by Matt Rees
Caravaggio examined the Inquisitor’s face for a hint of his true meaning. Della Corbara let his features open in a cartoon of innocence. ‘I just want to know.’
‘Well, I use a mirror to create the image on the canvas. From that, I trace the form of my composition.’
‘A mirror?’
The amazement in the Inquisitor’s tone drew Caravaggio out. It was rare that anyone bothered to enquire about his techniques. Either they told him he was a genius, or they condemned him for a charlatan. Almost no one asked how he actually worked. ‘The mirror projects the subject onto the canvas, though upside down.’
‘What kind of mirror? A speculum? A polished stone?’
‘You speak of witchcraft, Father della Corbara. I use the mirror for a practical purpose. I don’t bury it at a crossroads in the middle of the night with spells and incantations.’
‘Nonetheless, I’ve heard that artists in Rome are experimenting with a camera obscura, a magical device to cast a moving image onto a canvas with the use of mirrors.’
The ugly feeling that he had been tricked into a confession overcame Caravaggio. Would a mirror be enough to indict him as a heretic, so that the Inquisitor might put him to the torture and demand information on the Grand Master’s pleasures? If I were tortured, what else would I confess? ‘Such implements are less magical than you suppose.’
‘Certainly it’s witchcraft and sorcery to project a moving image.’
‘It’s perfectly natural – a matter of science.’
The Inquisitor lifted his chin. ‘You knew men of science at the home of Cardinal del Monte, didn’t you? I remind you that science is the essence of witchcraft, because it seeks to explain the miracles of the Lord through means other than those laid out in the Holy Bible. Do you use a camera obscura?’
Wignacourt led the chief knights out of the hall.
‘You’re welcome to visit my studio. You’ll find no strange devices.’
The Inquisitor held Caravaggio’s arm as they followed the knights out of the Sacred Council chamber. ‘You really think they’ll grant you a knighthood?’ He savoured Caravaggio’s surprise. ‘I’m well informed about everything, aren’t I? Lineage is their lifeblood. Duke trumps count trumps marchese trumps knight.’ The priest pushed his finger into Caravaggio’s chest. ‘Trumps you.’
‘Who trumps an Inquisitor?’ Caravaggio directed his finger upwards. ‘Only Him?’
‘Sometimes. Look, perhaps I can convince you that you have some other reason to collaborate with me. I can return you to Rome. Is there no one there for you? I heard of a woman named Lena.’ The Inquisitor spoke the name in a low, insouciant murmur, as though he were with a girl in the night, brushing the syllables over her breasts.
Caravaggio glared.
Della Corbara’s mouth pursed. ‘Dine with me?’
Reluctantly Caravaggio gestured for the Inquisitor to lead on. Della Corbara’s limp was pronounced. His right shoulder dropped into a hunch to balance the misshapen left leg. It was as though the proximity of so many tall, strong noblemen forced the Inquisitor to shamble closer to the ground. Caravaggio went after him with a feeling he was being placed under a spell, a charm that worked like slow poison.
They settled at a table in a hostelry across the square. The three Dominicans who attended on della Corbara sat with them.
‘Let’s see how the other half live, shall we?’ The Inquisitor called to the waiter. ‘Meat. Something Maltese.’ He spoke with the forced conviviality of a traveller who wishes himself far away in a place less alien.
‘The Maltese usually eat rabbit,’ Caravaggio said.
‘But not rabbit, in the name of Our Lord,’ della Corbara said. ‘I can’t stand such peasant offal. Fish would be better.’
‘There’s no fish, Father,’ the waiter said.
‘An island with no fish?’
The waiter hesitated.
‘Well, come on, boy. Why isn’t there any fish?’
‘The fishermen must work on the Order’s galleys, Father. The knights let them go back to fishing at the end of the summer for two months. It’s lampuki season, then.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You bake it in pastry with onions and capers and garlic—’
‘Stop, you’re making me hungry.’ Della Corbara grabbed his stomach and laughed. ‘I won’t listen. It’s torture.’ He slapped Caravaggio’s arm. ‘Like being hauled up on the strappado.’
