Communion Blood (55 page)

“Ursellos!” Jose Bmno raised his voice, intending to give a warning, but his half-brother reached him and stmck him a sharp blow to the head, sending him reeling.

Rothofen dismounted more carefully; he took the chestnut’s reins and drew that horse and his own mount up to the rail where the mules waited, and he secured the horses before following Ursellos into the little house. He could hear Ursellos bellowing Leocadia’s name and kicking what he hoped was furniture about.

“Run!
Run!”
The woman’s voice was high and shrill, filled with fear and something else that Rothofen could not identify. “You can’t save me. Go!”

Ursellos was pounding up the stairs, screaming imprecations and vowing murder; Rothofen stepped into the lower room only to find it a shambles, tables and chairs and benches all overturned and wax puddling under the overset candles.

There was another shout from upstairs, a scuffle, and another shriek.
“Go! Save yourself
It’s me they want. Go. Go!
Go! For my sake!”

A moment later a wild-eyed young man with kinky hair came rushing down the stairs, almost knocking Rothofen over as he swung into the room. “He’s mad. He is going to kill her. He’s mad,” Maurizio said in an appalled voice; a welt as long as a finger and red with blood stood out on his cheek.

“Did he do that?” Rothofen asked, stepping back as he saw what he thought was a plank in the young man’s hand.

“No, no.
She
did.” Tears shone on his face. “She said she would kill me if I stayed.” The despair in his voice was greater than any emotion Rothofen had ever heard. Maurizio pelted away, out the door and into the night before Rothofen realized that what the young man carried was not a weapon but a violin case.

Ursellos was cursing again, accompanying the sound of blows and the whimpers that became a wail. Hearing this, Rothofen could not summon up the courage to climb the stairs; he did not want to witness whatever Ursellos was doing to chastise his sister. Beyond the building he was vaguely aware of the sound of donkey’s hooves and the snorting of the horses. He would have liked to flee with the young musician, but could not make himself do it. Very slowly he put his foot on the first tread of the steps, and began the hideous ascent to the floor above.

Leocadia was huddled on the floor in the larger of the two bedrooms, her arms over her head in protection. She was quite obviously pregnant, though she was gaunt from fasting. Her clothes were in disarray, and a knife lay near her on the floor. She was weeping and praying softly as her brother bent to strike her again; Rothofen saw his chance and determined to seize it, certain such an opportunity would never come again.

“NO!” Rothofen yelled, so loudly that he managed to stop Ursellos from hitting her. He knew he had found the thing he had sought. “No, Signore. No more.” He was amazed to hear the authority in his words.

“Get out of here!” Ursellos commanded.

“No,” said Rothofen, doing his best to sound determined. “I cannot let you harm my affianced wife.”

“Your what?” Ursellos exclaimed, swinging round on him, his expression ugly.

Rothofen managed to stand his ground. “Look at her, Signore. She had better be
someone’s
affianced wife or your family will be disgraced.”

Ursellos laughed aloud. “Roma is full of bastards.” He prepared to go on beating his sister. “What do you think Jose Bruno is?”

“I think your sister is not like you, and her disgrace would be felt in Catalonia more than it would in Roma.” He pointed to Leocadia. “We can say it was arranged between us, when the marriage between her and the Archbishop’s brother became uncertain. She has admitted she ran away because she disliked the marriage. When her brother, the Cardinal, was murdered, she sought to put the whole thing behind her. She fled in the company of her half-brother and a retainer. The child she carries we will say is mine. She and I will marry and there will be no disgrace.”

“Have you lost your senses?” Ursellos demanded. “What nonsense are you talking?”

Rothofen put himself between Leocadia and her brother. “I am giving you a means to salvage something worthwhile from this coil. Think about it. If you let the story out that she and I have long loved each other—”

Leocadia’s laughter screeched as she began to rock where she sat. “How could I?”

But Ursellos had gained enough control of his temper to realize that Rothofen was right. “It could work. There would still be an inquiry, because of the murder, but if you and she were married, it would be less severe.” He kicked Leocadia. “It is more than you deserve, you whore.”

“Martin’s whore,” she said, and laughed again.

