“Only the pope could make an exception. And Roma has decreed Caravaggio’s death.”
“Michelangelo’s father was such a good, simple man,” said the marchesa, shaking her head. “A worthy servant and friend to your father . . . and to me.”
Fabrizio waved away his mother’s words. “Mamma, you have told me many times.”
He raised his hands, palms turned upward in supplication. He had known Michelangelo as a childhood friend, one of the servants’ boys who was standoffish and shy, unlike his father. But as young children, they had played together—building forts, whittling swords from branches.
Fabrizio looked out the palazzo window at a bird lighting in the branches of a cypress tree. The clanging of the bells of the Santi Apostoli next to the palazzo frightened the bird away, a flapping of black wings gleaming in the early-dawn light.
“I’ve heard rumors that the grand master is seeking a painter,” he said at last.
The marchesa’s eyes opened wide. “An artist for the Order of Malta?”
“To commemorate the knights.”
“Oh! Fabrizio! Michelangelo would be perfect! You could talk to the grand master and—”
Fabrizio held up his hand. “Patience, Mamma. This is a delicate matter. It would be best if handled indirectly. I shall speak to Ottavio Costa, who owns several of Michele’s paintings. Costa is a relative of Cavaliere Malaspina. If he suggests Caravaggio to Malaspina, and Malaspina talks to the grand master, there is a good chance of success.”
“Oh, dear boy. You must speak with Costa immediately. Shall I invite him to dine?”
“No. I will pay him a visit. The sooner, the better. These things take time.”
“In the meantime, where shall Michele flee?”
Fabrizio rubbed his beard with a thumbnail. “Temporarily, he could take shelter in our estate in Zagarolo.”
“But that’s too close to Roma! A half-day ride and the papal guards will seize him.”
“They’ll have to learn his whereabouts. And I don’t think Pope Paul V—or any pope—would want to anger the Colonnas,” he said, setting his mouth hard.
“Still. Zagarolo is too close. Unless we can arrange a pardon . . .”
“This is no tavern brawl, Mamma. It’s murder!”
“Michele could go to Napoli,” said the marchesa, clenching and unclenching her fingers. “He would be protected there under Spanish law. The pope could not interfere with a sovereign state.”
Fabrizio shook his head ruefully. “He might be safe . . . until the Tomassoni brothers hunt him down. Those brothers will not forget Ranuccio’s murder.”
The marchesa patted her son’s hand. She felt how his skin was weathered from days at sea.
Admiral! How the Maltese Knights have changed my son’s fortunes.
“Let’s let this play out,” said Fabrizio. “Malaspina may save Michele’s miserable skin, the idiot!”
“You are right, my son,” said the marchesa. “Va bene, I will send him to Zagarolo—close enough to Roma should he receive a pardon.”
“Mamma!” said Fabrizio, throwing his hands in the air. “Michele will never receive a pardon from the pope!”
“At least the Alban Hills will be a stepping-stone. I know Michele,” she said, knitting her fingers together. “He would rather die than be banished from Roma.”
“He should have thought about that before he started killing Romans, especially those associated with the noble houses.”
“Zagarolo first, while I make arrangements. Then Napoli. But hidden away.”
“All right,” said Fabrizio. “Napoli should suit him. The dark alleyways, cutthroats, and thieves will give him a deserving welcome.”
Chapter 31
Alban Hills, Lazio
1606
By the rocking and jolting of the carriage, Cecco knew they were climbing a hill. His fingers sought the crimson velvet, drawing back the curtain just enough to peek out at the Alban Hills.
As the coach emerged from a dark forest, Cecco saw the Colonnas’ feudal town of Zagarolo perched on the rocky hillside. The stuccoed ochre buildings stood on a rising line of stone, cut with steep ravines.
It looks like the spiny back of a dragon, hunching over the forest.
The secluded outpost was perfectly suited for hiding a man condemned to death under a bando capitale.
The coach jolted toward the ancient Roman gate, replete with a seated Jupiter and an eagle. Thunderbolts were carved into the marble.
“Look, Maestro,” said Cecco softly, pulling back the curtain.
