Light in the Shadows

by Linda Lafferty

  How I hate this place.

  Mariano Pasqualone was far from his home near his workplace in Pope Paul’s legal offices in the Quirinale. But the red-light district of the Ortaccio di Ripetta drew him more nights of the week than not. For on the Via dei Greci lived the only woman to possess his heart: Lena Antognetti.

  For her, I’d give my life. Her black hair, creamy white bosom. And those flashing eyes, fierce yet doelike with innocence, not like any streetwalker.

  He had fallen madly in love with Lena. He begged her mother to grant him her daughter’s hand in marriage.

  Maria Antognetti’s reply was a flat no. Pasqualone was a lawyer, a lawyer for the pope, but a lawyer nevertheless. Maria was certain that he, like all lawyers, would go straight to hell.

  “But how can you refuse me, a gentleman with a good profession?” argued Pasqualone. “Lena stands in the Piazza Navona, selling her body to strangers! I want to marry her and give her a good, secure life as my wife—”

  “Go away, signore! I want my daughter to enter heaven . . . How could she if she were to marry someone in your cursed profession?”

  “I work for His Holiness, the pope!”

  “It makes no matter to God who you work for,” said Maria, making the sign of the cross. “You are a lawyer. You shall be damned.” And she slammed the door in his face.

  Pasqualone could not get over his devotion to Lena. He was condemned to walk the Piazza Navona looking for her, and if she were not to be found, he haunted the Ortaccio di Ripetta, dodging the solicitations of dozens of other prostitutes along the Via di Ripetta.

  When the enthusiastic noises of the soldier and whore became unbearable, Pasqualone stood up and brushed the damp leaves and grass from his pants. He walked toward Via dei Greci, but before he had reached the Antognetti house, he saw Lena walking swiftly in the direction of the Piazza Navona. In her arms she carried her baby, Antonio.

  She could not ply her trade with a baby, could she?

  I will follow her to her spot. I will pay her for the entire evening. I shall convince her to marry me!

  He walked about thirty strides behind her, but close enough that he imagined he smelled the rose water on her warm skin. He was surprised by how quickly she covered ground, even carrying a child. He had to run a few steps to try to catch up with her.

  She entered the Piazza Navona and darted through the noisy crowd—the jugglers, the horsemen, the chestnut vendors, the gypsies, soldiers, and noblemen. She sought out two prostitutes, a redhead and an olive-skinned brunette. She talked to them briefly, then continued on her way, emerging out the other end of the piazza onto Via della Scrofa, walking toward Palazzo Madama.

  Pasqualone frowned. He panted hard as he hurried after her.

  Surely she isn’t entertaining the cardinals, not with a baby in tow!

  When she turned into the tiny street of Vicolo dei Santi Cecilia e Biagio, blood rushed to Pasqualone’s head, which throbbed in fury.

  “Damn him!” said Pasqualone aloud. He recognized the house of Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio.

  He bit his fist with rage until his knuckles bled. He turned back toward the Ortaccio di Ripetta.

  Mariano Pasqualone knocked on the door. Maria Antognetti drew back the bolt.

  “Buonasera, Signor Pasqualone,” she said, crossing her arms and frowning.

  “You, Maria Antognetti, refuse to give me your daughter’s hand in marriage! An admirable offer, a secure and honorable position as my wife.”

  “Sì. That is because, you, signore, are going to hell.”

  “Hell? I’m going to hell? Do you know what your daughter is doing now?”

  “She is posing as a model for the famous Maestro Caravaggio,” said Maria. “He has paid us in advance. He shall make my daughter famous.”

  “Posing! Do you know what a scoundrel he is? He keeps company with the lowest life of Roma. He brawls in the streets and taverns and knows the inside of Sant’Angelo prison like his own wretched apartment! He will corrupt your ‘sweet’ daughter—never mind that she stands nightly at the Piazza Navona!—and drag her into the flaming inferno that Dante D’Algieri so vividly described. She shall be seated at the right hand of Satan, as Caravaggio will be the devil’s guest of honor.”

  Maria covered her mouth. “No!”

