Light in the Shadows

by Linda Lafferty

  “Even then the knights are shipwrecked on this rock,” said Wignacourt. He gestured to the blinding white stone buildings of Valletta. “The least they merit is a great painter who can document our order and glorify God. Too long the cathedral has gone without adornment, without the paintings any other great church would display. We shall have an artist paint a tribute to our patron saint, John the Baptist. We will cloak the stone wall of the oratory with a scene that will inspire awe in those who kneel before it.”

  Wignacourt’s eyes gleamed. Already, he could see the martyred saint.

  “Can you do this for our order, Cavaliere Malaspina?”

  The harsh Maltese sunlight bleached the wrinkled skin of the Italian knight. His rheumy eyes smiled at the grand master, his face furrowed in a myriad of wrinkles.

  “Certo,” said Malaspina. The Tuscan knight knew about beauty, having spent time in Firenze in the Medici court.

  “Vous comprenez,” said the grand master, resting the palm of his hand on the knight’s shoulder. “Art, music. We French and Tuscans share this. We will carve civilization out of this rock . . . a court befitting the honor of our knights.”

  Malaspina smiled, looking over the blue harbor toward Vittoriosa. Though many nobles strove to become Knights of Malta, few were admitted. Most who did achieve knighthood found the monastic restrictions impossible. They were fighting, brawling men. Some senior knights took wives secretly, leaving their auberges for home lives in private palazzos. Others drank themselves stupid in the taverns, bedding down the local prostitutes and challenging each other to duels—despite the harsh penalty for killing a brother knight: the offender was sewn into a sack and drowned in the depths of the Mediterranean.

  “Instilling more culture into court? Yes, indeed, Grand Master. A solution to many ills.”

  Wignacourt smiled. “I leave this matter in your hands. When do you leave again for Napoli?”

  “In a fortnight.”

  “Find me an artist. I shall wait eagerly for his arrival.”

  Malaspina nodded. “I may already have the man, Grand Master. My cousin Ottavio Costa knows of one such artist, Michelangelo da Caravaggio. He is a brilliant painter but not an easy man—tough and brawling. He fled to Napoli to avoid prosecution. Murder, Grand Master.”

  “Murder?”

  “In a duel,” said Malaspina. “Some matter over a gambling debt, they say. I met him in Roma at Giustiniani’s palazzo before the incident.”

  The grand master inhaled a deep breath, expelling it slowly.

  A murderer?

  “Is he really that good a painter, this Caravaggio?” asked Wignacourt.

  “He is a genius, Grand Master. The best.”

  Wignacourt cast his eyes toward Vittoriosa, remembering the siege.

  “Bring him here.”

  Chapter 37

  Napoli

  1607

  At last, the Marchesa Colonna returned to Napoli. She immediately brought Caravaggio to stay at her palace in Chiaia, along the shore of the Bay of Napoli.

  One evening, after a sumptuous dinner, they sat together in the drawing room. Torrential rain sluiced outside the palazzo, the winds coming off the Mediterranean and rattling the crystal windowpanes.

  The guttering sconces illuminated a luxurious room with a round gaming table in the center. In a corner, a fire crackled and spat behind an elaborate wrought iron screen.

  A servant brought in a tulle-wrapped parcel. He murmured something to the marchesa, bowed, and then left, closing the heavy mahogany door behind him.

  “I want to show you something, Michele,” said the marchesa. She unwrapped the package to reveal a black-and-white garment. “What I have here is the habit of a Maltese Knight.”

  Caravaggio traced his finger over the eight-pointed cross, white against a wool cloth tunic. For a long time he was silent.

  He remembered the knight Roero, Ranuccio’s companion, who had disappeared in the midst of the brawl.

  “Fabrizio wears this now?” Caravaggio said finally.

  Costanza put her hand over his. “Sì, Michele. His salvation was to join the Order of Malta. He has prospered and has made me proud again. Think of it. Your childhood friend is now an admiral of the Maltese navy. He is an honored knight and serves on the Court of Justice!”

  Caravaggio pulled back his hand from under hers. He did not look at the marchesa. “His sins were rinsed clean?” he said, arching his thick eyebrows. “All by wearing this eight-pointed cross?”

