“Fra Michele,” he said, “has there ever been anyone or anything you’ve held sacred? Something you would never compromise?”
Caravaggio shrugged. “Art. Art I hold sacred.”
“Anything beyond that? Something you loved more than Art?”
Caravaggio took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “No.”
“No lover? No friend, no principle. Perhaps God, damn you?”
Caravaggio thought of his painting of Lena in ecstasy. His mind flashed on Cecco as the angel in Love Conquers All. The tenderness of both lovers, their devotion to him. For a moment he hesitated—but he knew the truth.
“No,” he answered.
Wignacourt walked to the window again. Over the rooftops of Valletta he could see the deep blue of the sea. “That is the great fault of your nature. I truly regret it,” he said. “And yet you have created a masterpiece here. Long after I am dead, The Beheading of St. John the Baptist will be the siren calling the faithful—perhaps even the infidels—to Malta to witness your miracle.”
Caravaggio looked down at his hands, folding and unfolding his fingers.
“What do I do with you?” the grand master continued. “A miracle worker, yet the most selfish, destructive man I have ever met!”
Caravaggio shrugged, then lifted his chin in defiance. “And the best artist you’ll ever meet.”
The grand master drew in a sharp breath. “Get out!” he snapped. “Return to the auberge. I warn you, if you are charged with dueling, you will be subject to the laws of the brotherhood. Stay away from Roero.”
“Grazie,” said Caravaggio. He stood up from the chair and made his way down the long hall coffered with paintings.
The grand master watched the stocky figure walk the length of the hall, the heels of his boots clicking an erratic beat. Even after Caravaggio had left, Wignacourt stared down the long corridor.
Fra Giovanni Pecci knocked on Caravaggio’s door.
“Who is it?”
“Novice Pecci,” said the young knight. “Open the door.”
Caravaggio had been resting in his shuttered room, darkened against the oppressive Mediterranean sun. Pecci pinched his nose at the acrid smell of sweat.
“Dio!” said Pecci. “Che puzza! It stinks like a brothel in here, Merisi!”
“So leave,” growled Caravaggio, flopping down again on his bed.
“I’ve come to invite you to a gathering,” said Pecci. He opened the shutters to air out the room. The soft twilight colored the limestone of the Castilian auberge facing them. The blocks of stone were the color of butter.
“Who is hosting this gathering?” asked Caravaggio.
“The organist of the Conventual Church of St. John,” said Pecci, grinning.
“Cazzo!” said Caravaggio, sitting up. “That bastard is in league with Roero.”
“Exactly. And a few of us—who despise Roero and are sick of the whining demands of the musicians—are going to pay a surprise visit. Our church deacon Fra de Ponte expressly asked you to join us.”
Caravaggio ran his fingers through his matted hair, which was soaked in sweat. Slowly, a smile grew, malicious and bright. “It sounds perfect, Fra Pecci,” he said, rising from his bed. “Let me strap on my sword.”
It was midnight by the time the six rowdy knights finished their wine in a tavern by the seaport. The three novice knights, Caravaggio, Pecci, and Francesco Benzi, were swearing revenge for Roero’s verbal assaults and insults. Two senior Knights of Justice, Fra Giulio Accarigi and Fra Giovanni Battista Scaravello, certainly hated Rodomonte Roero, but they were equally enraged by the threat of striking musicians, under the leadership of the organist, Fra Prospero Coppini.
“They threaten to strike on the feast of Saint John! The treasonous swine—the day of our patron saint!”
Along with them was the hot-tempered deacon, Fra Giovanni Piero de Ponte, who carried a sclopo ad rotas, a pistol.
The stone streets on the summer evening were still crowded with knights who were agitated in the sweltering heat. Shouts and curses echoed and, from the dark shadows, grunts of men and moans of prostitutes. A rivulet of wine wove its meandering course along the limestone blocks of St. John’s Street where a cask had been broken open and its red Gellewza poured forth.
“This way,” said Fra de Ponte. “You can hear the music! They give away for free what they will not donate to our church of Saint John!”
“I hear accordions,” said Fra Scaravello, frowning. “And tambourines.”
