Light in the Shadows

by Linda Lafferty

  “Forgive me, I beg you,” said Alessandro, his eyes wide with fright. “It is only a speck, Maestro—”

  “A speck? A speck! Do you know what this ‘speck’ can do to my work?”

  “I’m—I’m sorry, Maestro!” the boy stammered. “I can’t see that well in this dim room.”

  “Then clean the brushes outside!” said Caravaggio, flinging his hand in disgust. “But don’t let the sun scorch the hairs. It will split the ends, render them useless.”

  Caravaggio ran his fingers through his tangled hair in a fit of fury. He stared into the vast darkness of gesso.

  The pages watched in silence, trembling. Suddenly, the maestro squinted, straining his eyes into the middle of the empty room.

  “What does he see?” whispered Alessandro. “There is nothing there.”

  Nicholas swallowed, shaking his head. He saw the artist’s mouth move silently.

  Caravaggio reached for his brush, dipped it into the paint on his palette. His hand shot out, making a bold stroke on the canvas.

  The boys stood riveted on the spot, paralyzed by both fear and fascination, watching Caravaggio work.

  And so it began.

  Each day, they saw images appear one by one against the black background. The shine of a man’s forehead, the light on his finger pointing to a bronze platter. A girl stoops, holding the plate ready to receive the severed head. The muscled back of the executioner, his left hand gripping Saint John by the hair, while his right hand retrieves a dagger from his hip sheath as he prepares to sever the sinews of the saint’s neck.

  The pages stood in the gloom of the studio, their eyes wide as they stared at the emerging images.

  “There’s magic in his hand,” said Alessandro.

  “I’m not sure it is God’s magic,” said Nicholas. The boy’s hand flew to his forehead, hastily making the sign of the cross.

  “Be still, page!” said Caravaggio. “Your shadow is interfering with the torchlight.”

  The two boys moved back in unison, bumping into each other as they retreated farther into the shadows.

  The Maltese servants came around the knights’ table with steaming tureens of alijotta. The fish soup, studded liberally with garlic and seasoned tomato, breathed steam into Caravaggio’s face. He drew in the aroma and smiled.

  “Serve him last, you fool!” shouted Cavaliere Roero across the table. “He’s no knight!”

  The servant stopped in midserving, looking from Caravaggio to Roero.

  Malaspina raised his hand, silencing Roero. “Serve our illustrious guest, Luca. Fra Roero, I will remind you of our knightly manners.”

  The servant nodded, giving Caravaggio an extra ladleful until his bowl was brimming.

  “Your point about Maestro Caravaggio’s standing has reminded me to make an announcement to our company,” said Malaspina. He laid a supporting hand on the table and rose to his feet.

  “I am honored to address our auberge,” said Malaspina. “I have an important announcement to make regarding our esteemed guest, Maestro Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio. You know him as a talented painter—soon you shall know him as a brother.”

  A buzz erupted in the dining hall, then cheers.

  The old knight raised his glass. He looked at Caravaggio and then to Roero.

  “Our grand master has procured the special right from our Pope Paul to instate Maestro Caravaggio as a member of the Knights of Obedience!”

  “Impossible,” hissed Roero under his breath. “He is a murderer. And a nobody!”

  The old knight at the head of the table could not hear the grumbling among the cheers and rabble. “Raise your glasses with me to our future brother in knighthood of the Order of St. John!”

  “Salute!” shouted the knights.

  Roero glared at Caravaggio. The knight gripped the edge of the table, his fingernails digging into the damask tablecloth. He leaned forward, hissing, “You struck a fatal blow to a fallen man, showing him no mercy.”

  Caravaggio’s lip twisted. “I had no mercy to give.”

  “He was my friend—”

  “Your friend? And yet you didn’t defend him,” said Caravaggio, sneering. “You hid in the shadows like a cowering dog.”

  Roero bared his teeth. “A Knight of Malta cannot brawl in the streets of Roma! I would have been expelled.”

  “I’m sure the grand master would be interested in your great friendship with a notorious Roman pimp. And your cowardice.”

  Roero stood up from the table, throwing his greasy, wine-stained napkin in Caravaggio’s face. He stormed out of the room, cursing.

