by Walter Ellis
‘I have found what you wanted,’ he told him. ‘All public knowledge … nothing about murder or crusades.’
He laughed, and Dempsey joined in.
‘If you could just fill in this form, I’ll give you a reader’s pass and a number. Then you should make your way to the Old Study Room on the piano nobile and take a seat at desk number seven. The papers you asked for will be brought to you there.’
‘Thank you ever so much,’ Dempsey said. ‘You really are most kind.’
‘Prego. It is nothing, Signor. May God reward your efforts and those of your uncle, the Father General.’
Five minutes later, Dempsey was at his assigned desk, idly switching his table lamp on and off, when another member of the library staff, a women this time, in her forties, coughed politely and smiled down at him.
‘You are number seven?’ she asked.
‘I am,’ he replied, feeling slightly Kafkaesque.
‘The papers you requested, Signor. When you have finished, please take them to the desk over there and sign out.’
‘I shall do that. Grazie.’
‘Prego.’
The pile of papers the woman had delivered were bunched together in a manila file and looked about as interesting as a company report. The bulk of it, as he expected, was made up of newspaper and magazine clippings, many from Time magazine – which seemed to take an inordinate interest in the affairs of the Holy See – and, of course, L’Osservatore Romano. There were also copies of speeches and news releases from the grandly named Pontifical Council for Social Communications – the Vatican press office. In addition, there were several reports in Arabic, with translations into Italian, emanating, so far as he could tell, from the governors of the central mosque in Rome, plus one, dated November 1989, from the official Egyptian newspaper, Al-Ahram.
He took out a notebook and pencil and began to write. Bosani’s involvement with the Secretariat for Non-Christians, set up by Pope Paul VI, began, he discovered, within two years of his ordination. He had taken Islam as part of his degree in Bologna in the 1960s and spoke Arabic fluently. As a young priest, he travelled widely in the Muslim world, visiting Saudi Arabia twice, in 1970 and 1977, at a time when even getting an entry visa couldn’t have been easy. But then, judging by his trajectory, he was never destined to be an ordinary priest. After three years as a curate, in La Spezia, he spent two years at Cairo’s Al-Azhar University, the oldest and most famous institute of theology and law in the Muslim world, founded in 988, where he took classes in the Qu’ran and Islamic law. Unless you knew a religion from the inside, he told a conference in Vienna years later, you could never hope to understand its appeal or assess its claims.
Over the years, obviously an administrator rather than a pastor, he had risen quickly to become head of the semi-autonomous Pontifical Commission for Religious Relations with Muslims. According to a published memo from the office of Rome’s mayor, it was Bosani who had most influenced Pope Paul VI to approve the construction of the city’s central mosque, the largest in Europe, paid for by the king of Saudi Arabia. A letter from the governors of the mosque, sent out as a press release, confirmed this and thanked the Monsignor (as he was then) for his ‘invaluable support’.
Years later, following the death of John Paul I, Bosani had continued on a positive note, persuading the new pontiff, John Paul II, of the importance of improved relations with the Muslim world. An article in The Boston Globe reported that it was due to Bosani’s efforts that the Pole, a deeply conservative Catholic, whose countrymen had spent centuries defending Christendom against the Ottomans, ended up visiting the Great Mosque in Damascus – the first-ever head of the Church to enter a Muslim place of worship. The Pope had also, the Globe reminded its readers, kissed the Qu’ran publicly on at least two occasions, confirming it as a work of Holy Scripture, and spoken many times of Muslims as his ‘dear brothers and sisters’. In recognition of his contribution to religious understanding, Bosani was consecrated a bishop in 1983 and then, at the Consistory of 26 November 1994, a cardinal deacon, later elevated to the status of cardinal priest. Bosani recalled with evident pride, in a speech to seminarians in his native La Spezia, that, after his death, His Holiness was eulogized as a ‘hero’ of Islam. ‘Worshippers in mosques across the Arab world remembered him in their prayers. In Egypt, three days of mourning were declared. The Arab League and the governments of Jordan and Lebanon even lowered flags to half-mast and hurried to send representatives to the funeral.’
