by Walter Ellis
‘Battista?’
‘Ja, ja. According to Rüttgers, Battista was once very powerful, but came to a sticky end. I looked him up in the Catholic Encyclopedia. There was no mention of him, which seemed strange. Even odder is the fact that the Carracci picture – which would be worth an absolute fortune … a drawing by him sold recently in Christie’s for, I think, a quarter of a millions euro – isn’t even listed in the inventory of the Vatican Museum. And when I consulted an official catalogue of Carracci’s known body of work, there was no mention of it.’
O’Malley had forgotten that Scholtz was an art buff. ‘I’d like to take a look at the diary for myself. Could you arrange to have it biked over?’
‘I would, gladly, Father General,’ Scholz said. ‘Unfortunately, an official from the Vatican security service took it away for safekeeping the day before yesterday. He said it contained confidential references pertaining to the upcoming conclave and that it had to be kept out of the public domain.’
‘Really? What did Rüttgers’ family have to say about that?’
‘They were told it was a Church matter, nothing to do with them.’
‘I see.’ O’Malley sucked his teeth. ‘Just one more thing, Hermann. Without betraying the confidence of the Confessional, can you tell me what mood Cardinal Rüttgers was in the day he died?’
The Jesuit thought for a moment. ‘I’d say he was a very unhappy man. Deeply depressed. Maybe whatever it was that caused his stroke affected his judgment. I cannot say.’
‘Did he appear in any way physically unwell?’
‘Physically? No, not at all. In fine fettle, I’d say. He made me feel old.’
‘Okay, Hermann, I’m grateful to you. And I’d appreciate it if you kept our little conversation to yourself.’
‘Of course, Father General.’
‘I’m serious. Not a word.’
‘You can rely on me. Is there anything else I can do …?’
‘If there is, I’ll let you know.’
O’Malley rang off. He walked over to the window of his office and stared up the street towards St Peter’s. Judas was acting out his destiny. What in God’s name had Rüttgers meant by that? It was the second time the fallen Apostle had cropped up in this affair. Was it a sign? If so, where was it pointing? The question is, who – or what – controls Bosani? This was both cryptic and infuriating. Even those who detested the Camerlengo and believed him to be a malign influence in the Church didn’t question his bona fides. It was maddening. And now were now two paintings, both of the mysterious Cardinal Battista, the second of them, without any known provenance, in the private collection of the Camerlengo. What was the possible link between the two men and what did it mean for the future of the Church? As he gazed at the famous dome of the basilica, a thin crescent moon rose above Fontana’s cross and lantern. For some reason, the sight of this filled him with unease.
20*
July 1606
Six weeks had passed since Caravaggio became a fugitive from justice, and the artist was living in the magnificent household of Don Marzio Colonna in the hills south of Rome. The sword wounds inflicted by Ranuccio’s brother, Giovan Francesco, had left him with a deep scar across his right temple, mostly hidden by his hair, but the wound to his throat had healed almost completely. Given that he had lost a lot of blood, he had made an impressive recovery.
The news from Rome, however, was not good. Longhi was in hiding in Milan. A warrant had been issued for his arrest as an accessory to murder. Toppa, the soldier, gravely wounded in a fight not of his making, had lost the use of his sword arm and been left to fend for himself, so was in no mood to speak up for Caravaggio. At the same time, Giovan Francesco, who had initially fled Rome, fearing arrest, had successfully petitioned the Pope for a judicial pardon. The magistrate appointed to the case evidently took into account Tomassoni’s long service to the Holy See and accepted his claim that Caravaggio attacked and murdered him in cold blood as he lay on the ground.
A Monsignor in the papal household, who owed his elevation to the Colonna, confirmed to Prince Marzio that Caravaggio had been made the scapegoat for the entire sorry business. The Pope was appalled by what had happened, the Monsignor said. He thought he had come to know the painter during the sessions in which he had sat for his portrait nine months previously. But apparently he had been fooled. The Camerlengo, Cardinal Battista, had condemned Caravaggio not only as a murderer, but as a dangerous heretic, who fled the scene of his crime. Once it was clear that the accused had no intention of returning to Rome, it was on Battista’s orders that a banda capitale was issued.
