by Walter Ellis
‘My mother is full of your praises,’ Fabrizio told the artist as he directed the loading of cargo onto the gallease San Giovanni.
‘The Marchesa is most kind. I am indebted to your entire family.’
Fabrizio placed a comradely arm on Caravaggio’s shoulders. ‘She believes in you, Michelangelo. We all do.’
‘She also believes in you, Fabrizio. She says you have a destiny.’
‘Then let us hope neither of us disappoints her.’
With only a light wind blowing, the voyage from Naples to Valletta on the new gallease took two days. Fabrizio had been promised a consignment of Turkish slaves to work the oars, but it turned out only twenty or so were available, and not all of these were strong, so he took the opportunity to test the new sails.
It was as they passed through the Straits of Messina, heading south, that Fabrizio caught his famous guest observing the performance of his second-in-command.
‘You’re wondering where you’ve seen him before – am I right?’
‘He does seem somehow familiar.’
‘Let me introduce you.’ He called the young man over. He could not have been more than twenty, slim and well-constructed, but with a haunted look in his eyes.
‘Michelangelo Merisi,’ said Fabrizio, indicating Caravaggio. ‘A fugitive from papal justice, under sentence of death for a murder he did not commit.’ Then he turned to his ship’s mate. ‘Bernardo Cenci – the only surviving member of his family, bound as a galley slave for life by Pope Clement VIII.’
Caravaggio gasped. ‘I was there! 11 September 1599. I saw your family die. I saw you faint and watched as you were carried off into servitude. I still have nightmares about it.’
‘As do I, Master Merisi,’ Cenci said. ‘But I have heard the story of your own misfortune from General Colonna and wish you to know that I am at your service.’
‘I am deeply grateful, but I do not deserve the honour.’
‘They say that you spoke to my sister as she was about to mount the scaffold.’
‘Yes. She asked me if I intended to draw her.’
‘And did you?’
‘I began to … but then I was sick.’
‘I pray for her every day. As well as for my mother and my brother.’
‘They will be rewarded in heaven.’
Cenci stared out in the direction of Reggio Calabria. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But I must go now. I have have work to do.’
The San Giovanni berthed just before midday on 13 July. Caravaggio looked up at the mighty Castel Sant’Angelo, which jutted into the Mediterranean like the prow of a gigantic ship. Stone steps ran up from the Grand Harbour to the shops and houses clustered around the market place. On the wharf, groups of weather-beaten fishermen mended their nets. A couple of prostitutes sidled up to the water’s edge looking for business, but seeing Fabrizio on board with two armed constables moved them along.
As the artist and the admiral mounted the steps, above their heads the sound of a church choir drifted into the midsummer air from the nearby Cathedral of St John.
‘A new Knight is being initiated today,’ Fabrizio said. ‘Just think, Michelangelo, in another year that will be you. Then all your troubles will be over. The Pope will pardon you and you’ll return to Rome in triumph.’
‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ was Caravaggio’s response.
Grand Master Alof de Wignacourt had rushed through the initiation of his latest Knight, a young Portuguese nobleman, so as not to be late for the arrival in his court of the most famous artist in Italy. The Frenchman, at the age of sixty-five, remained an impressive figure, strong enough to practice with a heavy mace and crush a walnut in his mailed fist. Broad-shouldered, with a deep chest and the legs of a prize fighter, he could still fit into the armour made for him ten years before and was vain enough to be bothered by a wart on the right side of his nose.
There were not many left who had fought during the great siege of Malta in 1565, when the Knights had held off an entire host of Ottomans for four months, with the loss of one-third of their number. De Wignacourt, from Picardy, was not one of the few. He had arrived in Malta the following year, brimful of the virtues of chivalry, and, having earned his spurs at Lepanto, spent years as captain of Valletta, then head of the order in France, before being installed as Grand Master in 1601. Most recently, he had been appointed a prince of the Holy Roman Empire, according him the right to be addressed as His Serene Highness. It was a style, or ‘dignity’ that he did not require of his brothers but that was expected of ambassadors, fellow monarchs and, most obviously, representatives of the Sublime Porte.