  Chapter 43

  Valletta, Malta

  1608

  The colossal height and breadth of the new painting made its evolution visible from any point of the oratory. The grand master visited daily, watching Caravaggio’s progress.

  One day, Grand Master Wignacourt and Malaspina entered the hall and found Caravaggio alone, cleaning his brushes.

  Malaspina stared openmouthed in wonder. His whisper was barely audible, a reverent sigh. “It is a masterpiece.”

  “It is finished,” said Caravaggio, his voice echoing in the stone chamber.

  Grand Master Wignacourt walked toward the artist, his eyes still riveted on the canvas. He studied the body of Saint John, the muted colors conveying his death. A pool of blood spilled from the last pulse of his veins.

  “You have surpassed all expectations,” said the grand master. He pulled the artist to his breast in an embrace. “This painting shall endure when we are but dust.”

  The grand master felt the artist stiffen. Releasing him, Wignacourt continued.

  “I’ve come to tell you that you are to be confirmed imminently as a Knight of Obedience. We have set the date. July fourteenth. Here in front of your miraculous creation.”

  Caravaggio bent down on one knee, kissing the grand master’s ring.

  “My son, you have done our order proud,” said Wignacourt as Caravaggio rose.

  “This was always my intention,” said Caravaggio. “Your Excellency, excuse me.”

  The artist walked to the massive painting. Malaspina and Wignacourt watched as he picked up his brush, selected a paint from his palette, and made a quick movement with his hand.

  He stepped back, stared at his painting, and turned back to Wignacourt.

  “I shall never forget this day,” said Caravaggio, bowing to the grand master.

  He turned to leave, his steps echoing through the long corridors of the church.

  Malaspina called to the grand master. “Alof! Come. Look what he has written in the spilled blood of Saint John.”

  Wignacourt approached the painting. He studied the handwriting in red. “F. Michelangelo.”

  “Fra Michelangelo,” he said, nodding. “A knight of the Order of St. John.”

  Chapter 44

  Valletta, Malta

  1608

  At the entrance to the Italian auberge, a drunken Cavaliere Roero roared at Alessandro Costa. “You wash the murderer’s brushes, that heathen artist. Does he touch your private parts when you fetch his paints? Fondle you in his studio?”

  Alessandro’s face drew up in rage, his nostrils pinched in fury. “You are drunk, Cavaliere Roero,” he said. “I suggest you take yourself to bed before you fall down and injure yourself.”

  “Oh, go back to your killer and the sniveling pack of pages who serve him.”

  “I will indeed return to the palazzo of Grand Master Wignacourt,” said Alessandro. “I will not stand for anyone to insult the Costa name!”

  Alessandro stepped from the dim interior of the auberge into the dazzling sun reflecting off the limestone streets. He squinted at the sniggering Castilian knights who were gathered across the road at the entrance to their auberge. They had overheard the exchange between the knight from Piemonte and the Roman apprentice, for the noonday shutters with their open slats did nothing to contain the noise and gossip of the auberge.

  The grand mast
er’s carriage turned the corner, the driver having to pull up the horses to keep from running over Alessandro. Caravaggio stepped out, with Nicholas de Paris Boissy helping him tote his satchels of pigments and brushes.

  “Avoid Cavaliere Roero at all costs,” muttered Costa. “He is in a filthy mood and his tongue is sharp as a viper’s bite.”

  “Ha! And my mood is all light with splendid news,” said Caravaggio. He looked up and saw a green shutter push open and the sagging, drunken face of Roero looking down.

  “I say my mood is light, page!” shouted Caravaggio, lifting his voice and looking squarely into the eyes of Roero. “Light as the schiuma atop a glass of prosecco. For soon I shall enter the Order of St. John.” Caravaggio beamed up at the drunken knight. “What say you to that, Fra Roero, my brother?”

  “Brother!” roared Roero. “Don’t dare call me that. Ever!”

  Roero slammed the shutters closed, sending a flock of pigeons flapping to the heavens.

  Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio stood before the entire corps of the knights, his own painting of the beheading of Saint John the Baptist looming over him.

  The artist knelt at Grand Master Wignacourt’s feet. The banner of the Maltese Cross of Service was held on a gold staff above his head. The Sword of Commitment was held by Malaspina at Wignacourt’s right.

