The Caravaggio Conspiracy (19 page)

The sprawling, grey brick headquarters of Rome’s state police, known as the Questura, occupied most of one side of the Via St Vitali, off the Via Nazionale in downtown Rome. Patrol cars and scooters filled the street outside. A couple of uniformed officers stood lazily on guard at the main entrance.

At exactly nine o’clock, Dempsey made his way up the steps into a large marble reception area, where he explained to an overweight young woman behind a thick glass partition that he had come to see Detective Sergeant Drago. The woman, who was in the middle of eating a sandwich, asked for his name, then picked up the phone and punched in Drago’s number.

After a brief conversation, she pointed vaguely in the direction of the rear wall. ‘Wait over there. Sergeant Drago will be with you presently.’

‘
Grazie
.’

‘
Prego
.’

Two North Africans in handcuffs stood in the corner, watched over by a bored-looking officer with a handlebar moustache. One of the two had a cut lip, the other nursed a black eye. A gypsy, probably Romanian, with several teeth missing, stood next to them.

After a couple of minutes, a stocky, dishevelled man in his forties, with greasy hair and his shirt hanging out at the back, walked in and looked straight at Dempsey.

‘Are you Dempsey?’ he asked in Italian.

Dempsey nodded. 

‘The name’s Drago,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’

They turned right out of the reception area into a broad corridor. A flight of stairs led up to another, narrower passage that extended at least a hundred metres in both directions. ‘This way,’ said Drago.

The detective’s office was near one end. It had a grey door. Inside was a single desk, with a computer terminal. Staring out the window overlooking the street was a smartly dressed, somewhat younger man, with dirty fair hair. ‘This is Agent Scajola of the Vatican Security Service,’ said Drago. He pointed at a hard chair in front of his desk. ‘Take a seat.’

Scajola still hadn’t turned round. He did so now, revealing a pinched face with fleshy lips. ‘So you are Dempsey,’ he said, in English.

‘Keep it in Italian,’ said Drago. He looked at the Irishman with faint contempt. ‘You do speak Italian, I suppose.’

‘
Naturalmente. Quando a Roma
…’

The two Italians exchanged glances, as if to say, we’ve got a smartarse here.

Drago sniffed loudly. ‘Agent Scajola has been talking to the Vatican’s chief librarian, who tells him you stole valuable documents from the Secret Archive dating back nearly four hundred years. Is that true?’

‘It’s true that the librarian says so.’

Drago looked away for a moment, then spun round. ‘Don’t try to be clever with me,’ he snarled. ‘Just answer the question. Did you steal the missing papers?’

Dempsey strained to keep his temper. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I did not steal the missing papers.’

‘Then where are they?’ Scajola wanted to know.

‘As I told Monsignor Asproni, they were listed as missing as long ago as 1977.’

‘That’s not what the records say.’

‘Then the records have been tampered with.’

Scajola looked down at his shoes. ‘What were you looking for in the first place? Why did you go to the museum?’

‘I’m a historian. My uncle, the Superior General of the Jesuits, plans to deliver a sermon in the Gesù and wished to know more about the life and career of Cardinal Bosani.’

‘And why should he do that?’

‘Because he and the Camerlengo have a philosophical disagreement about the future direction of the Church in respect of its attitude towards Islam.’

‘And you thought it might help things along if you “borrowed” confidential material that properly belongs to His Holiness the Pope?’

Drago snorted. ‘He means you took it.’

‘I’ve already told you. I took nothing.’ 

Scajola said: ‘But you did “steal” three minutes on the library’s computer, contrary to the stated regulations, which were explained to you in advance.’

‘Yes, I admit that. It seemed harmless enough at the time, but I agree now that it was wrong.’

‘So you don’t deny it.’

‘I’ve already said so.’

‘You admit to abusing the confidential records of a sovereign state.’

‘To accessing them – yes.’

‘Once a thief, always a thief.’

‘Once a thug, always a thug.’

