A Name in Blood (27 page)

Caravaggio spilled broth on his wrist. He cursed and wiped it on his breeches. ‘Roero wishes me to witness what happens to those who don’t follow the rules of the Order.’

‘Perhaps.’ Martelli whispered a prayer over the German knight. ‘I think it more likely that he just wanted you to see a man die.’

He closed the German knight’s eyes.

Fabrizio paced the small grove of orange trees at the rear of his residence. For his two-year term, the Admiral of the Galleys was accorded this pleasant house down the hill
from the Grand Master’s Palace. Five rooms deep and two wide, it was mostly given over to the administration of the fleet. For his private use he kept a tiny chapel dedicated to St Gaetano,
where, that morning, he had prayed for a way to protect Caravaggio. He understood the threat to his friend in the cruelty with which Roero watched him when the German knight died.

The scent of the oranges in the heat shrouded the agitation of his spirits as if it were a foul odour.
Even the air I breathe has to be sweetened
, he thought.
Will I never be able to
bear reality?
He kicked gently at the base of a murmuring fountain.
No, I know life with a clarity few attain. That’s what makes it insufferable.
He had killed a man, run him
through in a duel. That murder cemented his kinship with Caravaggio. They had shared so much as boys. Now they had partaken of the most dreadful mystery, the snuffing out of a man’s being.
But death had created their bond in the first place. The loss of Michele’s father had brought them together, when Costanza took the boy into her household. It perturbed Fabrizio to realize
that mortality had always been the link between him and his oldest friend.
What will break this chain?
he wondered.
Will it have to be another death?
He pulled an orange from the
nearest branch and pressed its rind to his nose.

‘It’ll rot soon enough.’ He tossed the fruit into the corner of the courtyard.

Glancing at the sun, he fretted that even the walk from the Italian Inn to the Admiral’s house put Caravaggio in danger. Roero could pick a fight with him any time. He squeezed his fists
together. Fabrizio had disappointed his mother in so much; he couldn’t now fail to guard the man who had been like a son to her.

To guard him just as Michele had watched out for him. Fabrizio had been about nine that first time, an open guileless child. In the midst of a game with his older brothers, he had failed to see
that the competition of hide and seek had transformed into a hunt with a vicious edge. His eldest brother Muzio had cornered him and thrashed him with a cane. The wickedness in his brother’s
laughter had been a betrayal much sharper than the pain. Michele came to his aid and assaulted Muzio, dragging him away from Fabrizio. Their father whipped Michele for his offence against the
hierarchy of the household.

His eyes stung with tears of regret.
That’s what you remember of your childhood
, he thought.
The feeling of loneliness in your own family home. And now you’re alone again
with the knights
–
alone, except for Michele.

He straightened up when he heard footsteps inside the house.

Caravaggio came across the flagstones of the courtyard. He kissed Fabrizio’s cheek and sat at his side on the stone bench.

‘You know my duty to my mother . . .’ Fabrizio hesitated. He feared Caravaggio would shut him down, as soon as he mentioned Roero.

‘It’s no less than my own duty to her.’ Caravaggio raised a finger and smiled. ‘Ah, you’re anxious about this Piedmontese bastard.’

‘Roero’s a vicious character.’

‘Are you worried for me? Or is it only that you want to please your mother, the Marchesa?’ Caravaggio lifted his chin. ‘I’ve no reason to fear Roero.’

Fabrizio shook his head.
Honour must be upheld, even between two men who are as brothers
. ‘Be careful. You know why he contends with you.’

‘Do I?’

‘It’s your birth, Michele.’

Caravaggio puffed out his cheeks. ‘He’s not the first nobleman to think me low-born.’

‘And look what happened last time.’

Caravaggio stroked his beard. The gesture was meant to indicate his lack of concern, but there was tension in the fingers, as though he was about to rip at the hairs in despair.

‘Come and live here,’ Fabrizio said. ‘You’ll be safe and we’ll be together as we were in our youth.’

‘I’m happy at the Italian Inn,’ Caravaggio snapped.

Fabrizio recoiled.
Does he think I want him in my bed?
‘You’re at risk there. Here you have my protection.’

‘I’ll lock my door.’

‘But the company you keep —’

‘The knights? What’s wrong with them?’

‘They’re killers.’

‘Whereas you and I . . .’ Caravaggio let his remark hang. Fabrizio clicked his tongue. For a moment, he had forgotten that he had done a man to death. Caravaggio laid his hand on his
leg. ‘You don’t have the space here for me to work. There’s another commission coming from the Order.’

This was what Caravaggio couldn’t give up, and Fabrizio knew it. His painting would be the payment Wignacourt required for the knighthood, and this honour would free him from a death
sentence. But in accepting the knighthood, Caravaggio would make himself a target of the noble knights who wished to preserve the purity of their Order. Fabrizio remembered the taunts of his
brothers and the way they had enraged Michele when he was a poor fatherless boy. A man like Roero couldn’t know what a profound sadness and rage he awakened in Michele.
Or perhaps everyone
knows it, except Michele. He still thinks there’s a way out of the trap fate has set for him on Malta.

Fabrizio clasped his head. ‘I’m sorry, Michele.’