The strains of a resonant male voice rose, singing incomprehensible words.
“They’ve included some of the islanders.”
“Let’s pay them a visit,” said Fra de Ponte, banging his fist against the door of the organist’s house.
A servant opened the door a crack. He saw the Maltese crosses on the tunics of the men and opened the door wider. “Buonasera, Cavalieri,” he said.
From the top of the stairs, a voice bellowed, “Chi è?”
Fra Coppini descended the stairs and saw the face of De Ponte. “Chiudete la porta!” he shouted. Close the door!
The startled servant pushed the door closed with all his might, pinching Fra de Ponte’s fingers.
“Miserabile porco!” screamed De Ponte, jumping back. Miserable pig! “We’ll break your door down! Brothers! Find something for a battering ram!”
The knights scattered in all directions.
Benzi and Caravaggio ran toward the nearby fort of St. Elmo. There, among other artifacts, was a small cannon that had been used in the siege of 1565.
“If it was good enough to fire the severed heads of Turks across the bay of Valletta, it’s good enough to batter down the door of a pig-fucking organist! Pecci!” Caravaggio called down the street. “Come here and help.”
Together, they rolled the rusted cannon down the street toward the organist’s house.
“Perfetto!” said De Ponte. “All of you—grab behind. You, Caravaggio! Direct the blow toward the lock.”
“Heave-ho!” shouted Scaravello. The six men picked up the small cannon and rammed the door.
“Again!” said De Ponte, gasping. “Again!”
After three blows, there was the splintering of wood. The knights spilled into the entryway.
Fra Giovanni Roero stood at the foot of the stairway. “You swine!” he shouted. “What is the meaning of this?”
“You didn’t invite us to your gathering,” said De Ponte. “An oversight, I’m sure.” He brandished his gun.
“Get the hell out of here!” shouted Roero, drawing his sword. He looked at Caravaggio.
“You are behind this, you miserable beggar!” said Roero, his eyes narrowing to slits. “You bastard knight, you scrawling con artist!”
Caravaggio reached for his sword.
“You fornicator of children!” said Roero, brandishing his sword. He waved the tip at Caravaggio, urging him on. “Everyone knows . . . you and that Sicilian Minniti. And then you and your ‘apprentice’—”
In a flashing instant, Caravaggio’s blade sliced across Roero’s face. The knight pressed his open hand against his cheek, pulling it away bloody.
“I’ll kill you with the next—”
A shot rang out before Caravaggio finished his sentence. Roero clutched his shoulder, screaming in agony.
Caravaggio turned. He saw Deacon de Ponte holding the smoking gun, the mouths of the conspirators hanging open.
The sound of the gunshot brought knights running from all directions. The slap and clatter of boots rang against the limestone roads.
“Run!” shouted Fra Scaravello. “We’ll all end up in the guva for this!”
The men ran, scattering into the dark, narrow streets of Valletta.
But Malta was a small island in the middle of the sea. There was nowhere to hide.
Caravaggio—along with the other six knights—was arrested and taken to Fort Sant’Angelo. He was thrown by himself into a guva, a bell-shaped dungeon dug deep into the limestone.
The only opening was a trapdoor in the ceiling. The steep walls made escape impossible.
Caravaggio settled down wedged against the rock wall. He lay his head in the fetid straw, smelling of the sweat and shit of men incarcerated before him. Mercifully, it was cool underground. Despite the fierce August heat above, the artist shivered and pulled his woolen tunic tighter around him.
The wooden trapdoor above creaked open, and daylight flooded down on him. Two faces stared at him, shiny with sweat.
“You the one who painted Saint John the Baptist?” said a round-faced young guard.
“Sì. I’m Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio.”
“See, I told you, Rafaello!” said the man to his companion. “You are a genius, Fra Merisi! I am Pietro dei Marconi. And this is Rafaello dei Zuccharo.”
“How long will I be here?” said Caravaggio.
“Years, I would think,” said Pietro. “You’ll know for sure after you stand trial. They say you injured a knight. The Conte della Vezza.”