“None of that,” Ursellos told her. “Show your gratitude, woman. This man is going to keep you from infamy.” He faced Rothofen. “Go on.”

“We will have to arrange the wedding at once,” said Rothofen, his thoughts racing, and began to explain the plan he had worked out as they rode toward Sezze, certain his future was going to be secure at last.

Text of a note from Padre Bartolomeo Battista Tredori to the Holy Office of the Faith in Roma.

Most worthy and reverend Fathers, in the Most Holy Name, in compliance with your expressed commands, I wish to inform you that I have heard the Confession of Leocadia Perpetua Dulce Calaveria y Vacamonte, and I report to you that she will marry on special license in four days.

The sins she entrusted to me for absolution she has said nothing of, and says instead that while she was away from her brother’s pal- azzo, she was with her half-brother and a friend who sought to keep her away from the brother of Archbishop Walmund so that she would not be compelled to go through with a marriage that she found repellent, but which her brother, the late Cardinal, wanted, for the benefit of Holy Church and the Kingdom of Spain. She acknowledges that her flight was wrong, but after so gruesome a murder, she had not the heart to remain in Roma. I have told her she was wrong to do so, for her testimony as a witness to murder is much needed by you and the Guardia. She has accepted my rebuke with Christian meekness.

I will appear before you as soon as you summon me, but I must tell you that this is the sum I of what I can impart to you without breaking the Seal of Confession.

In all ways I am ever the most obedient servant of Holy Church,

In utter devotion, I am

Padre Bartolomeo Battista Tredori Santissima Redentore

Pax vobiscum

At Roma, by my own hand, this 3rd day of June, 1690

The new villa was nearly finished; the window-shutters had been put in place two days ago and the carved front doors were leaning beside the opening where they would be hung the following morning; the next week the glazers would arrive—after their Artei had received a deposit of forty gold Apostles. In the soft, pre-dawn light, the place looked as splendid as an ancient Emperor’s tomb, or so Ragoczy thought as he stood in the courtyard and looked up at it, his eyes little hampered by the dark.

“You are not pleased with it, are you?” Rugerius said as he came up behind his employer.

“Not as much as I hoped I would be,” said Ragoczy with a hint of a sigh. He was in a neat justaucorps of brocaded black silk with lace neck-bands and ruffles at his wrist; his eclipse signet was incised on his silver ring. He had no other ornamentation, but he was decorous enough to make it apparent he had just come from a grand occasion in Roma: he had attended an entertainment at II Meglio earlier that night, but had spent two rapturous hours with Giorgianna Ferrugia before coming back to the Villa Vecchia. “I thought it would make me less lonely, to be in a home that Olivia had never known, but it only serves to make my solitude worse. It has made me more acutely aware of her absence than if I had done nothing.” He sounded more puzzled than sad; he began to walk toward the broad, shallow, marble steps leading up to the gaping front door. “Perhaps if Giorgianna were willing to know me for what I am, and to accept my true nature, I would not be so desolate; but she is wise: there is danger for both of us once she understands what I am. But it still brings me ... I don’t know how to describe it: not pain, but not unpainful.” He stood in the doorway, staring into the vacant interior. “Two months more and it will be complete.”

“And you do not wish to live in it,” Rugerius said quietly.

“No,” Ragoczy admitted. “I never thought until now I would not

feel some relief when I could leave the old building behind. But so it is; it will be a double burden.”

“Will you stay to see it finished?” Rugerius asked.

“I do not know: no doubt it would be the wisest course.” He stared up at the villa. “It seems a shame not to, but—” He shrugged. “It would insult Bonaldo Fiumara, and all the men of the Artei who have built this place to leave it.” He came to the edge of the stairs; he was still framed by the doorway. “They have worked hard to make this a showpiece.”

“As you asked them to do; and paid them well for their labors,” Rugerius pointed out.

“Oh, yes,” Ragoczy agreed ironically.

“It is what you wanted, is it not?” Rugerius said. “Half of Roma will want it when you finally show it to the world.”

Ragoczy managed a smile. “That has been my intention,” he allowed. “To have an establishment that would provide some compensation for my foreignness. And to indicate that I have wealth enough to protect myself from malice. That at least should make opening it rewarding in its way.” He stepped off the top stair and came down to Rugerius. “You will say I am never satisfied, old friend.”

