The Caravaggio Conspiracy

by Walter Ellis

  During the early sittings, Caravaggio, who had begun to recover something of his old confidence, said little about his ambition to join the order. Instead, he provided de Wignacourt with lively accounts of the princely class in Rome and Naples, in whose affairs the gossip-starved nobleman had an almost insatiable interest. Only gradually, as the two men became familiar with each other and relaxed, did the talk turn to the artist’s longer-term plans.

  The Grand Master was convinced that attracting Caravaggio to his isolated court was quite the cleverest thing he had ever done and was wary of doing anything that might rob him of his prize. At least, he told himself, he had succeeded in his first objective, the progressive removal of layers of grime from the fellow’s body and his adoption of a novice’s habit, changed every three days. Now the brothers could at least bear to be in the same room with him. But there was still, alas, the niggling matter of the murder in Rome. Overturning a banda capitale, proclaimed by His Holiness, was no easy matter. As he watched the artist accord him immortality in a world in which death came often as a thief in the night, the Frenchman decided to get straight to the point

  ‘What do you propose I do about the murder of Tomassoni? You killed him in a duel then fled the city to avoid arrest, leading, in absentia, to a death sentence that to date has not been revoked. I wish very much to assist you in your quest, but I can hardly pretend these facts don’t exist.’

  ‘I understand your position,’ Caravaggio replied, wishing that he could confide in his patron the truth about the Camerlengo’s treason. ‘But it was Tomassoni who attacked me. If I hadn’t defended myself, he’d have murdered me. And I should point out that the banda capitale, though issued in the Pope’s name, was in fact signed by Cardinal Battista, who has made no secret of his dislike of me personally – and of my art.’

  ‘Battista, indeed.’ De Wignacourt was intrigued. ‘I have only met His Eminence once, and that was before he became Camerlengo. But Luis de Fonseca, my Cavaliere di Giustizia, has often commended him to me as a most stalwart defender of the Church and a sworn enemy of the Turks.’

  Caravaggio appeared to consider this. It really was hard for him not to blurt out the truth and to hell with the consequences. He drew a deep breath. ‘Yet I have heard it said that the Camerlengo regards the Muslim threat as ended and is no supporter of the Hospitallers.’

  ‘It’s true,’ de Wignacourt agreed, ‘that His Eminence tried recently to divide our fleet – a ploy that I neither understood nor condoned. Yet this very week, upon his return from Isfahan, Brother Fonseca praised him to me for having persuaded the Pope not to form an alliance with the Persians – an arrangement that, according to Fonseca, would have been tantamount to a pact with the Devil.’

  Caravaggio bristled. Twenty-four hours earlier, at their first meeting, Fonseca had deliberately snubbed him in the Knights’ Hall, remarking to two of his confrères, both Germans, on the remarkable sight of ‘a servant in gentleman’s attire’. All three had sniggered and Caravaggio had felt his hand go to his sword, only to realize that it wasn’t there. Swords and other weapons were worn in Malta only by members of the order and the local sbirri. So, biting his tongue, he had simply smiled and moved on.

  But the issue of an alliance with the Persians was one on which he saw no reason to hold back. ‘You are a man of action, Grand Master, and I a poor painter. But it seems to me that the Persians and the Holy League, led by the Knights of Malta, could, together, have dealt the Ottomans a blow from which they might never have recovered. As for the Persians, is it not true that they have always looked east, to India and Mesopotamia? Seen from Isfahan, the Christian states must appear distant and alien. Why would the Shah, with the eastern world at his mercy, turn instead on Europe?’

  De Wignacourt smiled benevolently. ‘Ah, Master Caravaggio. But you know so little of empire or of the Muslim mind. Empires must always continue to grow. The moment they stand still, they are in trouble. For followers of Islam, the ultimate goal is the conquest of Europe and the establishment of a caliphate in which we poor Christians would be reduced to the status of slaves. They may never achieve their objective, but they must always believe it possible.’

  ‘Is not the same true of us?’ Caravaggio asked. ‘You, sir, are a soldier of Christ. To you, the retaking of the Holy Land must be an equivalent goal.’

