by Walter Ellis
—The Holy Qu’ran, 9:113
Caravaggio’s return to Naples began better than he could ever have imagined. Fabrizio Colonna’s mother, the Marchesa, received him with open arms and immediately invited him to stay at her palazzo in Chiaia, constructed against the Spanish viceregal walls, with spectacular sea views. Soon, all the nobility of southern Italy appeared to call. Commissions poured in. Scipione Borghese, the latest cardinal-nephew, was only the first of a long line of wealthy and influential men queuing up to buy paintings from the most celebrated, and now most notorious, painter in Italy.
But though he worked diligently and, many said, with divine inspiration, the canvases he produced demonstrated that he remained in the grip of a terrible obsession. Salome With the Head of John the Baptist was sent to Alof de Wignacourt in Valletta with a plea for the Grand Master’s understanding. The work was accepted, but no response made. A bleak, despairing Crucifixion of St Andrew, commissioned by the Spanish viceroy, was interpreted by those who knew him as a plea for release from the prison of the world. Even more terrifying, his Martyrdom of Saint Ursula painted to order for Prince Marcantonio Doria of Genoa, showed the saint on the point of death, with the artist behind her, looking on. Caravaggio’s shadowy self-portrait was the one thing about the canvas that was not original – for it was lifted straight from his previous masterpiece, done for Ciriaco Mattei, The Betrayal of Christ. He was reminding himself that he had seen too much already and had reached breaking point.
By now, his voices were becoming dominant. He was more and more convinced that he had a mission – to expose Battista and prepare the way for a Christian defence against the coming Ottoman onslaught. But he also believed that he was fated to die before he could achieve his purpose.
On the evening of 24 October, he woke from a sleep feeling more refreshed than he had done in months. He had just completed a canvas, and to clear his head and relax his tired frame he walked into Naples, to the Osteria del Cerriglio – a tavern as famous for its music and the beauty of its courtesans as it was for the richness of its food and drink. The time was approaching midnight. Caravaggio had just come down from one of the upstairs rooms, still holding the hand of the seventeen-year-old prostitute with whom he had spent the previous two hours, when the Sicilian sent by Fonseca, who for weeks had patiently bided his time, suddenly barred his path.
‘Watch where you’re going,’ the assassin said, already reaching for the dagger in his belt. ‘Don’t you know when to make way for your betters?’
‘If you are my better,’ the artist replied, ‘then I must be a very low fellow entirely, for you strike me as an ignorant oaf.’
At that, the Sicilian drew his blade and drove it straight at Caravaggio’s heart. Taken by surprise, the painter sprang sharply to his right, but missed his footing and stumbled forward instead. The knife blade now swung upwards and opened a terrible wound from his chin all the way up the left side of his face, almost severing his ear.
The girl screamed. At once, three guards employed by the innkeeper bounded up the stairs. Seeing the Sicilian about to deliver what would have been a fatal blow, they grabbed him from behind and wrestled him down the stairs.
‘This fellow tried to kill the artist Caravaggio,’ one of the three called out.
‘Find out who paid him, then slit his throat,’ the innkeeper replied. He had been paid by the Colonna to keep an eye out for trouble and would do whatever he had to to justify their faith in his establishment.
The Sicilian, who was strong as an ox, broke free at this point and made for the door, easily knocking out of the way two men who tried to stop him. It was the innkeeper himself, another brute of a man, who brought him down from behind, using a heavy cudgel that split his skull, killing him instantly.
Surgeons called in by the Marchesa Costanza saved Caravaggio’s life. But they could do nothing about the disfigurement. He was left with an ugly scar running up the entire left-hand side of his face, and the top half of his left ear was missing. Throughout the long winter that followed, he slowly recovered his strength. But by now he was so paranoid that he slept with his hand on his dagger and woke up, screaming, at the slightest noise.
He spoke to Costanza and told her he was more determined than ever to return to Rome.
‘There is nothing for me here, Marchesa. Only the running sore of fame and the prospect of death. I have business with the Holy Father. Only he can give me peace.’
