The Caravaggio Conspiracy (24 page)

‘But tomorrow we follow Father Visco, right?’ said Maya.

‘Right,’ said Dempsey.

O’Malley looked pained and anxious. ‘You know my views on this,’ he said. ‘Visco may well be a throwback to Catholic medievalism. But he’s not a Muslim. And once we’ve established that, we’ll have very little time to go after the real culprit in all this: Bosani. In the meantime, both of you, be careful. Promise me that. I don’t want any more trouble with the Roman authorities.’

‘You have my word on it,’ Dempsey said.

They reached a taxi rank and a cab drew up beside them. Dempsey opened the rear door and O’Malley stood back to let Maya get in first. Half-smiling, he said: ‘God knows what my enemies will say if it’s reported that I’ve been seen in the back of a cab with a beautiful young woman.’

Maya blushed. Dempsey kissed her on the cheek then turned and embraced his uncle.

‘Seriously, Liam,’ O’Malley said. ‘Watch your step. And look after Maya. A girl in a million, I’d say.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ Dempsey replied.

As soon as the taxi pulled away, the young Irishman looked around to get his bearings. He didn’t notice the sturdy figure of Franco moving out of a shop front opposite and keeping pace with him as he made his way from the Piazza della Rotunda towards the Via di Torre Argentina and the Ponte Mazzini. Rome felt fresh after the rain and he found himself wandering off his intended route until he realized after a while that he was lost. Attempting to get his bearings south of the Corso Vittorio Emanuele, he looked out for a street name and discovered that he was on the Via di Monserrato heading northwest towards the Vatican. A faded plaque mounted on a wall caused him to pause. Beatrice Cenci, it said, was taken from incarceration in a jail on this site to her execution on 11 September 1599 – ‘an exemplary victim of unfair justice’. Who was Beatrice Cenci? he wondered. The name seemed vaguely familiar. Had Shelley written a poem about her? Or was that Byron? He couldn’t remember and walked on, thinking instead about Maya.

A little way behind, keeping to the shadows, Franco had taken a rare
executive
decision. It was obvious that O’Malley had worked out the Camerlengo’s plan to install a pope who would stand up for Italy and the Catholic Church against the Muslim invaders. It was also clear to him that the younger man, Dempsey, was O’Malley’s ‘muscle’, ready to carry out his uncle’s schemes. Father Visco had said that he should used his judgment, and in Franco’s view no good could come from allowing the Irishman to continue with his inquiries. He knew too much already and was on track to find out much more. Moreover, his death would serve a double purpose. Not only would it end, once and for all, his intrusion into affairs that did not concern him, but, with time running out before the start of the papal conclave, it would be useful to have the older O’Malley preoccupied with family tragedy, unable to play any further part in the proceedings. As for the Studer girl, Visco hadn’t said anything about her, so he would leave her alone – for now.

Dempsey had halted again, this time at the Spanish National Church on the Monserrato, before turning left into the narrow Via della Barchetta, one of those alleys that looked impoverished but where the houses, if they ever came onto the market, changed hands for millions of euro. Past an intersection with the Via Giulia, the Irishman paused for several seconds at a small water fountain, taking several sips from the flowing tap. Franco kept out of sight behind a van. The alleyway was dank with rain. Pools of brackish water gathered among the cobbles. The wing of a dead pigeon lay next to a discarded cigarette. On the right was a high wall with a metal rail on top. To the left was a row of small, flat-fronted houses, then yet another church. What was this one called? The Chiesa di Sant’Eligio degli Orefici. There was a tourist plaque on the wall, in Italian and English, which Dempsey stopped to read. The church, he discovered, had been planned, but not finished, by Raphael, back in 15-something-or-other. That was interesting. He tried the door, but, as usual after office hours, it was locked. What happened to a soul in need when the priest went home? He had no idea. But he could guess at the reason for shutting up shop. Burglars were now almost as ubiquitous in Rome as muggers. No one was safe. He turned away. Ahead of him, beyond a row of parked cars, was a grey wall, with steps leading to the Tiber. That was more like it. As he looked briefly to his left, down a blind alley, he realized that he was standing on a thick metal grating, bearing the initials SPQR. He found it amazing that after 2500 years, city property was still described as belonging to the Senate and People of Rome. It was somehow reassuring.

That was the moment when Franco launched his attack.