The Maltese were leaving the inn as unobtrusively as possible. A reeling drunk with a drawn sword couldn’t clear a room as fast as an Inquisitor, Caravaggio thought.
Della Corbara observed the exodus. ‘There’s nothing to be scared of, is there? Not now that you know me.’
Caravaggio twisted his lips as though he smelled something unpleasant.
Della Corbara’s lean features quivered. ‘Once in a while I think of a sinful thought someone has confessed to me and I wonder if it wasn’t mine in the first place.’
‘No doubt you hear what you want to hear.’
‘Your paintings show all the great sinners, Judas and Salome, the murderers of the martyrs. You make them your own, because you’ve been a killer yourself. But you also look for something beyond death. You’re trying to paint redemption. The only problem is you don’t know what it looks like. I want to help you, and in turn that’ll help me get promoted to a new post in Rome. If I don’t make a splash here, I might end up burning witches in Calabria.’
‘You’d enjoy that.’
The Inquisitor scratched his nose. ‘Have you ever seen a body after a burning?’
‘No. Is there a body left to see?’
‘You think men burn better than mutton? The body’s a husk, but it has the shape of a man.’ He leaned forward and, as if he were grabbing a bird before it could fly away, he snared Caravaggio’s wrist. ‘On the Holy Father’s life, I know you’ll help me. We shall both go to Rome.’
Caravaggio stared at the pale hand on his cuff. The Inquisitor knew what troubled him as well as he understood it himself.
Della Corbara’s expression passed from wheedling to aggressive, his teeth bared, like a man aroused and denied a seduction. ‘I know what you want. I know it as if I had ripped your soul from your breast, flattened it against a lectern and read it aloud in my study. You don’t know what redemption looks like? Take a look. It’s me.’
Caravaggio pulled away. He smelled meat roasting in the kitchen. He wasn’t like this Inquisitor. He would be a knight. Otherwise, I’ll forever be the boy taunted in the Marchesa’s courtyard. Bitter like this priest.
The waiter brought a platter of bragioli, egg and bacon rolled in a slice of beef, fried and simmered with onions in wine.
Della Corbara regarded the dish with distaste and excitement, as though presented with the severed head of a man he had disliked. He shuffled the cups over the table-top like a gambler. ‘The devil plays a game for your soul. Can you be sure you’ll outwit him?’
As the steam from the hot meat rose around the Inquisitor’s face, Caravaggio felt certain he could draw Satan, if not fool him. ‘Only with you on my side, right? No doubt an Inquisitor trumps even Satan.’
Della Corbara shoved his plate away.
Caravaggio hesitated on the steps of the Cathedral in the seething sunshine. Roero waited beyond the massive double doors and beckoned to him. A cross twice as tall as a man hung by the door. Roero extended a finger towards it. ‘See that crucifix, painter?’
An olive-skinned Christ was painted on the cross. ‘It’s a fine work,’ Caravaggio said.
‘By a student of Raphael. You ought to recognize the style.’ Roero came closer. ‘It’s by Polidoro from Caravaggio. Your great forebear.’
Though the church was cool, Caravaggio grew hot. This is how the martyrs felt. Even if their end didn’t come right away, they sensed its heat and felt it consume them. I’m marked for death.
A cruel half-smile bent Roero’s lip. ‘Surely you know how Polidoro perished these
seventy years past? He was murdered – in Sicily, while trying to get back to Rome, whence he had fled.’ He drew out his words, vicious delight slowing his tongue.
Caravaggio turned away from the knight towards the hanging Christ. It came to him that all his violence had been rooted in fear. But what could he be afraid of? This nasty nobleman, sneering in the shadows? He shook his head. I’ve more to live for than the opportunity to quaver before him. ‘Polidoro was murdered by a servant who stole his money belt. Such is the motivation of one who kills a genius.’
Roero’s grin collapsed into outrage.
That was a little much, perhaps, Caravaggio thought, but it’s a good idea to meet haughtiness with even greater superiority. He smiled to himself as he entered the Oratory.