  “As you do solemnly swear to serve the tenets of the order and never to bring stain upon our fraternity,” pronounced Grand Master Alof de Wignacourt. He placed the chain and gold cross around the artist’s neck.

  “I pronounce you Knight Merisi da Caravaggio of the Maltese Order of Obedience,” the grand master said. “Go forth and serve!”

  Wignacourt watched Caravaggio rise to his feet, triumph glowing in the artist’s eyes. The new knight looked past the grand master, his eyes focused on the vast painting beyond.

  “Sì,” whispered the grand master, turning to the painting. “I am eternally grateful for this magnificent gift.”

  Caravaggio’s face quivered. Muscles that were seldom used stretched awkwardly in a rare smile.

  After the long ceremony, a celebratory feast was spread in the knights’ vast dining hall. The bread was passed, each knight breaking off a chunk from the long loaf. The pungent aroma of garlic from the alijotta wafted across the auberge table as the Italian knights were served by Maltese footmen.

  “What are the next courses?” grunted Cavaliere Roero. He blew on a spoonful of soup.

  “The next is timbana,” said the footman, his face lighting up.

  “Baked macaroni pie—any farmworker can do as well in a tavern!” said Roero.

  The Maltese native dipped his head. His face burned at the insult to one of the island’s specialties.

  “Tell us more,” said Caravaggio.

  “Thank you, Cavaliere,” said the servant, bowing, looking away from Roero. “Timbana is followed by stuffat tal-fenek, studded with laurel leaves, capers, garlic, and tomatoes. The chef’s specialty. The meat falls off the bone!”

  “Rabbit stew! Peasant fare,” Roero grumbled. “And more damned garlic. How I hate that stinking bulb. And the Maltese are the worst!”

  The footman’s face colored, his jaw muscles showing beneath his skin.

  “Vile food served by a Maltese peasant whose skin is scorched dark by the heathen cultures that spawned him,” muttered Roero.

  “It seems you don’t like much about Malta,” said Caravaggio from across the table.

  “Shut up, you scrawler,” said Roero.

  “What did you call me?”

  “You scrawl like a crab drags tracks across the sand. Then you pass it off as art!”

  “His painting of our holy patron John the Baptist is a miracle,” said Fra Giovanni Piero de Ponte, angling the tines of his fork at Roero. “You can’t deny that, Giovanni!”

  “He dupes us all!” shouted Roero. “He’s a filthy murderer!”

  “He’s a genius!” said Piero de Ponte, his fork stabbing the air. The commotion attracted the attention of the other knights at the table. The elderly Malaspina, presiding over the table, asked the church organist next to him, “What are they arguing about? I cannot hear.”

  “Fra Roero says Merisi is not fit to be a knight, Your Excellency.”

  “Fra Merisi,” said Malaspina, giving the organist a withering look. “He is our brother now. What does the church deacon Fra Piero de Ponte say in response?”

  The organist sneered. He hated the deacon, who declined to pay the musicians the wages they felt they deserved.

  “Fra Piero urges Merisi to defend himself.”

  “Does he?” said Malaspina, rising from his chair. “Brothers! Stop at once!” he roared. “May I remind you, Fra Roero, that Fra Michelangelo Merisi is a knight now. He is our brother.”

  “I’ll have no brother who murders and connives!” said Roero in a hoarse whisper only those close to him could hear. “He’s below all of us, this peasant from Caravaggio! A tuppence knight who sups from the cesspools of Roma—”

  Caravaggio threw down his fork and knife. “Come out to the street and say that to me, you filthy swine!”

  Piero de Ponte pulled on his friend’s sleeve. “Don’t let him trick you, Michele,” he said. “If you threaten a duel, you’ll be thrown in the dungeon, the guva. Fra Malaspina will be bound to report you.”

  Caravaggio stood, his body tense with loathing. He glanced at Malaspina, who was still standing, one hand on the table supporting his weight. From the French table, he saw Grand Master Wignacourt turn his head toward the commotion.

  “Cavalieri!” said Malaspina. “We will tolerate no ill will, threats, or insults in this auberge. Do you hear me? Please take your seat, Fra Merisi.”

