mumbled reply.
‘What was that? Speak up, man.’
‘I said, we don’t live in easy times, Eminence.’
‘Is that so? Is it really? Then let me make things easier for you. I have spoken to Cardinal Del Monte and he agrees with me that this cannot go on. Should you come to the attention of the sbirri once more, to the extent that I have to be informed of your behaviour, you may expect to be arrested and detained. Should your offence be grave, you will meet with the full rigour of the law. There will be no further dawn amnesties. Do I make myself clear?’
‘You do, Eminence. As a church bell.’
‘I am glad to hear it. I should regret having to add your name to the list of those being investigated by the Holy Office, but I shall not shrink from it. Your constant street brawls, your whoring, your lack of respect for established traditions in art have become a source of public scandal. Your appearance, meanwhile, is an affront to decency. Why are you not married? What age are you?’
‘Thirty-two, Eminence.’
‘Are you a sodomite?’
‘No, Eminence, I am not.’
‘That’s something, I suppose. You know that the penalty for sodomy is death! But let that go – for now. The thing is, you offend the dignity of the Church, Merisi. More particularly, you offend me – and I can assure you that that is not a good position to be in.’ The cardinal squinted at his victim as if he couldn’t quite make him out. ‘Men have died for less. Women, too.’
Caravaggio could feel the veins in his neck begin to swell. Having to repress his natural instincts like this was almost more than he could endure. He wanted to punch the self-righteous prick in his smug, jowly face and tell him what he thought of him. But this time he knew better. ‘No, Eminence,’ he said, between clenched teeth. ‘I can see that.’
‘Good.’ Battista picked up a letter from his desk. ‘I have a note here from Master Laerzio Cherubini. You know him, I think: an esteemed legal adviser to the Holy See and a devout Catholic. He complains that your rendering of the death, or dormition, of the Virgin, commissioned for the church of Santa Maria della Scala, is an affront to the Council of Trent, verging on blasphemy. He adds that you were exceedingly rude to him in the presence of a bishop and implied that he frequented brothels.’
‘Master Cherubini is a pompous buffoon, Eminence, and no expert on what is blasphemous and what is not. He is also a liar and owes me 230 scudi.’
Battista smiled thinly, reminding Caravaggio of the priest who had shown him the instruments of torture in the Tor di Nona. ‘An interesting response. And what about Superior General Acquaviva, who has made a similar complaint about you in relation to a different painting, this time of The Supper at Emmaus ?’
‘The Father General and I must agree to disagree.’
‘He says you are a heretic.’
‘That is not a view shared by the Holy Father.’
Battista’s stare turned to ice. ‘So in both instances, the critics are wrong and you are right, is that it?’
Caravaggio felt his mouth go dry. ‘We each have our point of view, Eminence.’
Before the cardinal could respond further, the young priest, obviously his private secretary, appeared unannounced through a different door and whispered something in his master’s ear. Battista nodded. ‘There is something I must attend to,’ he said, ‘but I have not finished with you. You will wait for me in the hallway. Oblige me by not murdering anyone in my absence.’
Caravaggio bowed and went out to resume his seat in the main reception area. After five fretful minutes, he could sit still no longer. Getting up from his chair, he examined Battista’s portrait, recently completed, by the look of it. If anything, Carracci had been generous to his subject. He had captured the power, but not the cruelty of the man – except, perhaps, in the eyes. No doubt that was deliberate . To the right of the portrait was a table
‘What was that? Speak up, man.’
‘I said, we don’t live in easy times, Eminence.’
‘Is that so? Is it really? Then let me make things easier for you. I have spoken to Cardinal Del Monte and he agrees with me that this cannot go on. Should you come to the attention of the sbirri once more, to the extent that I have to be informed of your behaviour, you may expect to be arrested and detained. Should your offence be grave, you will meet with the full rigour of the law. There will be no further dawn amnesties. Do I make myself clear?’
‘You do, Eminence. As a church bell.’
‘I am glad to hear it. I should regret having to add your name to the list of those being investigated by the Holy Office, but I shall not shrink from it. Your constant street brawls, your whoring, your lack of respect for established traditions in art have become a source of public scandal. Your appearance, meanwhile, is an affront to decency. Why are you not married? What age are you?’
‘Thirty-two, Eminence.’
‘Are you a sodomite?’
‘No, Eminence, I am not.’
‘That’s something, I suppose. You know that the penalty for sodomy is death! But let that go – for now. The thing is, you offend the dignity of the Church, Merisi. More particularly, you offend me – and I can assure you that that is not a good position to be in.’ The cardinal squinted at his victim as if he couldn’t quite make him out. ‘Men have died for less. Women, too.’
Caravaggio could feel the veins in his neck begin to swell. Having to repress his natural instincts like this was almost more than he could endure. He wanted to punch the self-righteous prick in his smug, jowly face and tell him what he thought of him. But this time he knew better. ‘No, Eminence,’ he said, between clenched teeth. ‘I can see that.’
‘Good.’ Battista picked up a letter from his desk. ‘I have a note here from Master Laerzio Cherubini. You know him, I think: an esteemed legal adviser to the Holy See and a devout Catholic. He complains that your rendering of the death, or dormition, of the Virgin, commissioned for the church of Santa Maria della Scala, is an affront to the Council of Trent, verging on blasphemy. He adds that you were exceedingly rude to him in the presence of a bishop and implied that he frequented brothels.’
‘Master Cherubini is a pompous buffoon, Eminence, and no expert on what is blasphemous and what is not. He is also a liar and owes me 230 scudi.’
Battista smiled thinly, reminding Caravaggio of the priest who had shown him the instruments of torture in the Tor di Nona. ‘An interesting response. And what about Superior General Acquaviva, who has made a similar complaint about you in relation to a different painting, this time of The Supper at Emmaus ?’
‘The Father General and I must agree to disagree.’
‘He says you are a heretic.’
‘That is not a view shared by the Holy Father.’
Battista’s stare turned to ice. ‘So in both instances, the critics are wrong and you are right, is that it?’
Caravaggio felt his mouth go dry. ‘We each have our point of view, Eminence.’
Before the cardinal could respond further, the young priest, obviously his private secretary, appeared unannounced through a different door and whispered something in his master’s ear. Battista nodded. ‘There is something I must attend to,’ he said, ‘but I have not finished with you. You will wait for me in the hallway. Oblige me by not murdering anyone in my absence.’
Caravaggio bowed and went out to resume his seat in the main reception area. After five fretful minutes, he could sit still no longer. Getting up from his chair, he examined Battista’s portrait, recently completed, by the look of it. If anything, Carracci had been generous to his subject. He had captured the power, but not the cruelty of the man – except, perhaps, in the eyes. No doubt that was deliberate . To the right of the portrait was a table
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