“Cover the window, damn you!” moaned Caravaggio, holding his bandaged head. “The sun hurts my eyes!”
Cecco let the heavy cloth fall back into place.
“Did you pack up all the pigments? My brushes, my—”
“Maestro. Everything of value I have packed. I had so little time.”
Caravaggio groaned. “Give me a drink of water.”
Cecco passed a flask to his master.
The coach lurched over the rough stones, the water spilling over Caravaggio’s threadbare tunic.
“Al diavolo!” he shouted. To the devil! He pounded the front board of the carriage to signal the driver.
Cecco looked at his master’s bloody bandages, which were turning brown with the heat.
“How are we so fortunate to receive such succor from the Colonnas, Maestro?” he said. “She must love you as a son—”
“Ha!” said Caravaggio, taking a sip of water. “I believe she is as superstitious as a gypsy. I am the blessed boy born on Saint Michael’s day, the date of her father’s victory at Lepanto. She has always doted on me like a favorite son.”
Cecco said nothing. His head rocked with the motion of the coach.
“Did you tell Lena what happened?” asked Caravaggio.
Cecco shook his head. “Maestro, forgive me. I had no time.”
“I shall send word,” said Caravaggio, picking scabbed blood from his bandages. Cecco watched the artist examine the color, turning his fingertip in the dim light, then pulling the edge of the window curtain back to shed sunlight on the bloody scab.
Cecco smiled wearily.
His mind is muddling over the pigment and how to create the perfect paint to capture that color. Dried blood.
The coach stopped, punctuated by the snorts of the horses.
“Maestro Caravaggio,” said a voice at the carriage door. “Benvenuti a Zagarolo. You remain under the protection of Duke Marzio Colonna.”
Caravaggio pulled back the curtain. A bearded man in a brown velvet suit stood on moss-covered stones. Behind him rose a twelfth-century palazzo of limestone and marble facing.
“My name is Rafael di Cortello. I am the steward of the palazzo in the service of Duke Colonna,” said the bearded man, opening the carriage door. “If you will follow me, Maestro Caravaggio, I shall show you to your rooms in the—”
“Where will I paint?” said Caravaggio, clutching his bandaged head. “Is there sufficient light?”
Di Cortello drew a quick breath, taken aback. “Of course, Maestro Merisi. The marchesa has arranged everything to meet your demands. I know of your fame as an artist.”
Cecco watched silently.
And as a murderer?
Cecco had barely finished his dinner of roast partridge and artichokes before his master set him to work.
“Unpack the pigments and begin grinding both burnt and raw umber. And red ochre . . . plenty of it. Set up the easel facing Roma. North by northwest.”
“But the light at this time of the—”
“Do as I say,” snapped Caravaggio. “I do not need the light now.”
Cecco bowed, excusing himself from the table.
Caravaggio arranged for a pallet to be brought in for the boy, despite the fact that Cecco had been given his own room.
“My hours are erratic,” said the artist to Di Cortello. “I must have the boy at my beck and call.”
“As you wish, Maestro,” replied the steward
.
Since the night of Ranuccio’s death, Cecco had slept little. As he lay down, he noticed that the pallet smelled of fresh lavender and sunlight, the bed linens dried in the breezes of the Alban Hills. And then, in a moment, he was profoundly asleep.
In the deepest hour of the night, as the moon spilled its milky light across the room, the boy awoke. Caravaggio stood by the window, looking toward Roma.
Cecco watched his master’s hand rise and fall, silhouetted in the moonlight, orchestrating the night. Rubbing his eyes, Cecco realized the artist was not conducting but sketching. Drawing an image from memory.
Cecco watched the movement of the imaginary brush held delicately between Caravaggio’s index finger and thumb. Following the motion, Cecco could see the outline. A drawing of a reclining figure—a woman?—her throat bent back, her mouth dropped open.
Early the next morning, the sunrise only a smudge of crimson on the horizon, Cecco opened his eyes. His master stood before the easel, wiping his paintbrush. He looked over to the waking boy.
