The Caravaggio Conspiracy (11 page)

Dempsey looked blank. ‘What are the Hadith?’ he asked.

‘The sayings, or wisdom, of Muhammad, as taken down by his followers. There’s a school of thought, based on the Hadith, which claims that Istanbul – which was run by a secular administration for almost a century – is about to witness a full-blown Islamic revival and that this will be followed by a period of rapid religious expansion climaxing in the conquest of Rome.’

‘Jesus Christ!’

‘Exactly. Jesus – Isa to Muslims – is supposed to return to Earth a year or two after the fall of Rome to battle the
Dajjal
, or Antichrist, who will have laid the world to waste. Eesa wins the victory and in the final judgment curses the followers of the
Dajjal
. After that comes the End of the World.’

Dempsey looked hard at his uncle. ‘And how exactly does that differ from what Malachy says? In the important particulars, I mean.’

‘It doesn’t.’

‘So what do you make of it?’

‘I wish I knew. The only thing I know for sure is that we live in dangerous times. I’ve never been more despondent. All that’s needed to set off the ticking bomb is a pope who thinks that the best way to shape the future is by returning to the values and attitudes of the twelfth century.’

Dempsey threw back his shoulders to ease the pain in his back. He didn’t like to be reminded of ticking bombs. ‘I hear you, Uncle. But it’ll never come to that. Canute had more chance holding back the waves than a modern pope has of stemming the tide of history. The cardinals must know this. Most of them aren’t European anyway. They’re from all over the show. What they’re looking for is a man who can rebuild the universal Church, or at any rate thinks it’s a good idea. They’d have to be off their heads to believe that restoring the Holy Roman Empire is an idea whose time has come.’

A wry smile from O’Malley greeted this last remark. ‘Neither holy, nor Roman, nor an empire, I wish I had your faith,’ he said.

‘And I wish I had yours, Uncle. History’s a big beast. We think we can harness it and take it in the direction we choose. But every now and again it breaks loose and smashes anyone and anything that gets in its way. So even if I’m wrong and you’re right and we’re all off to hell in a handcart, what the hell can we do to stop it?’

O’Malley clasped his hands in front of him and leaned forward in his chair. ‘That’s what I want to talk to you about,’ he said.

Dempsey groaned.

It was after nine in the evening and the sun had gone down to the west of the Villa Mattei, the weekend retreat of Ciriaco Mattei in the exclusive Monte Celli district. Set among trees next to the church of Santa Maria in Dominica, the handsome four-storey residence looked north to the ruins of the Temple of Claudius and east to the Archway of Dolabella, built in AD 10 for the consuls Caius Junius Silanus and Cornelius Dolabella.

As candles were lit, Mattei sat at the head of his table in the central salon, next to his principle guest, Cardinal Orazio Battista. The banker was in an expansive mood. He had just concluded a deal with the Medici in Florence providing for the opening of a jointly run outlet in Bruges. In addition, his mistress, who had recently returned to her hometown of Lucca to visit her sick father, was on her way back to Rome and would join him in his bed the following night.

So, as far as Mattei was concerned, all was well with the world. The death of his revered brother, Cardinal Girolamo Mattei, two years previously had been a bitter blow both personally and to his standing with the Curia. But he had shown the Holy Father – all three Holy Fathers, in fact – that he remained an extremely useful conduit for funds and financial information and had quickly regained the confidence and affections of the Apostolic Palace.

The Camerlengo, seated to his right, was not one of his favourite prelates. He’d heard too much about him to trust him, let alone like him. But as the most intimate confidante of the new Pope, Paul V, and with the treasury and military power of the Papal States at his disposal, Battista would always be a welcome guest at his home. 

A brace of chandeliers, festooned with candles, had just been hoisted to the ceiling above the dining table, revealing, in a pleasing light, two paintings by the artist Caravaggio. One was
The Supper at Emmaus
, so severely adjudged by Father General Acquaviva; the other was a rendition of the young John the Baptist, showing him naked in the presence of a spectacularly long-horned ram.

Mattei very much admired the
Emmaus
, beardless Christ or no, but he
positively
loved his John the Baptist. Seeing the Camerlengo’s eyes strain in the
direction
of the two canvases, he could not help asking his opinion.