As a Frenchman, well acquainted with life in Paris as well as Rome, de Wignacourt was constantly looking for ways to add lustre to his remote island realm. The construction of St John’s Cathedral, as sovereign church of the order, was now all but complete. The Oratory, in effect the Knight’s Hall, was another matter. Still unfinished, its greatest lack, in the opinion of the Grand Master, was a painting commensurate with its status as home to the most illustrious order of chivalry. Caravaggio would fill that void with distinction, and he, Alof de Wignacourt, would take the role of Pope Julius II, the patron and protector of Michaelangelo. It was a pity, of course, that the painter was a murderer on the run from papal justice. But then, had not the same been true of Fabrizio Colonna? And look at him now: general of the galleys, preparing a fleet of the latest class of vessels to take on the Turks and repeat the glory of Lepanto. Perhaps, de Wignacourt said to himself, one of Caravaggio’s most magnificent works would yet be a representation of the destruction of the Ottoman fleet in which, beneath their banners and among the swirling smoke of battle, he and Fabrizio stood proud on the fo’c’sle of the San Giovanni.
He had been debating with himself over whether or not to descend from his palace to the harbour to welcome his guest in person. But then he thought, no, his elevated status required that the artist should come to him. Accordingly, he now stood next to the fireplace in his audience chamber, striking a pose – a pose he had to hold for some time as Fabrizio and Caravaggio drank a glass of wine at a nearby tavern.
But at length, his sergeant-at-arms approached and announced the arrival of ‘the artist Caravaggio’. De Wignacourt at once assumed his commander-in-chief look, which he liked to think combined far-sightedness and vision with a close attention to detail.
‘Master Caravaggio!’ he began. His voice was deep and resonant, for which he had always been grateful. ‘Please step forward. I bid you welcome to the headquarters of the Order of St John of Jersusalem.’
Caravaggio bowed. ‘Thank you, Grand Master. I am honoured.’
‘And you, General Colonna: welcome home. How is our new flagship?’
‘A miracle of engineering, Grand Master. The best I have ever seen. Once the others in her class are delivered, we shall be more than ready to take the fight to the enemy.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. And what of you, Master Caravaggio? What do you bring to our island fortress – apart from a rather interesting aroma?’
‘I bring my craft as a painter. Further, I offer myself in your service as a novice.’
‘As to that, I can as yet promise you nothing. There are, as you will be aware … complications. Yet I have some hopes of your preferment. In the meantime, we have a cell prepared for you and a studio with good light overlooking the harbour and cathedral. And the strand on the far side of the point offers most excellent sea bathing. If there is anything you need, you have only to ask.’
‘I am most grateful.’
‘Have you given any thought as to what your first subject might be?’
Caravaggio rubbed his nose with the back of his hand and looked thoughtful. ‘Naturally, I shall offer a work relating to the life and death of St John the Baptist, the order’s patron saint. But I was wondering, Grand Master, if you might accord me the singular honour of allowing me to paint your portrait, dressed as if for battle. I see there is a vacant space above the
fireplace where you now stand. I would humbly suggest to you that such a space could best be occupied by a painting of one of the most illustrious Grand Masters the order has ever had.’
De Wignacourt, who had already decided that he should be painted in full armour, no matter how uncomfortable the experience, shut his eyes and plucked at his beard, as if pondering the option. ‘It had not occurred to me,’ he said, ‘that you might be interested in painting me, a humble custodian in God’s service. But by all means, if you think it would redound to the credit of the order …’
Caravaggio bowed again, this time more extravagantly than before. As he came up, his eye caught Fabrizio’s gaze. They understood each other perfectly.