  “Sì! You can keep your precious daughter. If she is so vile as to pose—and you must know what that means!—for Caravaggio, I want never to look upon her again!”

  With that Pasqualone turned on his heel and marched off into the night.

  Maria Antognetti pounded on the door of 19 Vicolo dei Santi Cecilia e Biagio, splinters tearing at her laundry-raw skin.

  Cecco opened the door. “Signora? Are you lost?”

  “Lost!” she wailed. “All is lost. My daughter will go to hell. This is a den of iniquity!”

  Caravaggio came running down the stairs, wiping his hands on a rag.

  “Signora Antognetti! Please come in. It is very late for you to be out in the streets of Roma.”

  “I’ve had the most dreadful conversation with Mariano Pasqualone—”

  “Mamma! Is that you?” said a voice. Lena descended the stairs dressed in a wine-colored velvet blouse and a long black skirt. In her arms she carried little Antonio swathed in white linen. “Why are you here?” asked Lena. “What on earth has happened?”

  “That lawyer, your suitor—Signor Pasqualone—came to our house.”

  “Mamma,” said Lena, glancing quickly at Caravaggio. “He is not my suitor—”

  “He said awful things happen under this roof,” wailed the distraught mother. “And that I’m a bad mother for letting you keep company with Maestro Caravaggio.”

  Cecco saw his master’s eyes burn with rage, his mouth puckering up as if he had tasted something bitter and foul.

  He’s going to explode . . .

  But instead, Caravaggio took a deep breath. Slowly, he composed his face, although Cecco could still see a spasm pulse in his left cheek.

  “Signora Antognetti,” said Caravaggio, bowing deeply. “Perhaps you would like to come upstairs and see what transpires in our studio. I’m putting the finishing touches on the painting tonight. I’d be honored if you would be the first to lay eyes on it.”

  “I don’t know,” mumbled Maria, crossing her arms tight. “Non lo so . . .”

  “Come, Mamma,” said Lena, stroking her cheek. “You have nothing to fear.”

  Maria nodded weakly and allowed Caravaggio to take her arm.

  “Lena, please go ahead and take your pose,” said the artist. “Your mamma and I will follow.”

  Lena nodded. She hitched baby Antonio up on her hip and climbed the stairs.

  “Now, Signora Antognetti, if you will allow me to escort you up the stairs, I shall show you our studio. Cecco, fetch the signora a glass of wine.”

  “Subito!” said Cecco. Right away.

  “Now watch the stairs, signora. There are a few that are a bit rickety.”

  Maria darted a look at him.

  “Here we are,” said Caravaggio, releasing her arm at the top of the steps. “My studio.”

  The woman gasped as she walked into the room. Blazing lanterns were pulled up by ropes and gathered into groups of two or three, illuminating Lena as she stood by a door that led into another room. Her head bowed, she looked at an invisible spot on the floor where Cecco had once knelt.

  Maria shivered as she felt a cold draft. She looked up and saw the bright stars twinkling through the hole in the roof.

  Cecco returned with a glass of red wine and a stool for the signora.

  “Grazie, ragazzo,” said Maria, taking a seat. She sipped the wine tentatively and looked at the scene before her. A pool of flickering light glanced off Lena’s cheek and hands, her other features obscured in shadow.

  Cecco took his place on the floor again, engaging Lena’s gaze as she wrestled with the squirming baby on her hip.

  Maria’s tense face released in a faint smile
. The baby, Antonio, reached his chubby hand out to her.

  “Nonna!” he said. Grandmother!

  “Oh! Nipote mio!” she said, her hands extending toward her grandson.

  “Signora Antognetti,” said Caravaggio. “Would you be so kind as to come behind my easel and see the painting?”

  “Sì, Maestro,” said Maria, ducking her chin humbly. She walked to the easel. She kept her eyes lowered, looking at the artist’s boots.

  “Behold, your daughter, Maddalena. The Virgin of Loreto!”

  The woman raised her eyes to the painting. She put her hand to her mouth and gasped. “Dio mio!” she said. My God.

  Lena was the Virgin incarnate, a gold halo floating above her head. She held the baby on her hip—the baby who was clearly our Lord Savior—as she blessed two weary pilgrims. The travelers had cast their staffs aside and clasped their hands in prayer, their bare feet thrust behind them, lined with dirt.