Without the protecting hand of the Colonna, Caravaggio would never have survived, and he was grateful. His father, Fermo, had worked all his life for the Sforza branch of the clan, rising to be chamberlain in Milan, with a household and servants of his own. He became a trusted adviser and confidant – an uomo di fiducia – whose death deprived the family of valuable counsel. Partly out of feudal loyalty, but also because they recognized the genius of Fermo’s boy, the Colonna, with vast estates throughout Italy, would always watch over him.
In an effort to repay his host for his kindness, but also because he could not stop himself, Caravaggio produced a series of canvases in Zagarolo that he then offered to Prince Marzio. Among these were a second Supper at Emmaus, much more solemn than the first, reflecting St Luke’s description of the risen Jesus, now bearded, being invited by Cleophas and his unnamed companion to break bread with them: ‘Abide with us, said the disciples, for it is towards evening and the day is far spent.’ The prince accepted the gift, but then, unknown to the artist, arranged to have it sold in Rome and the proceeds held in trust. The second painting, which he kept, was a Magdalene in Ecstasy, no longer penitent but resigned to her fate, gazing into the darkness, her neck exposed, as if calling on the world to do its worst.
One evening, after waking yet again from the recurring nightmare of the Cenci, Caravaggio couldn’t get back to sleep. He went downstairs to a back porch of the Palazzo, where he found Don Francesco, the prince’s eldest son, seated on his own at a table, drinking wine and watching the fireflies.
Francesco was several years younger than Caravaggio and of a scholarly disposition. It had been assumed he would go into the Church, where he would unquestionably have secured a red hat. But it turned out that he planned to get married and have children and, after serving three years as a soldier, he had returned to Zaragolo to manage the estate.
‘What is it this time?’ Francesco asked, slapping at a mosquito on his forearm. The artist was standing before him looking like Prince Hamlet in the play of the same name by the English playwright, Shakespeare. ‘Your life these days seems to be nothing but a sequence of nightmares and dark awakenings. Have you lost the will to be happy, Michelangelo?’
‘You don’t have a banda capitale hanging over your head,’ Caravaggio replied gruffly.
Francesco nodded and poured him a glass of wine from the jug on the table. ‘Come now,’ he said. ‘You are safe here. The sbirri do not dare to enter the territory of the Colonna.’
‘No. But I can’t stay here forever. I’m a city person. The countryside drives me mad. All that sky overhead!’
This made Colonna smile. It was said that Caravaggio almost never included the sky – or even daylight – in his paintings. ‘Have you thought of returning to Milan?’ he asked. ‘The Pope’s writ doesn’t run there and you are held in high regard by my aunt, the Marchesa Costanza.’
The painter appeared to consider this option. He wore a loose-fitting nightshirt, much cleaner and fresher than anything he had been used to in Rome. The female servant assigned to look after him had appealed to her master about the state of his clothes and the result had been a complete new wardrobe. ‘Milan’s worse,’ he said at last, as if delivering a definitive judgment from which only a fool would dissent. ‘Big and empty. Have you ever sat through a Milanese winter?’
‘Well, what about Naples? We could set yo
u up there readily enough.’
The artist drained his glass in a single swallow. ‘That’s a thought.’
Italy’s largest and most populous city was a a place entirely unto itself, far outside the Pope’s domains. The Colonna, who owned several estates in the region, were close allies of the Spanish viceroy, who ruled on behalf of King Felipe III.
Francesco poured a second glass of wine for his guest and another for himself. ‘But face it, Michelangelo, geography alone won’t solve your problems. You are pursued as much by demons inside of you as by the sbirri or Cardinal Battista. You need to find peace, and I’m not convinced that simply opening a new studio in Naples, or anywhere else, will give you what you want.’