26*
Conclave minus 5
The sprawling, grey brick headquarters of Rome’s state police, known as the Questura, occupied most of one side of the Via St Vitali, off the Via Nazionale in downtown Rome. Patrol cars and scooters filled the street outside. A couple of uniformed officers stood lazily on guard at the main entrance.
At exactly nine o’clock, Dempsey made his way up the steps into a large marble reception area, where he explained to an overweight young woman behind a thick glass partition that he had come to see Detective Sergeant Drago. The woman, who was in the middle of eating a sandwich, asked for his name, then picked up the phone and punched in Drago’s number.
After a brief conversation, she pointed vaguely in the direction of the rear wall. ‘Wait over there. Sergeant Drago will be with you presently.’
‘Grazie.’
‘Prego.’
Two North Africans in handcuffs stood in the corner, watched over by a bored-looking officer with a handlebar moustache. One of the two had a cut lip, the other nursed a black eye. A gypsy, probably Romanian, with several teeth missing, stood next to them.
After a couple of minutes, a stocky, dishevelled man in his forties, with greasy hair and his shirt hanging out at the back, walked in and looked straight at Dempsey.
‘Are you Dempsey?’ he asked in Italian.
Dempsey nodded.
‘The name’s Drago,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’
They turned right out of the reception area into a broad corridor. A flight of stairs led up to another, narrower passage that extended at least a hundred metres in both directions. ‘This way,’ said Drago.
The detective’s office was near one end. It had a grey door. Inside was a single desk, with a computer terminal. Staring out the window overlooking the street was a smartly dressed, somewhat younger man, with dirty fair hair. ‘This is Agent Scajola of the Vatican Security Service,’ said Drago. He pointed at a hard chair in front of his desk. ‘Take a seat.’
Scajola still hadn’t turned round. He did so now, revealing a pinched face with fleshy lips. ‘So you are Dempsey,’ he said, in English.
‘Keep it in Italian,’ said Drago. He looked at the Irishman with faint contempt. ‘You do speak Italian, I suppose.’
‘Naturalmente. Quando a Roma …’
The two Italians exchanged glances, as if to say, we’ve got a smartarse here.
Drago sniffed loudly. ‘Agent Scajola has been talking to the Vatican’s chief librarian, who tells him you stole valuable documents from the Secret Archive dating back nearly four hundred years. Is that true?’
‘It’s true that the librarian says so.’
Drago looked away for a moment, then spun round. ‘Don’t try to be clever with me,’ he snarled. ‘Just answer the question. Did you steal the missing papers?’
Dempsey strained to keep his temper. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I did not steal the missing papers.’
‘Then where are they?’ Scajola wanted to know.
‘As I told Monsignor Asproni, they were listed as missing as long ago as 1977.’
‘That’s not what the records say.’
‘Then the records have been tampered with.’
Scajola looked down at his shoes. ‘What were you looking for in the first place? Why did you go to the museum?’
‘I’m a historian. My uncle, the Superior General of the Jesuits, plans to deliver a sermon in the Gesù and wished to know more about the life and career of Cardinal Bosani.’
‘And why should he do that?’
‘Because he and the Camerlengo have a philosophical disagreement about the future direction of the Church in respect of its attitude towards Islam.’
‘And you thought it might help things along if you “borrowed” confidential material that properly belongs to His Holiness the Pope?’
Drago snorted. ‘He means you took it.’
‘I’ve already told you. I took nothing.’
Scajola said: ‘But you did “steal” three minutes on the library’s computer, contrary to the stated regulations, which were explained to you in advance.’
‘Yes, I admit that. It seemed harmless enough at the time, but I agree now that it was wrong.’
‘So you don’t deny it.’
‘I’ve already said so.’
‘You admit to abusing the confidential records of a sovereign state.’
‘To accessing them – yes.’
‘Once a thief, always a thief.’
‘Once a thug, always a thug.’
Drago drew back his hand and slapped him in the face – hard. Demspey rubbed his cheek, which stang. ‘I wouldn’t do that again, if I were you, Sergeant,’ he said calmly. ‘Unless you want to spend the night in the local hospital.’
