The Caravaggio Conspiracy (14 page)

This time, the voice that answered was warm and welcoming. Father Hermann Scholz S. had been a senior tutor at the Anima for ten years or more. He and O’Malley had previously served together in Chicago and, of course, as a Jesuit, the German was bound by his oath of obedience.

After a brief exchange of pleasantries, conducted in English, O’Malley asked Scholz if he had heard anything about a journal belonging to Cardinal Rüttgers.

‘Oh yes,’ came the immediate response. ‘In fact, as His Eminence’s confessor and intimate secretary in Rome, I can tell you that he kept it up to date until the very day of his death.’

O’Malley tried to keep the excitement out of his voice. ‘I don’t suppose you happen to know anything about the last few entries.’ 

‘You’re not suggesting I would read a private diary?’

O’Malley sighed. ‘Don’t play the innocent with me, Hermann. I know you too well. Did you read the final entries?’

The German paused. ‘I did,’ he said at last.

‘And ..?’

‘And they were much as you would expect. It’s common knowledge that he and the Camerlengo fell out rather spectacularly a few weeks back.’

‘So, what did he say? What did he write?’

‘Well, that was the funny thing. His final entry didn’t touch on polemics or theology – unless you count an odd reference to Bosani’s eyes.’

‘His eyes?’

‘Yes. Rüttgers had planned to deliver a speech in the university – it would have been this week, I believe – in which he urged increased dialogue between the Catholic and Islamic faiths, but demand also a much greater tolerance of Christianity in Muslim lands. When he told Bosani this, the Camerlengo turned away, he said, but not before Rüttgers saw a hostile look in his eyes that seemed to betray a contrary view.’

‘Strange.’

‘Most definitely.’

‘What did you make of it?’

‘It’s hard to say. It could simply be that he had allowed his own antipathy to the Camerlengo get the better of him. I mean, how could any Christian leader not want greater freedom for the Church in places like Saudi Arabia, Pakistan or Iraq?’

‘Quite. What else? What else did he say?’

The German thought for a moment. ‘He noted that he had asked His Eminence if it was true that he had met recently in Rome with someone called Yilmaz
Hak-something
-or-other. Does that mean anything to you?’

‘Yilmaz Hakura. He’s a leader of Hizb ut-Tahrir.’

‘The Islamist party?’

‘Exactly.’

‘But they’re banned, aren’t they?’

‘That doesn’t mean they don’t exist.’

‘You must forgive my naïveté. I don’t get out much. Well, the Camerlengo evidently said that there had been no such meeting – which hardly rates as a surprise. Rüttgers wrote afterwards that he was sure of his facts. And then he added
something
really strange. I remember it exactly. “Betrayal starts and ends with the self. Judas was acting out his destiny. The question is, who – or what – controls Bosani?”’

‘Extraordinary. And how do you interpret that?’

‘I have no idea. I only know that it chills the blood.’ 

‘As if he sensed that there was something very wrong at the heart of the Church, but couldn’t quite identify it.’

‘As you say, Father General. Have you noticed that the greatest mysteries in life seem to attach to saints and sinners? Perhaps good and evil share something of the same nature.’ He sighed, as if disturbed by the implication of what he had said. ‘One last thing, and make of this what you will, but the late cardinal also mentioned a painting he’d seen that belonged to the Camerlengo. It wasn’t hung in the public rooms in which he receives visitors, but in his private drawing room in the Governorate.’

O’Malley was intrigued. ‘Painting? Which painting?’

‘A portrait, signed by Annibale Carracci, of one of Bosani’s predecessors as Camerlengo, dating from the early years of the seventeenth century. Carracci is a much underrated master, if you ask me – though not, of course, of the same rank as Caravaggio.’

O’Malley drummed his fingers impatiently. ‘And the subject of this painting?’

‘Ah, now that was inscribed on a small brass plaque fixed to the base of the frame. Someone by the name of Orazio Battista.’

‘Battista?’

‘
Ja, ja
. According to Rüttgers, Battista was once very powerful, but came to a sticky end. I looked him up in the Catholic Encyclopedia. There was no mention of him, which seemed strange. Even odder is the fact that the Carracci picture – which would be worth an absolute fortune … a drawing by him sold recently in Christie’s for, I think, a quarter of a millions euro – isn’t even listed in the inventory of the Vatican Museum. And when I consulted an official catalogue of Carracci’s known body of work, there was no mention of it.’

O’Malley had forgotten that Scholtz was an art buff. ‘I’d like to take a look at the diary for myself. Could you arrange to have it biked over?’

‘I would, gladly, Father General,’ Scholz said. ‘Unfortunately, an official from the Vatican security service took it away for safekeeping the day before yesterday. He said it contained confidential references pertaining to the upcoming conclave and that it had to be kept out of the public domain.’

‘Really? What did Rüttgers’ family have to say about that?’

‘They were told it was a Church matter, nothing to do with them.’