All of this, characterized by an almost evangelical tolerance, appeared strangely at odds with the Camerlengo’s new-found reputation as fanatically anti-Muslim. What had brought about his dramatic, 180-degree change of direction? Dempsey read on. While retaining his interest in Islamic affairs, Bosani had moved into the heart of Vatican bureaucracy in the mid-1990s, rising to be sub-dean of the College of Cardinals, then, after the death of Benedict XVI, Secretary of State and Camerlengo. There was nothing in his speeches or public writings that provided a clue to the shift in his attitude; nor, so far as he could tell, did it immediately follow the terrorist attacks by al-Qaeda against the United States on 11 September 2001. The first indicator of his aggression did not in fact emerge until the arrival of Pope Benedict four years later. The German pontiff’s disastrous speech, delivered in Regensburg in 2006, in which he appeared to condemn the ‘evil and inhumanity’ of the Prophet and his intent ‘to spread by the sword the faith he preached’, was the first public sign of the new hard line. Under intense international pressure to recant, the Pope had moved quickly to clarify his position and reassure Muslims, but the damage was done.
Dempsey looked at his watch: a quarter past twelve. Time to go. He needed to talk to his uncle – and Maya. Packing up the documents and placing them back in their folder, he returned them as instructed and signed out. On his way out of the building, via the Porta di Santa Anna, he stopped at the Salla degli Stampati and thanked the young Sicilian who had gone out of his way to assist him.
‘Prego,’ came the reply. ‘It is my job to help, and I am always, of course, at the disposition of the Father General.’
They shook hands. As Dempsey disappeared out of the main door, the receptionist took out his mobile phone from his trouser pocket and tapped in a number.
He waited. On the second ring, a voice answered. ‘Pronto! Vatican Security Office. Who do you wish to speak with?’
17*
28 May 1606
The heat in Rome was building but had not yet reached the intensity of high summer. Caravaggio and his friend Onorio Longhi were on their way to play racquetball at a court just off the Via della Scrofa, not far from the painter’s old lodgings by the Palazzo Firenze. They were among Rome’s best-known racchetti, difficult to beat on their home court. But as they approached the playing area, where they faced a challenge from the artists Guido Reini and Orazio Gentileschi, it wasn’t so much the game that occupied their thoughts, but their chances of coming out of it alive.
A bitter feud had existed between Caravaggio and Longhi on the one hand and the powerful Tomassino clan on the other for at least a year. The exact origins of the dispute were forgotten, though obviously rooted in gambling, women and drink. But in recent weeks the enmity had swollen to dangerous proportions, threatening to turn the quarrel into a vendetta. Following a dispute over the favours of Fillide Melandroni, Caravaggio – who had recovered something of his former verve following the discreet sale to Mattei of The Betrayal of Christ – found himself goaded on an almost daily basis by Ranuccio, the youngest of the three brothers, whose family controlled everything that went on in the Campo Marzio. Longhi had been attacked in the street only a week earlier, receiving a slight rapier wound to his shoulder. Caravaggio’s continued occupation of the apartment owned by the lawyer Ruffietto didn’t help. He should have been out by Christmas, except that the sale of the building had fallen through. The artist’s continued presence in the area was viewed by the Tomassoni as a deliberate provocation. It
was an open secret that any further ‘insults’ would end in bloodshed. That was why Longhi had asked Petronia Toppa, a veteran army officer from Bologna, to join them as backup. Toppa was a burly fellow who liked nothing more than a good scrap – whether with swords or fists, it made no difference to him. He also owed Longhi fifty scudi, which helped. As the three men turned off the main street in the direction of the teatro rachette, a small crowd began to gather, keen to see what would happen next. A quartet of sbirri held back, knowing both sides to be well connected, biding their time.
What Caravaggio didn’t know was that Ranuccio had particular reason that day to vent his spleen. Twenty-four hours earlier, he had been approached by a representative of Cardinal Battista – a tall, hooded monk – who had given him one hundred scudi and the Camerlengo’s personal assurance that he would not be prosecuted were he to kill the artist Michelangelo Merisi.
‘His Eminence understands that Merisi has wronged you on many occasions in the past. He wishes you to know that his sympathies are with you entirely in your detestation of a man who is both a braggart and a heretic. Merisi is a man who must swiftly be brought to justice, and the Tomassoni, with their proud record in arms in service of the Church, are viewed as righteous in this matter. Absolution is assured.’