“Buongiorno, ragazzo!” he said, stretching his arms over his head.
“Buongiorno,” said Cecco, trying to catch a glimpse of the canvas.
Caravaggio covered the painting, something he never had done before.
“Do not look at this,” he said to Cecco. “This is private, for my own pleasure. Do you understand?”
“Sì, Maestro,” said the boy. “Ho capito.”
“Now. I’m eager to start a new canvas this morning. Get up and grind some verdaccio. I need a blue green for Jesus’s robe.”
“Jesus?” said Cecco, pulling on his pants.
Caravaggio nodded. “The Supper at Emmaus.” The artist took on a distracted look. “Send word for the cook to prepare lamb. A rack, the bones exposed—a cheap cut. The scrawniest, most gristly piece the butcher can provide. I must have it for this afternoon’s session.”
He stopped for a moment and closed his eyes. Then he turned slowly back toward the window.
“And Cecco,” he said, staring into the distance. “Do you remember the old woman who posed for me with Lena? For the Madonna of the Palafrenieri?”
“The signora from Via della Scrofa?”
“The same. Describe her,” said Caravaggio. “Draw her in words for me, every detail you remember.”
Cecco touched his fingertips together in a temple, pressing them against his forehead. He closed his eyes, remembering. “Her face was a map of wrinkles . . .” he started.
“Sì. Go on. Where were the wrinkles set . . . what angles?”
Cecco opened his eyes, looking out the window to the steep ravines gouging the rocky hill below. He turned back to face his master. “Deep canyons rutting her skin from cheek to mouth. Her eyes were sunken caves in her skull.”
“Sì,” said Caravaggio. “Bene!”
“Her skin drew tight around her cheekbones.” Cecco made a slash with his pointer fingers, making a V. “This angle. Like a clenched fist across knuckles, all sinews tying in a knot at her pointed chin.”
“That’s it. Yes, now I remember.”
“But . . . you softened that in the shadows of the painting. She looked benevolent.”
“She had to be. She was Saint Anne. But I remember the sharp chin. The angled face.”
“Ah!” said Cecco, snapping his fingers. “She had a goiter—not large like the woman in Judith Beheading Holofernes, but easy enough to see—right under her neck, on her right collarbone.”
“Excellent!” said Caravaggio. He reached for his paintbrush and, taking the blunt handle, began to press into the prepared black gesso. “Go on, Cecco. Go on.”
“The part in her hair. A white line in coarse dark hair. Dirty, ill-kempt. I remember she smelled of rancid oil, a greasy smell.”
Caravaggio made another depression in the gesso. He stood back, looking at his mark. He made a few slight lines with lead white, blocking out a position. Then he used his brush to make a quick sketch in dark paint, a figure, faint as a ghost. Cecco saw the outline of the woman emerging in the corner of the painting.
Like the mysterious painting in the moonlight, the old woman was drawn from memory, something his master had never done before.
Ottavio Costa quizzed his personal secretary, who stood before him with a large, carefully wrapped package.
“You say this arrived in a Colonna coach?”
“Sì, signore,” said the secretary, bowing his head.
“And there was no letter?”
“No, signore. The driver said only that it was a painting, to be delivered exclusively to your hand here in Roma. And that you should judge its value. The coach will pass by again tomorrow to receive either the money or the painting to be returned.”
“It can only be . . .” said Ottavio Costa, his eyes wide in anticipation. “Open it, subito!”
“Sì, signore.”
Costa watched his secretary struggle with the twine. “Cut it,” he said. “But be careful! You must take care, Sebastiano!”
The secretary at last freed the package of the final strand of twine. He pulled back the vellum, exposing the painting.
“Dio mio!” gasped Costa. “It is magnificent!”
When the secretary said nothing, Costa explained, “It is our Lord at the Supper of Emmaus.”
The secretary leaned the painting against the wall and retreated a few steps. He studied the painting, twisting his lips.
Look how haggard is our Lord Christ! The wispy red beard of a beggar. And what a piece of gristle and bone that old woman serves him. Does she not realize who he is? God on Earth!
