The Caravaggio Conspiracy by Walter Ellis

many paintings in his hallway, and none of religious subjects, save for a large and distinctly second-rate Abraham and Isaac. In their place were elegant vases, woodcuts and a series of framed maps. The only sign of ego was a portrait of Battista himself, by Annibale Carracci, that occupied an alcove to the left of the main staircase. As rendered by Carracci, he looked strong-willed and calculating, with furrowed brow and fleshy lips: not a man to be crossed.
    After a wait of some twenty minutes, a door to the right opened and a young priest emerged. He was of medium height, with no distinguishing features whatsoever , dressed from head to foot in black. ‘His Eminence will see you now,’ he said in an unexpectedly high voice, ‘and if you wish to survive the experience you will keep a civil tongue in your head.’
    Caravaggio said nothing, merely nodded. The priest, who did not give his name, led the way into a broad loggia lit down one side by floor-to-ceiling windows through which a formal garden and fountains could be seen. Beyond, in the middle of a summer’s afternoon, it was insufferably hot and humid; within the walls of the palace it was cool and inviting. Their footsteps echoed on the marble tiles. Suddenly, the priest halted and turned to his right towards a set of heavy oak doors on which he knocked firmly, yet politely.
    A voice called out, ‘ Entrato !’
    ‘Your Eminence,’ the priest said, pushing the doors open, ‘the artist Merisi.’
    ‘Ah yes. Come in, Merisi. Let me have a look at you.’ In contrast with the high treble of the priest, Battista’s voice was low and booming.
    Caravaggio did as he was bid. The priest retreated, closing the double doors.
    The cardinal was seated behind a large, ornate desk, an ironic smile fixed on his face. ‘Father Acquaviva did not exaggerate,’ he said after a lengthy pause. ‘You look like one of the men I employ to catch rats in my basement.’
    Not the best of starts. ‘I’m sorry to offend you, Your Eminence. But I did in fact wash before I set out.’
    ‘Really? And what about your clothes? When did they last see soap and water?’
    ‘I’m afraid I tend to buy clothes and wear them until they are … well, as you see me now. Then I throw them away.’
    ‘I see. Remarkable. Quite remarkable.’ The Camerlengo, in his early sixties, sturdily built with broad shoulders, wore a scarlet cassock fashioned, Caravaggio thought, from pure silk, with a lace trim. His shoes were brilliant red, with silver buckles. It was impossible not to notice his dark, penetrating eyes. If the eyes were indeed the windows of the soul, Caravaggio told himself, then this man’s soul was as black as anything in Dante’s Inferno . The cardinal’s pate was bald on top, with a fringe of dark hair that matched his black beard. His skull cap sat next to him on the desk. But what was most obvious about him was his malformed left arm, perhaps three inches shorter than it ought to be, ending in a hand the fingers of which were retracted, like a claw. Already, a portrait of the man was forming in the artist’s head.
    But then he realized that Battista was still speaking.
    ‘Perhaps you should rethink your sartorial strategy. After all, you are not a swineherd. Your calling brings you into contact with nobles and princes of the Church. You should dress accordingly.’
    ‘Yes, Eminence.’
    ‘And if you sweat a lot, wash more frequently.’
    ‘I shall endeavour to follow your advice.’
    ‘That would be wise.’ The cardinal looked cool and relaxed. He did not invite his guest to take a chair. ‘Now tell me, why do you keep being arrested? What is wrong with you? You insist on fighting every week as if your life depended on it. Yet the offence given, or imagined, rarely justifies more than a rebuke. Are you incontinent, Merisi?’
    ‘ What ?’
    ‘Can you not hold yourself back? Must every slight be met with a rapier thrust?’
    ‘These are not easy times,’ came the