Costanza tried to dissuade him, but failed. Instead, she wrote letters to the Pope and Cardinal Scipione, pleading his case and begging for a revocation of the banda capitale. Caravaggio meanwhile painted David with the Head of Goliath, with himself as the model for the giant, and sent it to Scipione in sign of atonement. It would prove to be his final work. The cardinal-nephew, almost out of gratitude, but also from self-interest, agreed upon seeing it to add his powerful voice to the chorus demanding a papal pardon.
Finally, in July 1610, word arrived from Cardinal Ferdinando Gonzaga, son of the Duke of Mantua and effective head of the Curia, that the sentence imposed three years before had at last been rescinded, conditional only on the accused’s presenting himself in person in Rome. Retrieving from Prince Marzio the laissez-passer obtained for him by the Marchesa, Caravaggio at once booked passage for Rome.
A felucca was leaving for Rome, Livorno and Genoa three days later. The vessel, loaded with goods, including five recently completed canvases by Caravaggio, sailed north for two days, hugging the coast, until it put in at Palo, a tiny port near Civitavécchia, west of Rome. As he waited for his goods to be unloaded, Caravaggio set off to find a means of onward transport. That was when the tightly coiled mainspring of his life finally gave way. Reports of his disfigurement were widespread throughout Italy and he was instantly recognized. Within an hour, he was arrested by the commandant of the local papal guard, who, not knowing that the banda capitale was annulled, sent word to the Vatican that the infamous fugitive, Merisi, had been captured.
Next day, having spent the night in the cells, the artist argued his case before a local magistrate, brandishing his laissez-passer, signed by Cardinal Gonzaga, and insisting that he was on his way to meet the Pope. At noon, after paying a large bribe, they let him go. But by then, the felucca, with all his remaining wordly goods still on board, had embarked for Porto Ercole, fifty miles to the north. Desperate to retrieve the paintings, which were now his only currency, the painter set off in pursuit, telling the commandant that he would wait for Cardinal Gonzaga’s men in the church in Porto Ercole. He was exhausted and all but broken in spirit. Anything that remained of his former confidence and swagger was gone. Two days later, having wandered in high heat through a malarial swamp, he reached his destination, a spit of land under Spanish rule. He was burning with fever and badly dehydrated.
The end was close. But he would not give up. Not yet. Though terrified, he was determined to live long enough to impart his secret and expose Battista’s treachery. Barely able to stand, his head concealed by a floppy hat, he staggered into Porto Ercole by way of the beach. Minutes later, he reached the harbour, arriving just in time to see the sails of the felucca billowing in the distance as the craft continued on its way to Livorno. It was a defining moment. But he was not surprised. If anything, he had expected it. Slumping down on to the edge of the harbour wall, he threw up his arms in surrender to God’s will. Then he started to laugh, causing two fishermen mending their nets nearby to glance at each other, fearing that he must be a madman, or else diseased.
Overhead, the midsummer sun continued to beat down. He could feel his senses reeling and his mind begin to wander. Once more the voices came. Give up, Michelangelo. Give up. There is nothing you can do. Concentrating hard, telling himself that soon the worst would be over, he stood up and made his way slowly uphill, behind the waterfront taverns and fishmongers’ shops, until he came upon the church of Saint’Erasmus. Inside, grateful for the cool provided by the thick stone walls, he prayed before a statue of th
e martyred saint before collapsing in a coughing fit onto the flagstones.
It was the parish priest who found him. Not recognizing him, for he was lying face down, he feared to touch him in case he was a plague victim and rushed off instead to raise the alarm. He barely made it to the church door. Three horsemen, a Monsignor in his distinctive red-trimmed cassock, and two brothers from the Order of Saint John the Beheaded, had just ridden up and now stared down at him from their mounts.
‘I beg you,’ the priest called out. ‘Don’t go into the church. For there is a stranger inside and I fear he may have the plague. I am on my way to fetch help in having him removed.’
The prelate, a powerfully built man in his forties, looked down scornfully. ‘Do not trouble yourself, Father. Continue on your way, but do nothing and say nothing about the stranger. Do you understand me?’
The priest saw the papal arms, the crossed keys and the triple tiara on the sleeves of the Monsignor’s cassock and mumbled his assurance.
‘Very good. We have heard about this man and are come to take him with us to Rome. I suggest you pray for his immortal soul – and your own.’
