A raised eyebrow.
“The children, sir. The orphans. They were more easily . . . persuaded.”
A definite smile from the thin lips. “I hope you didn’t have to hurt anyone.”
“Not badly, sir.”
“Continue.”
“There were two who visited the orphanage that day. An elderly professor from America and a young woman, una ragazza italiana, who seemed to know Father Antonio. They are both enrolled in some sort of seminar at Monte Piccolo. And there is a third person involved. A young man who was not there at the chapel, but who is clearly connected with the other two. But he is”—a dismissive shrug—“un finocchio. Una checca.”
A stingy, thin-lipped smile from the small man. “A homosexual.” He pronounced the word with a certain academic delight. “Another weak link to be sure. If we need one.”
“Sir.”
The hand slammed the desk again, and this time the tall man did flinch.
“But they are irrelevant! Fools caught up in something far beyond themselves. The painting is what matters. Where is the painting?”
“No one seems to know, sir.”
The nostrils of the outsized corvine nose flared. “No one? No one? Someone must know. What you are telling me is that you have not found that person.”
“Comandante. The police do not have the painting. I am certain of that. Our most powerful friends admitted it. They would not confess something so embarrassing if it were not true. And although they were not willing to confirm it, they quite certainly have no idea where the painting is or who has it.”
There was a long silence. The small man had both hands resting on the desk, the fingers twitching idly, enormous carnivorous insects impatient for their prey.
“We need to know more about the two who were in the warehouse. And their checca friend.”
“But they are irrelevant, sir. You said so yourself. A girl, a hapless old man, and un finocchio. They’re no one. They’re fools.”
“Now you are the fool!”
“But sir, you said—”
And now the hand flashed down toward the desk but stopped at the last instant and rested soundlessly on the wood.
“Don’t contradict me! Someone blew a hole in that building to seize the painting and that girl and the old man. If they were really ‘no one,’ their bodies would have been left in the rubble. Whoever took the painting took them as well.”
“Sir.”
“Find them. Learn what you can about them. Stay close to them.”
“And the finocchio?”
“No one cares about i froci. He really is irrelevant—except that he is a friend of the other two. Keep a close watch on all of them. Find out who saved them. And why.”
“Sir.” Fra Filippo Lupo stood, straight and still.
“Our honor, the honor of our order, is at stake. Our sacred mission has endured for a millennium. We cannot be the ones who let it fail. The painting must not escape. The terroristi musulmani, the Muslim terrorists, must be defeated.”
“And collateral damage?” There was an eagerness in his voice.
“I leave that to your judgment.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Wait!” The small man paused and thought for a long minute. Finally, he said, “The girl. La ragazza.” Another silence. “It must be her.”
“Sir?”
“You said the professor is an American. It took us years to find that painting.” A sudden deep breath. “Which we lost by waiting. Like fools! If I hadn’t—” He stopped himself. “I cannot believe an American could have found that painting so easily or known what it was. And I cannot believe an American could have had friends who would act so swiftly and so efficiently to frustrate us. It cannot be the American. And”—he flicked his hand carelessly, as if he were brushing away flies—“it cannot be the finocchio. Watch them all. But the girl is the key.”
“Sir.”
As the tall man turned to go, the man at the desk called out to stop him.
“You’re limping. What happened?”
“Nothing, sir. An accident. Running in the dark. Cobblestones.”
“You tripped? Or you were tripped?”
The tall man drew himself up to ramrod attention. His dark eyes burned above hollow cheeks.
“It is nothing, sir. It will not happen again.”
Lucia blinked and stopped, dazzled by the light. After hours underground in the contessa’s archives—musty, wet, cold, she was certain, even in the heat of summer, and almost unbearably frigid now in winter—she had forgotten there was this much light in the world. And even dazzled, she immediately knew she didn’t belong: dirty hands, dust in her hair, probably on her face too. Chilled and shivering.