  ‘– And I must always believe it possible. Yet I do not propose to waste my ships and the armies of Europe in a vain attempt to recapture Jerusalem. That would bring ruin to us all and, even if achieved, might last no longer than a single generation.’

  ‘So deadlock is both our tactic and our strategy?’

  The Grand Master threw back his head and laughed. ‘Precisely. You have understood. Who knows, Master Caravaggio? You may make a Knight after all.’

  The next day de Wignacourt instructed his ambassadors to Rome and the Holy See to sound out opinion in the relevant quarters about entering Caravaggio as a novice. Precedent showed that it had once been possible to create Knights without the proof of nobility in all four lines now considered de rigeur and, more to the point, exclusive of any reference to alleged criminality. The Grand Master now wished it known that he would consider it a singular favour were he to be allowed to make an appointment just once under the old rules.

  The request did not fall on deaf ears. There were many in the Vatican and among the ruling class in Rome ready to welcome the Prodigal’s return. Prelates hoping to adorn their churches with the splendour of great art were joined by rich merchants and princes who yearned to have their images recorded for posterity by a painter equal to the task. Unfortunately for all their hopes, the decision was left to the Camerlengo, who scrawled ‘No! Refuitato’ – rejected – on the letter of supplication, adding that it was the Grand Master’s Christian duty either to carry out the sentence imposed by the banda capitale or else to send the malefactor back to Rome in chains. Battista had, as it happened, learned only latterly of the artist’s arrival in Malta. It was Fonseca, newly returned from Isfahan, who brought the news. Now, having disposed of what was in effect a request for a papal pardon, the cardinal sent word to Fonseca reminding him of his undertaking to remove once and for all the greatest single threat to their mission.

  In the meantime, de Wignacourt had decided on a more direct approach. There would be no intermediaries this time. Instead, in a personal petition couched in the dignity of a prince of the Holy Roman Empire, he asked the Pope to allow the award of a Knight’s habit to a repentant sinner, whom he did not name, who had committed unintentional homicide in a ‘brawl’.

  To the surprise of some, the pontiff on this occasion chose to listen not to his chamberlain – whose presumption of power had begun to get under his skin – but to Cardinal Del Monte, Caravaggio’s first and most loyal benefactor, and Borghese, the cardinal-nephew, who owned a number of the artist’s works and hoped to acquire more. The argument in favour of allowing the Grand Master’s request was telling. First, at a time of increased danger from the Turks, it would add to the personal loyalty owed by the Hospitallers to the Throne of Peter. Second, it would permit the return to Rome of the one painter whom even Julius II would have regarded as the equal of Leonardo and Michelangelo. A letter of ‘exceptional permission’ was despatched to Valletta within days. Enclosed, under the papal seal, was a second letter, from the cardinal-nephew, addressed to the painter, urging him to complete his novitiate as quickly as possible, and afterwards to make his way to the Villa Borghese, where lucrative commissions and a ‘secure’ life awaited him.

  Battista fumed, but in the end decided that it didn’t matter. Caravaggio was a thorn in his flesh, but he would be dead long before he could return to Rome. Besides, there was one other loose end he still had to tie up, requiring an early visit to the Alban Hills. Soon, insh’Allah, he would be able to report to the Safiye Sultan that the last remaining threat to their joint enterprise had been removed.

  14 July 1608 was the day chosen by de Wignacourt for Cara
vaggio’s admission to the order. It was one year and a day since the artist’s arrival in Valletta – an interval deemed just long enough for him to have completed his novitiate. Not everyone was happy about the honour accorded the son of a mere retainer. Many of the Knights, believing themselves part of an élite anointed by God, were affronted, thinking him to be no more than an arriviste, lacking both military training and breeding. Out of deference to this opinion, the ceremony of induction, held in the Oratory of the Cathedral of St John, was short and to the point. Fabrizio Colonna, to no one’s surprise, was the artist’s principle sponsor. What was wholly unexpected was the identity of Colonna’s seconder: Luis de Fonseca, Cavaliere of the Knights of Giustizia and one of the most aloof figures in the order. Some saw Fonseca’s decision as a sign of the deep bond between him and de Wignacourt; others, more cynical, wondered if the Spaniard was not simply reinforcing the authority of a position to which he ultimately aspired. Either way, the effect was the same. The oath was administered by the chaplain general, allowing the Grand Master to welcome his protégé on behalf of the ‘entire community’, which could now, he said, ‘glory in this adopted disciple and citizen’.