“I shall have it!” said Costa. “Open the coffer and take out five hundred—no!—six hundred scudi. Have it ready for the driver. My God, what a treasure I have procured.”
The secretary nodded, then furrowed his brow beyond his master’s sight.
Now we support a murderer!
The Colonna steward, Di Cortello, knocked on the door of Caravaggio’s room. The tang of turpentine stung his nostrils.
“Why do you interrupt me?” said Caravaggio, dabbing at his painting. He turned gruffly to address the intruder, paintbrush still in hand.
“Rumors that you hide here in Zagarolo have reached the ears of the papacy,” said Di Cortello. “It is too dangerous to remain in this house. You must leave—”
“That is not convenient! Where will I go?” snapped Caravaggio, scowling at the steward. “I’m in the middle of a new painting—”
“Maestro, perhaps you do not understand the risk. The papal guards will arrest you here. And the scandal for the Colonnas—”
“Ah,” said Caravaggio, halting. “The marchesa.”
“The Marchesa Colonna has completed arrangements for you to move to their palazzo in Paliano. And then on to Napoli.”
“Napoli! Why in God’s name would I move to Napoli? I must be near Roma to receive a pardon—”
“Forgive me, Maestro,” said Di Cortello, his nostrils pinched. “The marchesa and her son Signor Fabrizio do not believe a pardon is . . . imminent.”
Caravaggio’s back stiffened. “How can I be banished from Roma? Napoli is a different universe!”
“Signore,” said Di Cortello. “The coach will depart right after dark. Please let me know what assistance we can give you.”
And good riddance!
Chapter 32
ROME
“It is proving very costly, sir.” Fra Filippo Lupo stood at attention.
His comandante didn’t respond, so the tall man continued.
“Two at the very beginning, sir, in Rome. Both professed knights. Then a novice at the Muslims’ villa, burned. By his own foolishness, but still a loss. We were fortunate to recover what was left of him. And then two in Naples. A commander and a novice.”
The man at the desk narrowed his eyes. His voice was smooth. “And let us not forget your knee. In Rome.”
“That was an accident, sir. Not worth accounting.” He was at ramrod attention.
“You are still limping.”
“It does not impair my efficiency, sir.”
“Even so.” A brief silence. “So, unlike your disaster in Naples, there were no casualties in that fiasco in Malta. Is that correct?”
“Yes sir.” A broken nose from that bitch’s desperate kick didn’t seem worth mentioning.
“So it would seem we are getting better.”
The tall man flinched. “We always try to be at our best, sir.”
“I suppose.” Comandante Pantera looked down at some papers spread out in front of him on the desk, then snapped his eyes up again. “Why are we discussing our casualties?”
“I know you want to be informed, sir. Our ranks are already thin. Now they grow thinner.”
“Are you suggesting we are defeated? That we surrender?” His voice was rising. “That we are finished? Destroyed like the Turks at Lepanto?”
“No sir. I—”
“We are not defeated. We will not surrender!”
“Sir, I—”
“We will defend our faith, our legion, and our founding inspiration.” His voice dropped, suddenly quiet. “To the very end.”
“Sir.” Color rose in Fra Lupo’s hollow cheeks, and he maintained his rigid posture as he turned and left the room. Limping ever so slightly.
“And that guy—”
“Which guy?” Professor Richman interrupted from his armchair in the owner’s suite in the villa at Monte Piccolo, where he seemed intent on remaining more or less forever.
“The guy who smacked me across the face.” Moto worked his jaw back and forth sideways, as if he were still testing for damage from that slap in the backstreets of Naples a week before. “He said we were on our own. I thought about that, and I knew I couldn’t just let Lulu wander off on her own.” Lucia blew him a kiss.
“But you didn’t go into the grotto to find her?”
“I don’t go underground.” Moto’s tone was a little defensive. “So I waited in a café across the street. And I saw three of them. In those black robes—”
“With the Maltese cross.” The professor had to chime in. Moto ignored him.
“—marching across the piazza. They went inside, and I kept waiting for Lulu to come running out. But she didn’t. I had to do something.”
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