A Name in Blood

by Matt Rees

  Given at St Mark’s under the seal of the Fisherman.

  The letter felt hot in his hands. Caravaggio worried that he might set it on fire and burn it to ashes with the force of his feeling. He thrust it back to Martelli.

  ‘As a knight, you can’t be sent back to Rome. You’ll have the protection of the Order.’ Martelli folded the letter and slipped it into his doublet. He gripped Caravaggio’s arms and embraced him. ‘Michele, you’d be a knight even if this St John of yours were a lesser painting. But it’s astonishing.’

  Caravaggio scanned his canvas. Each stroke of the brush had seemed to liberate him. Martelli knows, he thought. I made my work as direct as his description of killing a man.

  They shared a confiding silence. Caravaggio’s fingers tingled from contact with the Pope’s letter. A pardon. Perhaps he might return to the Pope’s lands, to Rome, to Lena. It was all possible now.

  At the bottom of his picture, the Baptist’s gaunt face stared at him. It remained only to paint the blood flowing from the dying man’s neck.

  Caravaggio went to the Admiral’s residence after the supper hour. As he dropped down the slope beyond the Grand Master’s Palace, he fought to suppress his pride at his elevation to knighthood. I’ll be free of the sentence of death, he thought. I can return to Lena and work in peace. But as he entered the empty offices of the fleet on the ground floor, he knew why his first urge had been to come and tell Fabrizio. I won’t be the servant of the Colonnas any more. I’ll be the equal of any of them, a member of a noble Order. A man like Fabrizio might now truly be his brother. He might bestow his friendship on him and on Costanza. It could no longer be demanded of him as a service due to their rank.

  The sweetness of the orange grove was like scented skin in the evening warmth. He recognized it as the flavour of Fabrizio’s kiss. He went up the stairs.

  The Admiral’s secretaries had gone to their inns for supper, so Caravaggio passed through Fabrizio’s study towards his private chamber. The door was ajar. Beyond it, a pair of scarlet stockings spread over the brown flagstones.

  Caravaggio halted. He heard a muffled grunt and a man’s breathless laughter. He pushed the door open.

  Fabrizio was at the bedside, his hose about his ankles and his shirt loose. He gripped the thin legs of Nicholas, the Grand Master’s page. The boy’s cheeks were flushed and a tremulous emptiness lay on his face.

  The boy saw Caravaggio. He wriggled from under Fabrizio, gathered his clothing and ran. The pleasure on Fabrizio’s face receded. ‘I’m still corrupting young boys, Michele, as you see.’

  Caravaggio looked about the room. It was little different from the chamber where Fabrizio and he had scrambled to consume each other. They had been the age Nicholas was now. If this is Fabrizio’s shame, he said to himself, then why is it I who feels humiliated? The surge of pride at his knighthood, the closeness with Martelli, and the sense that Lena wasn’t lost to him – it was gone, all of it. He was back in Fabrizio’s chamber in the Sforza Colonna Palace in Caravaggio. He was thirteen years old, and his master’s son held him to the bed and emptied into him all the guilt and lust on which his attempts to love had choked ever since.

  There was a trace of hope and new lust on Fabrizio’s face. ‘Come on, Michele. What’s the problem? Don’t tell me you aren’t doing the same thing with that Maltese kitchen lad you’re using as your assistant. Or are you jealous? Jealous of the boy.’

  Caravaggio slapped Fabrizio and fell on him, punching, gasping with tears, until Fabrizio got his hands free and rolled away. He lay on the bed, all his frenzy sapped. He wept, because he had wanted to tell Fabrizio of his joy. The only thing he’ll ever share with me is something he could as easily force on that page.

  He rushed to the stairs. As he went through the offices, he heard Fabrizio call him. I’m to be a knight. When the Colonnas shout my name, I don’t have to answer ever again.

  Late that night, the watchman whistled an oriental tune outside the Inn of the Italian Knights, his lantern swinging at his waist. Caravaggio shone his own lamp along the length of his canvas, swatting at the mosquitoes. He squeezed out an inch of burnt umber from a pig’s bladder tube and dipped a medium brush in linseed oil to thin the paint.

