by Walter Ellis
‘What is your point, Father General?’
‘My point is, Eminence, did you concur with the Holy Father’s presumed attack on Islam? Were you, in fact, as some have suggested, the inspiration behind his words?’
‘You are talking about events in the past …’
‘… which have relevance to the Church’s future.’
Bosani bristled. He had reached the limits of his patience. ‘I don’t have time for this,’ he barked. ‘And I will not be questioned in such a manner.’
‘Then answer me just this: what is the virtue that you, as convenor and co-chairman of the upcoming conclave, most earnestly wish should characterize our next Holy Father? Because, you see, I have been invited to write an article about the election for a newspaper in America.’
It was his third lie. Next he would hear a cock crow.
‘The proceedings of the conclave are confidential,’ Bosani spluttered. ‘You know that very well.’
‘Only when in session, Your Eminence, or, thereafter, in relation to the votes cast for each candidate. What I am seeking is an indication from you, as Camerlengo of the Holy Roman Church, of the qualities considered essential at this particular moment in our history. You are, after all, at the centre of events and uniquely qualified to pronounce on the question. Specifically, what possible benefit could accrue to the Church from a potentially violent confrontation with Islam? There are those, I know, who pray for conflict, believing that a new crusade is the only way to take Christianity back to its roots. But we live in a new world. The United States, for the moment, has withdrawn hurt from the global stage. The vacuum it has left is being filled by aggressively Muslim states, such as Iraq, Saudi Arabia, Iran and Pakistan. What if the war did not go in our favour? What if Europe, in its arrogance, found itself under a concerted assault from the Muslim world?’
For several seconds, the two men stared at each other. Rüttgers’ fatal words, written less than an hour before his death, raced through O’Malley’s head: Betrayal starts and ends with the self. Judas was acting out his destiny. The question is, who – or what – controls Bosani?
It was a revelation. But a revelation of what?
It was the Camerlengo who spoke next. ‘You may be assured, Father General, that, so far as I am concerned, the chief characteristic required of the next Pope is that he be a staunch defender of the Church and its heritage. Beyond that, I can only pray for God’s guidance. Now, if you don’t mind …’
He indicated the door.
‘Of course. Would you like me to leave the wine with you? I’ll pop the cork back in and you can keep it in the fridge.’
‘Just leave. In the name of God, go!’
O’Malley nodded, noticing as he did so a space in the wall opposite the cardinal’s armchair that had obviously been occupied until recently by a large painting – presumably the portrait of Battista by Annibale Carracci. He could tell this not only because of the two metal hooks that still protruded from the wall but because a rectangle of paint, previously obscured, registered a deeper tone of Apostolic white. For a moment, he thought of asking Bosani what had prompted him to remove the canvas, but then changed his mind. Better, he decided, not to give too much away too soon.
‘I wish you God’s peace, Eminence,’ he said. ‘I shall pray that you and your colleagues elect a worthy – and suitable – successor to the Throne of Peter.’
‘A sentiment that I might equally wish upon the Company of Jesus.’
O’Malley smiled in appreciation of the bon mot and withdrew, closing the door behind him. As he did so, Father Visco moved at speed in the opposite direction.
22*
September 1606–July 1607
The ‘voices’ had started in the last few days of July. Caravaggio remembered the first time he heard them. He was looking down from the loggia next to his room, where he had set up his easel. Prince Marzio’s estate manager was talking to the head vintner, a man called Mario, who was worried that a series of afternoon rain showers, combined with an unusually hot sun, would scorch the grapes and reduce the harvest. Caravaggio took little interest in such matters. He only cared about wine when it appeared in his glass. It was as he turned back to his canvas, a study of Francesco Colonna, that Ranuccio Tomassoni first spoke to him.
‘Why do you bother, Merisi? Don’t you know how it will end?’
‘Who’s that? Who’s there?’
Francesco Colonna looked up from the chair on which he was seated. ‘Who are you talking to, Michelangelo?’
The painter started. He swallowed hard and looked about him. ‘Nothing, Francesco. It was nothing. I thought I heard your father’s estate manager call up to me.’
