Light in the Shadows

by Linda Lafferty

  “They didn’t like seeing her dead,” repeated Longhi. “And they certainly didn’t like knowing she was your whore.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Onorio!” said Caravaggio, half rising. The cords in his neck jutted.

  “Tranquillo,” said Longhi, waving his hand. “Lena is beautiful. The painting is magnificent. But you didn’t do a good enough job disguising her. Romans recognize her features, Michele.”

  “She doesn’t look like—”

  “You need to use a different model,” said Longhi, sloshing more wine in his cup. “One who not all Roma knows so . . . intimately.”

  Caravaggio grasped his temples in both hands, propping his head up. “Two rejections within months. Damn them!”

  Mario lifted his eyes from the rim of his cup, trying to focus on Caravaggio.

  This rejection could be the tipping point.

  Mario tried to form words of comfort, but his lips and brain were numb from drink. “Where is it going?” he asked. “Did Borghese get his hooks in this one too?”

  “No. Rubens has bought it for Duke Gonzaga. It will be going to Mantua.”

  “Mantua!” said Mario. “At least that Rubens knows good art when he sees it.”

  “For a Flemish Protestant,” grumbled Onorio.

  “Bad luck, Merisi,” called a voice from the next table. Mario recognized Captain Petronio, a guard from Castel Sant’Angelo, where Caravaggio had been imprisoned on numerous occasions. “I saw the Dead Mary as she was being hung in Santa Maria della Scala,” he said. “She brought me to tears.”

  “You are a good man,” said Longhi, staggering over and clapping the captain on the back. “Cameriere! Bring this good signore from Bologna more wine. Charge it to me!”

  “I’ve got to take a piss,” said Caravaggio, hauling himself to his feet. “Cecco, watch my sword.”

  “Sì, Maestro.”

  Caravaggio lurched toward the door.

  “Vaffanculo! Carrying that sword again,” said Mario. “He’s going to be arrested.”

  “He’s used to it by now. They should reserve his cell at night at Sant’Angelo. He knows all the guards by name. Right, Captain Petronio?” said Longhi, gesturing broadly to the guard.

  Petronio raised his cup to Longhi, smiling. “He’s a regular, all right.”

  Mario focused unsteadily on both Cecco and Longhi. “I’m worried about him. That’s two rejections in a row. It’s a spear through his heart.”

  “He’s brewing up some madness,” said Longhi, sucking on his thumb where a splinter had lodged from the plank table. “I—”

  The door of the tavern banged open.

  “Oh, cazzo!” said Cecco, under his breath.

  “Cosa? What?” said Mario.

  “Look who just walked in.”

  Ranuccio Tomassoni stood right inside the doorway. Behind him were his older brothers, Alessandro and Giovan Francesco, and Ranuccio’s brothers-in-law, Ignazio and Federigo Giugoli.

  A man with a black tunic pushed his way past the Giugoli brothers, keeping step with Ranuccio. When he turned, Cecco saw the white cross of Malta stretching from his breastbone to his groin.

  He remembered the man’s hands on Lena’s bosom and shoulders that day in Piazza Navona.

  “Portaci vino! Bring wine, you cuckold! Cornuto!” shouted Giovan as the Farnese alliance commandeered a table from two scraggly contadini. The peasants scattered like pigeons.

  “They must not have encountered Michele outside or he would have pissed on their legs,” said Mario, snapping to his senses. “Let’s get out of here before trouble starts—”

  “Let it brew,” said Longhi. “We can handle these bastards.”

  Ranuccio caught sight of Longhi.

  “Longhi! Where is your failed artist friend? He owes me money.”

  “I don’t have any failed artist friends, Tomassoni,” said Longhi, sobering on the spot. “Only geniuses. With sharp swords and big balls.”

  “Where is he? He’s been keeping my whores as models. He owes me whether he can sell those pieces-of-shit canvases or not.”

  Caravaggio staggered in, still fumbling a knot in his trouser tie. “You’re the pezzo di merda, Ranuccio. You piece of shit, I don’t owe you anything.”

  The waiter scurried to the Tomassoni table with two pitchers of wine.

  “You paint my whores. Mine, do you hear?” said Ranuccio. “Annunccia, Fillide, and now Lena.”

  “Lena’s not yours. I pay her. That’s between her and me.”

  “She’s a fine piece of ass,” said Roero.

