“Lo sfregio!” Signor del Franchis chuckled. “A revenge slash to the face. Caravaggio has captured it perfectly, the pride and passion.”
“Genius,” pronounced the marchese. “He understands us. He has captured our blood, our soul. A whirlpool in a dark alleyway. A torrent of action as fierce as the streets of our city.”
“This shall be the masterpiece of all Napoli!” proclaimed Signor Mancini in a loud voice.
The painter turned and offered a slight bow.
“We are forever in your debt,” said the Marchese di Villa. All the men nodded. Di Villa was the most powerful among them. “You are welcome in Napoli, Maestro Merisi da Caravaggio.”
Chapter 35
MONTE PICCOLO
The footsteps on the stairs were heavy. The knock at the door demanding.
Moto raised an eyebrow.
Lucia marched to the door.
“Who’s there?”
“Police! Open the door.”
She did.
The three men who walked in wore no uniforms, but their bearing and attitude made their status clear. They were police, they wanted answers, and they were used to getting what they wanted.
One stood by the door. One drifted toward the windows. The third took center stage. Lucia started to say something, but he froze her with a glance. The professor, in his armchair, just smiled.
The cop fixed his gaze on Moto, narrowed his eyes. “Why Roero?” he said.
“That’s what we want to know.” Lucia couldn’t help herself.
The cop turned and pointed at her. His power was unmistakable. He turned back to Moto.
“Why Roero?” he repeated.
It had hardly been an hour since Moto had called his cousin, the Rome poliziotto, to ask if the name Roero had come up during their investigations. It had seemed like a long shot. Apparently it wasn’t.
Unfortunately, since they hadn’t really expected any response—much less the one they got—they hadn’t considered an explanation for why they wanted to know about Roero. Now, under the fierce gaze of the plainclothes detective, Moto was stuck. The truth was their secret: the investigation into the missing painting. And secret or not, the truth would sound ridiculous.
Before Moto could stumble into deeper waters, Professor Richman spoke up from his armchair.
“Scusi.” He cleared his throat. “I . . . um . . . no parlo mucho italiano.”
Lucia raised an eyebrow. She enjoyed teasing the professor about his Italian, but in fact, it had improved by leaps and bounds. Now he was suddenly floundering. Worse than ever. Before she could jump in, he stumbled on.
“I am . . . no . . . io sono professore americano.” A broad smile. Then a frown. “Io sono . . . writing . . . um . . . scrivendo? Sì. Scrivendo. Scrivendo about arte!” Big smile again. Then the blank look of someone who has run out words. “Lucia, my dear, can you help me out here, please?”
Then he began to rattle on in English while Lucia tried to keep up with him, translating for the police and wondering what the hell was going on.
“I am looking into the story of Fra Giovanni Rodomonte Roero, the Conte della Vezza, a Knight of Malta who played a major role in the glorious history of Italian art, as I am sure you gentlemen know.” An inclusive smile that said of course these policemen were conversant with Italian art history.
“My able assistant, Lucia, was off on an errand, so I made the mistake of trying to communicate with her young friend, whose English is, I fear, perhaps even worse than my Italian.”
The professor paused, waiting for Lucia to catch up with the translation.
“I asked if he could help me find some simple facts about Cavaliere Roero—who passed out of this vale of tears almost five hundred years ago, as I am sure, again, you know well.” Lucia struggled with the fake-elegant diction, but now she had an idea where he was heading. “And I am afraid our young friend misunderstood in some drastic fashion and made what seems to have been an inappropriate telephone inquiry.” His broad smile again. “Scusi. Scusi. Mille scusi!”
Another smile. “I am sorry that this young man’s confusion has forced you to come all the way here. But I think we can all rest assured that any police interest in my Roero ended half a millennium ago.”
And now a final gracious nod and smile to all concerned.
The detectives seemed a little uneasy, but Lucia smoothed their way by explaining that the professor was in Chianti to attend the prestigious seminar here in the villa and that his paper on Fra Roero would undoubtedly prove a worthwhile addition to the history of Italian art.
