The Caravaggio Conspiracy Read Online Free

too obviously … horrific . I don’t want the mob rising in the streets. That would be counter-productive. What I have in mind is something more … focused.’
    The priest thought for a moment. ‘There is always the appeal case in Bologna.’
    ‘Is that still going on?’
    ‘A ruling is expected tomorrow.’
    ‘And the judge?’
    ‘Carlo Minghetti. An Opus Dei member all his adult life. He will uphold the sentences. He may even increase them.’
    ‘I don’t doubt it. Men like Minghetti feel they embody both God and the law. But His Honour may yet serve our purpose. Do you follow me?’
    ‘A warning.’
    ‘A sign of the times. Something for Their Eminences to think about as they prepare for the conclave.’
    ‘I shall see to it.’
    ‘Very well. In the meantime, send Franco to me.’
    ‘Franco? Are you sure?’
    The Cardinal took off his skullcap and ran his elegant fingers through his thinning crop of black hair. ‘Ask him to meet me at the residence after prayers. And one more thing: bring me the files on Cardinals Salgado and Delacroix. Their silence today spoke volumes. It is time they were reminded of their Christian duty. For there is much to be done and they too have their part to play.’

4*
    July 1603
     
    Caravaggio called out in the night but nobody heard. Three, sometimes four times a week for the last four years he had dreamed the same terrible dream. It began a little before noon on the morning of 11 September 1599. He was on the Ponte Sant’Angelo to witness the execution of Lucrezia Cenci, her daughter Beatrice and her elder son Giacomo. Following the most intense interrogation and a trial that lasted months, the three adult Cenci had been condemned to death by the Pope for the murder of Lucrezia’s villainous husband, Count Francesco. It was a decision that had aroused enromous controversy. Everybody, it seemed, had an opinion. Seated beneath the scaffold on one of the hottest days of a long, hot summer, Caravaggio was sweating profusely. He wished he hadn’t come. He need not have done so. He could have stayed away and none would have blamed him. But he had been drawn to the occasion as if by Death himself.
    Directly ahead, blotting out the sky, lay the bulk of the Castel Sant’Angelo, dating back to the time of the Emperor Hadrian. If the Muslims ever conquered Rome, it would be here that the last Pope would take his stand. The sun, directly overhead, bore down on a huge crowd made up of city dwellers of every class, as well as foreign observers come to witness the reality of papal justice. One of the two executioners, a giant of a man wearing a leather mask and apron, nudged the other with his elbow and whispered something. The second man, smaller with a scar down one cheek, turned his head and grinned at Caravaggio as if to say, ‘Don’t forget to put us in the picture.’ Next to them on the scaffold, erected on the bridge, stood the instruments of their trade: a long-handled axe, its scythe-like blade glinting dully in the sunlight; a heavy bludgeon inlaid with metal studs; and a set of iron tongs in a chafing dish filled with hot coals. He tried not to look at these, but he was transfixed. To his right, several members of a well-known noble family were being shown to their reserved seats by a young priest. Nuns offered them iced water with lemon juice, and sweetmeats.
    Caravaggio tried to avert his eyes from the axe but could not. Moments later, a ripple of excitement ran through the crowd. Twisting round, he was able to make out the tumbril bearing the Cenci to their doom. The cart, drawn by two farm horses, was flanked by armed men, led by a bishop and two hooded members of the Confraternity of St John the Beheaded, known as the Decollati. But it was the small family group that inevitably held Caravaggio’s attention. Lucrezia, the mother, who had devised the plot that ended in the murder of her husband, stood between Giacomo and Beatrice. Bernardo, the youngest boy, just twelve