by Walter Ellis
It was just after three according to the clock in the Piazza Firenza when he reached the front door of Battista’s residence. It was no more than a hundred paces from the Corte Savella prison, where Beatrice Cenci had been tortured before her execution, which did not seem a good omen. The last time he had felt this nervous, he realized, was October 1601, when he was arrested for brawling in Trastevere and carrying a sword without a permit. On that occasion, he had spent two terrifying nights in the cells of the Tor di Nona. The offence was his fifth of a serious nature since coming to live in Rome in 1592, and the head of the sbirri, enraged by the boldness and seeming impunity of the city’s self-styled bravi, was determined to make an example. He had been thrown into the prison’s deepest, dankest dungeon, known as the ‘pit’, where, as he lay in the darkness, all he could hear were the screams of the damned. Twenty-four hours later, he was brought out and shown the instruments of torture by a priest of the Holy Office, which had made him piss himself. If Cardinal Del Monte, prompted by the Colonna family, his father’s employers, hadn’t acted to free him, he had no doubt that he would have been hung up by his arms, with stone weights attached to his feet – an ordeal known as strappado – until he confessed to whatever crimes the sbirri needed to clear up and which they found it convenient to attribute to him. His next appointment, his last, would then have been with the headsman on the Ponte Sant’Angelo – a prospect that filled him with mortal dread.
It wasn’t that long ago that he didn’t worry about death – or at least knew how to laugh about it. Not any more. Now it was as if the darkness was pressing down on him, making his head hurt, transferring the grotesqueries of his dreams into his waking life. Others had noticed it. His temper these days erupted with alarming suddenness, clouding his judgment, causing him to inflate every slight, real or imagined, into a question of honour. Not long ago, he had thrown a plate of hot artichokes into the face of a waiter who couldn’t say which were cooked with butter and which in oil. Not content with humiliating the fellow, he had then drawn his sword and threatened him, for no good reason. It was if a demon possessed him. The only thing that sustained him, and kept him from thoughts of suicide, was his unshakeable conviction that he was the greatest painter in Italy since Tintoretto, perhaps since Titian. This might have been hard for some of his rivals to accept, but it was true. Perhaps because they agreed with him, the others refused to leave him alone. Everything he did, every canvas, every drawing, was placed on the dissecting table of their vanity and minutely examined for flaws, mostly of a moral nature. Fellow painters praised him in public, but in private they spread poison about him and undercut his prices. The Church, meanwhile, suspected him of something close to heresy, as if his vision of Christ and the Apostles was motivated by something other than devotion. He couldn’t understand it. More than that, he didn’t understand himself.
He remembered how he had bounded into the home of Cherubini full of confidence and self-assertion. That wouldn’t work with Battista, said to be cold and cerebral, but, above all, ruthless. No one had the ear of the Pope the way Battista did. Not even Pietro Aldobrandini, the cardinal-nephew, wielded as much raw power.
The bare bones of his story were well known. The son of a Sienese banker who made a fortune working for Venice during its long struggle with Genoa, Battista was rumoured to have paid 85,000 scudi into the papal exchequer in return for the post he now held. The previous record, according to Orsi, was 70,000 scudi. But it was worth it. With the revenues of the Holy See and the Papal States now bigger than ever, the Camerlengo’s control of taxation, gifts and the issue of coins made him a pivotal figure in the economy of Europe far beyond the papal domains. Not even the Medici or the bankers of Switzerland dared defy him. Battista was the master of all he surveyed, and his surveys were no less than the audit of Christendom.
Yet closest of all to the heart of the Camerlengo was said to be his control of the finances that governed the war with the Ottomans. In recent years, while the Turks re-armed and prepared for a renewed offensive in the Mediterranean, money from Rome aimed at the maintenance of strong defences had steadily declined. Battista argued that no other course made sense. To wage war on a grand scale in perpetuity led only to bankruptcy. Let the Sublime Court spend its strength on a course that ultimately spelled ruin; Europe would not make the same mistake. As the power of Spain reduced and the cohesion of France continued to be challenged by religious division, some, like Longhi, thought it strange that Battista took so sanguine a view. But he was not alone. The Pope, with his background in ecclesiastical law, saw Protestantism and civil unrest, not Islam, as the greatest threat to the Church. The Ottomans, in his opinion, had had their wings clipped at Lepanto and could safely be left to the emperor and the Knights of Malta.