The emissary handed over the cash.
Rannuccio nodded. He required no further urging. He knew what he had to do. Placing the money in a strongbox, he alerted his brothers and fetched his rapier.
It was Toppa, following behind, who called out a warning. Caravaggio, his hand firmly on the hilt of his sword, spun round in time to see Ranuccio moving towards him, blade drawn, his brother Giovan Francesco and two cousins one pace to the rear. Straightaway, in a loud, theatrical voice, Ranuccio accused Caravaggio of carrying on an affair with the ‘little whore’ Melandroni, who, he observed, with a flourish of his rapier, was riddled with the pox.
Caravaggio took stock of the scene. He felt oddly calm. Ranuccio was a braggart, but no slouch with the sword. There was a definite glint in his eye, as if he meant business. Immediately behind him stood his older brother, Giovan Francesco, and a pace or two further back, two of their cousins, both aged around thirty, well known as ‘enforcers’. It was an ambush, no doubt about that. The question was, how far did they wish to press it?
Ranuccio meanwhile had halted, standing with his legs apart, drawing a semicircle in the dirt in front of him with the point of his sword. ‘You are in Campo Marzio,’ he boomed. ‘That is Tomassoni territory, as understood by the Senate and People of Rome. And you, Merisi, are not welcome here. I advise you, as the coward you are, to leave at once or face the consequences.’
Following this, there could be only one outcome. Caravaggio sighed, looking to left and right to locate his seconds. Both nodded to him. He drew his sword and tested the point against his thumb, Then, in an equally oratorical voice, he answered Ranuccio, reminding him that he owed him twenty scudi from the previous year and that he would do better to pay his debts than slander a good woman.
The small crowd drew its breath.
There was no further preamble. With an oath, Ranuccio launched himself at his enemy. Caravaggio stood his ground, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, trying to anticipate the angle of the attack. His opponent’s opening lunge was hasty and amateurish, probably because of the rage he felt, and the price he paid was a swipe across his back that slit open his doublet, though without injuring the flesh beneath.
‘Olé!’ Caravaggio called out. The crowd laughed.
It would be the only flash of humour that day. Now the contest grew serious. Neither man was a mere bravazzo – a swashbuckler or ‘cutter’. Both were skilled with the rapier and neither was in a mood to grant quarter. In the subsequent exchange, it was Ranuccio who fared the better, opening a nick in his opponent’s throat and driving him steadily backwards. But then Caravaggio feinted to one side, catching Tomassino in the hamstring of his right leg with the point of his blade as, for the second time, he continued past at full stretch. Enraged, and ignoring the flow of blood that immediately stained his tights below the knee, the Roman halted, reversed direction and renewed his attack. Caravaggio parried, giving ground but confident that he had gained the upper hand.
The fight soon settled into a pattern, with each side advancing, retreating and riposting as if directed by a choreographer. Both were breathing heavily. It was becoming clear, though, that the injured Ranuccio was out of ideas. Caught unawares by a sudden change in the line of attack, he stumbled, missed his footing on a cobblestone, and fell heavily. Caravaggio’s nostrils flared as he looked down at his stricken opponent. Every fibre of his being called out to him to finish it. He wanted nothing more than to end the existence of a man whose slanders had made his life a misery. Instead, he stayed his hand. This was not out of generosity, but so that no one, most obviously the sbirri, could accuse him of reckless murder. His intention was to attack with renewed ferocity the moment Ranuccio regained his feet, ignoring any plea for mercy. This would add to the kudos that came his way. It was a decision he would regret for the rest of his life, for all at once, from a prone position, his enraged and humiliated opponent lashed out and stabbed him in the foot. Caravaggio winced. The pain was excruciating. Teeth bared, he uttered a throaty growl and, without further conscious thought, thrust downwards, driving his blade straight into his opponent’s stomach. A gasp rose up from the onlookers, who then fell silent, for they knew at once that the wound was mortal. Ranuccio swayed back onto the cobbles holding both hands to his stomach so that the blood spilled out between his fingers. The light in his eyes began to dim. But though he almost fainted with the effort, he still spat his venom at Caravaggio, taunting him that soon he would join him in hell.
