Palace,’ Scipione said. ‘You’re well liked in that household.’
‘The Marchesa of Caravaggio is of the Colonna family, Your Illustriousness. My grandfather was in her service. As I grew up, she was most magnanimous towards me. I’m always in her
debt.’
‘She’s here in Rome now.’
‘Is she, sire?’ Caravaggio felt a cold touch on his cheek. Mention of the Marchesa brought so many memories. Yet he needed his emotions to be clear, so that they wouldn’t
disturb his painting. He breathed deeply and went on. The bristles of his brush shivered rhythmically over the canvas. He worked at the scarlet highlights on the cape swooping across the
pope’s chest.
‘When I entered, you were behind the curtain, Maestro. Now you’ve drawn it back.’ Scipione’s tone was relaxed and confiding.
‘With many of the details, I prefer to employ only my eye, Your Illustriousness.’
‘The curtain is a camera obscura?’
‘I use a curtain and a concave mirror, and sometimes a lens suspended in the gap in the curtain. Nothing more, Your Illustriousness. Some call it a camera obscura. Others call it items kept in any lady’s bedchamber.’
‘People make of it more than it is?’
‘An aid to seeing, that’s all.’ His brush filled the silence once more.
‘In the gallery of this palace,’ Scipione said, ‘you may observe all the previous popes, painted like gods. They might’ve had the power of gods, but they weren’t
immortal. We ought to be able to read the life they led in their faces. But artists always make the pope into a saint. Some of them may have been; others certainly weren’t.’
Scipione closed his eyes and quivered when he uttered the word ‘saint’. As if he were whispering to a lover , Caravaggio thought, some role he wanted to be played to arouse
him. He loaded his brush with a pinkish white to edge the highlights of the cape. Prospero winked at him.
‘It’s only right that my uncle’s portrait ought to promote a different view of the Pope.’ Scipione spread his fingers wide and examined his nails. ‘We Borghese
aren’t like the old Roman families who usually take the Throne of St Peter. Look at the Colonna. Their line runs from Julius Caesar, they say, which means they claim descent from the goddess
Venus herself, as Caesar did. My uncle, the Holy Father, is the son of a clerk from Siena. Does that make him a less appropriate choice to wield the holiness of his office?’
‘Heaven forbid.’
‘Or its power?’ Scipione dropped his voice. He got up and went towards the door. He was in shadow when he turned again. ‘Maestro Raphael would’ve painted the face and had
one of his assistants complete the robes.’
‘He would, Your Illustriousness.’
‘Raphael is treated as a god – infallible, perfect.’
‘So he is.’
‘But you’re no god. You’re a painter. So you do all the work yourself.’
‘A piece of cloth or a bowl of fruit takes just as much skill as a face, Most Reverend Lord.’
‘Do you see why I chose you to paint the son of the Sienese clerk?’ The Cardinal-Nephew didn’t wait for a reply. Silhouetted in the light from the corridor, he withdrew from
the chamber.
The door swung shut. Caravaggio dropped his palette onto his pigment trolley. It was exciting to hear from Scipione’s lips why he had favoured him. But I’ve never had a compliment
that left me feeling so manhandled , he thought. I’m shaking like a girl who knows that fine words about her figure are the prelude to a rape. ‘Divest yourself, Your
Holiness,’ he said to Prospero. ‘I can’t work any more.’
Prospero removed his scarlet beret and the crucifix from around his neck. He gestured towards the door by which Scipione had left. ‘Princes always fill me with fear. But there’s
something even more terrifying about that one.’
‘It’s because he told you he’s not a saint, and you know exactly how people behave when they forget the holiness in them.’
‘I
‘The Marchesa of Caravaggio is of the Colonna family, Your Illustriousness. My grandfather was in her service. As I grew up, she was most magnanimous towards me. I’m always in her
debt.’
‘She’s here in Rome now.’
‘Is she, sire?’ Caravaggio felt a cold touch on his cheek. Mention of the Marchesa brought so many memories. Yet he needed his emotions to be clear, so that they wouldn’t
disturb his painting. He breathed deeply and went on. The bristles of his brush shivered rhythmically over the canvas. He worked at the scarlet highlights on the cape swooping across the
pope’s chest.
‘When I entered, you were behind the curtain, Maestro. Now you’ve drawn it back.’ Scipione’s tone was relaxed and confiding.
‘With many of the details, I prefer to employ only my eye, Your Illustriousness.’
‘The curtain is a camera obscura?’
‘I use a curtain and a concave mirror, and sometimes a lens suspended in the gap in the curtain. Nothing more, Your Illustriousness. Some call it a camera obscura. Others call it items kept in any lady’s bedchamber.’
‘People make of it more than it is?’
‘An aid to seeing, that’s all.’ His brush filled the silence once more.
‘In the gallery of this palace,’ Scipione said, ‘you may observe all the previous popes, painted like gods. They might’ve had the power of gods, but they weren’t
immortal. We ought to be able to read the life they led in their faces. But artists always make the pope into a saint. Some of them may have been; others certainly weren’t.’
Scipione closed his eyes and quivered when he uttered the word ‘saint’. As if he were whispering to a lover , Caravaggio thought, some role he wanted to be played to arouse
him. He loaded his brush with a pinkish white to edge the highlights of the cape. Prospero winked at him.
‘It’s only right that my uncle’s portrait ought to promote a different view of the Pope.’ Scipione spread his fingers wide and examined his nails. ‘We Borghese
aren’t like the old Roman families who usually take the Throne of St Peter. Look at the Colonna. Their line runs from Julius Caesar, they say, which means they claim descent from the goddess
Venus herself, as Caesar did. My uncle, the Holy Father, is the son of a clerk from Siena. Does that make him a less appropriate choice to wield the holiness of his office?’
‘Heaven forbid.’
‘Or its power?’ Scipione dropped his voice. He got up and went towards the door. He was in shadow when he turned again. ‘Maestro Raphael would’ve painted the face and had
one of his assistants complete the robes.’
‘He would, Your Illustriousness.’
‘Raphael is treated as a god – infallible, perfect.’
‘So he is.’
‘But you’re no god. You’re a painter. So you do all the work yourself.’
‘A piece of cloth or a bowl of fruit takes just as much skill as a face, Most Reverend Lord.’
‘Do you see why I chose you to paint the son of the Sienese clerk?’ The Cardinal-Nephew didn’t wait for a reply. Silhouetted in the light from the corridor, he withdrew from
the chamber.
The door swung shut. Caravaggio dropped his palette onto his pigment trolley. It was exciting to hear from Scipione’s lips why he had favoured him. But I’ve never had a compliment
that left me feeling so manhandled , he thought. I’m shaking like a girl who knows that fine words about her figure are the prelude to a rape. ‘Divest yourself, Your
Holiness,’ he said to Prospero. ‘I can’t work any more.’
Prospero removed his scarlet beret and the crucifix from around his neck. He gestured towards the door by which Scipione had left. ‘Princes always fill me with fear. But there’s
something even more terrifying about that one.’
‘It’s because he told you he’s not a saint, and you know exactly how people behave when they forget the holiness in them.’
‘I
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