Drago drew back his hand and slapped him in the face – hard. Demspey rubbed his cheek, which stang. ‘I wouldn’t do that again, if I were you, Sergeant,’ he said calmly. ‘Unless you want to spend the night in the local hospital.’

The Italian’s face twisted into a scowl. For a moment it looked as if he was about to launch himself at Demspey. But Scajola put out a restraining arm.

‘I will put a proposition to you, Signor Dempsey. According to the
information
I have seen, the disputed material was in the file of the library until you removed it. So why don’t you do us all a favour and give it back? That way, things will go easier for you. You could say that you were a scholar who in your
enthusiasm
got carried away and did something you now very much regret.’

‘But that’s not what happened,’ Dempsey said. ‘I didn’t steal anything. Matter of fact, I’m the one who’s been burgled. My apartment was broken into yesterday and my computer, my camera and my private papers were stolen, as well as €500.’

The Vatican man examined his fingernails. ‘Very convenient, wouldn’t you say? You would have us believe that, contrary to the evidence, it is you, in fact, who are the victim here. Next you will be claiming police harassment.’

Dempsey’s expression in response to this cynical interpretation of events
registered
, he hoped, a precise mixture of irony and contempt. ‘My uncle – ’ he began.

‘Ah yes, your uncle. Let me tell you something, Signor Dempsey. It is only out of respect for your uncle, the Father General, that you are not being handed over to my colleague here to cool your heels in a Roman cell.’

‘In which event,’ said Drago, ‘we’d soon see who ended up needing medical attention.’

‘I was going to say,’ said Dempsey, ignoring Drago, ‘that my uncle will gladly confirm the nature of the request he made to me. Of course, should you decide to detain me, then he will have no option but to explain what has happened to the media.’

Scajola considered the implications of Dempsey’s threat and appeared to rethink his strategy. ‘This matter remains under investigation by both the Vatican and the Polizia di Stata. In the meantime, you will sign this form guaranteeing that you will stay out of the precincts of the Vatican and do nothing to discredit the administration or governance of the Holy See.’ He extracted a form from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘There is about to be a papal election. This is a crucial moment in the history of the Church …’

‘Exactly. And that’s why – ’

‘– And that is why,’ the officer resumed, ‘you will keep your nose out of our affairs. Should you ignore this warning, you will be arrested at once and charged with the theft of historical documents from the library of the Holy See. Pending trial, you will be held in a remand prison …’

Drago offered Dempsey a crooked smile. ‘… where I could always ask my colleagues to offer you their most personal service.’

Dempsey sighed. ‘I don’t doubt that their hospitality would be second to none. My only wish, as you can imagine, is that some day I may be in a position to return the favour.’

Twenty minutes later, having consulted with Drago and the vice-prefect of the Secret Archive, Scajola reported back to the Camerlengo.

‘Do not trouble yourself, Eminence. The matter has been taken care of. If this Dempsey steps out of line again, he will answer to me directly.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ says Bosani. ‘The Irish, as you know, tend to be a little direct in their methods and are also subject to fantasy.’

‘Should he interfere in any way with your plans, Camerlengo, he will find that our reality is worse than his nightmares.’

Bosani sighed with pleasure. Sometimes, he realized, there was a ruthlessness about Catholicism that Islam lacked.

In the months that followed his arrival in Valletta, Caravaggio worked almost ceaselessly at his art. His full-length portrait of the Grand Master showed its subject ‘standing and armed’, holding his staff of office, his plumed helmet borne beguilingly by a page. The armour he wore – reputed to be the mostly costly in Christendom – was not his own, but that of his famous predecessor, Jean de la Valette, commander of the Hospitallers during the Great Siege. The symbolism was clear: the life and death struggle with Islam was far from over and de Wignacourt was determined on victory for the Holy League. The fact that la Valette’s armour was slightly too small may, according to Fabrizzio Colonna, have accounted for the subject’s slightly other-wordly gaze into history. But however constrained he may have felt at the time, the Frenchman was delighted with the result and
immediately
commissioned a second portrait in which he posed, seated this time, out of armour but wearing his Knight’s habit.