‘What do you mean?’

Fabrizio was exhausted by the new responsibilities of command, by his concern for his old friend, by the fear that he would let his mother down after she had secured his release from his prison
cell. ‘I’m alone, Michele.’ His voice quivered, fragile and faint, like the light of a single candle in a dark hall.

‘Not so. I’m just along the street.’ Caravaggio rose and ruffled Fabrizio’s hair. ‘I have work to do. I’ll see you soon, Admiral.’

The forced bonhomie in Caravaggio’s words stung Fabrizio. It was as if he had exposed his feelings to a distant uncle, not a man he had loved. He watched him disappear into the darkness of
his house. He frowned at the trees. He could no longer smell the oranges.

Wignacourt invited the knights to admire his portrait in the Sacred Council chamber. He wore a steel collar and shoulder armour. His cloak was trimmed with sable and a violet
cap set off his sun-beaten face. He beckoned Caravaggio, who came to kneel at his feet and kiss his hand.

‘A great adornment to our Order and our island, Maestro,’ he announced.

The knights circulated before the portrait. Wignacourt acknowledged their admiration.

The Inquisitor pushed to the front. Staring at the portrait, he gave a knowing chuckle. He edged through the crowd of knights to Caravaggio. ‘How do you do it?’

Caravaggio made a puzzled face.

‘How do you get such a likeness?’ della Corbara said. ‘Is it pure genius? Did you wake up one day and discover that your childish sketches had become masterful representations
of life?’

Caravaggio examined the Inquisitor’s face for a hint of his true meaning. Della Corbara let his features open in a cartoon of innocence. ‘I just want to know.’

‘Well, I use a mirror to create the image on the canvas. From that, I trace the form of my composition.’

‘A mirror?’

The amazement in the Inquisitor’s tone drew Caravaggio out. It was rare that anyone bothered to enquire about his techniques. Either they told him he was a genius, or they condemned him
for a charlatan. Almost no one asked how he actually worked. ‘The mirror projects the subject onto the canvas, though upside down.’

‘What kind of mirror? A speculum? A polished stone?’

‘You speak of witchcraft, Father della Corbara. I use the mirror for a practical purpose. I don’t bury it at a crossroads in the middle of the night with spells and
incantations.’

‘Nonetheless, I’ve heard that artists in Rome are experimenting with a camera obscura, a magical device to cast a moving image onto a canvas with the use of mirrors.’

The ugly feeling that he had been tricked into a confession overcame Caravaggio. Would a mirror be enough to indict him as a heretic, so that the Inquisitor might put him to the torture and
demand information on the Grand Master’s pleasures?
If I were tortured, what else would I confess?
‘Such implements are less magical than you suppose.’

‘Certainly it’s witchcraft and sorcery to project a moving image.’

‘It’s perfectly natural – a matter of science.’

The Inquisitor lifted his chin. ‘You knew men of science at the home of Cardinal del Monte, didn’t you? I remind you that science is the essence of witchcraft, because it seeks to
explain the miracles of the Lord through means other than those laid out in the Holy Bible. Do you use a camera obscura?’

Wignacourt led the chief knights out of the hall.

‘You’re welcome to visit my studio. You’ll find no strange devices.’

The Inquisitor held Caravaggio’s arm as they followed the knights out of the Sacred Council chamber. ‘You really think they’ll grant you a knighthood?’ He savoured
Caravaggio’s surprise. ‘I’m well informed about everything, aren’t I? Lineage is their lifeblood. Duke trumps count trumps marchese trumps knight.’ The priest pushed
his finger into Caravaggio’s chest. ‘Trumps you.’

‘Who trumps an Inquisitor?’ Caravaggio directed his finger upwards. ‘Only Him?’

‘Sometimes. Look, perhaps I can convince you that you have some other reason to collaborate with me. I can return you to Rome. Is there no one there for you? I heard of a woman named
Lena.’ The Inquisitor spoke the name in a low, insouciant murmur, as though he were with a girl in the night, brushing the syllables over her breasts.

Caravaggio glared.

Della Corbara’s mouth pursed. ‘Dine with me?’

Reluctantly Caravaggio gestured for the Inquisitor to lead on. Della Corbara’s limp was pronounced. His right shoulder dropped into a hunch to balance the misshapen left leg. It was as
though the proximity of so many tall, strong noblemen forced the Inquisitor to shamble closer to the ground. Caravaggio went after him with a feeling he was being placed under a spell, a charm that
worked like slow poison.

They settled at a table in a hostelry across the square. The three Dominicans who attended on della Corbara sat with them.

‘Let’s see how the other half live, shall we?’ The Inquisitor called to the waiter. ‘Meat. Something Maltese.’ He spoke with the forced conviviality of a traveller
who wishes himself far away in a place less alien.

‘The Maltese usually eat rabbit,’ Caravaggio said.

‘But not rabbit, in the name of Our Lord,’ della Corbara said. ‘I can’t stand such peasant offal. Fish would be better.’

‘There’s no fish, Father,’ the waiter said.

‘An island with no fish?’

The waiter hesitated.

‘Well, come on, boy. Why isn’t there any fish?’