The three riders dismounted. The smaller of the two monks took the reins of the horses and remained on the path outside the church door. His companions looked around them before disappearing inside. Caravaggio was lying, semi-conscious, his left hand reaching out to the statue of St Erasmus.
While the Monsignor looked on, the second monk, tall and broad-shouldered, reached into a bag slung over his shoulder and drew out a cloth and a canteen of water. He lifted the artist’s head and leaned it into the crook of his arm before pouring cold water over his face and wiping it with the cloth.
Caravaggio began to come round. ‘Drink,’ said the monk. ‘We are here to help you.’
‘Yes, Michelangelo,’ the Monsignor said, speaking softly, careful not to avert his eyes from the horrific scars marring the painter’s once handsome features. ‘My name is Monsignor Marinello and the man holding you is Brother Domenico. We have been sent by Cardinal Gonzaga, on the orders of His Holiness, to bring you home.’
At first, Caravaggio could only hear the words. The face looking down at him was a blur. But after several seconds, as the water from the monk’s canteen trickled down his throat, the image of the priest’s face began to move into focus.
‘Is it true?’ he asked, his voice hoarse and trembling. ‘Are you really sent by the Pope?’
‘Yes,’ said Marinello, smiling. ‘We have brought your letter of safe conduct. As soon as you are well, we shall travel together to Rome, where the Holy Father has pardoned you for your past indiscretions, committed without malice, for which you have already suffered enough.’
‘I should like to confess, Monsignor.’
‘Of course,’ said Marinello. ‘In a little while, as soon as you are better.’
‘No,’ Caravaggio insisted, looking suddenly angry. ‘I wish it now!’
‘Very well,’ Marinello said. ‘But you must conserve your strength.’
Caravaggio drew a deep breath and gripped hold of the priest’s arm. ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’
‘How long has it been since your last confession?’
‘Three months, perhaps longer.’
‘Tell me of your sins.’
Caravaggio began to talk. The sins poured from his lips: lust, fornication, drunkenness, pride.
Marinello listened. There was no mention of the murder in Rome or the illegal flight from custody in Valletta. He must, he concluded, have confessed to these already – probably in Naples. So this latest list had to relate only to recent months. He and the monk exchanged glances.
When Caravaggio was done, Marinello made the sign of the cross and spoke the words of absolution. ‘I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.’
‘And what is my penance, Father?’
‘We shall come to that presently,’ said Marinello, ‘for yours has been no ordinary life and your sins are not such that a recital of the rosary will suffice. But you must accept that your reception into heaven and the company of saints depends very much on how honest you are with me about your claims in repect of Cardinal Battista.’
Caravaggio nodded and the monk raised him into a sitting position.
‘First,’ said Marinello, ‘I have been charged by His Holiness to ask you some questions.’
‘I am ready,’ said Caravaggio.
‘Is it true that you witnessed Cardinal Battista engaged in an act of Muslim worship?’
‘Yes, Monsignor.’
‘Tell me about it.’
Caravaggio did so, recalling for Marinello how he had seen the Camerlengo and his secretary prostrate themselves on the floor of Battista’s private chapel, with the cross laid flat on the altar as they prayed to Allah. He then described how the only other witness to the cardinal’s treachery had been killed the same night, murdered because of what he knew. ‘I can see his face now – the fleeing man. He haunts me in my sleep.’
Marinello blanched as he listened. Then he asked: ‘Michelangelo, are there others? Do you have any other names – churchmen who have become Muslims, who, like Battista, are enemies of Mother Church?’
Caravaggio stared hard into the eyes of his confessor. Then he spoke the names of Fra’ Luis de Fonseca, of the Knights of Malta, and Battista’s secretary, Father Ciro. The Monsignor nodded. ‘Is there anyone else, my son?’
‘No, Monsignor – none that I know of.’
‘And have you spoken of your fears to anyone else? Anyone at all?’
Caravaggio could hardly keep his eyes open. He was finding it hard to concentrate. ‘Prince Marzio Colonna,’ he said at last.
Marinello’s eyes narrowed. ‘No one else?’ he asked.
‘No, Monsignor,’ Caravaggio replied. ‘After all that happened, I decided that the Holy Father and his emissaries were the only ones I should trust.’