During the early sittings, Caravaggio, who had begun to recover something of his old confidence, said little about his ambition to join the order. Instead, he provided de Wignacourt with lively accounts of the princely class in Rome and Naples, in whose affairs the gossip-starved nobleman had an almost insatiable interest. Only gradually, as the two men became familiar with each other and relaxed, did the talk turn to the artist’s longer-term plans.

The Grand Master was convinced that attracting Caravaggio to his isolated court was quite the cleverest thing he had ever done and was wary of doing anything that might rob him of his prize. At least, he told himself, he had succeeded in his first objective, the progressive removal of layers of grime from the fellow’s body and his adoption of a novice’s habit, changed every three days. Now the brothers could at least bear to be in the same room with him. But there was still, alas, the niggling matter of the murder in Rome. Overturning a
banda capitale
, proclaimed by His Holiness, was no easy matter. As he watched the artist accord him
immortality
in a world in which death came often as a thief in the night, the Frenchman decided to get straight to the point

‘What do you propose I do about the murder of Tomassoni? You killed him in a duel then fled the city to avoid arrest, leading,
in absentia
, to a death sentence that to date has not been revoked. I wish very much to assist you in your quest, but I can hardly pretend these facts don’t exist.’

‘I understand your position,’ Caravaggio replied, wishing that he could confide in his patron the truth about the Camerlengo’s treason. ‘But it was Tomassoni who attacked me. If I hadn’t defended myself, he’d have murdered me. And I should point out that the
banda capitale
, though issued in the Pope’s name, was in fact signed by Cardinal Battista, who has made no secret of his dislike of me personally – and of my art.’

‘Battista, indeed.’ De Wignacourt was intrigued. ‘I have only met His Eminence once, and that was before he became Camerlengo. But Luis de Fonseca, my
Cavaliere di Giustizia
, has often commended him to me as a most stalwart defender of the Church and a sworn enemy of the Turks.’

Caravaggio appeared to consider this. It really was hard for him not to blurt out the truth and to hell with the consequences. He drew a deep breath. ‘Yet I have heard it said that the Camerlengo regards the Muslim threat as ended and is no supporter of the Hospitallers.’

‘It’s true,’ de Wignacourt agreed, ‘that His Eminence tried recently to divide our fleet – a ploy that I neither understood nor condoned. Yet this very week, upon his return from Isfahan, Brother Fonseca praised him to me for having persuaded the Pope not to form an alliance with the Persians – an arrangement that, according to Fonseca, would have been tantamount to a pact with the Devil.’

Caravaggio bristled. Twenty-four hours earlier, at their first meeting, Fonseca had deliberately snubbed him in the Knights’ Hall, remarking to two of his confrères, both Germans, on the remarkable sight of ‘a servant in gentleman’s attire’. All three had sniggered and Caravaggio had felt his hand go to his sword, only to realize that it wasn’t there. Swords and other weapons were worn in Malta only by members of the order and the local
sbirri
. So, biting his tongue, he had simply smiled and moved on.

But the issue of an alliance with the Persians was one on which he saw no reason to hold back. ‘You are a man of action, Grand Master, and I a poor painter. But it seems to me that the Persians and the Holy League, led by the Knights of Malta, could, together, have dealt the Ottomans a blow from which they might never have recovered. As for the Persians, is it not true that they have always looked east, to India and Mesopotamia? Seen from Isfahan, the Christian states must appear distant and alien. Why would the Shah, with the eastern world at his mercy, turn instead on Europe?’

De Wignacourt smiled benevolently. ‘Ah, Master Caravaggio. But you know so little of empire or of the Muslim mind. Empires must always continue to grow. The moment they stand still, they are in trouble. For followers of Islam, the
ultimate
goal is the conquest of Europe and the establishment of a caliphate in which we poor Christians would be reduced to the status of slaves. They may never achieve their objective, but they must always believe it possible.’