The contessa broke off in midsentence and stared hard at Lucia, her glass of sherry suspended at the ready in case another quick sip was required in the face of this intrusion. From the moment she had greeted them—after the hard-eyed servant had let them into the villa—it was clear that the contessa was in fact far more formidable than Lucia had expected. And there was certainly nothing scrawny about her. She was taller than Lucia, and if she ran a bit to fat and wore too much makeup, she carried her decades well. She might not have been a real beauty, even in her youth, but she certainly still had an abundance of spirit and aristocratic bone structure that made mere prettiness irrelevant.
From time to time, a certain shadowed vagueness flitted through her eyes, as if she were—or wished she were—somewhere else. But she was far from the doddering biddy that Lucia had imagined in her fantasy of neck-wringing.
And right now, there was nothing vague in her gaze. Lucia was clearly intruding on a pleasantly civilized moment between the contessa and the professor.
The professor raised a quizzical eyebrow.
And—dusty, cold, likely smelling of the mildew from the archives, out of place and unwelcome—Lucia didn’t care.
“Got it!” She was triumphant.
The professor’s quizzical eyebrow turned into a smile, and the contessa downed the rest of her sherry, forced to fortify herself alone. Lucia had his full attention.
“What did you find?” There was eagerness in his voice.
“Judas”—they’d been referring to the painting that way among themselves, and for the moment, she forgot the contessa was even there—“came here in 1759 as part of the dowry for the fourth daughter of Cavaliere d’Estrato of Siena, given by her father when she married the third son of Ranieri dei Marsi.”
She stopped to catch her breath and the contessa broke in.
“My many-times-great-uncle. Six generations back, to be exact. A young fool at the time. Famously foolish”—she shrugged—“in our family.”
“Yes, well”—Lucia refused to be sidetracked by old family gossip—“the dowry. There’s an inventory of the dowry. Not exactly a magnificent dowry, but I suppose fourth daughters had to go cheap.”
“To third sons,” added the contessa.
“Exactly.” The professor wasn’t going to be left out.
“It’s still a pretty long list. And hard to read.” She turned her gaze to the contessa. “You’ve had a few floods down there. Things are a bit moldy.” Before the contessa could react, she pushed on—after a day down there, she needed to say it, but she wasn’t going to dwell on it. “But the listing for the painting is clear enough once you find it. It’s listed as ‘Bacio di G.’ Could be, has to be ‘Bacio di Giuda’—‘Judas Kiss.’ That has to be it. The listing’s got the size about right. It even describes the frame pretty well. It’s got to be our guy. Here”—she held out her phone—“I took a picture.”
While the professor was angling the phone, squinting, trying to get a good look at the photo of blurred and blotched ink on faded parchment, Lucia added, “It gives a painter’s name. It’s hard to read. I think it’s Fenelli. But lots of art got mislabeled back then.”
“All nonsense!” The contessa waved her hand dismissively. “A complete fabrication.
Not a word of truth.”
“It’s in your archive.” Lucia was not about to give up her discovery. And if the old lady wanted to be difficult, Lucia had some leverage. She’d taken a detour through a series of letters from the late 1700s, filled with disturbing details of a virulent case of syphilis that ran wild for generations after it was introduced to the family by an old duke’s young wife. She had pictures of those letters on her phone. Historical research.
“Do not presume to instruct me, young lady.” The contessa couldn’t suppress a delighted growl of a giggle, more dog than debutante. “It’s a much better story than that.” Leaning forward. “That young ruffian stole it. Antonio dei Marsi stole the painting from his father-in-law. His future father-in-law. He was hunting on the D’Estrato estates with some other young fools, and he saw the painting in a hunting lodge and he thought it would be fun to bring it home. So he did.”
“And when the cavaliere found out?” As always, the professor wanted details.
The contessa smirked. “The cavaliere never even noticed. They were a particularly stupid family.” She caught Lucia’s eye. “That was centuries ago. We’re well rid of the taint of that blood by now, my dear. Not a branch of the family that we’re particularly proud of. Although they were for many generations quite tightly allied with the Knights of Malta. That is why they adopted the title of cavaliere. Valiant, I suppose, but stupid nonetheless. Yes, well, the young thief, Antonio, simply had the steward write the painting into the inventory. A meager dowry and a mean wife. My many-times-great-aunt was mean as a snake. Famously. In our family.”