And so, at last, with the professor beaming paternally, Moto looking confused, and Lucia graciously herding them toward the door, the three policemen left.
Even their footsteps going down the stairs were subdued.
“Cugino! Che diavolo era quello?” Cousin! What the hell was that?
Moto gestured so vigorously that the cell phone flew out of his hand and he had to scramble across the floor to pick it up.
“Aspetta! Che cosa? Cosa hai detto?” Wait! What? What did you say?
Now Moto was listening carefully, his eyes wide, sputtering a little as his cousin talked at length.
“Sì . . . ma . . . ma . . . Non può essere!” Yes . . . but . . . but . . . It can’t be!
And then, finally, “Gesù! Davvero? Siamo fottuti!” Jesus! Really? We’re screwed!
He stuffed the phone back in his pocket and turned to the others.
“That was my cousin.” Lucia gave a shrug. Obviously. “The carabinieri are tracking a group of terrorists who call themselves the Roero Brigade.”
No more shrugs. Lucia and the professor shared the same stunned look.
“They claim they are the true heirs of the original Knights of Malta—dedicated to protecting the Christian world against the terror of Islam. They have nothing but contempt for the current knights. They consider them imposters and cowards.”
The professor, as always, had a question. “But why Roero? Aside from his involvement with Caravaggio, he was nothing much. Why not a more meaningful name? Maybe the Valette Brigade. Jean Parisot de la Valette was the grand master who fought off the Turks in the Great Siege. That would seem more like the name they would use.”
“My cousin says the leader—he calls himself the grand commander—claims he’s a direct descendant of Cavaliere Nobilissimo Roero. He’s very proud of it.”
“Still odd,” said the professor, “when you consider that any offspring of a Knight of Malta would have to be illegitimate. They all took vows of chastity. Warrior monks, if you will, but still monks.” He chuckled. “Amusing. Not much actual chastity, of course. But still, vows were vows. No marriage. No legitimate heirs.”
“Stop it!” Lucia was almost screaming.
“Stop what?” the professor asked, puzzled.
“Stop chuckling and showing off how much you know. These bastards have murdered people all around us. Beheaded them! They tried to kill me. They’re still out there. There’s nothing ‘amusing’ about this.”
Professor Richman managed to look chastened—and still a little defiant.
“Well, what do we do about it, then?” he asked.
“We still don’t know what it’s all about. Renegade lunatics, make-believe Knights of Malta, are slaughtering Muslims. Beheading them.”
“Muslims and non-Muslims,” Moto broke in. “Those two who stole the painting and killed your zio. I didn’t get the idea that anyone thought they were Muslim.”
“No,” said the professor. “Just cheap crooks.”
“Who got what they had coming,” added Lucia, thinking of Te-Te, bitterness still in her voice. “But what does any of it have to do with us? With Michele? With the painting?”
She walked to the window and looked out over the Chianti landscape, still bare in midwinter, no signs of spring, no touches of green.
“How did we wind up in the middle of this?”
She turned away from the window and stared
at the professor, then Moto, then up to the ceiling, as if looking to the sky beyond.
“How?”
Gran Comandante Pantera allowed himself a self-satisfied smile.
“Taking into account your disaster in Malta . . . No, I will be more specific: your ill-considered plan followed by disaster—”
“But, sir, I—”
“Silence.” It was barely whispered, but the effect was immediate. Fra Lupo stared ahead in rigid silence. Pantera nodded and continued.
“Taking that into account, I decided I would have to move our investigations ahead on my own. As you know, the Muslims destroyed my academic career, but I still have friends from those days who understand our mission and know full well how vital it is. Vital to the survival of our civilization.” He paused for a moment. “I am reminded of the words of Sir Winston Churchill.” He rose—dropping abruptly since the chair was adjusted to its greatest height to allow him to sit comfortably behind the too-big desk, which left his feet dangling several inches off the ground—and turned to the bookshelves. He pulled out a thick leather-bound volume, opened it carefully, studied one page for a moment, nodded sharply, slipped the book back onto the shelf, and, back still turned to Lupo, spoke loudly and clearly.