‘I must tell you, Eminence, I consider these two to be works of the first rank – equal to anything by Titian or Raphael. May I hope that you concur?’

‘That depends. Who’s the artist?’

‘Michelangelo Merisi – called Caravaggio. I believe you and he have met.’

Battista frowned, causing his brow to furrow thickly like a new-ploughed field. ‘Indeed we have, Don Ciriaco. An ill-tempered scoundrel. It would not surprise me to learn that he was also a blasphemer. But tell me, that one there, the one of the boy, what in heaven’s name is going on?’

‘Why, it’s a portrait of John the Baptist as a youth. Your Eminence will no doubt recall that he ran naked in the desert, living off locusts and honey.’

‘You don’t need to lecture me on the scriptures. I am well aware of the Baptist’s early life.’

‘Then you will appreciate that he spent much of his time, before he encountered Jesus, in the company of his flock.’

Battista threw a chicken bone into the pot in front of him and scowled. ‘The man Merisi is a drunk and and a whoremonger, and quite possibly a sodomite. It’s a mystery to me why you and others of your rank continue to have dealings with him.’

‘Ah, but he paints like an angel,’ Mattei replied.

Battista was unmoved. ‘I need hardly remind you, Signor Mattei, that Lucifer was once an angel.’

‘Indeed. But I would venture to suggest that Caravaggio, though no paragon of the virtues, has not yet fallen so far from grace.’

‘“Not yet” is the operative phrase,’ Battista replied.

‘A harsh judgment, Camerlengo, if I may say so. I have spoken with him many times, and it has always seemed to me that, though deeply troubled, he remains a true believer in Our Lord. You would agree with me, I am sure, that such is not always the case, even here in Rome.’

At this, Mattei’s nephew, Cosimo, a young lawer recently returned from his studies in Perugia, piped up: ‘But Uncle, why don’t you just show His Eminence the painting you keep upstairs –
The Betrayal of Christ
. That’s as inspired as any religious work I have ever seen, either here or in Florence.’ 

Battista’s ears pricked up. ‘What’s that? To which painting does the boy refer? I know of no such work.’

Mattei smiled to cover his embarrassment. ‘I assure you, Eminence, it is a slight affair – a painting of no importance.’

‘Not so, Uncle,’ said Cosimo. ‘It’s truly marvellous. I should say it’s the pride of your collection. It just astonishes me that you don’t show it off. Even I wouldn’t have seen it if I hadn’t visited you one afternoon in your bedroom when you were ill with gout.’

Mattei shot his nephew a look like death, but it was too late.

‘Take me to it,’ Battista said. ‘I should like to see this so-called masterpiece.’

‘But Your Eminence, it’s upstairs, away from the light. Really, you shouldn’t trouble yourself. Allow me to fill your … oh, but I see you’ve hardly touched your wine.’

‘Upstairs, you say. Then let us proceed. I am not yet so old that I cannot
negotiate
a set of stairs.’ The cardinal beckoned to a servant with his stubby left arm. ‘Bring lanterns and candles. Hurry! At once!’

Mattei realized that further prevarication would only make matters worse. He and Battista, preceded by servants bearing lanterns, followed by the general retinue of dinner guests, proceeded up the ornate main staircase of the villa to the host’s sumptuous bedchamber, with its unrivalled views across the Eternal City. ‘It’s over there!’ Mattei said, casually, as soon as there was sufficient light to pierce the gloom. Every eye followed the direction of his gaze. The wall opposite his
elaborate
four-poster bed was dominated, even overwhelmed by
The Betrayal of Christ
.

The yellow light from the servants’ lanterns flickered across the canvas. Notoriously short-sighted, Battista squinted and pursed his lips. Then he strode closer to the painting, mounted in a golden frame. Several seconds went by. As the burly figure of Judas moved into focus, his left arm several inches too short, his bald spot mimicking a cardinal’s zuchetto, Battista’s jaw dropped in shock.