‘I see.’ O’Malley sucked his teeth. ‘Just one more thing, Hermann. Without betraying the confidence of the Confessional, can you tell me what mood Cardinal Rüttgers was in the day he died?’

The Jesuit thought for a moment. ‘I’d say he was a very unhappy man. Deeply depressed. Maybe whatever it was that caused his stroke affected his judgment. I cannot say.’ 

‘Did he appear in any way physically unwell?’

‘Physically? No, not at all. In fine fettle, I’d say. He made me feel old.’

‘Okay, Hermann, I’m grateful to you. And I’d appreciate it if you kept our little conversation to yourself.’

‘Of course, Father General.’

‘I’m serious. Not a word.’

‘You can rely on me. Is there anything else I can do …?’

‘If there is, I’ll let you know.’

O’Malley rang off. He walked over to the window of his office and stared up the street towards St Peter’s.
Judas was acting out his destiny
. What in God’s name had Rüttgers meant by that? It was the second time the fallen Apostle had cropped up in this affair. Was it a sign? If so, where was it pointing?
The question is, who
–
or what
–
controls Bosani?
This was both cryptic and infuriating. Even those who detested the Camerlengo and believed him to be a malign influence in the Church didn’t question his bona fides. It was maddening. And now were now two paintings, both of the mysterious Cardinal Battista, the second of them, without any known provenance, in the private collection of the Camerlengo. What was the possible link between the two men and what did it mean for the future of the Church? As he gazed at the famous dome of the basilica, a thin crescent moon rose above Fontana’s cross and lantern. For some reason, the sight of this filled him with unease.

Six weeks had passed since Caravaggio became a fugitive from justice, and the artist was living in the magnificent household of Don Marzio Colonna in the hills south of Rome. The sword wounds inflicted by Ranuccio’s brother, Giovan Francesco, had left him with a deep scar across his right temple, mostly hidden by his hair, but the wound to his throat had healed almost completely. Given that he had lost a lot of blood, he had made an impressive recovery.

The news from Rome, however, was not good. Longhi was in hiding in Milan. A warrant had been issued for his arrest as an accessory to murder. Toppa, the soldier, gravely wounded in a fight not of his making, had lost the use of his sword arm and been left to fend for himself, so was in no mood to speak up for Caravaggio. At the same time, Giovan Francesco, who had initially fled Rome, fearing arrest, had successfully petitioned the Pope for a judicial pardon. The magistrate appointed to the case evidently took into account Tomassoni’s long service to the Holy See and accepted his claim that Caravaggio attacked and murdered him in cold blood as he lay on the ground.

A Monsignor in the papal household, who owed his elevation to the Colonna, confirmed to Prince Marzio that Caravaggio had been made the scapegoat for the entire sorry business. The Pope was appalled by what had happened, the Monsignor said. He thought he had come to know the painter during the sessions in which he had sat for his portrait nine months previously. But apparently he had been fooled. The Camerlengo, Cardinal Battista, had condemned Caravaggio not only as a murderer, but as a dangerous heretic, who fled the scene of his crime. Once it was clear that the accused had no intention of returning to Rome, it was on Battista’s orders that a
banda capitale
was issued.

Without the protecting hand of the Colonna, Caravaggio would never have survived, and he was grateful. His father, Fermo, had worked all his life for the Sforza branch of the clan, rising to be chamberlain in Milan, with a household and servants of his own. He became a trusted adviser and confidant – an
uomo di fiducia
– whose death deprived the family of valuable counsel. Partly out of feudal loyalty, but also because they recognized the genius of Fermo’s boy, the Colonna, with vast estates throughout Italy, would always watch over him.

In an effort to repay his host for his kindness, but also because he could not stop himself, Caravaggio produced a series of canvases in Zagarolo that he then offered to Prince Marzio. Among these were a second
Supper at Emmaus
, much more solemn than the first, reflecting St Luke’s description of the risen Jesus, now bearded, being invited by Cleophas and his unnamed companion to break bread with them: ‘Abide with us, said the disciples, for it is towards evening and the day is far spent.’ The prince accepted the gift, but then, unknown to the artist, arranged to have it sold in Rome and the proceeds held in trust. The second painting, which he kept, was a
Magdalene in Ecstasy
, no longer penitent but resigned to her fate, gazing into the darkness, her neck exposed, as if calling on the world to do its worst.

One evening, after waking yet again from the recurring nightmare of the Cenci, Caravaggio couldn’t get back to sleep. He went downstairs to a back porch of the Palazzo, where he found Don Francesco, the prince’s eldest son, seated on his own at a table, drinking wine and watching the fireflies.

Francesco was several years younger than Caravaggio and of a scholarly
disposition
. It had been assumed he would go into the Church, where he would
unquestionably
have secured a red hat. But it turned out that he planned to get married and have children and, after serving three years as a soldier, he had returned to Zaragolo to manage the estate.