“So you knew all this,” Lucia said. “About the painting. Why didn’t you say something before I spent the whole day down there?”
Lucia was ready for her own glass of sherry, but no one was offering to pour one for her.
The contessa smiled and offered a vague shrug.
“I may have forgotten, I suppose. Sometimes everything is clear and sometimes it all just . . . disappears.” Her hands were circling gently in the air. “Once there were so many . . . things, so many places. But that was all before our catastrophe. The war.” Her gaze went soft. “If that beast Leopold hadn’t provoked the Sardinian . . .” She shook her head. “So many things. Now all I have is . . . this.” Her gesture swept wider to include the entire room, flooded with light that twisted and dappled through a long sweep of windows, glass slumped with the centuries. Lucia’s research had revealed that the contessa owned, in addition to “this,” a substantial villa in Rome and another in Fiesole, above Florence. And another somewhere in Piemonte. But this clearly wasn’t the appropriate time to mention such details.
Lucia gave the contessa’s story a moment of respect—but she still had her discovery. Then: “Perfetto! Sì! But it’s still the same painting. And it came from the D’Estrato family in Siena. Stolen from the D’Estrato estate.”
The professor was delighted. “It’s a wonderful story.” He poured the contessa another glass of sherry.
“The dowry inventory is all we need,” said Lucia. “And I’ve got a picture of it. So, grazie. We’re on our way.”
The professor hesitated. Then he stood, bowed, and kissed the contessa’s hand.
“My dear Agostina,” he said as he straightened up. “This has been an unexpected pleasure. Perhaps we shall meet again.”
She inclined her head, graciously, and he bowed again.
It seemed to Lucia that he was actually reluctant to leave.
You old goat, she thought, remembering a Watteau painting of a particularly lustful satyr ogling a beautiful nymph. Lucia hid her smile, thinking that the contessa was impressive enough, but even at her best, she was nothing like the Watteau beauty.
Walking to the car, the professor cleared his throat. “Many an important arrangement has been negotiated over sherry. And it got us a grand story, didn’t it? Apparently this painting of ours has a long history of being stolen,” he said, settling into the front seat. “I don’t want you to think I’ve been wasting my time while you were hard at work. We all have our skills.” She saw him glance at her grimy knuckles as she grabbed the steering wheel. “It’s just that mine seem to keep my hands clean.”
She was tempted to wipe her hands on his nice clean jacket.
“But”—he raised a finger for emphasis—“you made a great discovery.”
His jacket was saved.
“And now, dear Lucy?”
“Siena.”
Professor Richman smiled.
Chapter 12
Roma
1603
Caravaggio met his patron’s gaze. “You wanted to see me?”
“I heard that Galileo gave you some advice a few years ago,” said Cardinal del Monte.
“He suggested that I look beyond young boys for my subjects. And I am pursuing more complex compositions now.”
“You are painting prostitutes into biblical scenes. Be careful. Your angels and little boys are titillating but innocuous. If you go against the Church—”
“I do not intend to spend the rest of my life painting fluttering angels or prepubescent boys playing the lute, or Cecco displaying his genitalia.”
“Pity,” said Cardinal del Monte, picking up an orange from a bowl in front of him and starting to peel it with a sharp knife. “You are so good at it. But beware. Popes are dangerous.”
“I saw that firsthand with the execution of the Cenci family.”
“And I witnessed the execution of Giordano Bruno, the heretic who believed that stars are distant suns,” said Del Monte. “A horrifying sight.”
“The poor bastard,” said Caravaggio.
Del Monte cast a glance about the empty room before he spoke.
“A perfect example of what power the Church wields.” He sighed. “I was an official witness as a cardinale. Bruno’s only crime was lifting his eyes to the heavens and questioning Church doctrine. A man who believed not only that planets circle the sun, but in an infinite universe. Copernicus indirectly lit the fire of his execution.”