‘Is not the same true of us?’ Caravaggio asked. ‘You, sir, are a soldier of Christ. To you, the retaking of the Holy Land must be an equivalent goal.’

‘– And I must always believe it possible. Yet I do not propose to waste my ships and the armies of Europe in a vain attempt to recapture Jerusalem. That would bring ruin to us all and, even if achieved, might last no longer than a single generation.’

‘So deadlock is both our tactic and our strategy?’

The Grand Master threw back his head and laughed. ‘Precisely. You have
understood
. Who knows, Master Caravaggio? You may make a Knight after all.’

The next day de Wignacourt instructed his ambassadors to Rome and the Holy See to sound out opinion in the relevant quarters about entering Caravaggio as a novice. Precedent showed that it had once been possible to create Knights without the proof of nobility in all four lines now considered de rigeur and, more to the point, exclusive of any reference to alleged criminality. The Grand Master now wished it known that he would consider it a singular favour were he to be allowed to make an appointment just once under the old rules.

The request did not fall on deaf ears. There were many in the Vatican and among the ruling class in Rome ready to welcome the Prodigal’s return. Prelates hoping to adorn their churches with the splendour of great art were joined by rich merchants and princes who yearned to have their images recorded for posterity by a painter equal to the task. Unfortunately for all their hopes, the decision was left to the Camerlengo, who scrawled ‘
No! Refuitato
’ – rejected – on the letter of supplication, adding that it was the Grand Master’s Christian duty either to carry out the sentence imposed by the
banda capitale
or else to send the malefactor back to Rome in chains. Battista had, as it happened, learned only latterly of the artist’s arrival in Malta. It was Fonseca, newly returned from Isfahan, who brought the news. Now, having disposed of what was in effect a request for a papal pardon, the cardinal sent word to Fonseca reminding him of his undertaking to remove once and for all the greatest single threat to their mission.

In the meantime, de Wignacourt had decided on a more direct approach. There would be no intermediaries this time. Instead, in a personal petition couched in the dignity of a prince of the Holy Roman Empire, he asked the Pope to allow the award of a Knight’s habit to a repentant sinner, whom he did not name, who had committed unintentional homicide in a ‘brawl’.

To the surprise of some, the pontiff on this occasion chose to listen not to his chamberlain – whose presumption of power had begun to get under his skin – but to Cardinal Del Monte, Caravaggio’s first and most loyal benefactor, and Borghese, the cardinal-nephew, who owned a number of the artist’s works and hoped to acquire more. The argument in favour of allowing the Grand Master’s request was telling. First, at a time of increased danger from the Turks, it would add to the personal loyalty owed by the Hospitallers to the Throne of Peter. Second, it would permit the return to Rome of the one painter whom even Julius II would have regarded as the equal of Leonardo and Michelangelo. A letter of ‘exceptional permission’ was despatched to Valletta within days. Enclosed, under the papal seal, was a second letter, from the cardinal-nephew, addressed to the painter, urging him to complete his novitiate as quickly as possible, and afterwards to make his way to the Villa Borghese, where lucrative commissions and a ‘secure’ life awaited him.

Battista fumed, but in the end decided that it didn’t matter. Caravaggio was a thorn in his flesh, but he would be dead long before he could return to Rome. Besides, there was one other loose end he still had to tie up, requiring an early visit to the Alban Hills. Soon, insh’Allah, he would be able to report to the Safiye Sultan that the last remaining threat to their joint enterprise had been removed.