  He touched the shadowed ochre he had used for the flagstones of St John’s dungeon and checked his fingertip for traces of the paint. It was dry, ready for him to lay a glaze over it. He twirled his brush in the umber and the linseed, and he lifted it to the canvas.

  From a distance, the glaze would look as though it were the thin, transparent border of the gore pooling beneath the saint’s wounded neck. But anyone who came closer would see what he had done. For the first time in any of his paintings, in the blood of the saint spilled by the same beheading that had for so long threatened to be his own fate and from which knighthood would soon rescue him, Caravaggio signed his name as a knight and a monk: Brother Michelangelo.

  He felt as though all the gore he had seen in brawls and duels had soaked into him. It didn’t bring death or pain: it filled him with life. It boiled inside him and spilled onto the canvas, his blood and the blood of the men he had fought and the man he had killed. He wrote his name in it, because he might bleed forever and his body would pump out yet more, hot and alive.

  He dropped his palette and clasped his hands. He prayed that Lena would feel the blood surge in him and that it would connect them as surely as if they bled into each other’s veins. My God, let her live, he murmured. Let her be as full of life as I am.

  As Caravaggio advanced through the black-cloaked knights in the Oratory, Martelli gave him a firm smile. Now he would be one of them. He mounted the steps to the altar with the unaccustomed weight of armour on his shoulders and chest. He spread his arms a little so that he wouldn’t kneel on his cloak. Behind the Grand Master, his painting of St John’s death ran across the wall. He read his name in blood and bowed his head.

  Wignacourt recited the ceremony of investiture. He bound Caravaggio to follow a life of Christian perfection and social works, to dedicate himself to the Virgin and to St John. The Grand Master held out the white cross of the Order on a length of linen. Caravaggio kissed it. Had he been alone, he would have buried his head in the cloth, exultant. Don’t forget, he told himself, your joy is at least as much about escaping the death sentence as it is about your elevated status. You’ve joined the people to whom laws don’t apply. He looked at the Italian knights beside the altar. Fabrizio turned his head, as if Caravaggio’s gaze were a physical blow.

  ‘Receive the yoke of the Lord,’ Wignacourt said, ‘for it is sweet and light and under it you will find rest for your soul. We promise you no delicacies, but only bread and water and a modest monk’s habit of no worth.’

  Wignacourt beckoned to the page Nicholas, who came forward holding a red cushion, a gold chain upon it. The Grand Master laid the chain around Caravaggio’s neck and raised him to his feet. ‘Giving you a gift of two slaves, as well,’ Wignacourt whispered.

  ‘Your Serene Highness is too generous.’

  The Grand Master gestured over his shoulder towards The Beheading of St John. ‘A masterwork, Brother Michelangelo.’

  ‘You do me great honour, Sire.’

  The Italians returned to their inn where Caravaggio would take his place as a knight. At the gate, Martelli welcomed him and requested that he sit on a simple carpet. He gave him bread and salt, symbols of a monk’s ascetic life. As Caravaggio ate, Roero picked his teeth with the point of a dagger.

  A Sienese knight named Brother Giulio took a long draught of wine. ‘Here’s a good one: The Duke of Brie, the illegitimate son of the Duke of Lorraine, is at dinner. A courtly French knight says to him, “Duke, you’re divine, will you pass me the wine?” So the Duke gives him the wine. At the other end of the table, there’s an ill-mannered German knight. He follows the Frenchman’s rhyming example and says, “Duke, you’re a bastard, pass me the mustard.” ’ He slammed his goblet down on the table and roared at his punchlin
e.

  Caravaggio drank off his wine and refilled it to the brim from the jug on the table. Roero watched him over his cup, his red eyes aflame.

  Let him glare, Caravaggio thought. He’s not the first to give me a dirty look, and I’ve a new status as knight to protect me. I dine with these knights as an equal now. He was glittering with the wine and the success of The Beheading, flushed like a boy tipsy for the first time. He toasted Brother Giulio’s humour.

  ‘You like a good joke, do you?’ Roero said.