Caravaggio’s eyes narrowed. This assessment of his state of mind had obviously hit home. There was a long silence before he spoke again. ‘What would you say,’ he asked at last, ‘if I told you that I planned to become a Knight Hospitaller?’
The young Colonna made a face. ‘I’d say that, regrettably, you have ideas above your station.’
‘What! Just because I’m not a noble? I’m as good as you, Francesco, and better than Giovan fucking Francesco, who’s been pardoned by the Pope, even though he tried to kill me, just because he fought in France alongside the Farnese.’
Francesco reached out a reassuring hand. ‘Calm down, my friend. No one is seeking to belittle you. All I am saying is that the Knights of Malta are drawn from the nobility of Europe. You know this as well as I do. Their bloodlines are examined as if they were stallions.’
‘And what good will that do them when the Ottomans return with a hundred thousand men and lay siege to them in Valletta?’
A derisive laugh greeted this remark. ‘Then,’ said Colonna, ‘Malta will be ankle-deep in the bluest blood in Christendom.’
The two men drank the wine in their glasses and wiped their mouths with the backs of their hands. Francesco reached for a fresh jar and removed the muslin top.
‘But seriously,’ Caravaggio said, slapping a mosquito that had begun to feed on his arm, noting with interest how the blood stained his fingers. ‘Do you really think I could move to Naples? And if I did, could you make inquiries for me with the Knights? A letter from your family would carry great weight with the Grand Master.’
‘I will see what we can do. Now drink up before we’re eaten alive.’
Two minutes later, his head spinning, Caravaggio leaned conspiratorially across the table. ‘Do you want to know a secret, Francesco – a secret that I have never told anyone?’
By now, both men were slightly drunk.
‘Go on,’ Francesco said.
Speaking hesitantly, with great deliberation, looking around him every few seconds as if a spy might be hidden among the olive trees, Caravaggio proceeded to relate the story of how he had discovered the Camerlengo in his private chapel worshipping Allah. He described the murder the same night of the only other witness – ‘a priest of God!’ – and how his painting, The Betrayal of Christ, intended as testimony to posterity of what he had seen, had been viewed by Battista just days before the events in the Campo Marzio. He concluded his confession by recalling Ranuccio Tomassoni’s last words to him, taunting him with the fact that the Camerlengo had paid to have him killed.
As he finished his story, he gripped his friend’s wrist and Colonna could see the fear in his eyes. ‘There will be other assassins, Francesco. Battista will not give up. He won’t stop until my head is loosed from my body.’ As if anticipating his fate, he ran a finger down his neck and slumped back in his chair. Francesco said nothing, not knowing how to respond.
It was Caravaggio who broke the silence. ‘You are to tell no one about this, Francesco – not even your father. It would put all your lives in danger. Promise me.’
‘You have my word. But depend on it, my friend, if anything should happen to you and I find out it was the work of the Camerlengo, I will see to it that you are avenged.’
Caravaggio put a hand to Francesco’s shoulder and muttered something about him being a good man. Then he slumped across the table and fell asleep, snoring.
21*
Conclave minus 8
The civil administration building of the Holy See, known as the Governorate, was like no other government offices on earth. A handsome, rather elegant structure, it looked from the outside more like a luxury Riviera hotel from the 1920s than the home of a leading multinational executive – an impression compounded by its ornate formal gardens, acres of surrounding parkland and immaculately tended paths.
The building appeared serene on the surface. Inside, it was an ants’ nest. In the week leading up to the papal conclave, its corridors pulsed with gossip as the workforce, both lay and religious, traded opinions on the identity of the next pope. Those who knew the Vatican as an absolute monarchy, in which power devolved from the top, would have noted the lack of an authoritative voice. But the fisherman’s ring was broken. While officials continued to deal with routine problems and queries from around the world, at the higher-function level there was only silence. The Secretary of State, the cardinal prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith; the heads of the dicasteries and the pontifical councils: none remained in place. All those who wished to continue in their previous roles, and those who hoped to replace them, had to await the emergence of a new head of state to learn their fate.