Martelli motioned to him from the altar. His hand cleaved the sunlight angling from a high window. The old knight pulled Caravaggio to his knees. He whispered a prayer, made the cross over his breast, and gazed up at the bare wall behind the altar. ‘Beneath the floor of this Oratory are buried the remains of the knights who fell during the Great Siege,’ Martelli said. ‘They were my comrades. I’d be there too, if Our Lord hadn’t saved me for other purposes.’
‘May God forbid it, Signore.’
‘There’re many accomplishments I could cite since those days. I was Admiral of our fleet and ran the infidel off the seas. I guided novices and young knights in the traditions of the Order.’
‘With great worthiness you accomplish everything you set out to do, Signore.’
‘The greatest achievement is in your hands.’ Martelli slipped a letter out of his doublet and thrust it into Caravaggio’s grasp. He came to his feet with a growl and a hand in the small of his back.
Caravaggio read the name of Cardinal-Nephew Scipione on the letter. ‘Signore?’
‘You’ve painted the Grand Master. It’s time you contributed to our church.’
‘You do me great honour, Signore.’
‘The Grand Master wishes you to paint the martyrdom of St John – for this wall behind the altar.’ Martelli took Caravaggio’s arm. ‘I told you I had something else in mind for you.’
Just as the Inquisitor predicted. Della Corbara will take my saint and pronounce the depiction in violation of the rules of the Church. Then he’ll have me in his power. Caravaggio examined the massive wall he was to fill with his canvas. What a painting it’ll be, though. ‘It’s dark in here.’
‘You’ve painted in churches before. They’re all dark.’
‘These windows are so high and narrow. The place is like a dungeon.’
‘How does the Bible describe St John’s death? “The king sent a soldier of the guard and gave orders to bring John’s head to him. He went and beheaded him in the prison and brought his head on a platter.’ Martelli put his hand to Caravaggio’s shoulder. ‘The Baptist was decapitated in a dungeon. So paint a dungeon for our dungeon here.’
Caravaggio scanned the massive stones. It would take him a long time to paint something big enough that it wouldn’t disappear into the wall. He had portrayed St John as a young man in the wild. Yet the instant of death? He shuddered. He had lived that moment. Perhaps it was time he drew those few seconds out of himself, from the horror-struck place in which he had entombed them. He shivered again. The knowledge he had was irresistible. It would fill the wall, even if he painted it no bigger than a man’s hand. It’ll terrify people or inspire them, he thought. Depending on how much guilt they bear. ‘I’m honoured, Signore.’
‘Read the letter.’
Caravaggio unfolded the paper. The neat script of the Grand Master’s scribe, its letters all of an even thickness and angled at the same sixty degrees towards the right.
Most Holy Father
The Grand Master of the Order of the Hospital of St John of Jerusalem wishes to honour a virtuous and deserving person who has the desire and devotion to dedicate himself to his service and that of the Order. He humbly begs Your Holiness to deign to grant to him the authority and power to adorn with the Habit of Knight the person favoured and nominated by him, despite the fact that he had once committed homicide in a brawl. He begs to receive this request as an exceptional favour, because of his great desire to honour such a virtuous and deserving person and to keep him. May the Lord protect you for a long time.
Wignacourt had signed the letter with a less sure pen than his secretary, the quill catching and spotting ink beneath his name.
Caravaggio was about to ask Martelli who this virtuous and deserving person was, but the old man caught his shoulders and shook him. ‘You’ll be a knight, my boy. As soon as the Holy Father sends word.’
Caravaggio slumped. It was as though the marrow of his bones was pure tension and his relief made him hollow and feeble. With this one letter, he might be saved from the man – whoever he was – who would kill him.
Martelli pulled him close and led him from the Oratory.
As they went out, Caravaggio looked up at the crucifix. One day, he would return to Rome, as the murdered Polidoro never had. He would go back as a knight, a free man.
Martelli walked Caravaggio to the Inn of the Italian Knights. The old man stopped outside the gate to talk to the pilier of the Knights of Castille. In the courtyard Roero paced around the well, fists clenched. I recognize that kind of rage, Caravaggio thought. He tried to frighten me at the Cathedral and failed. He won’t let it pass. The kitchen boy went to draw water, regarding Roero warily.