  They are praying to my Lena. And my grandson.

  “Are you satisfied now that your daughter is honored?” said Caravaggio softly. “All Roma shall kneel before her. She is the Madonna.”

  Cecco pricked up his ears. It was rare to hear words of comfort from his master’s lips. He turned to watch this singular occasion.

  What rare kindness my master shows this old woman! The mother of a whore.

  “I suppose the lawyer was madly jealous,” said Maria. “He said such hateful things about my daughter . . . and about you.”

  Caravaggio scowled, looking away from the woman and into the darkness.

  Maria Antognetti clasped her hands together. “You will see that no harm comes to her, won’t you, Maestro Caravaggio?”

  “Signora Antognetti. She is my most perfect model . . . and muse. I will protect her, I promise.”

  Cecco winced. He only wished these words were true.

  Chapter 24

  Roma

  1606

  By midday, the Piazza Navona was packed. People gathered around the pens of animals—horses, pigs, sheep, and goats. Cages of cackling geese and squawking hens lined one corner of the market. Dozens and dozens of tents shaded bright vegetables fresh from the countryside. Even in the shade, melons warmed, giving off a perfume of ripe fruit, competing with the sharp animal smell of the fresh cheeses.

  Most of Roma packed into the piazza ringed by the horse-racing track of tufa soil, an ancient traditional sport that still continued. By the late afternoon, most of the Romans were drunk on cheap wine brought from the countryside vineyards. Voices rose and men swaggered, boasting with a rush of wine-fueled courage. Hands lingered on the hilts of swords and daggers as both laughter and insults grew louder among the crowd.

  As dusk approached, the contadini began taking down their tents and packing up their wares, preparing to leave for the countryside. Children were gathered up, and the peasants, like geese protecting their goslings, kept a wary eye on the drunken citizens.

  Mariano Pasqualone walked alongside his friend Galeazzo Roccasecca, a colleague from the Quirinale, responsible for penning correspondence for the pope. They were passing the church of San Giacomo degli Spagnoli, in front of the Triton Fountain.

  “I told her to keep her whore of a daughter!” said a drunken Pasqualone, his voice rising against the plashing waters. “I wash my hands of the sordid slut.”

  “Perhaps you were a bit rash, Mariano,” said Roccasecca. “I know how you adore that girl. After all, Lena has a baby to feed! If Caravaggio is paying her to model, isn’t that better than—”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Roccasecca saw a swift movement. A figure bounded between them, a black cape swung around one shoulder. The man pulled a small sword from under the cape and clubbed Pasqualone viciously on the head with the hilt. The lawyer fell to the ground, unconscious, blood gushing from his head.

  The caped man sprinted away into the crowd.

  “Cazzo!” Roccasecca said, kneeling beside his friend. He slapped Pasqualone’s face. “Mariano! Mariano! Can you hear me?”

  Pasqualone groaned, clutching his bloody head. “Assassinio!” Murder!

  “I think you are still very much alive,” said Roccasecca. “But you have been wounded. Quite seriously.”

  A pool of sticky blood puddled on the stones of the piazza.

  “I’m done for!” moaned Pasqualone.

  “Who was that man?” asked Roccasecca, opening his friend’s collar. “Who would want to harm you?”

  “It had to be Michelangelo. Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio! Assassin!” Pasqualone struggled to rise and then collapsed with a groan.

  Roccasecca looked around frantically for help.

  “That Caravaggio is a madman!”

  Chapter 25

  NAPLES

  “Lulu? Didn’t you hear what he said?”

  “I heard him.”

  They were back in their depressing hotel room. Moto had scrubbed his face, washing every speck of blood off his cheek, but he still raised his hand to touch where it had been smeared—with the threat that next time it would be his blood.

  “Moto, did you know those guys?”

  “What?”

  “They acted like they knew you.”

  “I don’t have a lot of friends who are thugs in Naples. Trust me on that.”

  “They acted like—”

  “Lulu. My friends don’t smack me across the face. Anyway, he was right. We’re over our heads. We should go back to what we know.”