Caravaggio, waiting in the entrance hall of Battista’s palazzo, prided himself in the sophistication of his political views. He mixed, after all, with princes and prelates, who frequently confided in him and even asked his opinions. But today he had to steer well clear of such matters. Instead, he rehearsed over and over in his mind what he would say if challenged to defend himself against the charge of heresy. The Camerlengo was supposed to be an ascetic, who preferred to say Mass in his own chapel, away from the crowds, and had even turned his back on wine. There certainly weren’t many paintings in his hallway, and none of religious subjects, save for a large and distinctly second-rate Abraham and Isaac. In their place were elegant vases, woodcuts and a series of framed maps. The only sign of ego was a portrait of Battista himself, by Annibale Carracci, that occupied an alcove to the left of the main staircase. As rendered by Carracci, he looked strong-willed and calculating, with furrowed brow and fleshy lips: not a man to be crossed.
After a wait of some twenty minutes, a door to the right opened and a young priest emerged. He was of medium height, with no distinguishing features whatsoever, dressed from head to foot in black. ‘His Eminence will see you now,’ he said in an unexpectedly high voice, ‘and if you wish to survive the experience you will keep a civil tongue in your head.’
Caravaggio said nothing, merely nodded. The priest, who did not give his name, led the way into a broad loggia lit down one side by floor-to-ceiling windows through which a formal garden and fountains could be seen. Beyond, in the middle of a summer’s afternoon, it was insufferably hot and humid; within the walls of the palace it was cool and inviting. Their footsteps echoed on the marble tiles. Suddenly, the priest halted and turned to his right towards a set of heavy oak doors on which he knocked firmly, yet politely.
A voice called out, ‘Entrato!’
‘Your Eminence,’ the priest said, pushing the doors open, ‘the artist Merisi.’
‘Ah yes. Come in, Merisi. Let me have a look at you.’ In contrast with the high treble of the priest, Battista’s voice was low and booming.
Caravaggio did as he was bid. The priest retreated, closing the double doors.
The cardinal was seated behind a large, ornate desk, an ironic smile fixed on his face. ‘Father Acquaviva did not exaggerate,’ he said after a lengthy pause. ‘You look like one of the men I employ to catch rats in my basement.’
Not the best of starts. ‘I’m sorry to offend you, Your Eminence. But I did in fact wash before I set out.’
‘Really? And what about your clothes? When did they last see soap and water?’
‘I’m afraid I tend to buy clothes and wear them until they are … well, as you see me now. Then I throw them away.’
‘I see. Remarkable. Quite remarkable.’ The Camerlengo, in his early sixties, sturdily built with broad shoulders, wore a scarlet cassock fashioned, Caravaggio thought, from pure silk, with a lace trim. His shoes were brilliant red, with silver buckles. It was impossible not to notice his dark, penetrating eyes. If the eyes were indeed the windows of the soul, Caravaggio told himself, then this man’s soul was as black as anything in Dante’s Inferno. The cardinal’s pate was bald on top, with a fringe of dark hair that matched his black beard. Hi
s skull cap sat next to him on the desk. But what was most obvious about him was his malformed left arm, perhaps three inches shorter than it ought to be, ending in a hand the fingers of which were retracted, like a claw. Already, a portrait of the man was forming in the artist’s head.
But then he realized that Battista was still speaking.
‘Perhaps you should rethink your sartorial strategy. After all, you are not a swineherd. Your calling brings you into contact with nobles and princes of the Church. You should dress accordingly.’
‘Yes, Eminence.’
‘And if you sweat a lot, wash more frequently.’
‘I shall endeavour to follow your advice.’
‘That would be wise.’ The cardinal looked cool and relaxed. He did not invite his guest to take a chair. ‘Now tell me, why do you keep being arrested? What is wrong with you? You insist on fighting every week as if your life depended on it. Yet the offence given, or imagined, rarely justifies more than a rebuke. Are you incontinent, Merisi?’