  Caravaggio swallowed his wine. ‘Yeah, why not?’

  ‘You think it’s a joke to make a painting for our Oratory with a naked kitchen boy and a Maltese whore?’

  The knights along the table quieted. Brother Giulio coughed and tried another story. ‘The Duke of Brie goes to hunt bears with a crossbow—’

  ‘A whore in our church.’ The shadows cut scars into Roero’s face.

  Even as he told himself to stay silent, Caravaggio opened his mouth and drawled, ‘You’re the one with the direct proof of the girl’s profession, Roero.’ You couldn’t help yourself, Michele. When they made you a knight, they restored all the stupid pride that leaked out of you with Ranuccio’s blood. A little wine and a prod from this bastard, and you smash everything to pieces.

  ‘Come now, Brothers, which of us hasn’t visited the whores?’ Brother Giulio said.

  ‘This Lombard pimp is a knight?’ Roero said. ‘I’m disgusted.’

  Caravaggio felt the old stuttering pulse of adrenaline, and he knew the fight would happen. He was afloat on the whirlwind of pride and boastfulness in which men lived. ‘You have two hundred years of nobility on both sides of your family, but your soul belongs to a peasant.’

  Roero’s laugh was triumphant. ‘The closest you ever came to nobility, painter, was to stir the Marchesa Colonna’s palette with your little pork paintbrush.’

  A sudden motion and Caravaggio’s dagger bit into the knight’s shoulder. Roero went backwards onto his stool.

  Brother Giulio staggered towards them. ‘Why don’t I finish telling the joke about the Duke and the bear?’

  Roero unsheathed his rapier and lunged. Caravaggio parried with his dagger and punched him on the ear. Roero’s impetus brought him forward and Caravaggio felt the point of his dagger enter below the knight’s collarbone.

  Staggering as if he had been struck with the battering ram of a galley at full speed, Roero frowned at the torn fabric of his doublet. A scarlet stain spread out of the black material into the white cross of the Order on his chest.

  When they cast him inside, the moonlight illuminated the rock walls, sloping to a hatch in the ceiling. Now all was silent and cold and black. At least I didn’t bring Lena into this jeopardy with me, he thought. He knelt in prayer and knew that he had made a mistake by leaving her in Rome. He had sought to protect her, but he had run from the one soul that might have soothed him. With Lena, he was sure, he would never have repeated his violence. She could have been his redemption. His pride in his knighthood had led him to this conical dungeon scooped from the rock of the Sant’Angelo Castle. It had destroyed everything – except his love for Lena. Even he couldn’t wreck that.

  The hatch lifted and Caravaggio blinked through the morning sun into the artful features of Leonetto della Corbara. A strange Christ to raise this Lazarus back among the living. The Inquisitor’s eyes flickered, a minute deviation as if he were calculating the worth of the man in the hole beneath him. He made an impatient gesture and a ladder slid into the dungeon for his descent.

  He held the sleeve of his black robe to his nose. Caravaggio pointed to the side of the chamber furthest from the slops bucket. Della Corbara sat against the wall, wincing at the contact of his back with the rough rock. ‘Inside the infamous guva. It’s almost like hell.’

  ‘I could get used to it.’

  ‘You mightn’t have so long.’

  From his sleeve, the Inquisitor slipped a paper. Unfolding it, he held it forward into the light from the hatch. ‘A pardon. A blank pardon. Usually I sell them for a few hundred scudi, as you sell a painting. I’m offering this one to you free of charge.’

  ‘Not quite free.’

  ‘Well, you can have it – if you do as I wish. The knights are going to kick you out of the Order. There goes your protection, the pardon you thought you had. Tell me what I want to know about the way they live.’

  Caravaggio gestured around him. ‘I’m not at liberty to oblige, Father.’

  The Inquisitor pulled up his bottom lip as if to suggest that the dungeon was a triviality. ‘Don’t you want to go home?’

  ‘God is our final home and he’ll lead us there.’

