on which sat a series of carvings by Ottoman artists, which Battista must have brought back with him from his time in Constantinople. Wasn’t that where he’d been? He wasn’t sure. These led the way to the framed maps, showing each of Europe’s great powers, from England in the west to Turkey in the east. Caravaggio followed the frames along an oak-panelled corridor until he reached the door of what was obviously, given the cross and coat of arms carved into the panelling, the cardinal’s private chapel. After the briefest of debates with himself, he opened the door, expecting to find there the usual range of religious art. Instead, as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw that there were no paintings whatsoever and that, for some reason, the cross on the altar had been laid flat.
That was when he heard the voices – which startled him, for the chapel had appeared to be empty. He listened, keeping perfectly still so as not to reveal his presence. They didn’t sound like priests at a sung Mass. What he heard was much more soaring and rhythmic. He was intrigued. Edging forward, but still careful to remain hidden from view behind a pillar, he let his eyes search out the source of the incantation. What he saw made him draw breath. The Camerlengo and his secretary were on their knees, prostrating themselves on mats rolled out across the stone floor. It was they who were reciting the strange prayers. Caravaggio felt a chill came over him. What in God’s name were they up to? They weren’t even facing the altar, but were bent in the direction of the south-east. Both had their backs to him and gave no sign that they knew he was there. Only after several seconds did he realize, with a start, that the language they were using was Arabic.
He drew back, swallowing hard, feeling his stomach start to heave. As he did so, he caught sight of a third figure, standing at the rear of the chapel. A young priest, with dirty-fair hair. He didn’t appear to have noticed Caravaggio. What clearly transfixed him was the bizarre sight of the Camerlengo of the Holy Roman Church apparently worshipping Allah. As Caravaggio watched, the man’s mouth fell open and his eyes bulged. For several seconds, as his mind struggled to take in the scene being played out in front of him, he looked on in silence, as if hypnotized . Then, as the full significance hit him, he gasped. The sound was surprisingly loud and the heads of Battista and his secretary instantly came up from the floor and spun round towards the source of the interruption. For a brief moment, the two sides met each other’s gaze, then Battista’s voice roared out: ‘Stop! Stand where you are!’ For once, the prelate’s command fell on deaf ears. The priest panicked. Turning quickly on his heels, he ran back the way he had come, the sound of his retreating footsteps echoing along the stone passage.
Battista and his secretary scrambled to their feet. The secretary reached beneath his cassock and produced a curved dagger. The Camerlengo, suffused with a cold fury, nodded. ‘Quickly! He mustn’t get away. If the Pope should hear of this, our plans will be in ruins. You must stop him. Go, Ciro! Hurry!’ Both men surged towards the chapel’s rear door.
Unseen, on the near side of the aisle, Caravaggio retreated, clicking the side door shut behind him and hastening back to the hallway. He was shaking uncontrollably. Only with a supreme effort of will did he restore some outward semblance of calm. This was something he should not have seen – should very definitely not have seen. It was dangerous; quite possibly fatal. As he ran back along the corridor, his mind tried to make sense of it – hoping to reveal some harmless explanation of the events in the chapel unconnected with heresy. But there was only one, inescapable conclusion. The Camerlengo was not the man he purported to be, but something else, something alien – a traitor to the Christian cause. There was a plan – no
That was when he heard the voices – which startled him, for the chapel had appeared to be empty. He listened, keeping perfectly still so as not to reveal his presence. They didn’t sound like priests at a sung Mass. What he heard was much more soaring and rhythmic. He was intrigued. Edging forward, but still careful to remain hidden from view behind a pillar, he let his eyes search out the source of the incantation. What he saw made him draw breath. The Camerlengo and his secretary were on their knees, prostrating themselves on mats rolled out across the stone floor. It was they who were reciting the strange prayers. Caravaggio felt a chill came over him. What in God’s name were they up to? They weren’t even facing the altar, but were bent in the direction of the south-east. Both had their backs to him and gave no sign that they knew he was there. Only after several seconds did he realize, with a start, that the language they were using was Arabic.
He drew back, swallowing hard, feeling his stomach start to heave. As he did so, he caught sight of a third figure, standing at the rear of the chapel. A young priest, with dirty-fair hair. He didn’t appear to have noticed Caravaggio. What clearly transfixed him was the bizarre sight of the Camerlengo of the Holy Roman Church apparently worshipping Allah. As Caravaggio watched, the man’s mouth fell open and his eyes bulged. For several seconds, as his mind struggled to take in the scene being played out in front of him, he looked on in silence, as if hypnotized . Then, as the full significance hit him, he gasped. The sound was surprisingly loud and the heads of Battista and his secretary instantly came up from the floor and spun round towards the source of the interruption. For a brief moment, the two sides met each other’s gaze, then Battista’s voice roared out: ‘Stop! Stand where you are!’ For once, the prelate’s command fell on deaf ears. The priest panicked. Turning quickly on his heels, he ran back the way he had come, the sound of his retreating footsteps echoing along the stone passage.
Battista and his secretary scrambled to their feet. The secretary reached beneath his cassock and produced a curved dagger. The Camerlengo, suffused with a cold fury, nodded. ‘Quickly! He mustn’t get away. If the Pope should hear of this, our plans will be in ruins. You must stop him. Go, Ciro! Hurry!’ Both men surged towards the chapel’s rear door.
Unseen, on the near side of the aisle, Caravaggio retreated, clicking the side door shut behind him and hastening back to the hallway. He was shaking uncontrollably. Only with a supreme effort of will did he restore some outward semblance of calm. This was something he should not have seen – should very definitely not have seen. It was dangerous; quite possibly fatal. As he ran back along the corridor, his mind tried to make sense of it – hoping to reveal some harmless explanation of the events in the chapel unconnected with heresy. But there was only one, inescapable conclusion. The Camerlengo was not the man he purported to be, but something else, something alien – a traitor to the Christian cause. There was a plan – no
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