‘What?’
‘Can you not hold yourself back? Must every slight be met with a rapier thrust?’
‘These are not easy times,’ came the mumbled reply.
‘What was that? Speak up, man.’
‘I said, we don’t live in easy times, Eminence.’
‘Is that so? Is it really? Then let me make things easier for you. I have spoken to Cardinal Del Monte and he agrees with me that this cannot go on. Should you come to the attention of the sbirri once more, to the extent that I have to be informed of your behaviour, you may expect to be arrested and detained. Should your offence be grave, you will meet with the full rigour of the law. There will be no further dawn amnesties. Do I make myself clear?’
‘You do, Eminence. As a church bell.’
‘I am glad to hear it. I should regret having to add your name to the list of those being investigated by the Holy Office, but I shall not shrink from it. Your constant street brawls, your whoring, your lack of respect for established traditions in art have become a source of public scandal. Your appearance, meanwhile, is an affront to decency. Why are you not married? What age are you?’
‘Thirty-two, Eminence.’
‘Are you a sodomite?’
‘No, Eminence, I am not.’
‘That’s something, I suppose. You know that the penalty for sodomy is death! But let that go – for now. The thing is, you offend the dignity of the Church, Merisi. More particularly, you offend me – and I can assure you that that is not a good position to be in.’ The cardinal squinted at his victim as if he couldn’t quite make him out. ‘Men have died for less. Women, too.’
Caravaggio could feel the veins in his neck begin to swell. Having to repress his natural instincts like this was almost more than he could endure. He wanted to punch the self-righteous prick in his smug, jowly face and tell him what he thought of him. But this time he knew better. ‘No, Eminence,’ he said, between clenched teeth. ‘I can see that.’
‘Good.’ Battista picked up a letter from his desk. ‘I have a note here from Master Laerzio Cherubini. You know him, I think: an esteemed legal adviser to the Holy See and a devout Catholic. He complains that your rendering of the death, or dormition, of the Virgin, commissioned for the church of Santa Maria della Scala, is an affront to the Council of Trent, verging on blasphemy. He adds that you were exceedingly rude to him in the presence of a bishop and implied that he frequented brothels.’
‘Master Cherubini is a pompous buffoon, Eminence, and no expert on what is blasphemous and what is not. He is also a liar and owes me 230 scudi.’
Battista smiled thinly, reminding Caravaggio of the priest who had shown him the instruments of torture in the Tor di Nona. ‘An interesting response. And what about Superior General Acquaviva, who has made a similar complaint about you in relation to a different painting, this time of The Supper at Emmaus?’
‘The Father General and I must agree to disagree.’
‘He says you are a heretic.’
‘That is not a view shared by the Holy Father.’
Battista’s stare turned to ice. ‘So in both instances, the critics are wrong and you are right, is that it?’
Caravaggio felt his mouth go dry. ‘We each have our point of view, Eminence.’
Before the cardinal could respond further, the young priest, obviously his private secretary, appeared unannounced through a different door and whispered something in his master’s ear. Battista nodded. ‘There is something I must attend to,’ he said, ‘but I have not finished with you. You will wait for me in the hallway. Oblige me by not murdering anyone in my absence.’
Caravaggio bowed and went out to resume his seat in the main reception area. After five fretful minutes, he could sit still no longer. Getting up from his chair, he examined Battista’s portrait, recently completed, by the look of it. If anything, Carracci had been generous to his subject. He had captured the power, but not the cruelty of the man – except, perhaps, in the eyes. No doubt that was deliberate. To the right of the portrait was a table on which sat a series of carvings by Ottoman artists, which Battista must have brought back with him from his time in Constantinople. Wasn’t that where he’d been? He wasn’t sure. These led the way to the framed maps, showing each of Europe’s great powers, from England in the west to Turkey in the east. Caravaggio followed the frames along an oak-panelled corridor until he reached the door of what was obviously, given the cross and coat of arms carved into the panelling, the cardinal’s private chapel. After the briefest of debates with himself, he opened the door, expecting to find there the usual range of religious art. Instead, as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw that there were no paintings whatsoever and that, for some reason, the cross on the altar had been laid flat.
