Light in the Shadows

by Linda Lafferty

  Fabrizio jerked his chin at a sailor, who went to fetch drink.

  “Breathe deep. Keep your eyes focused straight ahead toward the horizon,” said the admiral. The sailor returned with a bladder. Fabrizio took a pull and then handed it to the artist. Caravaggio took several long gulps, wincing at the strong bite of the liquor. He closed his eyes, drawing in deep breaths.

  “What’s it like?” said Caravaggio. “Malta?”

  “Rocks,” said Fabrizio. “And more rocks. Limestone blocks that shine in the sun like a city of the Orient, like Jerusalem itself. But still, all rock.”

  “You don’t sound as if you like it much, Fabrizio.”

  Colonna laughed, taking the bladder from Caravaggio. He took a long draught. “Fortunately, I can sail away. I grow weary of rock.”

  “Has Malta washed away your sins?” said Caravaggio, sucking down another gulp. “I know you have a murder weighing on your soul too.”

  Fabrizio’s eyes flashed on Caravaggio, warning him not to venture further.

  “I’ve had at least enough splash of the sea to wash me clean of my sins. I command the fleet that battles the infidels. The pope approves,” he said, dodging a wave that swept over the deck. “Damn you, Marco!” he shouted. “Take her more into the wind now, you son of a sea cook!”

  “Aye, Admiral,” called the voice from the helm.

  “Do you think the sea will do the same for me?” said Caravaggio. “Wash clean my sins? Make me a man of honor and respect?”

  Fabrizio shrugged. He looked out at the churning waves.

  “You are beyond the reach of Roma, Michele. Isn’t that enough? Wignacourt will determine your fate. He’s a powerful man. The pope left me in the hands of the grand master, and I am now the grand admiral. Your fortunes can change under the banner of the knights. The pope and Roma need our protection.”

  Caravaggio looked at the gray waters and the diminishing shoreline of Calabria.

  “An island of rock. After Roma—”

  “You can say goodbye to that!” said Fabrizio. He fixed his eyes on his friend. “You and I are both colossal sinners, Michele. Roma has slammed its door to us. Understand that.”

  Caravaggio took another gulp of grappa. “What’s it like?” he said. “Celibacy? Living a virtuous life?”

  The Maltese admiral twisted his mouth in scorn. “How the hell would I know? We knights are no more celibate than the cardinals of Roma! There are whores in every port. You’ll find them along the shore of Valletta, fattened on the scudi of the order. There is no shortage of sin. And brawls between knights hungry for battle.”

  Caravaggio considered. “What of the eight points of virtue of the Maltese cross?”

  “How are you at serving broth and vermicelli to sick patients? Wiping their fevered brows and changing their piss pots?”

  “Me?”

  “It’s one of the practices of the order,” said Fabrizio. “You’ll be required—”

  “I’m going to Malta to paint!” snarled Caravaggio.

  “I forgot, of course,” said Fabrizio. “You aren’t a knight. You can’t be—” Another rogue wave splashed over the deck, drowning his words.

  “Damn you, Marco! You haven’t the sea sense of a blind pig, you sodding pimp!” Fabrizio charged off toward the helmsman.

  Chapter 38

  Valletta, Malta

  1607

  Caravaggio came ashore at Valletta harbor, a landing with a white stone customhouse bracketed by chains set into limestone pillars. He supervised the transfer of his rolled canvas and boxes of brushes and pigments into a cart drawn by two oxen that slowly mounted the hill toward the city gates.

  Valletta was exactly as Fabrizio had described it: stone piled on stone as far as the eye could see. The roads, the towering walls, the houses—all cream-colored limestone. Colorful enclosed balconies rescued the city from the monotony of stone.

  Caravaggio was taken first to the grand master’s palazzo, where he was greeted by a young page who took his cloak and hat.

  “Welcome, sir,” said the fair-headed boy. He was dressed in a black-and-white tunic and black silk leggings that accentuated his shapely calves. He spoke Italian with a French accent. “I am Nicholas de Paris Boissy, page to Grand Master Wignacourt.”

