The question sprang from good manners rather than from any desire for information.

“I am planning to ride home,” said Ragoczy. “I may have something to sustain me along the way, or I may not. I, too, will sleep well into the morning.”

“I thank you, Signor’ Conte. You made this evening possible. If no one else values that, I do.” He cocked his head to the door through which all the performers left the building; Giorgianna had departed a few minutes ago and now only a handful of choristers remained there, waiting for carriages or sedan chairs to take them away from the hall through Roma’s dangerous streets. A few of the stage-hands were still busy storing the flats and props in anticipation of the next performance, but otherwise the hall was nearly empty.

“Then, Maestro, I will accept your kind words and I will leave you. Until three days hence.” He turned away from Scarlatti and made his way to the small cloakroom where he claimed his cloak and his sword before he went out of the building, going directly to the stables across the street where his grey gelding was stalled. He took his time tacking up the horse, for he wanted to inspect the breastplate and girth before buckling them onto the saddle. He checked the bridle and reins, satisfying himself that no mischief had been done. He secured his rolled cloak to the cantel with two narrow leather straps, for he had no need of it this night. Then he picked the gelding’s hooves, and on the rear off-side hoof, he found what he was looking for: a nail had been driven in between the shoe and the wall of the hoof. In a short distance the gelding would have come up lame or cast the shoe. Ragoczy removed the nail with care and rubbed some turpentine salve into the hoof. He would not stop tonight to visit the young Widow Poggi in sleep; he might be followed and observed. His esurience would have to wait.

A drowsy lackey took Ragoczy’s payment and mentioned that there would be an extra charge at the city’s gates for leaving so late. Ragoczy asked nothing about anyone going into his horse’s stall; he did not want to alert the culprit that he was aware of what had been attempted.

Ragoczy nodded his acknowledgment and started off toward the north-east. He rode slowly, not only to save his mount’s hoof, but in order to determine who was following him: for someone must have intended to follow him when he left the stable or there would have been no attempt to disable his horse. After a short distance he was rewarded when four large men slipped out of the shadows and made a grab for his reins and at the same time struck out with a knobbed stick; the grey sat back on his haunches and whinnied in distress. Ragoczy brought the gelding under control, drew his sword, and prepared to fight off the men; his blade flashed in warning.

“Get him off the horse!” one of the men bellowed as he struggled to hang on to the reins he had seized.

Ragoczy signaled his horse to rear and turn slightly; the man holding the reins was thrown aside by the force of the movement, as Ragoczy had intended. Two of the man’s comrades hesitated; Ragoczy swung at them with his sword, catching the nearer of the two in the upper arm.

The man swore and fell back, dropping the dagger he carried and bolting back down the side-street. A moment later one of his fellows followed him as Ragoczy’s sword came perilously close to his ear.

Ragoczy swung his sword again as his horse came down onto all four feet once more, fretting as Ragoczy held him in check while he pinked one of the remaining men; he fought with the expertise and pragmatism of experience, and the attackers recognized this. As the third man ran off, Ragoczy steadied his mount. Then he turned on the man who had led the assault, deliberately setting his horse cantering at the man just as he tried to flee. “No. You will tell me who set you on this.” Ragoczy reached out and grabbed the man’s collar, tugging him off his feet. Although Ragoczy was smaller and lighter than the roughian he captured, he held the fellow easily, undeterred by the man’s struggles and oaths. Forcing the miscreant to jog clumsily along in an awkward kind of dance, Ragoczy found a piazza with an old fountain a short distance ahead. Holding his captive as he dismounted, he confronted the man. “Who told you to waylay me?” he asked conversationally.

The man spat and swore. “You can’t make me talk!”

“Can I not. Well, we can wait here until the Guardia comes, and you can explain yourself to them.” Ragoczy kept his affable manner. “Or you can tell me and I will not force you to tell the Guardia anything.”

“Whoreson turd!” the man shouted.

“If you raise your voice you will bring the Guardia all the sooner,” Ragoczy reminded him. “But that is up to you.” He pulled a length

of leather from the cantel of his saddle and with a strength that astonished his captive, swung the big man around and pulled his wrists together at the small of his back, securing them with the length of leather. “Now, if you will sit on the edge of the fountain, we may continue.”

“There is nothing to continue,” said the man, but with less vehemence than before.

“Perhaps,” said Ragoczy. “And yet, I cannot persuade myself that you came upon me by accident, for a number of other men on horseback must have passed you by. I am not so much better dressed, nor is my horse so showy that you would settle upon me by caprice.”

“You!” The man spat again. “You have ... You have much to answer for.”

“No doubt I do, as do all men living,” he responded in the same infuriating calm. “I wonder who put such a notion into your head.”

“Everyone knows you have—” He stopped, having already said too much.

“Knows I have what?” Ragoczy asked gently. “What is it that everyone knows I have done.”

The man stared at the wall on the far side of the piazza. “Everyone knows,” he muttered, refusing to look at Ragoczy.

“Then there can be no harm in telling me, as it would seem I am the only person in Roma who does not know.” Ragoczy regarded the man, and when he remained obstinately silent, Ragoczy said, “Let us try an easier question, one you have heard before: who set you upon me?”

“Someone I do not know,” the man answered quickly, and with a touch of smugness that suggested that he would not readily change his story.

“Ah.” Ragoczy strolled a short distance from the man. “Was the man Roman?”

The attacker barked a laugh and spat. “Not he.”

Something in the man’s demeanor caused Ragoczy to ask, “A foreigner, then: was he, perhaps, German?” He suggested, recalling the fury he had seen in Ahrent Rothofen’s eyes when they had been in the Magistrates’ Court. “Tall, lanky?”

The man’s manner became evasive once again; he squinted, fidgeting with his bonds. “I will tell you nothing.”

“It would be like him, to hire street toughs to do the work he is afraid to do,” said Ragoczy, flicking a bit of invisible dust from his cuff. The more he considered this incident, the more likely it seemed that Rothofen was behind it; he looked around at the man he had caught. “I want you to carry a message to your sponsor, ragazzo,” he said in an amiable tone.

Now the man was suspicious. “How do you mean?”

“I mean what I say,” Ragoczy told him, his calmness concealing his growing sense of perturbation: was Rothofen truly so petty as this? “Tell him that if he continues to send men against me, I will have no choice but to settle the matter directly with him. If any trouble should befall any of my friends, I will make their cause my own.” “How am I to deliver this message?” The question was surly.

“I will release you, of course, and give you an Apostle to do this.” The amount was more than the service warranted, and both men knew it.

“All right,” said the man as Ragoczy came back to his side and untied the leather strap around his wrist. He rubbed his hands together. “What is to stop me from gutting you here and now?” Ragoczy smiled in genuine amusement. “Do you think you could?” He took an Apostle from his purse and handed it to the man. “You and I have no quarrel, ragazzo. Do my bidding with my thanks.”

The man took the coin and studied Ragoczy for a long, silent moment. “I will,” he said at last. Then he hurried away as if he feared Ragoczy might change his mind or accuse him of stealing.

Watching the man depart, Ragoczy felt an overwhelming dismay: how had he overlooked Rothofen as an enemy? How could he have assumed that the man would cease to act against him simply because the suit was over? And how many of the previous attacks he had sustained had come at Rothofen’s instigation? He considered capturing the hired roughian again, but thought better of it: the man would reveal nothing more useful than he already had. Castigating himself mentally for not suspecting Rothofen before, Ragoczy remounted his grey and with these unhappy questions for companions, went on toward the gate that would lead to the road back to the Villa Vecchia.