  Caravaggio focused his bleary eyes on Roero. “How would you know, bastardo?” He turned back to Ranuccio. “Does your friend with the monstrous cross pay? Or do you let him dabble for free?”

  Roero stood. Ranuccio motioned to him to sit.

  Ranuccio picked up his cup of wine and drained it. “Leave Fra Roero out of this. You owe, Caravaggio. You owe me!”

  Caravaggio clenched his teeth, looking like a mad dog pulling at the end of his chain. “Go ahead! Try to get a scudo from me, you dirty pimp! Next time, I’ll use a Roman whore everyone knows even better,” said Caravaggio. “Your wife, you becco fottuto!” Cuckold!

  “She’s a tasty bite,” said Caravaggio. “But oh, what a squealer!”

  Mario watched as the Tomassonis and Giugolis reached for their swords. Roero had already drawn his, which gleamed silver in the lantern light.

  “Outside! You fallito—failure—of an artist!” said Ranuccio, spittle glistening on his lips. “Or are you too busy wasting paint for your next disaster to be rejected by all of Roma?”

  “I’ll second you!” shouted Longhi. “As will Mario.”

  Mario mumbled, “Merda!” Then in a loud voice that cracked: “I will! Sì!”

  “Count me in too!” roared Captain Petronio. “I’m sick of you Tomassonis and your arrogance!”

  “This quarrel doesn’t involve you, Bolognese!” said Giovan Francesco.

  “It does now,” said Petronio, rising. “I second Caravaggio.”

  Caravaggio grabbed his sword from Cecco.

  The three Tomassonis, two Giugolis, and Roero stormed out the door. Onorio Longhi, Mario Minniti, Captain Petronio, and Caravaggio followed them out, and the ring of metal sliced the night as they unsheathed their weapons in the Via della Scrofa.

  “Put your sword away!” shouted Giovan Francesco to Roero. “You’ll be banned from the order. The Farnese will blame us for dragging a Maltese Knight into a brawl.”

  “As will the pope,” said Federigo Giugoli.

  “The bastard insulted me!” said Roero. “I shall have revenge—”

  “Put it away, I say!” commanded the elder Tomassoni, shoving the knight out of the fray.

  Caravaggio lunged at Ranuccio, who took two steps back, nearly toppling one of his brothers.

  “Fermi! Indietro!” yelled Onorio Longhi. Stop! Get back!

  “Come on, you coward!” shouted Caravaggio, waving his sword. “Lay on!”

  Ranuccio took a step forward, engaging Caravaggio’s sword at midlength. Caravaggio’s jaw was clenched, and he pushed Ranuccio farther up the street. The clashing blades sent passersby scattering while attracting a crowd of ruffians who roared bets above the clanging metal.

  The fight advanced up the street farther toward the Via di Pallacorda and the tennis courts.

  “What set it off?” said an old soldier to another mercenary in the jostling crowd.

  “Tomassoni and Merisi have been trading insults for months.”

  “It is a tennis bet,” said a young noble dressed in velvet.

  “A woman, more likely,” said the old soldier. “It usually is.”

  A Roman artist from Campo Marzio recognized Caravaggio. He shouted in a drunken voice his encouragement. “In culo alla balena, Caravaggio! Good luck! In the ass of a whale, God’s protection of Jonas himself!”

  Ranuccio sweat long shadows into his tunic, the stink of garlic, wine, and nervous body odor waf
ting from under his arms with every attack as Caravaggio forced him back farther and farther up the Via della Scrofa.

  Mario watched his friend under the flickering light of the street torches. Except for the intensity of his jaw, Caravaggio showed no fear—only a pulsating rage glimmering in his eyes.

  How did I get dragged into this? Dueling is illegal in Roma. The whole bunch of us will be imprisoned. And if anyone is killed—

  Caravaggio feinted and Ranuccio threw up his blade in a parry. Caravaggio circled under the blade in a deception, striking Ranuccio.

  Ranuccio stumbled back, falling at Roero’s feet. The knight jumped back as Caravaggio closed in on his fallen opponent.

  “Give him mercy, Caravaggio!” shouted Roero. “He’s on the ground. Be a Christian! Damn you!”

  “You insult my woman,” snarled Caravaggio, showing his teeth. “I insult your manhood!”

  Caravaggio pointed the tip of his blade at Ranuccio’s groin and aimed at his palle. As he thrust forward, Ranuccio twisted and the sword missed its mark, tearing into Tomassoni’s thigh.