“I’m innocent,” called Caravaggio from the pit. “I was there, but I did not fire the pistol.”
“Too bad for you, Fra Merisi,” said Dei Marconi, looking down with sympathy. “The justices are harsh with novices.”
“Maybe you can paint down there?” Dei Zuccharo laughed. “Can you see masterpieces in the dark?”
“Leave me alone,” said Caravaggio.
“Forgive him, Maestro. He has not seen your miracles,” said Dei Marconi. “I have. Your Saint John the Baptist made me fall to my knees.”
“Stop throwing compliments to the prisoners,” said Dei Zuccharo. The trapdoor slammed shut.
Caravaggio felt the circular sloping walls with his hands, the limestone cool and dry under his fingertips.
He could hear the muffled rattle of sand blowing against the trapdoor, the scuffing of boots above, muted voices occasionally. Nothing else.
A thunderous noise echoed in the chamber—someone stomping with heavy boots on the wooden trapdoor.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Tuppence Knight?” called a mocking voice from above. “Make the most of every day you have. Soon enough, they will drag you out of there, stuff you in a sack, and throw you into the sea to drown . . . like the vermin you are.”
“Roero, you bastard! I’ll kill you!”
“Of course you will,” said the voice from above. Then more thunderous, deafening kicks on the trapdoor.
And finally, the sound of laughter, fading as Fra Giovanni Rodomonte Roero strode away.
A shaft of light blinded him each day as food and water were lowered in a bucket on a tarred rope. The rope was encrusted with dried seaweed and smelled of salt water. Caravaggio pulled it to his nose, craving a smell other than the dirty straw, sodden with piss and shit.
Caravaggio grew pale, a greenish cast to his skin.
“You don’t look much like a knight,” muttered a guard, looking down at him. “More like something rotting on the beach at low tide.”
“Where is Dei Marconi?” asked Caravaggio. “You are not my guard.”
“Business in Valletta. He was called to the grand master’s palazzo.”
“Why?”
The guard shrugged. “How should I know?”
“Any news at all?”
“News? Your fellow knight Piero de Ponte, the one with the gun, is in the guva adjacent. The other knights are standing trial. Yours is coming up.”
“When?”
“Soon enough, I think. When they finish dealing with the lesser accomplices.”
“I didn’t—”
“Save it for the Knights of Justice!”
The guard let the trapdoor slam closed, plunging the cell once more into coal dark.
In the black matte of absolute darkness, Caravaggio hallucinated. He saw himself decapitated like Saint John the Baptist. He thought of Lena, he thought of Cecco.
“Cecco,” he murmured. He remembered how the boy would wake him from his nightmares, shaking his shoulders until he regained consciousness.
The darkness lay heavy on him, a palpable force. His eyes saw black gesso, a blank canvas yearning for his brush.
He saw the image he was to paint, the gash of red, the whites of the eyes. He saw himself holding his own bloody head, offering it up as a trophy.
“No,” shouted Caravaggio. “No!”
Day after day, Caravaggio’s mind drifted.
At unpredictable times—all time was unpredictable in the eternal darkness—the deafening stamping would fill the guva, pounding into his head, followed by the mocking voice from above.
“Enjoy every day, Tuppence Knight. The end is closer. The sea is calling for you.”
Shapes and forms shifted in the gloom. Lines merged, colors—especially red—bled into the image of Lena, the ecstasy of Mary. In the darkness his finger reached out, tracing the outline of her neck, head thrown back.
“I abandoned you,” he said aloud. “And Cecco.”
A shaft of bright light pierced the mantle of darkness. Caravaggio threw a hand in front of his eyes, protecting them. Blinking rapidly, he squinted up.
“Cecco?” he mumbled.
“The guva is taking its toll,” said a voice. “He is a ranting madman.”
A rope ladder was thrown down. A man who Caravaggio vaguely recognized descended. The incense of the church clung to his clothes.
“You don’t know me, do you? The guva has snatched your wits,” said the man.
“I painted a canvas for you,” muttered Caravaggio. “It was . . .”