14 July 1608 was the day chosen by de Wignacourt for Caravaggio’s admission to the order. It was one year and a day since the artist’s arrival in Valletta – an interval deemed just long enough for him to have completed his novitiate. Not everyone was happy about the honour accorded the son of a mere retainer. Many of the Knights, believing themselves part of an élite anointed by God, were affronted, thinking him to be no more than an
arriviste
, lacking both military training and breeding. Out of deference to this opinion, the ceremony of induction, held in the Oratory of the Cathedral of St John, was short and to the point. Fabrizio Colonna, to no one’s surprise, was the artist’s principle sponsor. What was wholly unexpected was the identity of Colonna’s seconder: Luis de Fonseca, Cavaliere of the Knights of Giustizia and one of the most aloof figures in the order. Some saw Fonseca’s decision as a sign of the deep bond between him and de Wignacourt; others, more cynical, wondered if the Spaniard was not simply reinforcing the authority of a position to which he ultimately aspired. Either way, the effect was the same. The oath was administered by the chaplain general, allowing the Grand Master to welcome his protégé on behalf of the ‘entire community’, which could now, he said, ‘glory in this adopted disciple and citizen’.

Admitted as a Knight of Obedience, a sub-divison of the Knights of Giustizia, Caravaggio swore to lead a life of Christian perfection. He dedicated himself to the Virgin and to St John the Baptist, kissed the white linen cross embroidered on his habit and, having undertaken to lead a life marked by poverty, chastity and
obedience
, swore an oath of lifelong allegiance to de Wignacourt and his successors.

Then, following High Mass, he got back to work.

Before he could leave Malta and return to Rome, he had several important commissions to finish, the most important being an alterpiece,
The Beheading of Saint John the Baptist
, for the same oratory in which he had been invested. This was to be a massive work, some seventeen feet by twelve, and the artist, out of gratitude to de Wignacourt, spared no effort to ensure that it was one of the
pinnacles
of his career. He had painted the Baptist many times and would return to the subject, in more macabre fashion, before he died. But on this occasion, in honour of the Knights, he determined on a canvas about which there could be no
argument
and no controversy.

Previous depictions of St John’s last moments, by artists from every corner of the Christian world, had focused either on the moment when the victim waited for the headsman’s sword to fall, or else on the presentation of his head to the dancer Salomé, at whose request the execution was carried out. Caravaggio took a different course. He would show St John helpless on the stone flags of the prison yard, his throat cut, his blood draining almost onto the frame of the painting. The executioner, concerned only to get the job done, reaches behind him for a second blade in preparation for the act of decapitation. As prisoners look on in horror and Salomé holds out her salver, the Messiah’s cousin surrenders to his destiny.

The completed canvas, recognized by all who saw it as a wonder of the age, was due to be installed in the Oratory in late August, just in time for the subject’s feast day. Caravaggio felt satisfied. He was more at peace now than he had been for several years. It was as if he had been redeemed and cleansed of his sins. But the nightmares didn’t stop and, still, gnawing at him, was the sensation of Death at his heels. To distract himself, he took to slipping out at night to visit taverns, even brothels – acts that he did not associate with sin. But try as he might, he could not rid himself of the conviction that Fate was stalking him, merely awaiting the opportunity to strike.

Sometimes, when he spent too much time in his own company, his voices told him what to do. It was they who told him to sign his newly acclaimed masterpiece in the Martyr’s blood, using the same paint that rendered the rich, red flow from St John’s gaping neck. He had never previously signed any of his paintings. He had never felt the need. It was in token of the pride he felt in his new status that he now styled himself F. (for Fra) Michelangelo. It would be as Brother Michelangelo, a servant and soldier of God, that he would return to Rome and expose to the Holy Father the treason of Cardinal Battista.

It was Fabrizio Colonna who brought Caravaggio the news. Prince Marzio Colonna had died suddenly in his palace in Zagarolo. He had been in good health in the weeks prior to his death and there was no explanation to offer.

Fabrizio took out an envelope, sealed with wax bearing the arms of the Colonna. ‘My cousin Francesco sent you this letter,’ he told the artist. ‘He said it could be conveyed by no one but me and that it was intended for you alone.’