‘Maybe he wanted your advice on the balance of light and shade in the vineyard.’
‘Yes. Very likely.’
Afterwards, as he took a walk through the estate, keeping close to the house in case someone on the road should recognize him, he heard Ranuccio a second time, except that on this occasion he was joined by Cardinal Battista and the executioner who had taken the head of Beatrice Cenci.
‘We are coming for you, Merisi.’
‘Kill him now,’ Battista ordered. ‘Bring me his head.’
The executioner didn’t speak, but Caravaggio had felt his breath on his face.
That was when he had started to run.
Now they spoke to him almost every day. At night, when the headsman struck his axe against Beatrice’s neck, Battista and Ranuccio were seated next to him looking up at the scaffold.
Ranuccio, with the blood still pouring from a wound in his stomach, grinned at him. ‘You’ll be next, Merisi. We’re coming for you. It won’t be long now.’
Battista pressed his fingers to his lips. ‘Allahu Akbar!’ he said.
Worried about the well-being of their guest, Prince Marzio Colonna and his son took time to discuss what should be done.
‘He needs to see a doctor,’ Francesco said. ‘Perhaps also a priest … a confessor. He is deeply troubled and I fear for his sanity.’
‘That’s all very well,’ his father replied. ‘But I don’t want anyone else knowing he’s here. It’s been hard enough to keep the servants from gossiping. Word has reached the village of the murder of young Ranuccio, killed by an artist. We have to face facts, my son. The Camerlengo is determined to arrest Michelangelo, and if he should end up in front of the Holy Office I wouldn’t give five scudi for his chances.’
A look of resignation crossed Francesco’s face. ‘Will the Pope not pardon him? He must know the death was the result of a duel freely entered into by both sides.’
Prince Marzio shook his head. ‘The Holy Father feels he was let down. Last year, you will remember, Michelangelo painted his portrait. The result pleased him greatly. During the sittings, the Pope accorded our friend the rare privilege of discussing with him issues affecting both the Church and Rome.’ He paused. ‘I am told that one of the issues raised was the possibility of his becoming a Knight of Malta.’
‘Really?’
‘It seems Michelangelo felt that taking his vows as a Knight would allow him to redeem himself from a life ill-spent.’
‘And how did the Pope respond?’
‘He said he would consider it. That is why he feels so betrayed.’ The prince grimaced as a thought occurred to him. ‘But even if His Holiness could be persuaded to show mercy, Battista will not hear of it. He is as cold as ice on the subject. His view is that a capital crime must meet with a capital response.’
Francesco put his hands behind his head and blew out his cheeks in frustration. ‘So what can we do?’
‘Truly, I think Naples is the only answer. Apart from anything else, if one of Battista’s spies should ever find that we are hiding him here, it is we who will be in trouble.’
‘Father, no! Battista would not risk confrontation with the Colonna.’
‘Not on his own, I’ll grant you. But with the added authority of the Pope and the excuse of a banda capitale, who
can tell? Remember what happened to the Cenci. That was less than seven years ago.’
It was then, in spite of his promise, that Franceso Colonna told his father of his late-night conversation with the artist and of the bizarre allegiance of Cardinal Battista to the faith of Mohammad. He did so partly to demonstrate the injustice of the charge laid against their guest, but also to underline the urgency of their situation.
As he listened, the prince felt a chill run down his spine. The idea that one of the highest-ranking members of the Sacred College could be an enemy of the Church was alarming, but not entirely without precedent. During the crusades, there had been instances of monks and clergy deserting Christ and adopting the Muslim faith. He remembered his own father telling him about a leading Benedictine, Fra’Marino, a confidant of Pope Sixtus V, who had abandoned the Church in the 1580s and fled to Constantinople. The story went that he had come across a copy of the long-lost Gospel of Barnabas hidden in the papal library. While translating it into Italian, he had reputedly become convinced of its claim that Jesus was not the Son of God, but a prophet, who would be followed by another, a divine messenger, bearing revelations that would transform the world. Such a view was deeply heretical, undermining the entire basis of the Christian faith. But if Battista believed it and was working for the Ottomans, it could change everything, not just for Caravaggio but for Italy and the Catholic Church. He turned back to his son.