“From The River War: An Historical Account of the Reconquest of the Soudan.” He didn’t mention that his copy of the book was the first edition, because of course it was. “‘Besides the fanatical frenzy, which is as dangerous in a man as hydrophobia in a dog, Mohammedanism is a militant and proselytizing faith. Were it not that Christianity is sheltered in the strong arms of science, the civilization of modern Europe might fall, as fell the civilization of Ancient Rome.’” He turned back with military precision. “We must never falter, Lupo. We must learn from our mistakes—from your mistakes—and move ahead.” He nodded sharply. “Always advancing.”
There was silence.
Lupo spoke first.
“And your research, sir?”
“Exactly! Of course.” He hoisted himself back onto his chair. “Some of my old colleagues have gone into government service. I will not judge them for their cooperation with the godless state. It has placed them in position to be helpful. Based on what little we knew—an American professor and una ragazza italiana in a seminar at Monte Piccolo—they have provided me with the identities of both of our key targets. The American professor, as I was certain, is relevant only because of his connection with the girl. He is retired, widowed, elderly, and, we can safely assume, he is in Italy looking only to keep himself occupied until his death. But the girl is far more interesting. She is also American, but”—he raised an instructor’s finger—“she holds dual citizenship. She was born here, in Sicily, but was sent to America as a young child, where she was raised by her nonni.” He squinted at a sheet of paper on the desk. “In a place called”—a raised eyebrow—“Ronkonkoma on something they refer to as Isola Lunga. Long Island.”
The tall man nodded solemnly. “Brilliant work, sir.”
The little man at the desk pretended not to care about the praise. “Easy enough—although it did require reaching out to contacts in America as well as here. Fortunately, I do remain well connected.” He allowed himself another of what may have been smiles.
“And the third one, sir? The young man? Have you learned any more about him?”
A dismissive gesture. “The bardassa is irrelevant. Forget about him.”
Then he thrust out a sheet of paper. “This is what we now know about the girl. She was born in Sicily and sent to . . . Ronkonkoma . . . wherever that is, to be raised. Now we need to discover why.” He leaned back in the chair. “We traced the cursed painting a long way. Four hundred years. From that wretched painter to a desperate priest and his orphanage. Then we hesitated. And that girl slipped in and ruined our plans. Another fiasco.” His eyes narrowed and he took a sharp breath. “We won’t make that mistake again. But we need to know more. How she is connected to all of this. Who is she, Lupo? What part does she play? She is not some casual innocent who stumbled into our path. Find out. Details, Fra Lupo. Details.” He took his glasses off and polished them carefully with a handkerchief. “Tread carefully. We know the Sicilians are involved somehow. They are not our enemies and we must keep it that way.”
He laid his hands flat on the desk.
“Do not fail me.” A curt nod. “Dismissed!”
But Fra Lupo did not turn and walk away. Instead, he remained at attention, facing the desk. The comandante looked up, his move surprisingly birdlike, delicate.
“You are still here, Lupo?”
“Sir. Begging your pardon, sir. I have been asked—some of our men have asked—why we care so much about this painting. Sir.”
Comandante Pantera gave a thin smile. “If it were really the ‘men,’ Lupo, I would respond that they have no right to ask. Just as we must be obedient to God himself without trying to understand his reasons, so our soldiers must obey their orders without asking questions about matters far beyond their comprehension.”
“Sir, I agree, of course, but—”
“Do not interrupt me! I said the men have no right to ask. But you were most certainly asking on your own behalf.”
He leaned back in his chair and smiled again. Thinly.