“How different is this Dominican priest Bruno from your good friend Galileo Galilei? Will the Inquisition kill him too?”
“Watch what you say, Michele,” said the cardinal, “lest you wind up at the stake. You are perceived as a provocateur.”
Caravaggio shrugged. “Nec spe. Nec metu.”
Without hope. Without fear.
Cardinal del Monte shook his head. “With that attitude, you’ll meet the same fate as Bruno.”
“The same? What have I done but participate in the occasional brawl?”
“Occasional?” Del Monte scoffed. “I seem forever to be intervening on your behalf. How many times have you been arrested now? Ten, twelve times?”
“I thank you for your interventions, Cardinal,” said Caravaggio, bowing stiffly. He stared at the perfect spiral peel that descended from Del Monte’s knife.
“It is tiring, I must confess,” said the cardinal, frowning. “If you were not so talented, I shouldn’t bother, Michele. It is your genius I am rescuing. But there will come a day where even I will not have the power to intervene.”
“But even if I brawl, I am no heretic.”
“The pope and the inquisitors are scrutinizing your paintings. Saints with dirty feet who look like day laborers—blasphemy! Prostitutes baring their cleavage posing as the Holy Mother. Oh, they have noticed, believe me. Why do you think your work has been rejected? The pope is wary—”
“And the pope’s nephew Cardinal Scipione Borghese hounds me for more paintings. He eagerly buys any of my canvases that the Church condemns. I suspect him of fomenting dissention in order to purchase my rejected work at a discount.”
Cardinal del Monte set down his fruit and held out his hand, his angular fingers spread in appeasement. “Watch what you say about Cardinal Borghese. He is the most powerful among us. One word from him and you’ll be swinging by your neck at the Piazza Sant’Angelo.”
“At least Scipione has excellent tas
te in art,” said Caravaggio. “The scoundrel.”
“Stay on his good side, Michelangelo,” warned Del Monte. “He could either save your skin or prove a most dangerous foe. His uncle Pope Paul, like Clemente, has a taste for executing renegades.”
Caravaggio said nothing. Del Monte could see a movement in his jaw as he chewed the side of his tongue.
“Is that all, Cardinal? Am I dismissed?” said the artist, his tone spiteful.
“No,” said Del Monte, picking up the peeled orange and examining it. He nodded with approval at his own work. “One more thing. I have heard of your discord with Ranuccio Tomassoni. Some matter of a squabble over courtesans?”
“We’ve had some bad feelings over trivial matters. Bets on tennis matches. Tomassoni is a cheat. Everyone on the Via di Pallacorda knows that.”
“I did not know you played tennis, Maestro.”
Caravaggio worked his jaw in silence before responding. “I do, but I avoid playing with cheating pimps like Ranuccio Tomassoni.”
“True, Ranuccio is a pimp—and he is a dangerous one,” said Del Monte. “All the Tomassonis are vicious. And they have the backing of the House of Farnese. Watch out for him, Michele. He is a cutthroat, like his brothers.”
“They are all sewer rats. I am not afraid of vermin.”
Cardinal del Monte bit his lip, studying the artist.
“And I’m told you’ve had a run-in with a Knight of Malta. One of the Roeros from Piemonte.”
“Who told you that?”
“It doesn’t matter. The Knights of Malta are as dangerous as the Church. And more ruthless.”
“I haven’t seen Roero in months. I suppose he is on that rock of Malta where he belongs.”
“Avoid him, Michele,” said Del Monte. “Heed my advice.”
Caravaggio bowed. “May I take my leave now, Cardinale? I have work in my studio to finish.”
Del Monte sighed. He popped a segment of orange into his mouth, wiping his fingers with a napkin. “Go. Leave. My words are wasted on you, I can see that much.”
Caravaggio bowed again and headed for the door.
“Create something miraculous, my friend. Some masterpiece that will remind me why I find you worth saving.”
Light in the Shadows Page 10