  Ranuccio screamed. Blood sprayed from his femoral artery, freckling the cobblestones. Caravaggio stood over him, panting. He saw a pair of boots just beyond the victim’s writhing body. His eyes climbed higher, seeing a tall figure looming in the shadow, an enormous white cross hovering over the dying man.

  “You dirty murderer!” snarled Roero, his face twisted with hate. “You struck a man while he was down! Coward!” He drew his sword.

  “You dog, slinking in the shadows,” said Caravaggio. “Come out and fight!”

  Roero lunged. Caravaggio held his sword vertical, parrying Roero’s thrust, a bright clang echoing in the darkness.

  Giovan Francesco leapt in, his sword engaging Caravaggio’s.

  “I’ll kill you myself!” said the elder Tomassoni as his blade clanged against Caravaggio’s. “Stay out of this, Roero!”

  “You scoundrel!” cried Onorio Longhi, drawing his sword. Within seconds, all parties on both sides, except Roero, were engaged in the fight. Ranuccio’s blood pulsed a sticky pool around him, soaking his leggings.

  Captain Petronio jumped into the fight, drawing Giovan Francesco away from Caravaggio. The older Tomassoni brother was the most experienced from battles and an even match for the Bolognese. The Giugoli brothers struck metal with Mario and Onorio.

  Federigo Giugoli’s sword glanced off the side of Caravaggio’s head.

  “I’m dying, brothers!” wailed Ranuccio. Roero backed away from his dying friend, fading farther into the shadows. Already a small crowd had gathered.

  Giovan Francesco clubbed Captain Petronio’s sword out of his hand and struck savagely at the soldier’s left arm, then hacked at his leg, slicing to the bone again and again.

  “God curse you!” screamed the captain. Blood pulsed from his wounds, soaking his tunic.

  “I told you to stay out of this!” shouted Giovan Francesco, watching his opponent crumple clutching his wounds. “I’m coming, Ranuccio!”

  The Giugoli brothers locked arms to carry Ranuccio to a barber-surgeon. Giovan Francesco ran ahead, clearing the crowd as they rushed toward Piazza Navona.

  “Cecco!” gasped Caravaggio, holding a blood-soaked hand to his temple.

  “Maestro!” Cecco answered, his voice cracking.

  “We’ve got to get Michele and Petronio to a barber-surgeon,” said Longhi. “Can you walk, Michele? Mario and I will carry the Bolognese.”

  “Where?” said Caravaggio.

  “Pompeo Navagna’s shop,” said Mario. “Cecco, run alert him!”

  The boy ran, pushing the crowd out of his way.

  The four men made their way down Via della Scrofa.

  “Keep watch for the police, Michele” said Longhi, ducking under the threshold of the barbershop. He and Mario maneuvered Captain Petronio through the doorway.

  “A bloody mess you bring me,” said Pompeo Navagna. The barber sponged the blood from Caravaggio’s wounds. He packed gray-green moss into the gaping skin.

  “Face wounds,” said the barber-surgeon, turning away to attend the Bolognese. “A glancing blow. You’ll bleed but survive. Your friend here, on the other hand—” The barber inspected the captain’s left arm and leg and whistled through his loose teeth. “Now here’s a different story,” he said, shaking his head. “This signore is mincemeat!”

  The barber dug at Petronio’s arm wound with long pincers, extracting a piece of bone, then another and another.

  “Your bone is shattered, Capitano,” said the barber.

  Petronio bared his teeth against the pain as another fragment of bone was extracted from his arm.

  Then the surgeon moved on to his leg.

  “Eight stab wounds in this left thigh alone. Let me—”

  Cecco burst into the room from the Via della Scrofa, where he had been standing guard.

  “The sbirri are coming! They are following the trail of blood.”

  “The papal guard will not be far behind,” said Longhi. He pulled Caravaggio up by the back of his tunic, twisting it in his fist. “Bastardo! We’re done for! Run for it! You too, Mario.”

  “But I didn’t—” said Mario.

  Longhi grabbed him roughly by shoulder. “Listen to me! Ranuccio will surely die. We’ll all be executed for participating in a duel.”

  “But my business. My art, my wife—”

  “Run, Minniti!” shouted Longhi. “Run!”

  The men tumbled out of the barbershop into the road, leaving Petronio to the surgeon’s care.

  Caravaggio grabbed Cecco by the shoulders, looking him in the eye. “Take care of the canvases. Promise me.”