  Caravaggio glared at Roero, his hand quivering near the sheath of his dagger. He ignored the voice of Malaspina, the tugs on his sleeve. His mouth filled with spit.

  “Don’t be a fool, Merisi! Sit down,” hissed De Ponte. “You are taking the bait like a stupid fish. You give proof to Malaspina you should not be a knight if you act now. Aspetta! Wait, wait!”

  Caravaggio eased himself back into his chair, nodding stiffly to Malaspina.

  “You did right,” whispered the knight at his left, Giovanni Battista Scaravello from Turin. “You aren’t the only knight who despises Roero. He will pay in time.”

  “But not in front of Malaspina and Wignacourt,” said another two places down. Caravaggio recognized Fra Giulio Accarigi, a knight from Siena who had been imprisoned several times for violent behavior. Accarigi gestured for Caravaggio to sit back to exchange words behind the torso of Scaravello, where Roero could not hear his words.

  Accarigi’s eyes glinted with hatred. “Bide your time, Fra Michele. Roero has made many enemies among us.”

  Caravaggio nodded and sat back straight. He picked up his fork again and attempted to eat.

  Fra Roero lifted his lip in disgust. He whispered hoarsely, “The Tuppence Knight, a peasant from Caravaggio. Hardly a huomo di Valento. You painted your way into this auberge, you miserable peasant. Everyone knows you are beneath contempt.”

  Caravaggio’s jaw went rigid, his fingers clenching his fork. His nostrils flared, his breath hoarse and rapid.

  Roero pushed his bowl of soup away, picking his teeth with his fingernail. He smirked at his foe across the table. “You have quite the temper, artist,” said Roero, laughing. “You’ll land in the guva yet.”

  Giovanni Pecci, a fellow novice from Siena, laid a hand on Caravaggio’s shoulder, inducing the artist to turn toward him. “You did well to stand down from Roero,” he whispered.

  “Did I?” snarled Caravaggio. “Miserabile porco! Miserable pig.”

  “Michele, you risked imprisonment and even your knighthood with Malaspina as witness to a crime.”

  “No one speaks to me that way,” said Caravaggio. “I will have revenge.”

  Pecci nodded. “You will have it. There is a gathering—”

  Novice Pecci was interrupted by
the angry shouts of men, several languages being spoken at once.

  “Those are the musicians,” Pecci said.

  A motley crew of church musicians—Italian, French, and Spanish—had gathered. They spoke, gesticulating wildly with emotion.

  “What are they so angry about?” Caravaggio said.

  “They are threatening to strike. The elders of the order have refused their request for higher pay. The one who is stirring them up is the organist—Fra Prospero Coppini. He is a friend of Roero’s.”

  “Then he is an enemy of mine,” said Caravaggio through his teeth.

  Caravaggio was ushered into the great hall, where Grand Master Wignacourt was standing looking out through the blinding light reflected off the stones of Valletta.

  “Sit down, Fra Merisi,” he said, pointing to a chair. “I hear you and Fra Roero were at each other’s throats last night.”

  “Roero insulted me,” said Caravaggio. “I was prepared to defend my honor.”

  “Fra Roero,” said Wignacourt sternly. “He is your brother in the Order of St. John!”

  “He called me a tuppence knight, not fit for the holy order. A murderer—”

  “And you called him out. Challenged him?”

  “Of course!” said Caravaggio, rising from his chair. “No one—”

  “Sit down!” Wignacourt roared. “You seem to forget, Fra Michele, what an honor it is to be a knight of the Order of St. John. Under the brotherhood’s banner, even the pope may not touch you. You are protected from the bando capitale.”

  The old warrior narrowed his eyes.

  “But if you defy the laws of the Knights of Malta, you will be punished. You will be defrocked, humiliated, and possibly executed. The fish will feed on your bones. Do you understand?”

  Caravaggio nodded.

  “Do you understand?” thundered Wignacourt.

  “Sì, ho capito,” said Caravaggio. “I understand.”

  “And there will be nothing I can do to protect you,” said Wignacourt, locking eyes with Caravaggio. “As grand master, I must adhere to the law of the sacred order.”

  Wignacourt rubbed furiously at his temples.