At the final second, Dempsey, his ears refined by months of listening out for the slightest suspicious sound in Iraq, heard the faint click of a knife blade
snapping
into place. He wheeled round. The advancing assassin’s switchblade missed his neck by inches. Dempsey, now fully alert, came back fast. He directed a short punch into the Italian’s throat, causing him to jerk back, but without losing hold of the blade, which he quickly swung back, cutting his adversary’s left arm below the shoulder. Dempsey ducked down, wincing with pain. Then he sprang back up and directed his fist straight into Franco’s groin. The Italian groaned and doubled over. As Dempsey muscled forward, he swayed to one side and drew a breath. He had to finish his man quickly. The city police frequently patrolled these deserted
alleyways
, a favourite haunt of muggers. Passing the switchblade from hand to hand, he dared Dempsey to make a move, but the Irishman’s left arm was bleeding and his focus was purely on survival. Franco feinted to the left, then moved in for the kill. Dempsey responded with a high kick that caught the other man in his knife hand and sent the weapon flying. Franco grunted and kept on coming, taking advantage of the fact that Dempsey was now fractionally off balance, Punching him hard on the side of the face, he followed up with a left to the stomach. But Dempsey, though almost retching with pain, was still not ready to give in and jabbed the Italian between his mouth and nose, causing blood to gush from both nostrils. Following up with a head butt, learned in his schoolyard in Galway, he sent Franco spinning. Then, with the wound to his arm draining him of blood and energy, he turned and ran. Within seconds, he was up the embankment steps and gone. Franco rose quickly to his feet, gathered up his switchblade and drew a handkerchief from his pocket, which he used to staunch the flow of blood from his broken nose. Visco, he reckoned, would not be pleased by his performance this evening. Best, he thought, not even to mention it to Bosani. As for the Irishman, he had his measure now. Next time he would do the job right.

The Ponte Mazzini, which would lead Dempsey across the Tiber to his apartment, was less than a hundred metres away. But the Irishman was dizzy and weak. His head was spinning. He sat down on the kerb of the embankment, noticing as if for the first time that his left arm was streaming with blood. He needed to get to a hospital, he decided. But how? Which direction? He didn’t know. He was confused. Standing up with difficulty, he felt in his pocket for a handkerchief to halt the bleeding. But he didn’t have one. Who did these days? Instead, he clasped his right hand over the wound beneath his shoulder and wandered into the middle of the Lungotevere dei Tebaldi. An angry chorus of car horns greeted his arrival. Someone shouted at him from the pavement. He looked up and saw in the distance the illuminated statue of Garibaldi rearing above the botanical gardens on the opposite side of the river. That was when he lost consciousness. 

The arrival of Caravaggio in Syracuse remained a secret for less than forty-eight hours. Mario Minniti was a native Sicilian who took great pride in the culture and way of life of his home island. But he was also a natural metropolitan – a reveller, an inveterate gossip and a committed drinker. Like Caravaggio, he had been forced to flee Rome after a brawl, and like his friend he missed the hurly-burly of big-city life. When the opportunity arose to welcome as his house guest the man who was not only Italy’s most celebrated artist – the one who had taught him mastery of light and shade – but also his one-time companion in debauchery, Minniti seized it with both hands. He organized a reception at his home to take place on the Friday night. Invitations were extended to fellow artists, the local nobility and representatives of the Spanish governor, all of whom flocked to attend.

Caravaggio himself remained in low spirits. He could barely remember what it was like to be carefree or happy. The days when he had played cards with Longhi and Orso and spent hours at a time with whores in Ortaccio seemed not so much episodes from his past as events in another life. Though relieved to have escaped the dungeon of Sant’Angelo, he felt he was sleepwalking towards his death. He dreaded God’s judgment, which he felt sure would reject his penitence. He was also fearful that on Earth he might never get to confront Battista and reveal the truth of his apostasy. Most of all, he was afraid of the axe above his head that he knew was poised to fall, sending his lifeless and sightless head tumbling into oblivion.

A party was the last thing he needed, he told Minniti, an attitude that the Sicilian put down down to mere fatigue.

‘Syracuse is not Rome, Michelangelo. You don’t have to tell me that. But it is a town that knows how to have a good time. Believe me, by tomorrow, as you prise yourself away from at least two of the most alluring courtesans in Sicily and count up the commissions that have come your way from Church and state, you’ll feel a different man. You’ll be ready to work again and to put the terrible business of the last few years behind you.’