  “Sì!” shouted Cecco, looking over his shoulder at the approaching crowd. “Va’ via, Maestro!” Go!

  “Take the paintings to Palazzo Madama and Cardinal del Monte. I’ll send word there—”

  “They’re coming, Michele. Run!” shouted Longhi.

  Flaming torches lit the far end of the street. Shouts, curses, and the sound of boot heels on stone became louder as the sbirri approached.

  Caravaggio ran, his hand pressed to his temple. His wound began to bleed again, spotting the cobblestones with blood.

  Cecco stood like a statue in the road. He watched his master disappear into the dark streets off Via della Scrofa.

  Chapter 29

  MARSAXLOKK, MALTA

  “I think I hate you.”

  “I think I hate myself.” A long silence, and then he said, for what seemed like the hundredth time, “I didn’t know you got seasick.”

  And Lucia, again for what seemed the hundredth time, answered, “Neither did I—until I got trapped in that garbage scow for two days.” And then, quickly, heading off another hundredth repetition, “I know. Fishing boat. Not garbage scow. But Jesus, Moto . . .”

  And then she let it drop, because he’d been every bit as sick as she had—maybe even worse—and they now were, after all, in Malta, still queasy and trapped on a bus that spewed diesel fumes as it chugged through narrow streets on the hilly island, but otherwise in good shape. Alive, anyway.

  When Moto’s cousin’s rusted fishing trawler had slipped into port at dawn after two days on a rough winter sea, Lucia and Moto had staggered ashore, reeling from nausea and ignoring the smirks of the crew.

  “Let’s find the nearest hotel.”

  “No.” Even seasick, the new Moto was taking charge. “We have to keep moving.”

  “Right now, this damn street is moving. I swear, Moto, I’m going to throw up again.”

  “No, you’re not. We have to get away from the coast. If they found us in Naples, they can follow us here. They’ll check the ports.”

  “You’re getting paranoid. No one followed us onto that damned boat. We must have lost them. We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

  Moto raised a warning finger. “The Malta Tourist Bureau won’t appreciate that remark.”

  With that, he half dragged her onto a bus that took t
hem to another bus and then a third bus. Malta was warmer than Rome, but as if to make up for that, it was raining steadily, and after long waits at bus stops, they were both soaking wet by the time they got on the last bus. Still fighting the nausea, Lucia stared out the window at the passing fields of dark green speckled, even in midwinter, with bright-yellow flowers—so cheerful it made her want to punch someone in the face.

  Finally, after more than an hour, they staggered off the bus in Rabat, a city right outside the walls of Malta’s old capital of Mdina, where they found, yet again, a cheap hotel room and, yet again, passed out fully dressed—wet clothes and all—on the bed.

  Lucia was not going to cry. She would not let herself. She might have dedicated her life to studying art, but she had always felt that people who wept openly in the presence of great art were just showing off. But now, staring at The Beheading of St. John the Baptist, she felt tears flooding her eyes. She blinked hard, unwilling to let the tears fall or to wipe them away.

  Not that anyone was paying attention to her. The brightly lit room in the Valletta cathedral was much larger than the dark chapel in the church of San Luigi dei Francesi in Rome, but even on this midwinter morning, it was filled with a bustling crowd. There were a hundred people talking, pointing, corralling children, answering cell phones, and taking pictures despite the prominent signs declaring that photography was absolutely prohibited. From time to time, a guard hushed the mob with a sharp, “Shhhh!” And then, little by little, the murmur rose again.

  But none of it mattered to Lucia. The enormous painting’s focus, power, and clarity swept everything away. The crowd and the noise that had indeed distressed her when she first walked into the room faded quickly. For a long moment, she forgot to breathe, and then, when breath returned, her eyes filled with tears.

  She blinked again and focused on the painting. The central drama was intense, a tight cluster of figures: the saint lying dead—no, she decided, not dead, dying, his blood still spurting—after the savage slash of the executioner’s sword, that sword now dropped clattering on the stones of the courtyard; the executioner, one hand reaching down to grab the saint’s hair, his extended arm an arrow, like the neon sign outside the Naples hotel, pointing to the moment of death, while his other hand reached behind him for his knife to finishing severing the head; the young woman—was she Salome, who had demanded the saint’s head? No, certainly a serving girl, this was servant’s work—holding out a platter to receive the severed head; an old woman, clutching her own head in horror; a prison guard, pointing sternly, trying to take control of the moment.