  “What’s that? Vespas?”

  Moto snapped, “What’s wrong with Ves—” He caught himself. “Nice try, Lulu. You know what I’m saying. We’re not detectives. We do better in the library, the archives. Well, you do better. You’re a scholar.”

  “Oh, so now I’m a scholar. Just because you want to go home.”

  “That’s not fair. I’m not afraid.” Now there was real heat in his voice.

  “I don’t care about fair.” She answered with heat of her own. “I know that painting’s a Caravaggio and I’m going to prove it. Do I have to do it alone?”

  They were both breathing hard. The unspoken question hung in the air: Why did she care so much? People were dying all around them. They could be next. Why was Lucia so desperately determined to keep pushing? If Moto demanded an answer, Lucia knew she wouldn’t have one. There had to be something, something lost in the fog of her memory. But what could—

  Moto broke into her thoughts.

  “No. You don’t have to do it alone. You don’t have to do it at all. We could stop all this craziness and go home. I think—”

  “Don’t think! I’ll do the thinking. I’m the scholar.”

  “Fuck you, Lulu.”

  An instant of heated silence and then they both laughed.

  After a moment, he asked, “So how do we get to Malta?”

  “What happened to your friends?”

  “My friends?”

  “Moto! Your friends. They got us here. They were supposed to get us the rest of the way to Malta, but you lost your cell phone. Moto?”

  He raised his hands. Pure Moto, a helpless gesture.

  “Forget them. No more help there. We’re on our own.” Suddenly, he looked serious. No more helpless gestures. “If we need to do this, we can do it. I don’t need anyone’s help.” He jerked his thumb toward the window. “Especially those creeps.”

  “Moto! Wow! Where did that come from?”

  “I’m tired of getting pushed around. Tired of people laughing. I’m tired of those thugs.”

  Out of nowhere, a new Moto. Lucia didn’t know what to say.

  So she said exactly what she was feeling.

  “I don’t understand what’s going on here. Who are these people?”

  “Which people?”

  “All of them.” She started a list, ticking items off on her fingers. “The two guys who murdered Te-Te, stole the painting, kidnapped me and the professor. Then whoever killed them and started smashing the door to get to us. The carabinieri killed t
hem, but then there’s whoever killed Aysha and her father at the villa. And the caretaker at the monastery. The beheading. The crucifixion. That sounds like the same gang.” She shivered. “Jesus, Moto.” She went back to the list. “And whoever blew a hole in that warehouse, grabbed me and the professor, and got us out of there. Who was that? Are they the same people who saved me last night?”

  Moto shrugged.

  Lucia wasn’t done.

  “And who has the painting? Where is it? I don’t understand any of it.”

  Moto offered a grim smile. Something the new Moto could do. “You don’t understand anything. But you’re still certain we have to go to Malta.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Right now?”

  She managed a smile of her own. “If we don’t know what we’re doing, we’d better get started or we’ll never get anything done at all.”

  “I’m not seeing a lot of choices for Malta.” Lucia had been frowning at the screen on her phone for a long time. “We could fly there easily enough.”

  “No way. The airport’s too exposed. Too many people watching for us—and we don’t know who they are.”

  “The only other way’s by ferry,” she said.

  “OK.”

  “No, it’s not. All the ferries stop in Sicily.”

  “So what?”

  “I’m not going there.” Her voice was flat. A simple statement.

  “But maybe we need to go there. Caravaggio was there.”

  “I know. But I’m not setting foot on that island. Not ever.”

  Moto raised his eyebrows and gestured: Why not?

  “It’s complicated.”

  He kept staring, waiting for more.

  “My family’s from there,” she admitted.

  “So is mine.”

  “My family’s complicated.”

  Another silent gesture: Whose isn’t?

  Lucia thought about her nonna, about the burning rage she had brought from Sicily into her bitter exile in America. Lucia had grown up scorched by the flames, and she was not going to set foot on that island of contagion ever again in her life.

  She thought about explaining all that to Moto. He was her best friend, why not let him into that part of her life? But she found herself close to tears just thinking about it, and she set it aside. Not now. Maybe not ever.