‘The Camerlengo has put a price on your head, Merisi. If you are not … cut down like a dog in the street, you will die on the scaffold. Even now, an axe is being ground for you. There can be … no escape.’
Caravaggio’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you saying? Did Battista pay you? Did he tell you why he wants me dead?’
Ranuccio tried to speak, but couldn’t. Instead, he started coughing blood. Caravaggio didn’t know whether to try to revive him or to throttle him. Before he could make up his mind, he felt a searing pain in his head. Ranuccio’s brother, Giovan Francesco, had attacked him without warning from behind, seeking instant revenge for the loss of Ranuccio. A cut three inches long opened up behind his right ear. As he fell, helpless, to the ground, it was the action of the redoubtable Toppa that saved his life. As Longhi hauled Caravaggio to his feet and pressed a handkerchief against his skull to staunch the flow of blood, the former army captain took on all three surviving Tomassoni, only giving up when his sword arm ceased to respond and he could no longer hold his weapon.
It was at that point that the sbirri intervened and arrested him.
Ranuccio died thirty minutes later, having being given absolution by his parish priest from the nearby church of San Lorenzo in Lucina. As Caravaggio, bleeding and barely conscious, was taken for emergency treatment to the shop of the barber Lucca, Longhi fled the city. Witnesses, paid in advance by the Tomassoni, testified to the papal police that Caravaggio had initiated the duel. Several pointed out that as Ranuccio lay prone, the artist had driven his sword into his body with the obious intent of killing him. Within hours, an official investigation was launched. Battista protested to the Pope that Caravaggio had finally shown his true colours. He was joined in his denunciation by the Farnese family, in whose service the Tomassoni had fought against the Huguenots in France. The artist, a suspected heretic, they said, was notorious for his brawling. Now he had murdered the scion of a valiant family and for that crime alone must pay with his life.
No one listened to those who said it was the Tomassoni who were to blame for what happened. A young bravo who volunteered that Ranuccio had brought his death upon himself by violating the gentleman’s code of honour was told to get about his business. A ple
a for mercy by Del Monte fizzled out when Battista drew His Eminence aside to point out to him that his frolics with boys could very easily be brought into the public domain, ‘with the most unfortunate consequences’. Everything then happened in a rush. By order of the Apostolic Palace, a hue and cry was ordered. Caravaggio was to be hunted down and brought to immediate account.
Before the sbirri could make the arrest, however, fate intervened. Alerted by Costanza Colonna, the Marchesa di Caravaggio, Prince Marzio Colonna offered the artist sanctuary on his estate in the Alban Hills.
The Merisi had been in the service of the Colonna for more than half a century. Marchesa Costanza in particular, on a visit to the family seat at the base of the Quirinal Hill, was convinced that the son of her longtime uomo di fiducia was a genius in the service of God and his protection a sacred trust. He was spirited away under the very noses of the sbirri, hidden beneath a pile of offal in the back of a butcher’s cart. Ranuccio had not exaggerated. Caravaggio’s failure to answer a papal summons had automatically rendered him a fugitive and a banda capitale was now in force – a death warrant that anyone could act on with guaranteed immunity from prosecution.
In the midst of what became a citywide manhunt, no one noticed the unexpected death, apparently from food poisoning, of the elderly Jesuit who recognized the fleeing man in The Betrayal of Christ. The late Father Alfonso di Conza was a modest man, who taught Latin and Greek to seminarians and was known for the gentleness of his sermons in churches around Rome. It was after twelve o’clock Mass on the Monday following his dinner at the Villa Mattei that he returned to the Jesuit residence on the Via Marco for lunch. The cook told him she had something special for him today left by an anonymous well-wisher – a delicious lamb stew, with tomatoes and basil, which he ate hungrily. One hour later, he complained of stomach pains. By mid-afternoon, his sickness had turned to diarrhoea, then to dysentery. By midnight, he was dead. Father General Acquaviva awarded his old colleague a Requiem Mass, but attributed his death to overwork and bad meat. No one asked, but if they had inquired they would have learned only that Di Conza was buried in the Catacombs, with none but his sister and a small group of parishioners in attendance.