‘So … what do you think, Your Eminence?’ Mattei asked. ‘An interesting use of colour …’

‘I am sorry to say that your nephew has got it completely wrong,’ the cardinal replied, managing with an extraordinary effort of will to curb his indignation. ‘Our Lord looks as if he has just been caught cheating at cards. And take note of the wretch with the lantern, looking as if he’s led the way. If I’m not mistaken, it’s the creator of this abomination, shamelessly associating himself with the betrayal in the garden.’

Mattei looked as if he was about to say something, but in the end merely nodded his head.

‘Your Eminence is, of course, an expert.’ 

As most of those gathered around the painting looked from the figure of Judas to that of the cardinal, the gaze of one man – an elderly Jesuit – remained fixed on the figure of the fleeing man. Eventually, he remarked in a loud voice, only slightly slurred from drink, that this fellow definitely reminded him of someone, if only he could put a name to the face. ‘It will come to me,’ he added. ‘It’s on the tip of my tongue.’

While the old man struggled with the remains of his memory, Battista pulled his cape around him with a flourish, covering his left arm. It was late, he informed Mattei. He had to go. It was a signal for the other guests to depart as well, for no one wished it to be said of them that they stayed behind to gossip about the former chief prosecutor of the Inquisition, a man whose temper was as short as his reach was long.

Minutes afterwards, as he was about to step into his carriage, his departing guest informed Mattei that he wished to purchase
The Betrayal of Christ
in order to destroy it and safeguard future generations from contemplation of its blasphemy. ‘How much will you take for it?’ he demanded.

The banker considered the potential profit involved in such a transaction and was tempted. But in the end he could not bear the thought of Caravaggio’s
masterpiece
being burned, as if it were a heretic. ‘It is not for sale, Camerlengo,’ he said at last, his voice almost cracking with the strain.

‘Don’t be absurd. Every man has his price, and you are a banker. One hundred scudi.’

‘I am sorry, Eminence, but it was a particular favourite of my late brother the cardinal. I couldn’t possibly …’

‘Two hundred.’

‘I have to decline.’

‘Five hundred.’

Mattei was sweating now. ‘Your offer is most … most generous. But, Eminence, I beg of you, you ask the impossible. I would beg you instead to accept my personal assurance that this canvas will be kept hidden from public view.’

‘I have your word on that?’

‘You do. So long as I am alive, the painting shall remain hidden.’

Battista almost spat out his reply. ‘Be in no doubt, Mattei, that I shall hold you to your promise. And may God help you if you fail.’

The Vatican Secret Archive, set up by Pope Paul V in 1610, was not, in fact, secret at all. Legitimate scholars and interested journalists had for many years been able to access its material simply by filling in a form, presenting suitable ID and turning up at the stated time.

The problem, as Dempsey had been warned by his uncle, was that you had to know where to look. For the archive was also a labyrinth.

At first, his task looked simple enough. He wanted to know how far back Cardinal Bosani’s interest in Islam went and at what point he had become so stridently anti-Muslim. The young receptionist at the Salla degli Stampati – a Sicilian, he thought, with thick glasses and prominent teeth – was impressed by the Irishman’s letter of introduction, signed by the Superior General of the Society of Jesus. But, then, having studied Dempsey’s written request, he shook his head.

‘
Mi dispiace
. I am sorry,
Signor
. But the information you seek is embargoed for the next fifty years at least.’

‘Really? And why would that be?’

The receptionist looked at him as if he were a child. ‘His Eminence is the most senior member of the Curia – a former Secretary of State as well as Camerlengo. No files relating to his life and career will be available for inspection until a minimum of twenty-five years after his death.’

Dempsey had no time for the Church’s self-importance. ‘But I am merely seeking the sort of information that would be available in the public domain.’

‘Then that is where you should look for it.’ 

‘Right.’ The Irishman thought quickly. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘the Father General, my uncle, is preparing a sermon, to be delivered in the Gesù. His congregation will include many cardinals of the Sacred College, among them, I feel sure, the next Vicar of Christ. His sermon will discuss the current state of relations between the Catholic Church and Islam. The Camerlengo, as you will know, has been deeply involved in this process for many years. There must be speeches, press releases, a record of which countries he visited and who he met. That is all I’m looking for. I’m not suggesting that His Eminence murdered anyone or conspired to start a crusade.’