  Admitted as a Knight of Obedience, a sub-divison of the Knights of Giustizia, Caravaggio swore to lead a life of Christian perfection. He dedicated himself to the Virgin and to St John the Baptist, kissed the white linen cross embroidered on his habit and, having undertaken to lead a life marked by poverty, chastity and obedience, swore an oath of lifelong allegiance to de Wignacourt and his successors.

  Then, following High Mass, he got back to work.

  Before he could leave Malta and return to Rome, he had several important commissions to finish, the most important being an alterpiece, The Beheading of Saint John the Baptist, for the same oratory in which he had been invested. This was to be a massive work, some seventeen feet by twelve, and the artist, out of gratitude to de Wignacourt, spared no effort to ensure that it was one of the pinnacles of his career. He had painted the Baptist many times and would return to the subject, in more macabre fashion, before he died. But on this occasion, in honour of the Knights, he determined on a canvas about which there could be no argument and no controversy.

  Previous depictions of St John’s last moments, by artists from every corner of the Christian world, had focused either on the moment when the victim waited for the headsman’s sword to fall, or else on the presentation of his head to the dancer Salomé, at whose request the execution was carried out. Caravaggio took a different course. He would show St John helpless on the stone flags of the prison yard, his throat cut, his blood draining almost onto the frame of the painting. The executioner, concerned only to get the job done, reaches behind him for a second blade in preparation for the act of decapitation. As prisoners look on in horror and Salomé holds out her salver, the Messiah’s cousin surrenders to his destiny.

  The completed canvas, recognized by all who saw it as a wonder of the age, was due to be installed in the Oratory in late August, just in time for the subject’s feast day. Caravaggio felt satisfied. He was more at peace now than he had been for several years. It was as if he had been redeemed and cleansed of his sins. But the nightmares didn’t stop and, still, gnawing at him, was the sensation of Death at his heels. To distract himself, he took to slipping out at night to visit taverns, even brothels – acts that he did not associate with sin. But try as he might, he could not rid himself of the conviction that Fate was stalking him, merely awaiting the opportunity to strike.

  Sometimes, when he spent too much time in his own company, his voices told him what to do. It was they who told him to sign his newly acclaimed masterpiece in the Martyr’s blood, using the same paint that rendered the rich, red flow from St John’s gaping neck. He had never previously signed any of his paintings. He had never felt the need. It was in token of the pride he felt in his new status that he now styled himself F. (for Fra) Michelangelo. It would be as Brother Michelangelo, a servant and soldier of God, that he would return to Rome and expose to the Holy Father the treason of Cardinal Battista.

  It was Fabrizio Colonna who brought Caravaggio the news. Prince Marzio Colonna had died suddenly in his palace in Zagarolo. He had been in good health in the weeks prior to his death and there was no explanation to offer.

  Fabrizio took out an envelope, sealed with wax bearing the arms of the Colonna. ‘My cousin Francesco sent you this letter,’ he told the artist. ‘He said it could be conveyed by no one but me and that it was intended for you alone.’

  Caravaggio offered his condolences, which were deeply felt, then took the letter and immediately retired to his cell to read it. It was dated 30 July.

  My dear Michelangelo,

  I have entrusted this letter to my cousin Fabrizio, who undertook to deliver it to you personally. If anyone else, for any reason, has handed it to you, you should at once be on your guard.

  Three days ago, my father, Don Marzio, died unexpectedly. He had been in excellent health, though in low spirits on account of the information of which he had been in possession since your time at Zagarolo. You will recall that he undertook to conduct discreet inquiries regarding the matter raised. He had thought the persons to whom he turned in Rome would be receptive to the information he imparted. Regrettably, it is now clear that in at least one instance, his trust was misplaced. Three days before his death, my father was a guest at the Palazzo of Cardinal Pamphilj, the Vicar General. There were several Cardinals and other Prelates present, including the Camerlengo, who paid particular attention to my father and sat next to him at dinner.