The Italian’s face twisted into a scowl. For a moment it looked as if he was about to launch himself at Demspey. But Scajola put out a restraining arm.
‘I will put a proposition to you, Signor Dempsey. According to the information I have seen, the disputed material was in the file of the library until you removed it. So why don’t you do us all a favour and give it back? That way, things will go easier for you. You could say that you were a scholar who in your enthusiasm got carried away and did something you now very much regret.’
‘But that’s not what happened,’ Dempsey said. ‘I didn’t steal anything. Matter of fact, I’m the one who’s been burgled. My apartment was broken into yesterday and my computer, my camera and my private papers were stolen, as well as €500.’
The Vatican man examined his fingernails. ‘Very convenient, wouldn’t you say? You would have us believe that, contrary to the evidence, it is you, in fact, who are the victim here. Next you will be claiming police harassment.’
Dempsey’s expression in response to this cynical interpretation of events registered, he hoped, a precise mixture of irony and contempt. ‘My uncle – ’ he began.
‘Ah yes, your uncle. Let me tell you something, Signor Dempsey. It is only out of respect for your uncle, the Father General, that you are not being handed over to my colleague here to cool your heels in a Roman cell.’
‘In which event,’ said Drago, ‘we’d soon see who ended up needing medical attention.’
‘I was going to say,’ said Dempsey, ignoring Drago, ‘that my uncle will gladly confirm the nature of the request he made to me. Of course, should you decide to detain me, then he will have no option but to explain what has happened to the media.’
Scajola considered the implications of Dempsey’s threat and appeared to rethink his strategy. ‘This matter remains under investigation by both the Vatican and the Polizia di Stata. In the meantime, you will sign this form guaranteeing that you will stay out of the precincts of the Vatican and do nothing to discredit the administration or governance of the Holy See.’ He extracted a form from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘There is about to be a papal election. This is a crucial moment in the history of the Church …’
‘Exactly. And that’s why – ’
‘– And that is why,’ the officer resumed, ‘you will keep your nose out of our affairs. Should you ignore this warning, you will be arrested at once and charged with the theft of historical documents from the library of the Holy See. Pending trial, you will be held in a remand prison …�
��
Drago offered Dempsey a crooked smile. ‘… where I could always ask my colleagues to offer you their most personal service.’
Dempsey sighed. ‘I don’t doubt that their hospitality would be second to none. My only wish, as you can imagine, is that some day I may be in a position to return the favour.’
Twenty minutes later, having consulted with Drago and the vice-prefect of the Secret Archive, Scajola reported back to the Camerlengo.
‘Do not trouble yourself, Eminence. The matter has been taken care of. If this Dempsey steps out of line again, he will answer to me directly.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ says Bosani. ‘The Irish, as you know, tend to be a little direct in their methods and are also subject to fantasy.’
‘Should he interfere in any way with your plans, Camerlengo, he will find that our reality is worse than his nightmares.’
Bosani sighed with pleasure. Sometimes, he realized, there was a ruthlessness about Catholicism that Islam lacked.
27*
1608: Malta
In the months that followed his arrival in Valletta, Caravaggio worked almost ceaselessly at his art. His full-length portrait of the Grand Master showed its subject ‘standing and armed’, holding his staff of office, his plumed helmet borne beguilingly by a page. The armour he wore – reputed to be the mostly costly in Christendom – was not his own, but that of his famous predecessor, Jean de la Valette, commander of the Hospitallers during the Great Siege. The symbolism was clear: the life and death struggle with Islam was far from over and de Wignacourt was determined on victory for the Holy League. The fact that la Valette’s armour was slightly too small may, according to Fabrizzio Colonna, have accounted for the subject’s slightly other-wordly gaze into history. But however constrained he may have felt at the time, the Frenchman was delighted with the result and immediately commissioned a second portrait in which he posed, seated this time, out of armour but wearing his Knight’s habit.