  “He’s made changes in his life.”

  Caravaggio snorted. “Fabrizio? Forgive me, Marchesa. But I know him. As well as my brother.”

  The marchesa stared back.

  “Is it true he killed a man, just as I did?” asked Caravaggio.

  “Yes. Another nobleman. In a duel,” said the marchesa, looking down at her hands. “We will not discuss it further. Ever.”

  “Sì, Marchesa. I can see it pains you.”

  “What more can I do for you, Michele?” she said, covering her eyes with her open palm. Her golden rings sparkled in the firelight as her hand slid down her face. “You received the gift of God, this talent of yours,” she cried. “You are bestowed honors, commissions. You break bread with the great families of Roma, of Genova, of Firenze! Blessings, forgiveness, magnificent opportunities are showered upon you, and how do you treat your benefactors? You hurl away your good fortune, throwing pearl after precious pearl into the sea like a madman.”

  Caravaggio stared at the fire.

  The Marchesa Colonna shook her head. “You have a price on your head now. The pope shows no sign of forgiveness.”

  “You have made inquiries, Marchesa?”

  “Sì.”

  Caravaggio closed his eyes.

  “And there are others who will never forgive you, Michele. They will find you here. Everyone knows now the wonder of the Seven Acts of Mercy you painted.”

  She took the artist’s hand. He opened his eyes.

  “Look at me, Michele. You have one more chance—the Maltese Knights.”

  He shook his head. “I know one knight other than Fabrizio. That knight is the devil incarnate. I spit on his soul.”

  “It is unfortunate you have found an enemy already in Malta,” the marchesa said. “I did not say every knight is virtuous. But the order was founded on goodness, charity, and comforting the sick in Jerusalem.” She pointed to the Maltese cross on the tunic. “Do you want to know what each point stands for?”

  Caravaggio shrugged.

  She touched the first point of the star. “To live in truth is the first. You do that every day in your art. Never have you shirked and avoided controversy.”

  “I am a liar,” said Caravaggio. “And a clever one. You know that.”

  “There are different kinds of truth,” said the marchesa.

  Caravaggio shrugged. “Tell me the others.”

  “Have faith is the second.”

  The artist made a sound of disgust. “So trite.”

  “Repent your sins,” continued the marchesa.

  Michelangelo looked down at the floor. “I have my own communion with God. It is private. I don’t trot it out for show like the sanctimonious clergy, marchesa mia.”

  “Ah! Next is: Give proof of humility. Quindi . . .” she said, laughing softly. “You will have to work on that one, Michele. Then: Love justice. Be merciful.”

  “What justice? What justice is there in this world?” said Caravaggio, his lip curling viciously. “The justice of beheading the Cenci girl, raped by her own father? Burning Giordano Bruno at the stake because he dared to think beyond the limits of the Church? Is that justice? Is it mercy? Next they will be after Galileo for studying the heavens.”

  The marchesa shook her head. “Listen: Be sincere and wholehearted. Again, your work proves this. You transport us to a spiritual moment like no other. Your art seizes us and makes us bear witness, bloody and ragged, in the moment.”

  “My art! The best of my canvas
es have been rejected by the Church.”

  The marchesa held up her long finger in a gesture of silence. “The last vow is to endure persecution, Michele,” she said. “Endure.”

  He looked up at her, saying nothing.

  Endure. Or survive?

  “I would say the eight points of the cross would serve you well,” she said. “I could not prescribe a better medicine for your ills.”

  The attic room over the fishmonger’s was lit with only a small, smoking oil lantern. The smell of low tide rose from the street level, wafting in through the open window.

  Caravaggio held Cecco in an embrace.

  “Malta?” said Cecco, his voice barely audible. “You are leaving me?”

  “I must,” said Caravaggio, releasing his hold on the boy. “The pope has heard of the Seven Acts of Mercy. If I remain in Napoli, I will be assassinated.”

  “Why can I not go with you, Master? Who will grind your pigments, prepare your canvases? Who will—”

  “Stop, Cecco. Fermati!” said Caravaggio, holding up his hand. “I can’t take you. You must return to Roma. It’s time for you to make your way in the world.”

  “But—how?”