“A sleeping cupid, amorino dormiente. Sì, Fra Merisi. I am Fra Francesco dell’Antella, secretary to Grand Master Wignacourt.”
Dell’Antella looked up at the mouth of the guva where the guard hovered, watching. “Guard. Send down a lantern. Then seal the door for the hour. I want no disturbance.”
After the lantern was lowered and the hatch closed, Dell’Antella leaned close and whispered, “I have a plan to discuss.”
The trapdoor opened barely enough for strong hands to pull the prisoner out into the moonless night. The hinges, smelling of the mutton grease that had been rubbed on them, pivoted silently as the hatch was closed.
A dark-skinned man dressed in black helped the prisoner steady himself. He spoke in a Maltese accent.
“Come with me.”
“You are?”
“No name,” he whispered. “Hurry!”
“Buona fortuna,” whispered the guva guard, Pietro dei Marconi.
Caravaggio nodded. He was overwhelmed by the fresh sea air. The taste and scent of salt stung his nostrils. The darkness of night seemed merely a shadow to his eyes, so accustomed to pitch black. He saw no other guard in the courtyard.
“We must hurry,” said the dark-skinned stranger. Stay by my side.”
Side by side, they walked through the dark, weaving in and out of narrow passageways, stopping often while the Maltese guide peered around a corner and Caravaggio held his breath. Finally, they stopped by the rampart. Caravaggio could hear the waves far below, lapping against the fortress wall.
The man in black pulled a coil of rope out of the bag he carried. He swiftly knotted one end to an iron ring in the wall.
“There’s enough rope here to reach the water,” he whispered. “The wall is slanted—a little. Hold on to the rope, and you can almost walk down to the water.”
“Walk?” Caravaggio stared into the darkness below.
“It won’t be easy. But you’ll be free. Just hold tight to the rope. If you fall, the guards will hear you hit the water and they’ll be after you.” He stopped and Caravaggio could see his white teeth gleam in the dark. “But don’t worry about the guards. If you lose your grip, the fall will certainly kill you.”
The artist reached out and gripped the man’s shoulder, as if to show his strength. The man nodded.
“There is a boat waiting there right now. The boatman will give you a purse with some money and take you to a felucca bound for Sicily.”
>
“Where in Sicily?”
The Maltese man shook his head. “Too many questions. May God answer all in time.”
Caravaggio tugged on the rope, the jute fibers biting into his hands. “Who sent you? Who is helping me?”
“As I said, Maestro. You ask too many questions. Va’ via! Go! Silently. Now!”
Chapter 45
MONTE PICCOLO
After a night of bad dreams, Lucia woke with the uneasy feeling that there was someone in her apartment. She knew there couldn’t be anyone there. Her door was double-locked and—she dredged her hazy memory of the night before—Vittore had been outside in the dark and he’d told her he’d be there all night, keeping an eye on things.
So she rolled over and tried to get back to sleep. But today was the day she was going to call that newspaper reporter. Moto had told her she was crazy. That she was signing her own death warrant. She’d told him not to be dramatic, but she’d given him two extra days. Now she had to act. She remembered they’d quarreled last night. Well, he had only himself to blame. She had to do what she had to do. Now.
No more sleep.
She opened her eyes—and barely stifled a scream.
“It was here when I woke up. Right there. Staring at me.”
Lucia hadn’t turned her head when Moto and Professor Richman walked into her apartment. Her phone calls to them had been sufficiently urgent that the professor had ridden across town on the back of Moto’s Vespa, but now that they were there, Lucia’s attention stayed focused—riveted—on the painting. The Judas Kiss. Completely out of place. Sitting on the floor, leaning against the battered table, cloaked in its centuries of dirt. On the left side of the painting, Jesus stood, staring out, his face serene, suffused with holiness, transcendent, not the face of a mortal man. Beside him, Judas leaned in to deliver the fatal kiss, his face, too, a caricature: greedy, evil, gloating at the destruction he was causing. Behind them stood an apostle, his face a mask as well: an official saintly version of horror and despair.
For a long time, the professor and Moto stood silently, staring at the painting.
Light in the Shadows Page 31