  Caravaggio smiled for the first time since he’d left Napoli. “You are young to be apprenticed, aren’t you?”

  “I am twelve years old,” said Boissy, jutting out his chin. “There are younger pages in the palazzo than me. I shall be a knight soon enough, signore.”

  “I see,” said the artist, drinking in the boy’s face and noble bearing. “Nicholas, bring me a basin of water and a towel so that I may wash the salt off my face before I meet his honor the grand master.”

  “Oui, monsieur,” said Boissy, lapsing into French. “Tout de suite!”

  “Delightful,” said Caravaggio softly, watching the boy hurry down the hall in his soft leather slippers. He thought of Cecco at that age. “Perhaps Malta has its charms after all.”

  Grand Master Alof de Wignacourt stood at the end of a great hall, conversing with another, older knight.

  As Caravaggio followed the page down the hall, he studied the grand master. A distinguished man in his early sixties with a neatly trimmed beard, Wignacourt had a supremely self-assured demeanor. His skin was bronzed and weather-beaten from countless hours in the field battling the Ottoman foes of the Christian cross. Caravaggio sensed an animallike fierceness to this man with the white Maltese cross emblazoned on his tunic.

  “Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio,” said Wignacourt, extending his hand. His perfect Italian had a light Provençal accent. “I am pleased to welcome you to Malta.”

  “Un gran piacere,” said Caravaggio, bowing. He nodded to the distinguished gentleman in a black tunic with the white eight-pointed cross who was standing beside the grand master.

  “Cavaliere Martelli. I present our new artist-in-residence, Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio.”

  The elderly gentleman extended his hand. The artist noticed the gnarled joints as he clasped it.

  “I am not a stranger to your work, Maestro,” said Martelli. “I have admired your shield of the Medusa at the Palazzo Vecchio in Firenze.”

  “You are Tuscan?”

  “Cavaliere Antonio Martelli is from a venerable Florentine family,” said Wignacourt. “He is a hero from the Great Siege of Malta.”

  “Ah!” said Caravaggio, bowing. “Then I should paint you—”

  The grand master laughed, exchanging a look with Martelli.

  “We have plenty of other projects for you, Maestro Caravaggio,” said the grand master.

  “But I should paint you,” insisted Caravaggio, inspecting Martelli’s face, his eyes lingering on the creases in his skin. “After painting Your Grace, of course,” said the artist, bowing.

  Wignacourt considered the artist, his fingertips stroking his beard. “Perhaps you are correct, Maestro Caravaggio. In fact, I think you should paint Fra Martelli first. Then we will have better knowledge of your ability. I have not had the occasion to see your work. You will have to prove your talent.”

  “Your Excellency,” mumbled Caravaggio. He ducked his chin to hide his displeasure.

  “You shall be lodged with the Italian knights in their auberge, Caravaggio. I shall expect you to paint here in my palazzo.”

  Caravaggio looked around, inspecting the dark interior. “Is there a source of light, Grand Master? I will need lanterns, ones that throw strong illumination. It is crucial to my work—”

  “You shall have whatever you need. My steward shall make sure of it. My pages may attend you as needed.”

  “Ah! Yes, that would be perfect. There is one who greeted me at the door—”

  “Nicholas is not available, Maestro Caravaggio,” said the grand master. “He is part of my personal retinue.”

  The artist bowed. “I see.”

  “There are others who will be more suited as your assistants,�
� said the grand master. “Come, Maestro. Let us take some wine and toast to your arrival in Malta.”

  Two of Wignacourt’s pages accompanied Caravaggio to the Italian auberge, standing on the step of the carriage as the driver maneuvered his horse over the limestone roads.

  The young pages spoke to one another in a torrent of French, a Provençal dialect that the artist could not work out. They bobbed their heads in lively animation, joyful at their outing. The strong sunshine glanced off their hair, one flaxen and one bright–orange red. Their livery was chocolate-colored velvet with red leggings. Now and then, a lace cuff would rise in a gesture or to point out someone they knew.

  The carriage slowed at the church of Saint Catherine adjacent to South Street and Strada San Giacomo.