  “Hire yourself as an apprentice. Your skills will be valuable.”

  “I—”

  “I will give you a little money to get started. You must fend for yourself now.”

  Cecco looked from his master’s eyes to his own hands.

  I’m to fend for myself. As an artist? How can I possibly live up to anyone’s expectations? I’m Caravaggio’s “boy.”

  “It is settled. Giovanni is arranging transportation for you back to Roma. And . . . I have a favor to ask you, Cecco.”

  Cecco could barely raise his eyes to his master’s. He was as stunned from the shock of separation as if he had been clubbed over the head.

  “Sì, Maestro?”

  “I want you to visit Lena. Find out how she is faring. Send a letter to me, addressed to Grand Admiral Fabrizio Colonna.”

  Cecco nodded. His eyes shot over to the velvet-shrouded painting.

  Caravaggio’s face colored red. “You’ve looked at it, haven’t you?”

  Cecco raised his chin in defiance. “Sì.”

  “I told you! I told you—” said Caravaggio, his hand raised to slap him. The boy held his eyes, not flinching.

  Caravaggio lowered his hand.

  “What did you think of it?”

  Cecco hesitated. He desperately wanted to hurt his master, to make him feel a modicum of the pain he suffered. What do I think? I shall say it’s a disaster, a sentimental, blasphemous homage to a whore!

  Cruel words swirled in his head, a rising serpent’s head of rage and revenge.

  Cecco met Caravaggio’s eyes. “It is your greatest masterpiece,” he said, the words choking him.

  He had never learned to lie to Caravaggio.

  “Maestro,” he said. “Before you depart for Malta, I must share a secret with you. I never told you before, because Lena—”

  “What about Lena?”

  “When you fled Roma to Genova after clubbing Mariano Pasqualone, Lena’s suitor. She—she—”

  “Spit it out, Cecco!”

  “She had to return to her trade to feed herself, her mother, and her son.”

  Caravaggio’s eyes burned. “Of course. It is her trade.”

  “No, listen. I was speaking to her when a knight of Malta—a demon of a man—approached Lena. He spoke ugly words to her.”

  “What did he say?” demanded Caravaggio.

  “He said he’d give it to her hard up the ass. And that . . . I should tell you what he was doing.”

  Caravaggio’s face spasmed with anger, his nostrils flaring like a bull’s.

  “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to anger you. But now that you are going to Malta—”

  “Stop!” said Caravaggio. “I can’t stand to hear more!”

  Caravaggio stumbled away, his hand over his face. These were the last words he and Cecco ever exchanged.

  A donkey cart bumped over the uneven stones from Quartiere San Ferdinando toward the bustling wharf. Caravaggio winced as his canvases and paints jostled violently.

  “What a bone-breaking ride!”

  “Can’t do nothing about them stones, signore,” said the driver over his shoulder. “They’re not going anywhere.”

  A thicket of masts rocking on the Bay of Napoli sliced the dawn into slivers. Boats of all sizes cluttered the bay, some hoisting sail, others with sailors gathering in the loosened canvas folds off the mast. The fishermen returning called insults across the water, their nets glimmering silver with their catch.

  All these seafarers, so at ease . . .

  The salty breeze slapped him in the face. He shivered. Never had he set foot on a boat, let alone a great seafaring galley.

  “There she is, signore!” sang out the cart driver. “The Vittoriosa!” He pointed toward a huge vessel with three masts and its sides perforated with oar ports.

  The Maltese galley measured fifty meters long. Rowers—slaves captured in battles—occupied most of the deck of the oak galley. Only the perimeters of the prow and stern were open to the crew.

  Moored alongside the ancient stones of Castel dell’Ovo, La Vittoriosa groaned on her anchor, jerking the chain like a mare ready to bolt.

  In the early light, the glint of the galley slaves’ chains caught Caravaggio’s eye. He heard the rattle of the metal links.

  “My God,” he said aloud to no one.

  “Signore,” said the cart driver. “Should I unload your trunk and parcels?”

  “Sì. Sì,” he said, digging for a coin in his purse, his eyes still riveted on the galley.

  Caravaggio counted the benches along the starboard side. Two men per bench, twenty-six rows. The slaves’ faces were turned toward the wharf to face the cooling wind.