  Della Corbara bellowed with laughter and wagged an appreciative finger at Caravaggio. The face of one of the guards appeared above, curious and disapproving. ‘Don’t quote St Augustine to me,’ the Inquisitor said. ‘He was never imprisoned in the guva of Malta, Maestro Michele. Had he been so immured, he’d have advised you to rely upon your friends, not only on God.’

  ‘Signore?’ the guard called down.

  ‘Father, to you.’ Della Corbara made his expression harsh and the guard pulled back. ‘Michele, you have no choice now. If you stay here, the knights will expel you for wounding a noble member of the Order. You’ll be unprotected. They’ll send you to Rome to be executed for the murder of Ranuccio. But I might be able to claim custody of you.’

  Caravaggio shook his head. He didn’t believe the Inquisitor could face down the knights. He felt sympathy for the priest’s desperation.

  Della Corbara displayed a momentary exasperation, like a tired father with a boisterous child. When he stood, the Inquisitor blocked out the light. His robe and the rock were black. ‘I’m talking to you as a friend, Michele. If you get out of here, put your faith in love. We hope love is everlasting, but we know we can’t count on it enduring. That’s what makes its pleasure so intense.’

  The Inquisitor had always seemed part of the prideful tide of the world, before which Caravaggio had to posture and push out his chest. In defeat, the priest showed him his weakness, and Caravaggio felt naked before it. The cold stone of the dungeon made him shiver.

  In the Grand Master’s Palace, the senior knights sat around a heavy oak table built in an open curve. As Admiral of the Galleys, Fabrizio took his place on the Venerable Council. He lacked long service in the Order so his chair was near the tip of the horseshoe. The piliers of each nation among the knights were ranked beside Wignacourt, who slouched on his throne, his hand cradling his chin, fingers disguising his troubled features. On his right, Martelli was upright and tense with a rage he seemed barely able to check.

  The knights had heard the evidence of the investigators, but before they decided to expel Caravaggio from the Order Martelli had insisted that Roero recount the story of the fight at the dinner.

  Wignacourt’s page passed around the table with a taper, lighting the candles as the hearing went into the evening. When he set the flame to the candle before Fabrizio, his hand shook. Fabrizio smiled gently, but the boy hurried to illuminate the other candles. He cursed himself for what he had done with the page, for revealing the man he was to Michele. If he could have hidden himself all those years ago when he had first been with Michele, what pain would others have been spared? His mother, Michele, this page boy. He damned his father, who had been the first to lay his touch on him in lust, and he wondered when he would meet him and in which circle of hell.

  Roero told his tale, a tone of horror in his voice. Fabrizio thought it a disgusting piece of acting. Roero had often done worse violence than Michele and joked about it.

  The page threw the taper in the grate and took up his place behind the Grand Master. His delicate hand absently circled the rim of a chilled water pitcher on a trolley beside him. Fabrizio watched it, breathless. The boy brought the condensation on his finger to his lips, sucking it away. When he noticed Fabrizio’s absorption, he snapped his hands behind his back. The disgust Fabri
zio had felt for Roero passed now to himself.

  ‘What started the dispute at the dinner, Brother Roero?’ Martelli spoke low, more like a threat than a question.

  ‘I criticized his painting,’ Roero said. ‘The Beheading of St John in the Oratory.’

  ‘Your criticism was what exactly?’

  ‘His model for Salome was a Maltese whore.’

  ‘How do you know she’s a whore?’

  ‘What other woman would an artist consort with? Certainly she’s not fit for the sight of our novices.’

  Caravaggio was beyond protection. Even Martelli was powerless to stop the trial. Fabrizio wished his mother had been there to speak for her protégé. He clicked his tongue. How weak he was to require the strength of a woman in such moments. He recalled the desperation with which Caravaggio had wrestled him on the bed in his residence. Fabrizio had felt repulsed and embraced at the same time.

  Roero’s speech seemed interminable. Quietly Fabrizio rose. He looked for some command from Martelli, but the old knight’s attention blazed at Roero.

  Fabrizio went at a jog through the courtyards of the palace. Let them sit up there in judgement. Michele is neither a knight nor an artist to me. I won’t be constrained by their codes of behaviour. I judge him by another measure – by love – and in that he has never been lacking.