  “The Italian auberge’s church,” said the redheaded page, pointing. “And that’s your auberge, directly across from the Castilian one. The Italian one is much grander, Maestro.”

  Caravaggio saw a three-storied building with six windows on each floor.

  In a second-story window he spotted a man with thick chestnut hair. The man’s hand gripped the shutter as he glared down at Caravaggio’s arrival.

  The red-haired boy whispered in his ear. “That is Knight of Justice Fra Giovanni Rodomonte Roero, Conte della Vezza, Maestro. From the north, like you.” He hesitated and then whispered, “He is a dangerous man, Maestro Caravaggio.”

  Caravaggio locked eyes with the man he already knew too well, not looking at the page as he spoke. “Tell me why.”

  “Quarrelsome, always looking for a brawl. He’s despised by many of our order. We think he is not right in the head. But don’t tell Grand Master Wignacourt I said anything.”

  “Of course not.”

  Caravaggio descended from the carriage, where a flight of Italian pages greeted him.

  From the window above, Roero launched a gleaming gob of spit, just missing Caravaggio’s head.

  “You are welcome here,” said a voice from the shadows within the palazzo. In the blinding sun, Caravaggio couldn’t see the speaker.

  A knight even older than Martelli walked out with the help of an ivory cane. “Maestro Caravaggio, may I introduce myself. I am Ippolito Malaspina,” he said, extending his gnarled hand. “I’m the prior of the Knights of Malta.”

  “You are the man responsible for bringing me to Malta,” said Caravaggio, grasping Malaspina’s hand, his eyes studying the knight’s sinewy forearm. “The Marchesa Colonna told me. You are related to Signor Ottavio Costa, one of my patrons.”

  “I have seen my cousin’s treasured Martha and Mary Magdalene by your hand,” said Malaspina. “Remarkable. Your reputation in Roma is unparalleled.”

  “I assume you refer to my art, Cavaliere Malaspina,” said Caravaggio.

  Malaspina smiled, wagging a finger. “Of course, Maestro. What other reputation could you possibly have but as the greatest artist since Michelangelo?”

  The carriage driver had unknotted the ropes that held Caravaggio’s baggage on the back of the carriage. The pages gathered up the belongings and panted up the stairs under the weight.

  “I see you brought your own supplies.”

  “I wasn’t sure what I could procure here.”

  “The grand master will see you have the best,” said Malaspina. “Is it true you do not use blue in your paintings? Such a pleasant color.”

  “Blue? Rarely,” said Caravaggio. “Blue is indeed pleasant, but I look at what lurks under the blue.”

  Malaspina regarded him, his eyes occluded with cataracts earned from the blazing Mediterranean sun and sparkling sea. “When you have settled, I shall introduce you to the knights of our auberge, Maestro.” He turned to a servant. “Please show Maestro Caravaggio to his room and direct the pages where to store his supplies.”

  Caravaggio clasped the old knight’s hand. He liked the warmth and firmness of the prior’s handshake, the nimbleness and strength of his fingers despite his age.

  “Cavaliere Malaspina,” the artist said, bowing, “it is an honor to meet you.”

  As Caravaggio looked up, he saw, yet again, the face that had lurked in the shadows and watched his friend bleed out his life on the cobblestones of Roma. The Piemontese knight descended the staircase, glaring, his mouth twisted with hatred.

  “Ah! Fra Roero!” called Malaspina, squinting at the knight, his eyes unable to discern the glower on his face. “Please come and meet Maestro Michele Merisi da Caravaggio.”

  Roero strode toward them. He did not extend his hand. “I know who you are,” he said. “You are a filthy murderer.”

  “Fra Roero!” said Malaspina, aghast. “The maestro is a guest in our auberge!”

  “And how would you know I killed a man, Fra Roero?” said Caravaggio. “Unless you were there yourself? Right in the middle of the fight.”

  Roero narrowed his eyes and darted a look at the old knight Malaspina.

  “I know because evil news travels far,” said Roero. “Your treachery in the streets of Roma is notorious, Merisi. You are no better than a heathen Turk.”

  Caravaggio’s back stiffened. His right hand hunted for his dagger.