‘What is it this time?’ Francesco asked, slapping at a mosquito on his forearm. The artist was standing before him looking like Prince Hamlet in the play of the same name by the English playwright, Shakespeare. ‘Your life these days seems to be nothing but a sequence of nightmares and dark awakenings. Have you lost the will to be happy, Michelangelo?’

‘You don’t have a
banda capitale
hanging over your head,’ Caravaggio replied gruffly.

Francesco nodded and poured him a glass of wine from the jug on the table. ‘Come now,’ he said. ‘You are safe here. The
sbirri
do not dare to enter the territory of the Colonna.’ 

‘No. But I can’t stay here forever. I’m a city person. The countryside drives me mad. All that sky overhead!’

This made Colonna smile. It was said that Caravaggio almost never included the sky – or even daylight – in his paintings. ‘Have you thought of returning to Milan?’ he asked. ‘The Pope’s writ doesn’t run there and you are held in high regard by my aunt, the Marchesa Costanza.’

The painter appeared to consider this option. He wore a loose-fitting
nightshirt
, much cleaner and fresher than anything he had been used to in Rome. The female servant assigned to look after him had appealed to her master about the state of his clothes and the result had been a complete new wardrobe. ‘Milan’s worse,’ he said at last, as if delivering a definitive judgment from which only a fool would dissent. ‘Big and empty. Have you ever sat through a Milanese winter?’

‘Well, what about Naples? We could set you up there readily enough.’

The artist drained his glass in a single swallow. ‘That’s a thought.’

Italy’s largest and most populous city was a a place entirely unto itself, far outside the Pope’s domains. The Colonna, who owned several estates in the region, were close allies of the Spanish viceroy, who ruled on behalf of King Felipe III.

Francesco poured a second glass of wine for his guest and another for himself. ‘But face it, Michelangelo, geography alone won’t solve your problems. You are pursued as much by demons inside of you as by the
sbirri
or Cardinal Battista. You need to find peace, and I’m not convinced that simply opening a new studio in Naples, or anywhere else, will give you what you want.’

Caravaggio’s eyes narrowed. This assessment of his state of mind had
obviously
hit home. There was a long silence before he spoke again. ‘What would you say,’ he asked at last, ‘if I told you that I planned to become a Knight Hospitaller?’

The young Colonna made a face. ‘I’d say that, regrettably, you have ideas above your station.’

‘What! Just because I’m not a noble? I’m as good as you, Francesco, and better than Giovan fucking Francesco, who’s been pardoned by the Pope, even though he tried to kill me, just because he fought in France alongside the Farnese.’

Francesco reached out a reassuring hand. ‘Calm down, my friend. No one is seeking to belittle you. All I am saying is that the Knights of Malta are drawn from the nobility of Europe. You know this as well as I do. Their bloodlines are
examined
as if they were stallions.’

‘And what good will that do them when the Ottomans return with a hundred thousand men and lay siege to them in Valletta?’

A derisive laugh greeted this remark. ‘Then,’ said Colonna, ‘Malta will be ankle-deep in the bluest blood in Christendom.’

The two men drank the wine in their glasses and wiped their mouths with the backs of their hands. Francesco reached for a fresh jar and removed the muslin top.

‘But seriously,’ Caravaggio said, slapping a mosquito that had begun to feed on his arm, noting with interest how the blood stained his fingers. ‘Do you really think I could move to Naples? And if I did, could you make inquiries for me with the Knights? A letter from your family would carry great weight with the Grand Master.’

‘I will see what we can do. Now drink up before we’re eaten alive.’

Two minutes later, his head spinning, Caravaggio leaned conspiratorially across the table. ‘Do you want to know a secret, Francesco – a secret that I have never told anyone?’

By now, both men were slightly drunk.

‘Go on,’ Francesco said.

Speaking hesitantly, with great deliberation, looking around him every few seconds as if a spy might be hidden among the olive trees, Caravaggio proceeded to relate the story of how he had discovered the Camerlengo in his private chapel worshipping Allah. He described the murder the same night of the only other witness – ‘a priest of God!’ – and how his painting,
The Betrayal of Christ
, intended as testimony to posterity of what he had seen, had been viewed by Battista just days before the events in the Campo Marzio. He concluded his confession by recalling Ranuccio Tomassoni’s last words to him, taunting him with the fact that the Camerlengo had paid to have him killed.

As he finished his story, he gripped his friend’s wrist and Colonna could see the fear in his eyes. ‘There will be other assassins, Francesco. Battista will not give up. He won’t stop until my head is loosed from my body.’ As if anticipating his fate, he ran a finger down his neck and slumped back in his chair. Francesco said nothing, not knowing how to respond.

It was Caravaggio who broke the silence. ‘You are to tell no one about this, Francesco – not even your father. It would put all your lives in danger. Promise me.’

‘You have my word. But depend on it, my friend, if anything should happen to you and I find out it was the work of the Camerlengo, I will see to it that you are avenged.’

Caravaggio put a hand to Francesco’s shoulder and muttered something about him being a good man. Then he slumped across the table and fell asleep, snoring.