‘This is dangerous talk,’ he said. ‘Even the conversation you and I are having could result, if it were made known to Battista, in both of us being brought before the Inquisition.’
‘Not if we acted first. Every accusation must be heard by a tribunal. Is that not how it works? The Camerlengo would be hoist by his own petard.’
Prince Marzio made the sign of the cross. ‘Is this what you want, Francesco? To take on the second-most powerful man in Rome in a life or death struggle? Think what might happen if the case went against us.’
‘I understand, Father. But what if Michelangelo is right? We have a duty not only to him, but to the Church.’
For several seconds neither man spoke. It was the prince who broke the silence. ‘I don’t know what to believe,’ he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘All I know for sure is that the Camerlengo is an extremely powerful and vengeful man. But you are right. As Colonna, we have obligations that are greater than our personal well-being. What is it the French say? Noblesse oblige. So I will make inquiries … discreet inquiries. My connections inside the Curia and the Apostolic Palace have, after all, been established over many years, and I am owed some favours.’
Francesco placed a hand on his father’s arm. ‘Thank you, father. I am sure you have made the right decision.’
Prince Marzio had turned pale. He seemed to have aged five years in as many minutes. ‘Let us hope so, Francesco. As for our friend, it is too dangerous for him to remain in Zagarolo. He must leave us – and the sooner the better.’
Three days later, mounted on a three-year-old gelding, accompanied by two servants on packhorses, Caravaggio set off by an inland route for Naples, 150 miles to the south. In addition to the servants, he was provided by the prince with a letter of introduction to his cousin, supplies for the journey and a sum of two hundred scudi – the price obtained from a Florentine banker for the Supper at Emmaus.
Francesco Colonna didn’t tell Caravaggio straight away about the extent of his father’s knowledge of the business with Battista. It was only as he was on the point of leaving that he drew him to one side and confessed the truth.
‘I realize,’ he said, ‘that you swore me to secrecy. But my father is involved in this, as are all my family, and I felt it would have been a disservice to him to keep him ignorant of the truth.’
Caravaggio felt a brief spasm of indignation, but then immediately relented. ‘So what did he say?’ he wanted to know.
‘He said he would make the most discreet of inquiries and, in the event of discovering any evidence to support your claim, bring it to the attention of His Holiness.’
‘But does he believe me?’
‘He does not believe that you are a liar, if that is what you think. But he finds the accusation so bizarre, so outlandish, that he cannot properly take it in.’
‘I don’t blame him. But I saw him with my own eyes, Francesco. Otherwise I would never have believed it myself. If anyone had told me that the Camerlengo was a secret Muslim, I would have said they were mad, or lying, or both.’
Colonna shrugged. ‘What is important now is that you take care and always watch your back. And if I should learn anything, I will be in touch. I can do no more than that.’
‘Of course not. And once again, thank you – and please thank your father also. I shall be forever in your debt.’
At that, the two men shook hands and embraced. They never saw each other again.
The first day of the journey south passed uneventfully. By choosing the upland route, through Campania, travellers avoided the intense heat of the coastal plain. But the narrow, twisting track, overhung by trees, was hazardous. On the second day, a little south of Ferentino, two brigands, dressed in rags, appeared out of nowhere and barred their path. One of them pointed a matchlock at Caravaggio, calling on him to unsling his saddlebags and throw them onto the ground. The artist, feinting fear, began to fiddle with the buckle, but then, as the fellow relaxed his guard, kicked at the extended gun barrel, sending it tilting into the air, at which point the servant behind with the pistol discharged his weapon. The would-be thief crumpled in a heap, whimpering and clutching his leg. The second man backed off into the undergrowth.
Three days later, after spending one night at an inn in Frosinoni and another at the famous monastery of Monte Cassino, Caravaggio arrived at last in Naples.