The receptionist smiled. ‘No, of course not. I understand. You say the Father General has requested this information?’

‘That is correct.’

‘Very well. Wait here. I will see what I can do.’

As soon as he was alone, having checked that the second receptionist on duty was busy with someone else, Dempsey sat down at the now vacant computer, which was logged on to the archive’s state-of-the-art Vatican intranet. Moving his fingers as quickly as he could, he cross-checked the name ‘Bosani’ against the words ‘Islam’, ‘Muslim’, ‘Ottoman’ and ‘Qu’ran’. What came up was both routine and entirely unexpected. Buried among the hundreds of references to speeches, meetings and appointments, was a reference, highlighted in red, noting a connection with a Cardinal Orazio Battista, Camerlengo during the time of Popes Clement VIII and Paul V. According to the computer record, Bosani had called up everything he could find about Battista within weeks of his arrival in Rome in 1977. The details, which must originally have been inscribed in card files, had obviously been transferred to the computer archive some years before. Battista, it transpired, had been a leading prosecutor in the trials in 1599 of the astronomer Giordano Bruno and of the Cenci family – both of which had ended in the defendants’ torture and execution. Both cases, he noted, were cross-referenced as ‘controversies’. Bosani had evidently held on to the original files and the corresponding microfilm for several years, returning them, according to an asterisked footnote, only after the personal intervention of the Cardinal Prefect.

It was crazy stuff. How a Church so rooted in violence and deceit could pretend to itself that it was the faithful expression of God’s will was a mystery to Dempsey – but not one he had any desire to solve.

One file still said to be missing, declared ‘lost’, was listed as ‘Most confidential … For the eyes of His Holiness only’. No details were given, only that it related to an investigation carried out by the Inquisition on the Pope’s personal order. All that remained of the file was its classification tag and the brief two-line description of the content. For a reason not given, the entry was cross-referenced to a painting by Caravaggio,
The Betrayal of Christ
, apparently lost for some two hundred years. Bloody odd, he thought. What could be the possible connection between Caravaggio and a suspect cardinal? And why might Bosani have held on to the file?

Maybe there would be some mileage in this stuff after all.

He heard footsteps. Fortunately, the archive had a marble floor. Hastily returning the computer to its home page, he stood up and moved to the other side of the desk. The young receptionist walked towards him, beaming.

‘I have found what you wanted,’ he told him. ‘All public knowledge … nothing about murder or crusades.’

He laughed, and Dempsey joined in.

‘If you could just fill in this form, I’ll give you a reader’s pass and a number. Then you should make your way to the Old Study Room on the
piano nobile
and take a seat at desk number seven. The papers you asked for will be brought to you there.’

‘Thank you ever so much,’ Dempsey said. ‘You really are most kind.’

‘
Prego
. It is nothing, Signor. May God reward your efforts and those of your uncle, the Father General.’

Five minutes later, Dempsey was at his assigned desk, idly switching his table lamp on and off, when another member of the library staff, a women this time, in her forties, coughed politely and smiled down at him.

‘You are number seven?’ she asked.

‘I am,’ he replied, feeling slightly Kafkaesque.

‘The papers you requested, Signor. When you have finished, please take them to the desk over there and sign out.’

‘I shall do that.
Grazie
.’

‘
Prego
.’

The pile of papers the woman had delivered were bunched together in a manila file and looked about as interesting as a company report. The bulk of it, as he expected, was made up of newspaper and magazine clippings, many from
Time
magazine – which seemed to take an inordinate interest in the affairs of the Holy See – and, of course,
L’Osservatore Romano
. There were also copies of speeches and news releases from the grandly named Pontifical Council for Social Communications – the Vatican press office. In addition, there were several reports in Arabic, with translations into Italian, emanating, so far as he could tell, from the governors of the central mosque in Rome, plus one, dated November 1989, from the official Egyptian newspaper,
Al-Ahram
.