‘But the Knights will pursue me.’

‘Let them. I’ll see to it that when you go for a drink or spend time in a brothel, or even step outside to take a piss, no man shall lay a hand on you. If these lofty
Maltese
sons of bitches think they can outflank Sicilians in their own backyard, they’re welcome to try. But I promise you, they’ll return to Valletta with their throats slit.’

Even Caravaggio had to smile at this.

In the event, the party was a great success. There had been no such star
attraction
in Syracuse since the time of Frederick II, the
Stupor Mundi
, or Wonder of the World, who, as Holy Roman Emperor, had denounced both Christ and Muhammad as ‘deceivers of mankind’. Everyone, from the viceroy down to the humblest parish priest, seemed truly delighted that so great an artist should have ended up among them, and the result was that Caravaggio decided, yet again, to put his past behind him and rededicate himself to both pleasure and art.

Two weeks later, with Minniti, he embarked on a grand tour of Sicily,
travelling
north to Catania and Messina, then west, across the north coast, to the island’s capital, Palermo. Everywhere they stopped, crowds gathered. Caravaggio took to making sketches of local worthies and handing them to their subjects free of charge. He also visited churches and palazzi, looking at paintings and
frescoes
, marvelling at the vitality and mongrel quality of Sicilian art. By the time he returned to Syracuse, he had more commissions than he could easily realize, including a sequence of alterpieces,
The Burial of Saint Lucy, The Raising of Lazarus
and the
Adoration of the Shepherds
, that he would dash off but would immediately be hailed as masterpieces.

Yet as his mood lifted, aided by drunken nights in Syracuse with Minniti and his many artist friends, events in the real world were closing in. In mid-July, some eleven months after his arrival in Sicily, word came from the harbour that three Knights of Malta, led by Fonseca, had arrived from Valletta asking for the
whereabouts
of the artist known as Caravaggio. The three were sent at once to Catania, where they were told their quarry was resident at an inn just off the main square. In the meantime, the painter was put on his guard and surrounded wherever he went by armed men in the service of a local smuggler. When Fonseca and his associates returned from Catania, they were met by an angry mob, carrying swords, daggers and any other sharp implements they could lay their hands on, and obliged to set sail at once. Townspeople jeered as they raised the sail on their felucca. From the cliffs above the harbour, several men and boys pelted the retreating craft with stones.

Minniti could not hide his satisfaction at the turn of events. ‘Do you not see, Michelangelo, how much these people love you? You’ve found a home here. You mustn’t even think of leaving.’

But Caravaggio, though deeply grateful, knew that his luck would not hold. Fonseca now knew where he was hiding. Battista would no doubt be informed. It could only be a matter of time before the Spanish governor received letters from the Holy See and the Grand Master requiring either his arrest or the carrying out of the sentence implicit in the
banda capitale
.

‘There are things I cannot tell you, Mario – things that would be dangerous for you to know. You should be aware only that these men, and others like them, will pursue me to the ends of the earth. For your sake, and the sake of your family and friends, I’ve got to leave Sicily and return to Rome. Only if I am granted an audience with the Pope is there any hope for me.’

Minniti was saddened by his friend’s determination, but could tell that he was impelled by more than mere fear for his survival.

‘Then God go with you, Michelangelo,’ he told him. ‘We shall pray for you.’

Two days later, one year to the day after his arrival, Caravaggio made his goodbyes and descended once more to the harbour, where he boarded a ship for Naples. The following day, another ship left Syracuse bound for the same
destination
. Among the passengers was a short, burly fellow, an expert with both garotte and dagger. He was not a popular man, but there were few, even in Sicily, who dared risk their lives by confronting him. In the stranger’s village of Canicattini Bagni, concealed beneath the floorboards of his cottage, was a strongbox containing one hundred scudi. According to Luis de Fonseca, the Cavaliere de Giustizia who had given him the money, another hundred would follow once his assigned task was carried out. The Sicilian, who was not a good sailor, went below almost at once. As the felucca pulled away from the harbour, he sat down by a porthole and took out a pitcher of red wine, some cheese and a half-loaf of bread. When he had eaten, he curled up and fell asleep.