The moment he entered the city, his mood lifted. The sights and sounds exhilarated him. Even the smells of horse dung, chamber pots and rotten vegetables cheered him. Naples, with its 200,000 inhabitants, was the great survivor of Italian urban living. Laid out along roads first built by the Greeks centuries before Christ, it teemed with life. On the high ground were the grand palazzi of the Spanish governing class and the native nobility, said to be the tallest residential buildings in Europe. Great churches and public buildings occupied the many piazzi, with their fountains and statues. Market stalls lined the streets. There were taverns and brothels on every corner – the latter not constrained by papal decrees. Above the busy skyline, the city’s cathedral, on the Via Dumo, rose more than 150 feet into the air, while beneath the streets water flowed in aqueducts built for the Emperor Caesar Augustus.
Caravaggio had been warned to take extra care in Naples. The mob was a constant presence – as were gibbets, from which dangled the fly-blown, bloated corpses of thieves and murderers. From time to time, as they progressed, ignoring beggars, cat-calls and the imprecations of whores, he and his little party were obliged to move to one side as groups of Spanish soldiers appeared, armed with arquebuses and pikes, led by officers who shouted out orders in heavily accented Italian to clear a path.
The painter breathed it all in. Then, having given a professional guide ten baiocchi, he and the two servants began to thread their way, tortuously, to the ornate Via Toledo, where the immense Palazzo Colonna, home of Prince Luigi Carafa Colonna, was to be found. Having reached the gate, surmounted by the arms of Italy’s most illustrious family, he announced his presence to the guards, who admitted him and his servants to the front courtyard. After a short delay, a liveried flunky emerged. The scent of jasmine and bougainvillea filled the air. Cool water from fountains, in the forms of gods and nymphs, played into ponds teeming with goldfish. Parakeets and toucans from South America, housed in a wrought-iron cage, screeched their protest at the new arrivals.
Caravaggio dismounted from his horse and looked about him with satisfaction. ‘Take me to your master,’ he said, brandishing his letter of introduction. ‘I have come from the home in Zagarolo of Prince Marzio Colonna, who re
quests of his cousin, Prince Luigi, that I be given food and lodgings and all due consideration.’
The servant took the letter without a word and disappeared back into the house. Minutes later, an elegantly dressed gentleman in his fifties emerged blinking into the sunlight. He was tall, with a greying beard and moustache, and dressed in the Spanish style.
‘So you are Michelangelo Merisi,’ he said, looking as if he were much amused by the prospect. It was Prince Luigi himself. ‘I bid you welcome to my house, where you may be assured of the protection of the Colonna. Come in and make yourself at home. I have heard so much about you.’
The artist bowed and indicated his companions. ‘These two fellows have accompanied me all the way from Zagarolo. I should count it a distinct favour if they could remain overnight before returning to the home of your cousin, Prince Marzio.’
‘Of course.’ Prince Luigi nodded to his major domo, who nodded in turn to a footman. The two servants, caked with dust and utterly exhausted, turned to their beasts and began to unload their cargo. Before disappearing into the palazzo with his host, Caravaggio gave each of the men ten scudi and thanked them for their trouble. They looked, he thought, suitably grateful. Minutes later, he had forgotten them.
Naples was everything he had hoped for – and more. For the next two years, idolized by the mob, courted by the rich and powerful, Caravaggio rose to fresh heights of creativity. Neapolitan nobles, leading prelates of the Church and the Spanish governing class vied with one another to offer him commissions. The fact that he was an indicted murderer and a fugitive from papal justice only added to his allure. People everywhere wanted to meet him and experience the frisson of his notoriety.
But the uplift that came from the restoration of his freedom and the satisfaction of living in Europe’s biggest city soon palled. Though his career flourished, Caravaggio was plagued by the persistent belief that he was a sinner destined for hell. He wished desperately for absolution. More than that, he longed to forgive himself. His shifting dispositions became a talking point among Neapolitans of all classes. No one who knew him could be sure from one minute to the next what mood he would be in or how long it would last. He could be laughing and joking in the tavern, with his hand running up the thigh of a young whore, then, abruptly, fly into a rage or be consumed by self-pity. Friends learned to be circumspect. It was one thing to be a bosom companion of ‘the greatest painter in Italy’, it was another to be the object of his scorn.