  That night, my father, having retired to his own residence in the city, was taken violently ill. Two days later, he was dead. Doctors – in whom I place no great reliance – spoke of an ‘infection’. Others, they said, had recently exhibited the same symptoms and also succumbed – though I know of none.

  You will understand, my dear friend, the thoughts that currently occupy my mind. Not only do I grieve sorely for my late father, but I am bound to wonder as to the true cause of his affliction.

  I advised you once to take great care, and I repeat that warning now. Should you ever make it back to Rome, or to Zagarolo, the hospitality of the Colonna will once more be available to you. In the meantime, I commend you to God’s protection.

  You must trust also to Fabrizio.

  Your friend,

  Francesco

  The letter threw Caravaggio into a deep and abiding depression. Don Marzio was a good man and a loyal friend and it pained him greatly that he should have been responsible, however unintentionally, for his death. He would write to Franceso at once and express his most deeply felt condolences. But there were also clear implication for his own safety. He planned to leave Valletta within the month, following the feast day of St John. He had produced five paintings, intended as gifts for St Peter’s and the papal apartments, and drafted an application to the Pope seeking formal pardon for the death of Ranuccio, while at the same time pledging himself, as a Knight of Malta, to the Christian cause. Now he felt sure that Battista would be waiting for him, ready to strike his head from his shoulders. Beyond that, he was convinced that, upon his death, the Camerlengo would feel emboldened to strike at the Holy Father himself.

  Over the next weeks, Caravaggio spent long hours in the taverns by the Grand Harbour, where his argumentative nature, brawls and other noisy encounters did not go unnoticed. De Wignacourt was aware of what was happening but put it down to a surfeit of grief for his great patron, Don Marzio.

  Luis de Fonseca had not, meanwhile, forgotten his undertaking to Battista that Caravaggio would not leave Malta alive. On a hot evening, towards the end of August, knowing the artist to be drunk, he deliberately barged into him on the steps leading down from the Knights’ refectory. Complaining in an outraged voice that Caravaggio had almost knocked him him over, he demanded an immediate apology. Caravaggio refused, insisting that it was Fonseca who had knocked into him. The lofty Hospitaller, known for his piety and
nobility, then accused the newcomer of behaviour unbecoming a Knight. He accused him of public drunkenness and required him, in the hearing of several fellow Hospitallers, to deny that he was on his way into the town to pick up a whore. At this, provoked beyond reason, Caravaggio began to draw his sword and lunged forward. Fonseca, an experienced combatant, easily sidestepped the approach and called on his colleagues, as witnesses, to arrest his assailant.

  At a preliminary hearing next morning, Fonseca recounted how Caravaggio, drunk, deliberately lurched into him on the step, then, when challenged about the affront, as well as his flagrantly immoral behaviour, tried to run him through with his sword. Witnesses, all associates of the lofty Cavaliere di Giustizia, were happy to confirm the substance of the accusation. Mortified, de Wignacourt was left with no option but to place his newest recruit under arrest pending a court martial.

  There were several cells in the fortress of Sant’Angelo that would hold a brother securely without undue humiliation. Fonseca, newly returned as an ambassador of both the Grand Master and the Pope, insisted that the accused be thrown into the deepest dungeon, a pitch-black, underground hell-hole, known as the guva, accessible only from above. With the banda capitale already in effect, the Spaniard was confident of a swift conviction followed by the condemned man’s execution. But he would take no chances. Should it begin to look as if Caravaggio might win his freedom, his secondary plan was to poison the painter in his cell and attribute the death either to suicide or God’s will.

  On the third night of his incarceration, plagued by bad dreams and shivering with cold, Caravaggio was visited by his accuser, who descended into the pit by rope, carrying a blazing torch to light his passage. The Knight drew his sword, which he thrust against the throat of the weakened painter, calling on him in a loud voice to confess his crimes. ‘If you admit to your error and deceit,’ he said, ‘a simple beheading awaits you. If not, you will be stretched on the rack and your tongue cut out before you are hanged, drawn and quartered. The choice is yours.’