Caravaggio cut left towards the stairs to avoid another confrontation. But Roero called out to him and followed Caravaggio into the cloister. ‘Remember that your painting of St John is to be for the knights, not for a bunch of effeminate aesthetes in Rome.’
He knows about my commission. These knights are as hungry for my secrets as the Inquisitor.
Roero drew close. ‘I’ve heard all about the pretty boys you painted for the cardinals and the merchants in Rome. I’ve seen you hanging around with this kitchen lad, too. I’m sure it’s not just your pigments he’s grinding.’ He jerked his thumb towards the boy at the well. ‘I don’t want any poems written about your painting of our St John like the ones about your nancy-boy pictures. I don’t want to hear that he’ll set you on fire.’
He knows I’m to be a knight and he hates me for polluting the pure blood of his Order, Caravaggio thought. Don’t be drawn into a fight, Michele.
Roero balled his fist inside his glove and struck Caravaggio on the shoulder. Caravaggio stumbled against the wall. Roero glared at him. Caravaggio rubbed his bruise. He knew that he asked too much of himself. His honour, like that of any man, was worth as much as his soul.
The knight drew a dagger from his belt. ‘I’ll cut your flesh away. Then I’ll thrash your bones.’
Caravaggio’s response was a reflex. ‘I’ll have your balls, you stuck-up clown.’ Even as he spoke, he deflated, disappointed in himself. But it was too late.
They closed on each other. Caravaggio lifted his hands to grab at the dagger when Roero made his lunge.
A woman’s voice came through the courtyard. ‘My Lord Roero, he’s unarmed.’ Roero didn’t respond. The woman called again. ‘Signor Giovanni, no.’
Roero faltered. The two fighters looked to where the woman stood. She held the kitchen boy’s hand. She was a year or two older than him, but the resemblance was that of a sister. In the Maltese tradition, all but her face was covered in a black wrap. Her eyes were deep, with long lashes like insect legs.
‘An unarmed man, Signor Giovanni,’ she said, gentle and scolding.
Martelli entered the courtyard. Roero sheathed his dagger. He looked with disgust at Caravaggio and went towards the girl. The kitchen boy stepped in front of him, but Roero shoved him aside. He drew back his right arm. The girl didn’t flinch. He slapped her so hard that the force of his blow took him two steps to his left before he regained his balance. The girl spun to the ground.
‘You dare speak my name, you whore?’ Roero said.
The girl ru
bbed at the blood from her nose. She looks as though she could say more, Caravaggio thought. It isn’t the only time Roero has touched her, I’d guess. She knows his first name, after all, and I doubt his caress is much gentler than the blow he gave her.
Roero stalked through the gate. Martelli put a coin in the kitchen boy’s hand. ‘Take her to the apothecary.’
‘Carmena, come.’ The boy helped his sister to arise and took her away.
Martelli sucked in his lips. ‘You’d better go armed for now, Michele. Honour doesn’t prevent a knight like Roero from assaulting an unarmed man, as you see. You can’t rely on his whore being around to shame him next time.’
Caravaggio went up the stairs to his studio and took his dagger from his trunk. He recalled the liberation he had known when he read the Grand Master’s letter in the Oratory. It seems I’m to be saved only by myself, he thought. He slipped the dagger inside his doublet.
The dice rolled. Martelli tapped his counters around to the far side of the backgammon board, twisting a lapis rosary in his other hand. Caravaggio reached for the dice cup. The old Florentine didn’t watch his opponent as he moved. In the lantern light his gaze was inward, reprising every wound and engagement with the enemy, every past encounter with God and the one that was to come. Caravaggio smiled with some bitterness. I’ve never played with someone against whom it’d be so easy to cheat, and yet I find myself wishing to give him the victory.
He imagined Martelli was recalling a similar game on a lonely watch during the Turkish siege of the island. That had been more than forty years ago and Martelli would have been about Caravaggio’s age. What has he seen coming out of the dark? He drank a cup of wine, while Martelli had his turn on the board.
‘You took great pains over the Grand Master’s face in the portrait, Maestro Caravaggio?’
‘No more than any other object on the canvas, Signore.’ Caravaggio couldn’t help the defensiveness of the professional who wishes every stage of his work to be credited.