  “Come along, Maestro,” said Malaspina, taking Caravaggio’s elbow firmly and steering him toward the great hall.

  Malaspina called over his shoulder, “I’ll deal with you later, Fra Roero. Your conduct toward our guest is despicable. It shall be noted to the grand master.”

  Chapter 39

  MONTE PICCOLO

  Lucia wasn’t going to run. Running would mean she was afraid, and she was not going to be afraid. So she walked—strong, solid, definitely not running.

  Someone was following her. That wasn’t her imagination. She heard the footsteps behind her in the dark, and when she stopped—looking into a shop window—the footsteps stopped too. She turned a corner, then another one immediately. The tiny streets twisted and turned in every direction. She knew Monte Piccolo well by now, and she quickly turned yet again, making her way home, but not too directly, trying to lose whoever was following her.

  It was late to be walking home alone, closer to dawn than midnight. They had talked for hours in the professor’s rooms, trying to understand how they had found themselves tangled with terrorist assassins inspired by a medieval Knight of Malta.

  Eventually, Moto had left to meet friends at a party, saying he desperately needed a glass—no, make that a bottle—of good red wine after so many hours arguing about murderers. And Professor Richman had retired to his bedroom with a reference to his age and his need for sleep, leaving Lucia alone in the parlor, thinking about Italy’s blood-splattered past—and present.

  She might have dozed off. In any case, it was hours after midnight when she stood up, stretched, listened to the professor snoring in the next room, and then slipped out the door to walk home.

  And now she was alone—no, not alone, and that was the trouble. There were no streetlights, no lights in any of the buildings that lined the cobblestone streets.

  She needed to get home.

  And she needed to keep walking, not running.

  She wasn’t afraid.

  And the footsteps stayed behind her. Never hurrying closer. Never fading away.

  But she still was not going to run.

  Her mind filled with thoughts of Aysha, the beautiful young woman, beheaded and burned, a flash of the man with blood running down his face in the street in Naples, the feel of the rough cloth of the black robes, the sour breath and the crushing grip of the man who had carried her through the catacombs in Malta.

  Her apartment on the quiet piazza was impossibly far away. She might never see it again. She turned another corner, then another.

  And then, suddenly, there was light and noise spilling out of an apartment on an upper floor of a building down a dark, narrow side street. Music and voices. Young voices. Maybe other students from the seminar. Maybe people she had never met. Maybe Moto. It didn’t matter. She sprinted recklessly through the dark to the d
oor of the building. She yanked the handle. The door was locked. She desperately pounded all the call buttons outside the door and waited a few terrifying seconds until someone buzzed her into the building. She slipped through the door and leaned all her weight against it until it clicked shut behind her, and then she ran up the stairs toward the party.

  Inside, the apartment was exactly the crush of sweaty bodies and slightly drunken faces she had hoped for. No one she knew. No one who knew her. And no one who cared either way.

  She stayed for an hour, made distracted small talk when she had to, and then, when a large group started putting on their coats, she grabbed her jacket and went out into the street with them. She hid in the anonymity of the crowd until the moment seemed right, and then she broke away and ran—definitely not walking anymore—all the way back to her apartment. She locked the door and collapsed on her bed, gasping for breath and wondering how the hell it had come to this.

  “We don’t even know who they are.”

  Lucia, Moto, and the professor were back in the parlor, still trying to find an answer to the same question: What do we do now?

  Lucia hadn’t mentioned her experience, her terror, from the night before. After a few hours of fitful sleep, she wasn’t quite certain what had been real and what had been a nightmare. But her steely determination to push ahead now had a sharper edge.

  “We don’t know who they are,” she repeated.

  “Or where they are. Or what they want,” Moto added.

  “Other than to kill anyone who gets in their way,” said the professor. “And that seems increasingly to be us.”

  “We can’t keep running,” Lucia said, which brought back a flash from the night before, “when we don’t know which way to run.”

  No one had an answer to that, so she went on.

  “We need to take the fight to them.”

  “That’s crazy!”

  “We can’t—”

  The professor and Moto both spoke at once, but Lucia cut through.

  “We need to lure them out into the open. Make them come and get us when we’re ready for them.”