He took out a notebook and pencil and began to write. Bosani’s involvement with the Secretariat for Non-Christians, set up by Pope Paul VI, began, he
discovered
, within two years of his ordination. He had taken Islam as part of his degree in Bologna in the 1960s and spoke Arabic fluently. As a young priest, he travelled widely in the Muslim world, visiting Saudi Arabia twice, in 1970 and 1977, at a time when even getting an entry visa couldn’t have been easy. But then, judging by his trajectory, he was never destined to be an ordinary priest. After three years as a curate, in La Spezia, he spent two years at Cairo’s Al-Azhar University, the oldest and most famous institute of theology and law in the Muslim world, founded in 988, where he took classes in the Qu’ran and Islamic law. Unless you knew a
religion
from the inside, he told a conference in Vienna years later, you could never hope to understand its appeal or assess its claims.

Over the years, obviously an administrator rather than a pastor, he had risen quickly to become head of the semi-autonomous Pontifical Commission for Religious Relations with Muslims. According to a published memo from the office of Rome’s mayor, it was Bosani who had most influenced Pope Paul VI to approve the construction of the city’s central mosque, the largest in Europe, paid for by the king of Saudi Arabia. A letter from the governors of the mosque, sent out as a press release, confirmed this and thanked the Monsignor (as he was then) for his ‘invaluable support’.

Years later, following the death of John Paul I, Bosani had continued on a
positive
note, persuading the new pontiff, John Paul II, of the importance of improved relations with the Muslim world. An article in
The Boston Globe
reported that it was due to Bosani’s efforts that the Pole, a deeply conservative Catholic, whose
countrymen
had spent centuries defending Christendom against the Ottomans, ended up visiting the Great Mosque in Damascus – the first-ever head of the Church to enter a Muslim place of worship. The Pope had also, the
Globe
reminded its readers, kissed the Qu’ran publicly on at least two occasions, confirming it as a work of Holy Scripture, and spoken many times of Muslims as his ‘dear brothers and sisters’. In recognition of his contribution to religious understanding, Bosani was consecrated a bishop in 1983 and then, at the Consistory of 26 November 1994, a cardinal deacon, later elevated to the status of cardinal priest. Bosani recalled with evident pride, in a speech to seminarians in his native La Spezia, that, after his death, His Holiness was eulogized as a ‘hero’ of Islam. ‘Worshippers in mosques across the Arab world remembered him in their prayers. In Egypt, three days of mourning were declared. The Arab League and the governments of Jordan and Lebanon even lowered flags to half-mast and hurried to send representatives to the funeral.’

All of this, characterized by an almost evangelical tolerance, appeared strangely at odds with the Camerlengo’s new-found reputation as fanatically anti-Muslim. What had brought about his dramatic, 180-degree change of direction? Dempsey read on. While retaining his interest in Islamic affairs, Bosani had moved into the heart of Vatican bureaucracy in the mid-1990s, rising to be sub-dean of the College of Cardinals, then, after the death of Benedict XVI, Secretary of State and Camerlengo. There was nothing in his speeches or public writings that provided a clue to the shift in his attitude; nor, so far as he could tell, did it immediately follow the terrorist attacks by al-Qaeda against the United States on 11 September 2001. The first indicator of his aggression did not in fact emerge until the arrival of Pope Benedict four years later. The German pontiff’s disastrous speech, delivered in Regensburg in 2006, in which he appeared to condemn the ‘evil and inhumanity’ of the Prophet and his intent ‘to spread by the sword the faith he preached’, was the first public sign of the new hard line. Under intense international pressure to recant, the Pope had moved quickly to clarify his position and reassure Muslims, but the damage was done.

Dempsey looked at his watch: a quarter past twelve. Time to go. He needed to talk to his uncle – and Maya. Packing up the documents and placing them back in their folder, he returned them as instructed and signed out. On his way out of the building, via the Porta di Santa Anna, he stopped at the Salla degli Stampati and thanked the young Sicilian who had gone out of his way to assist him.

‘
Prego
,’ came the reply. ‘It is my job to help, and I am always, of course, at the disposition of the Father General.’

They shook hands. As Dempsey disappeared out of the main door, the receptionist took out his mobile phone from his trouser pocket and tapped in a number.

He waited. On the second ring, a voice answered. ‘
Pronto
! Vatican Security Office. Who do you wish to speak with?’