“It is not your satisfaction that gives me concern, my master,” Rugerius said. “You have done the thing you came here to accomplish: Niklos Aulirios has vindicated his claim to Olivia Clemens’ estate. You have fulfilled any obligation you have here, and yet you remain. No one will accuse you of running away if you go now.” “There was the matter of the opera,” said Ragoczy quietly, with a hint of amusement in his dark, enigmatic eyes.

“Which is finished, and has been acclaimed as a masterpiece,” said Rugerius. “There is no more to be done with the opera that Maestro Scarlatti cannot do. You know that better than I do.” He cocked his head. “Is it Leocadia? It is not as if you have been her lover. She has no claim upon you.”

“No; she has not,” Ragoczy said distantly. “Not as one of my blood, and not even so small a hold as Giorgianna can claim—certainly not since she had the great good fortune to marry Julius Rothofen.” His sarcasm surprised even him; he took a long breath. “No wonder she longed to be a nun.”

Rugerius looked surprised, his austere features revealing more than he knew. “Surely you did not want her for yourself?”

“By all the forgotten gods, no,” said Ragoczy, his voice quiet but intent. “But she has needed an ally, and she has been thrown to the wolves.”

“You offered her your protection, and she did not take it. Why do you continue to ... to
...”
He could not find the words he sought.

“You wonder, after all the years I have spent in Church prisons? At least mine had walls and locks; hers is built in her soul.” He shook his head. “Poor woman. Between the Cardinal and Ursellos, she has received only harm from her family.”

“Which you cannot undo,” Rugerius reminded him.

“True enough,” said Ragoczy.

“She is more like Estasia than Xenya, or Acanna Tupac,” Rugerius warned him. “For all that she has suffered, she is more like Estasia.” “And more like Cismenae than any of them; so I think, too—you need not worry yourself that I am deceived in her,” said Ragoczy. He lowered his eyes and regarded a place on the ground about two paces ahead of him. “At least Maurizio got to the ship. He will be in England soon.”

“Do you think he will be content to remain there?” Rugerius wondered. “He has an impulsive nature and the urge to be a hero.” Ragoczy gestured his agreement. “But he is not foolish. No one who has grown up an orphan as he has is willing to sacrifice success for so ephemeral a promise as Leocadia is to him, particularly now that she is a married woman. Let him have a taste of fame and fortune, and she will become a bittersweet myth in his past.”

“Do you think he will have fame and fortune?” Rugerius was moving ahead of him now, making ready to open the door to the old villa.

“Oh, yes. His playing is excellent and he has just enough wildness about him to make him a sensation. He is foreign and therefore exotic, the more so for having an African father. Give him two or three years of performing and London will make him one of the Olympians.” Ragoczy spoke wholly without cynicism. “Maurizio is exactly what the English like to embrace in foreign artists: he is talented, flamboyant, a fugitive from persecution; all in all, very un-English. When next we go to London, I expect we will find Maurizio steeped in royal favor and wallowing in luxury.”

“You sound as if you are tired, my master,” said Rugerius, a hint of a question in the end of the phrase.

“Yes, and world-weary. I have been thinking of Acanna Tupac and Dona Azul.” He glanced up at the sky.

Rugerius held the door wide. “It will be light soon.”

“And I need rest; yes, you are right.” He smiled once at his manservant. “Can you tell me this place does not play upon you as well as it plays upon me?”

“It does,” Rugerius said. “You brought me back to life here. Sixteen hundred years ago.”

For a moment Ragoczy stood silent. “Do you ever regret that I did?”

“No,” said Rugerius. “For all that we have endured over the centuries, I do not regret that you restored me to life. Occasionally I miss my family, but they were lost to me well before you found me.” When Ragoczy gave no response, Rugerius pointed the way to his apartment. “Your bed is ready. I will waken you in three hours.” “That is good of you,” said Ragoczy. “I must meet with Maestro Scarlatti this afternoon; he wishes to discuss certain matters with me regarding the opera. He has asked me to join him in Roma.” He ambled down the hall, pausing before the library door. “The books will have to be crated soon. And all the other goods.”