  One with greasy, matted hair and a blind blue eye looked down at Caravaggio. With his one good eye, he looked like an old, battered eagle eyeing his prey.

  The artist stared back, studying him: his barklike skin, the thick furrows in his forehead, the angry red welts and yellow pus where his skin chafed against the fetters.

  The rower gathered the juices in his mouth and spat into the green water.

  “Scusi.” A guard stopped Caravaggio. “Your papers, signore?”

  “I’m sailing under the auspices of Admiral Colonna. I—”

  “Michele!” called a voice from on board. A fair-haired officer dressed in the white-crossed tunic of the Order of Malta gestured with two open arms. “Welcome aboard La Vittoriosa!”

  The artist walked up the plank gangway. His hand flew to cover his nose. The stink—a mixture of piss, shit, and rancid body sweat from the fifty-two oarsmen—overpowered him. As he boarded the vessel, he caught a glimpse of the runnel under the rowers’ benches.

  Brown sewage trickled, abuzz with glossy flies.

  “How can you bear that fetid mess?” he asked.

  “You learn to sniff around it,” Colonna said, clapping his old friend on the back. “We’ll be at sea soon enough, and the wind will chase away the smell.”

  Caravaggio stared at the weatherworn and emaciated oarsmen, their sinews sharp in their necks and arms, working under their sun-blackened skin like snakes. Most were Turks, slaves taken captive in Maltese battles with the Ottomans. Their eyes burned with hatred or merely stared vacantly, devoid of light.

  The artist shook his head, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

  “Even if Venti blew his cheeks wide, never could the gods chase away that stench!”

  Colonna nodded, his eyebrows lifting. “It’s a factor in battle. The Ottoman sailors can smell us and we can smell them. We attack from downwind, always.” He shrugged and beckoned to one of the crew. “Sailor! Show Maestro Caravaggio to his bunk and where to stow his kit.”

  As Caravaggio followed the seaman, Colonna called, “Then come back around on deck. You’ll want to breathe the
sea and focus straight ahead when we are underway.”

  “Mind your head, signore,” said the sailor as he scrambled down the ladder like a monkey. Caravaggio descended deliberately, resenting every second his hand was engaged on the rungs rather than defending his nose from the repulsive odor.

  The sailor led him to a row of bunks near the hatch. “The admiral thought you’d benefit from a bunk nearest the fresh air.”

  Belowdecks, the stink wasn’t as bad. The cook’s galley smelled of olive oil and garlic.

  “Tell the admiral I’ll be up shortly.”

  The sailor eyed him. “We’ll be underway soon enough. Have you ever sailed the sea before, Maestro?”

  “No. Why do ask?”

  The man suppressed a grin. “You’ll be wanting to be on deck, then. Admiral Colonna knows best.”

  Caravaggio snorted and waved the sailor away.

  “Leave me be. I want to rest.”

  Beyond the port of Napoli, the tranquil sea turned from blue to gray, hostile and rough. At first, Caravaggio could hear the rhythmic whistle of the celeustes, the coxswain, at the stern of the vessel. As the wind picked up, the rowing stopped and the artist heard the flap of the sails unfurling.

  The white-capped waves tossed the Vittoriosa about, making the masts creak under the erratic gusts.

  Caravaggio clambered up the hatch ladder. He lurched to the railing at the stern and vomited copiously into the slapping waves. His lungs gasped greedily in the salt spray.

  “You’ll feel better now,” Fabrizio Colonna called to him over the whine of the wind. The Maltese admiral walked catlike across the decks to inspect the sails. He shaded his eyes, looking at the flex of the sailcloth. “Take her off the wind a bit, Marco,” he called to the helmsman.

  Colonna stood by Caravaggio and the landsman wiped the spittle from his mouth with his sleeve.

  “Eat some salted bread, Michele,” Colonna said. “It will calm—”

  Caravaggio lunged again for the rail, vomiting. “Don’t mention food, damn you, Fabrizio!”

  “Then take a draught of grappa, you stubborn bastard. It will make the rocking seem more natural.”

  “All right,” said Caravaggio, his eyelids half lowered like a lizard’s. “Give it to me, then.”