what was within him. It hadn’t been the proud
face of a man of honour. He had signalled to her somehow that she might discover who he really was.
As she stepped through the doorway into her home, she touched the crumbling travertine of the column. He noted this blemish in the stone , she thought, and it gave him some kind of
pleasure. She gazed at the spot where he had stood. Maestro Caravaggio, the footman at the palace had called him. She wondered what his first name was.
Prospero slouched on a red velvet chair in the papal robes. Caravaggio rearranged the folds of the crimson cape and spread the white lace gown. Returning to his easel, he
checked the image in his mirror. With his first sittings he had outlined the pose and worked on the Holy Father’s face. He had built the subtly hostile expression, the contemptuous,
acquisitive eyes. Now he had no need of the impatient pontiff’s presence.
‘Hold yourself as if you were about to get up,’ he told Prospero. ‘Press your hands on the arms of the chair. You’ve no time for anyone.’
Prospero glanced behind Caravaggio and murmured.
‘That’s it,’ Caravaggio said. ‘Now I see more of the tension I got from him when he was in that chair.’
Without moving his lips, Prospero whispered, ‘I’ll bet you do. I’m tighter than a Turkish bowstring.’
‘Relax. Perhaps they’ll make you an Archbishop for posing in the Holy Father’s robes. You’ve all the qualifications: a criminal inclination and an ugly face. You might
even develop an appropriate taste for altar boys.’ Caravaggio set himself once more to work, bent close to the canvas, filling in the projection from the mirror. He thought of the way Lena
had watched him as he had left her home with the beggars. He smiled privately behind his curtain.
‘I can think of certain other benefits to the status of an Archbishop.’
‘I’m sure you can, Your Ridiculousness. Now shut up.’ Caravaggio laid in a few more strokes with his brush before he realized that it hadn’t been Prospero who had spoken.
He adjusted the angle of his mirror and saw his friend’s face, grimacing for him to be silent. He stepped out from behind his curtain.
Cardinal Scipione stood a few paces away, his chin between his thumb and forefinger. He leaned through the curtain to see the portrait of his uncle. His eyes glittered. ‘You’ve
captured the wariness in his expression, Maestro Caravaggio.’
It was I who was wary, the whole time I stood here with him , Caravaggio thought. He had felt as though the Holy Father were judging each stroke of his brush with those sharp, umber eyes.
He went down on his knee and kissed Scipione’s hand. ‘Most Reverend Sire,’ he murmured. ‘My apologies. I thought—’
Scipione clicked his tongue. ‘Don’t interrupt me. His lips,’ he went on, ‘they’re pursed, as though his temper drew close to the boil. One gets the impression that
he’ll soon deliver some withering reproach.’
‘Your Illustriousness wishes me to request another sitting with His Holiness? To change the expression?’
‘All my life, twenty-six years, I’ve been trying to understand what was in his face. But you’ve got it in a matter of hours.’
‘I don’t pretend to understand it. I just looked at it.’
Scipione brushed his moustache with his thumb. ‘The papal vestments become you most fittingly, Signore.’
Prospero jolted to his feet. He came towards Scipione, his skirts rustling. He went onto his knee and bowed his head.
Scipione laid his hand on the papal beret and licked his lips. Caravaggio saw that it amused him to have the pope genuflect before him.
The Cardinal-Nephew gestured towards a divan. Caravaggio pushed it over the floor tiles to the place Scipione indicated.
‘Do carry on.’ Scipione reclined on the long chair.
Caravaggio sensed the essence of power in the room. Prospero responded to it too. His face revealed a quiet strain.
‘I’ve come from the Colonna
face of a man of honour. He had signalled to her somehow that she might discover who he really was.
As she stepped through the doorway into her home, she touched the crumbling travertine of the column. He noted this blemish in the stone , she thought, and it gave him some kind of
pleasure. She gazed at the spot where he had stood. Maestro Caravaggio, the footman at the palace had called him. She wondered what his first name was.
Prospero slouched on a red velvet chair in the papal robes. Caravaggio rearranged the folds of the crimson cape and spread the white lace gown. Returning to his easel, he
checked the image in his mirror. With his first sittings he had outlined the pose and worked on the Holy Father’s face. He had built the subtly hostile expression, the contemptuous,
acquisitive eyes. Now he had no need of the impatient pontiff’s presence.
‘Hold yourself as if you were about to get up,’ he told Prospero. ‘Press your hands on the arms of the chair. You’ve no time for anyone.’
Prospero glanced behind Caravaggio and murmured.
‘That’s it,’ Caravaggio said. ‘Now I see more of the tension I got from him when he was in that chair.’
Without moving his lips, Prospero whispered, ‘I’ll bet you do. I’m tighter than a Turkish bowstring.’
‘Relax. Perhaps they’ll make you an Archbishop for posing in the Holy Father’s robes. You’ve all the qualifications: a criminal inclination and an ugly face. You might
even develop an appropriate taste for altar boys.’ Caravaggio set himself once more to work, bent close to the canvas, filling in the projection from the mirror. He thought of the way Lena
had watched him as he had left her home with the beggars. He smiled privately behind his curtain.
‘I can think of certain other benefits to the status of an Archbishop.’
‘I’m sure you can, Your Ridiculousness. Now shut up.’ Caravaggio laid in a few more strokes with his brush before he realized that it hadn’t been Prospero who had spoken.
He adjusted the angle of his mirror and saw his friend’s face, grimacing for him to be silent. He stepped out from behind his curtain.
Cardinal Scipione stood a few paces away, his chin between his thumb and forefinger. He leaned through the curtain to see the portrait of his uncle. His eyes glittered. ‘You’ve
captured the wariness in his expression, Maestro Caravaggio.’
It was I who was wary, the whole time I stood here with him , Caravaggio thought. He had felt as though the Holy Father were judging each stroke of his brush with those sharp, umber eyes.
He went down on his knee and kissed Scipione’s hand. ‘Most Reverend Sire,’ he murmured. ‘My apologies. I thought—’
Scipione clicked his tongue. ‘Don’t interrupt me. His lips,’ he went on, ‘they’re pursed, as though his temper drew close to the boil. One gets the impression that
he’ll soon deliver some withering reproach.’
‘Your Illustriousness wishes me to request another sitting with His Holiness? To change the expression?’
‘All my life, twenty-six years, I’ve been trying to understand what was in his face. But you’ve got it in a matter of hours.’
‘I don’t pretend to understand it. I just looked at it.’
Scipione brushed his moustache with his thumb. ‘The papal vestments become you most fittingly, Signore.’
Prospero jolted to his feet. He came towards Scipione, his skirts rustling. He went onto his knee and bowed his head.
Scipione laid his hand on the papal beret and licked his lips. Caravaggio saw that it amused him to have the pope genuflect before him.
The Cardinal-Nephew gestured towards a divan. Caravaggio pushed it over the floor tiles to the place Scipione indicated.
‘Do carry on.’ Scipione reclined on the long chair.
Caravaggio sensed the essence of power in the room. Prospero responded to it too. His face revealed a quiet strain.
‘I’ve come from the Colonna
Similar Books