‘That was wise,’ Marinello said, motioning with his eyes to the hooded monk standing impassively three feet behind. ‘But now, my son, you are tired and raging with fever. It is time for you to leave us.’
Leave us? What did he mean? Marinello turned away. Caravaggio, his heart pounding, struggled to get up. His hand went to his belt. Where was his dagger? But he was too late, as he had always known that one day he would be. He struggled onto his knees, sweat pouring down his forehead, and twisted round to identify the danger that he knew was there. The monk had produced a long, two-edged sword from beneath his habit and now advanced on him without a word. His blue, soulless eyes offered no hint of pity.
‘You!’ said Caravaggio.
The monk smiled and raised the broadsword above his shoulder. Then, with grunt of satisfaction, he brought it down. Caravaggio was reminded in his last moments of the men who had cut wheat in the estate outside his father’s house. He had watched in fascination as their scythes swung metrically through the corn, reducing it to stubble.
The blade struck. The artist’s severed head, like the head of Beatrice Cenci, like the head of Goliath, like the head of John the Baptist, fell to the floor, teeth bared, eyes staring, while his body slumped sideways.
The Monsignor knelt down and listened. For a second he thought he could hear a sigh emerge from Caravaggio’s open mouth. This interested him. Perhaps, as the doctors said, it was a last, involuntary gasp, or the attempt by a dying brain to express in extremis its ultimate despair. But might it not also have been the release of the infidel’s soul embarking on the first step of its road to hell? There could be no mercy for the unbeliever. Looking down at the disembodied head with a mixture of satisfaction and distaste, he touched his fingertips to his temples, lips and heart. ‘Allahu Akbar!’ he said quietly.
34*
Conclave minus 2: afternoon
The Prophet (peace be upon him) said: ‘There is no prophet between me and him, that is Jesus (peace be upon him). He will descend (to Earth). When you see
him, recognize him: a man of medium height, reddish fair, wearing two light yellow garments, looking as if drops were falling down from his head though it will not be wet. He will fight for the cause of Islam. He will break the cross, kill swine and abolish Jizyah. Allah will cause all Faiths except Islam to perish. He will destroy the Antichrist and will live on the earth for forty years and then he will die. The Muslims will pray over him.’
—The Hadith
O’Malley, aware that he was engaged in the most important quest of his life, was in the innermost chamber of the Vatican’s Secret Archives. The General Archive, first established in 1610 on the orders of Pope Paul V, was not, in fact, secret, merely restricted. But one room, separated from the rest, deep beneath the museum’s central courtyard, was the final storehouse of everything that the Church and the Curia wished to keep hidden from the world. Only his stature as Superior General of the Company of Jesus – in effect the Black Pope – granted him access to this most obscure repository. Here were no computers, no electronic records – only documents, yellow with age. O’Malley blew the dust off boxes whose labels were the stuff of history: Policy and Conduct in Respect of the Knights Templar; the Case of ‘Pope’ Joan; The Relationships of Cesare and Lucrezia Borgia; The Trial and Execution for Heresy of Bruno Giordano; the Trial and Interrogation of Galileo; The Trial and Execution of the Cenci family; Pope Pius XI and Mussolini; Relations Between the Holy See and the Nazi Occupiers. Finally, hidden away on a bottom shelf, in a pouch made of leather or vellum: The Investigation of Cardinal Orazio Battista, 1610-1611.
O’Malley pulled the pouch towards him. With fevered fingers, he undid the string holding it shut, then reached inside and slowly drew out the contents. The top sheet, containing a list of those to whom the information was entrusted, came away from the papers beneath with a discernible snap. Battista’s early life and career were there: his upbringing in Lucca, his three years as a parish priest in Pisa, his time as a diplomat, taking him to Paris, London and … Constantinople. He had been awarded his red hat by Pope Gregory XIV, Niccolò Sfondrati, at the consistory held on 6 March 1591, as reward for a lengthy, and no doubt stressful, period as a leading prosecutor for the Inquisition. Created a cardinal priest in 1601 (a fact omitted by the Catholic Encyclopedia) he was soon after appointed Camerlengo. And that is where the story ended. What happened to him after that was not recorded – not even the time or place of his death. Whatever documents there may have been relating to the cardinal’s later life and career – including the mysterious investigation into his treason and apostasy – were gone.