“And I will indulge you, Fra Lupo. As an indication of my fondness for you, figlio mio.” His eyes narrowed. “There is a message concealed in that painting. I cannot say exactly where or how it is concealed, but that message was put there by the unspeakable painter himself. It is filled with scurrilous, slanderous charges against our inspiration, our great leader, my ancestor, Cavaliere Giovanni Rodomonte Roero. There is no question that those charges are all lies, filthy lies from the bottomless pit of hell where that syphilitic madman of a painter most certainly burns in eternal torment. But we cannot allow his filth to stain our beloved Cavaliere Roero.”
In his fierce enthusiasm, the comandante had risen partly out of his chair. Now he paused to catch his breath and settled back down again.
“And so we must find that painting. We must find that vile message. And we must destroy it.” His glasses glinted in the light.
“Dismissed!”
Chapter 36
Valletta, Malta
1607
Alof de Wignacourt, grand master of Malta, stared up at the coffered ceiling of the ceremonial throne room. He squinted to make out the fine paintings overhead, thirteen scenes from the siege of Malta. With his open hand, he gestured toward the artwork.
“What beauty Matteo Perez d’Aleccio created over our heads,” he said to his companion, Ippolito Malaspina. “I remember watching him on the scaffolding when I was a young man. Do you remember?”
“Grand Master de la Cassière brought beauty to Malta when he contracted the artist,” said the knight, stroking his gray-flecked beard. “D’Aleccio does justice to the siege and the sacrifices made.”
The two men craned their necks upward until stiffness set in.
“Art commemorated the virtues and victories of our order in those days,” Wignacourt said, rubbing the back of his neck.
“And now? Europe forgets us. It’s been forty-two years since the Great Siege. Times were harder four decades ago. Still, art found its way to these rocky shores,” said Malaspina. “In the most dangerous of times.”
“I’m still searching for a painter,” said the grand master, casting an eye once more to the coffered ceiling.
Later that afternoon, Wignacourt stood among the rows of beds lining the long hospital room of Valletta.
The swish of tunics against leggings laced the air, giving off the brawny odor of men. The mighty Knights of Malta staffed the hospital themselves—one of eight obligations of their order: tending the sick. Even the most distinguished knight was expected to make the rounds, ministering to the afflicted.
In the years since a major engagement with the Ottomans, the majority of the sick suffered from maladies not earned in battle but accidents, diseases, and wounds
from the duels that, though they were strictly forbidden, were becoming more commonplace among the knights.
This is what happens when warriors are not fighting an enemy. They war with each other.
The old knight Malaspina crouched beside a young page who had severed his finger with a kitchen knife. The doctor had tried to sew the digit back onto the bloody stump, but the sutures had ruptured with pus where an infection had set in.
“How is the boy doing?” whispered the grand master.
The knight partially turned his arthritic neck. He groaned softly as he raised himself up.
“He certainly will lose the finger,” said Malaspina. “I only hope that the tincture the doctor has brewed will cure his fever. A finger—it’s nothing, with nine to spare. A life?”
“And such a precious life,” murmured the grand master, tears welling in his eyes.
“He is in God’s hands,” said Malaspina, crossing himself.
Wignacourt looked at the boy, whose eyes shone with fever. Jacques de Bonniére was a favorite page among the dozens the grand master had enrolled from the noble families across Europe. The child had been sent here to become a Knight of Malta, a champion of Christianity, fighting the infidels in glorious battles.
It wouldn’t do if the boy lost his life from a slip of the knife, preparing soup for the sick.
“Come outside if you would, Cavaliere,” said the grand master. “I want to discuss other matters.”
“Certainly,” said Malaspina, looking once more at the boy.
The brilliant sun of Malta spilled over the limestone city, accentuating the deep blue of the Mediterranean. Wignacourt cupped his hand over his brow, sheltering his eyes from the blinding light. “We must find a great painter,” he said. “As we discussed this morning.”
“One who will bring splendor and honor to our Maltese order,” said Malaspina.
“Sì, Ippolito. We need a great artist. I want you to find the best. No less. I’ve had no luck in finding one to take up residence in Malta.”
“Malta is not the most hospitable island,” concurred Malaspina. “Unless one is a knight of our order.”
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