The Caravaggio Conspiracy Read Online Free Page B

distant figure of the Pope, poised like an emperor in his box at the Colosseum. At the same time, the masked Decollato placed a wooden board, on which was painted a representation of the martyrdom of St John, in front of the condemned woman’s face so that it was the last thing she saw. The Pope nodded. The axe fell and the head of Lucrezia Cenci rolled forward, spurting blood from the neck.
    At the same moment, the crowd let out its breath.
    The Decollato set down his board and from one of his pockets drew out a black silk cloth, in which he wrapped the severed head before carrying it over to a rough coffin in which the second headsman was already depositing the body.
    Caravaggio paled and realized that he was trembling. But he couldn’t stop staring. Next to die was Beatrice, a famous beauty, her blonde hair tied back, her neck long and inviting, like a swan’s. She said her prayers, murmured some words to her younger brother, which the artist couldn’t hear, and took her place on the block, so that her throat reddened with her mother’s blood. Few of those watching believed she deserved her fate, and her courage in the face of death had a serenity about it that caused a hush to fall over the crowd. Someone called out, ‘Spare her! For pity’s sake!’ But to no avail. Once more, the Pope nodded. Once again the axe fell.
    There was a sound of shattered bone and the thud of the axe biting into the wood. As the axeman wrenched his blade free, Beatrice’s head shot off the block and skittered towards Caravaggio, rolling over and over until it came to a halt on the edge of the scaffold above where he sat so that her eyes, frozen in shock, appeared to be staring at him. Blood ran in rich red streams from her neck. He cried out and was sick.
    Now Giacomo was hauled forward. Not for him the swift end offered by the axe. For him, as the one adjudged by the Inquisition to be most culpable, the penalty would be particularly awful. With his hands already tied behind his back and his legs in shackles, he was bound by his neck and ankles to a stake and his tunic ripped from his torso so that his breast was bare. As the bishop from the Holy Office read out the details of his crime and the sentence imposed, the second executioner lifted the heavy tongs from the chafing dish and showed the red-hot ends to the multitude. A sigh went up. Giacomo, after weeks of torture, had prayed he was immune to further pain, but to Caravaggio, just twenty feet away, his eyes told a different story. The masked executioner advanced on him, baring his teeth, then, with a grunt, clamped the glowing ends of the tongs, like pincers, onto the skin and muscle of his victim’s chest. Next, he twisted the steel jaws, first one way, then the other, and jerked back, ripping off a section of flesh. The resulting scream rang out across the Tiber, scattering a group of hooded crows perched on the statues on either side of the bridge.
    ‘Do you repent of your wickedness?’ the bishop called out. Giacomo could not answer. He could only scream.
    Unsheathing a knife at his belt, the executioner peeled off the seared flesh, threw it into the corner, then advanced again, repeating the vicious act of torture three times as the thousands looking on either urged him to greater efforts or else averted their eyes.
    Caravaggio felt his stomach heave again. But he had to watch. He had to know what was being done in God’s name.
    By now the planks beneath the squirming figure of Giacomo Cenci had turned scarlet and the stench of burnt flesh filled the air. It was time for the final act. Releasing the condemned man from the stake, the chief executioner grabbed him by the hair and bundled him four paces across the scaffold to the waiting block. Giacomo, delirious with pain, called out to God and all the saints to save him and show him mercy. Perceiving this to be moment of truth, the Decollato holding on to Bernardo jammed the boy’s eyes open, forcing him to watch his