All save one. No such uncertainty attended the ambitions of the Camerlengo, whose power, uniquely, reached its peak during the sede vacante. Sat at the ornate desk of his spacious corner office, Cardinal Bosani took a moment to reflect on the luxury of his position.
As Secretary of State, his principle base had been the Apostolic Palace. But he preferred it here, removed from the basilica and the Sistine Chapel, with its view, however distant, of the central mosque. It had always amused him that the very word governoratoro derived from the Arabic word muhafazah, meaning administrative unit. The Ottomans employed a similar term, as did the Nazis. Even amid the presumed purity of its position as the font of supreme power in the universal Church, the Vatican was historically compromised.
Rome in summer was unbearably hot and humid. Today, though, a light breeze blew across the city and there was a freshness in the air that brought welcome relief to the city’s three million inhabitants. Bosani rose from his leather-covered chair and moved across the parquet floor of his office to the windows that looked over the sumptuous lawns as far as the west end of St Peter’s Basilica. A few weeks ago, a Monsignor from Spain had asked him, only half joking, when he thought they would be adding minarets to Michelangelo’s masterpiece. That had made him laugh. ‘Don’t worry,’ he had replied, ‘I think we have ten years at least.’
Looking north, he could just make out a group of cardinals moving in stately fashion along the Via del Governatorato in the direction either of the Sistine Chapel or, more likely, one of the half-dozen or so top-class restaurants that lay just outside the Vatican walls. Squinting a little, he thought he recognized the distinctive loping walk of Cardinal Georges Delacroix, Archbishop of Reims, accompanied no doubt by his diminutive friend, Cardinal Alfonso Salgado from Valencia. The two men, ironically, were liberals when it came to the issue of Islam – so much so that ten years ago he would have courted them in the cause of religious tolerance.
Not any more. Bosani allowed himself the ghost of a smile, bearing the points of his teeth. Bigots were what was needed today. Under the revised rules of the papal conclave, as promulgated by John Paul II, a protracted stalemate during the election of a pope could now be broken by a simple majority vote. If all went well – if all, in other words, went extremely badly for the establishment of consensus among the cardinal electors – he would need just sixty-one votes to secure the emergence of a pope who would strike fear into the hearts of Muslims. At the last count, he already had fifty votes in his pocket, with several cardinals ‘undecided’. Tomorrow, following his planned lunch at Checchino, in Monte Testaccio – exclusive, yet di
screet – he expected the number of undecided to fall by two. Delacroix and Salgado were liberals mainly because they feared what would happen to them and the Church if a pro-Christian, anti-Muslim policy were to be proclaimed from the Throne of Peter. But they were also ambitious. Both wished to be relieved of episcopal responsibility in the midst of such turbulent times; both had hinted strongly that they would welcome positions in the Curia. Bosani would accommodate them. Or perhaps he would not. It would depend. Either way, they would have served their purpose.
As he took in the sweep of the pontifical gardens, his eyes fixed for several seconds on the seclusion of the Teutonic Cemetery to his right, containing the remains of the late Cardinal Rüttgers. The German’s probing inquiries had posed an unexpected threat at a critical time. It wasn’t simply that he was intelligent and doctrinally adept; he also possessed a disquieting intuition. But he had been dealt with and, insh’Allah, all was well.
Bosani steeled himself mentally for the hurdles that still lay ahead. He prayed to God to help him and give him strength, remembering how the Prophet had patiently built up his forces before his triumphant return to Mecca.
It was as he raised his hands in prayer that he heard the footsteps behind him of the ever-faithful Visco.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt you, Eminence. I just wanted you to know that I have booked your usual table for tomorrow at Checchino. I have informed Cardinals Delacroix and Salgado and they will both be there.’
Bosani turned round, beaming. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Anything else?’
‘There is another letter from the sister of Rüttgers.’
The Camerlengo frowned. ‘Draft a reply for me to sign. But make sure that I don’t have to hear from her again.’
‘Not a problem.’ A short pause followed. ‘There is just one more thing. I hesitate to mention it.’