That was when he heard the voices – which startled him, for the chapel had appeared to be empty. He listened, keeping perfectly still so as not to reveal his presence. They didn’t sound like priests at a sung Mass. What he heard was much more soaring and rhythmic. He was intrigued. Edging forward, but still careful to remain hidden from view behind a pillar, he let his eyes search out the source of the incantation. What he saw made him draw breath. The Camerlengo and his secretary were on their knees, prostrating themselves on mats rolled out across the stone floor. It was they who were reciting the strange prayers. Caravaggio felt a chill came over him. What in God’s name were they up to? They weren’t even facing the altar, but were bent in the direction of the south-east. Both had their backs to him and gave no sign that they knew he was there. Only after several seconds did he realize, with a start, that the language they were using was Arabic.
He drew back, swallowing hard, feeling his stomach start to heave. As he did so, he caught sight of a third figure, standing at the rear of the chapel. A young priest, with dirty-fair hair. He didn’t appear to have noticed Caravaggio. What clearly transfixed him was the bizarre sight of the Camerlengo of the Holy Roman Church apparently worshipping Allah. As Caravaggio watched, the man’s mouth fell open and his eyes bulged. For several seconds, as his mind struggled to take in the scene being played out in front of him, he looked on in silence, as if hypnotized. Then, as the full significance hit him, he gasped. The sound was surprisingly loud and the heads of Battista and his secretary instantly came up from the floor and spun round towards the source of the interruption. For a brief moment, the two sides met each other’s gaze, then Battista’s voice roared out: ‘Stop! Stand where you are!’ For once, the prelate’s command fell on deaf ears. The priest panicked. Turning quickly on his heels, he ran back the way he had come, the sound of his retreating footsteps echoing along the stone passage.
Battista and his secretary scrambled to their feet. The secretary reached beneath his cassock and produced a curved dagger. The Camerlengo, suffused with a cold fury, nodded. ‘Quickly! He mustn’t get away. If the Pope should hear of this, our plans will be in ruins. You must stop him. Go, Ciro! Hurry!’ Both men surged towards the chapel’s rear door.
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br /> Unseen, on the near side of the aisle, Caravaggio retreated, clicking the side door shut behind him and hastening back to the hallway. He was shaking uncontrollably. Only with a supreme effort of will did he restore some outward semblance of calm. This was something he should not have seen – should very definitely not have seen. It was dangerous; quite possibly fatal. As he ran back along the corridor, his mind tried to make sense of it – hoping to reveal some harmless explanation of the events in the chapel unconnected with heresy. But there was only one, inescapable conclusion. The Camerlengo was not the man he purported to be, but something else, something alien – a traitor to the Christian cause. There was a plan – no doubt a plot. This much Caravaggio knew. Yet he also knew, with total clarity, that if he were to say so, no one would believe him. Battista would have him arrested and tortured, then beheaded. The one available course, if he was to avoid his fate, was to say nothing and do nothing – not until he had had time to think. He stumbled on, regaining his chair in the corridoio di ingresso only just in time. Seconds later, looking red-faced and flustered, Battista burst through a set of double doors. Striding over to the window by the front door, minus his pectoral cross, he stared up and down the street outside.
Caravaggio’s legs had turned to water. He coughed. Battista looked round.
‘You!’
‘Yes, Eminence. You asked me to wait.’
‘So I did. Tell me, did a priest come through here a minute or so ago?’
‘No, Eminence.’
‘So you saw nothing?’
‘No, Eminence.’
‘Then get out!’ came the reply, laced with vitriol. ‘Get out now!’ Caravaggio rose, bowed and leaned his head forward. Without thinking, the prelate extended his right hand to receive the baciamano – the kiss of fealty – except that, as he suddenly realized, his ring finger was bare. Embarrassed, he withdrew his hand beneath the sleeve of his scarlet cassock and turned away. Caravaggio, not daring to lift his gaze, was left to wonder if Battista had registered the sweat on his brow or the sound of his heart thumping in his chest.