do. For one thing there’s wrestling this evening. We won’t find any saints there, but it’ll be fun. I’m in the mood for a good fight.’
‘Where?’
‘The piazza in front of the Colonna Palace.’
The Colonna. Caravaggio shivered as if at the touch of a forgotten dream. He picked up the papal crucifix and kissed it. ‘Let’s go. Surely tonight I’ll pick the
winner.’
Costanza Colonna pulled at the red lace cuff of her black dress and bit her lip. As she entered the reception room, her body was tight and her breath short. She always felt
this constriction when she returned to Rome, to the palace where she had grown up and to the company of her relatives. They were descended from Aeneas, the Trojan who founded this Eternal City, and
they still seemed essential to its power as they circulated with their jewelled goblets and their marten furs. In Milan, Florence or Naples, she was a respected woman of fifty-five, widow of a
Sforza, inheritor of great estates, mother of six noble boys, Marchesa of the town of Caravaggio. Before the cold faces of these masterful Colonnas, she was once more a thirteen-year-old flouncing
through the corridors because her father was sending her to marry a surly youth in a distant, misty province.
Her brother, Cardinal Ascanio, clapped his hands and the Colonnas made for the balcony. He beckoned for Costanza to join him. She took his arm and went out above the Piazza of the Sainted
Apostles.
The square was packed with men who had come to see the wrestling. In the first darkness, the torches around the ring glimmered over the jostling crowd like the lanterns of a ship at anchor
illuminating the lapping tide. Costanza scanned the heads below. Perhaps Michele will come , she thought.
Ascanio’s fingers were firm in the crook of her elbow. She recognized the same calm and calculation in him that she had known in her father. She experienced a spasm of resentment, as if
this had been the man who had arranged her marriage without consulting her, and a tremor of love and loss for the great prince now almost thirty years dead. She moved closer to her brother.
‘Your painter has a new commission,’ Ascanio said. ‘He’s doing a portrait of the Holy Father.’
The crowd cheered the arrival of the fighters. The men lifted their arms. Oiled muscles flashed in the lantern light.
‘His commission could be important for us.’ Ascanio pursed his lips in disdain. ‘For the sake of Fabrizio.’
‘Fabrizio.’ Costanza whispered the name of her youngest son, though it seemed to her that she screamed it, so much tension did it awaken in her now. Her husband had shown little
interest in his family once he had an heir. But her children had grown more special for Costanza with each birth and with her passing years. She had been a girl when most of her babies were born.
By the time Fabrizio came, she had outgrown her childish tantrums, the longing for her birthplace, the frustration with her boorish husband. Though she had been still only nineteen, she had seen
herself as a woman. Fabrizio’s delivery didn’t terrify her with new responsibility as her other births had done. Finally she had ceased to be a child; she had become a mother. It was as
a companion for Fabrizio that she had brought Michele Merisi into the household.
The cardinal’s hand pressed harder on her arm. She blinked, puzzled. He sighed, as if her inability to grasp the significance of what he told her was all that could be expected of a
woman.
‘Your painter will be in proximity to the Holy Father himself,’ he hissed, ‘and to the Cardinal-Nephew.’
‘Yes.’ She shook her head. ‘Yes?’
‘Surely you see it? Your painter may beg the things that would be beneath our dignity to request. He may petition the Holy Father to compensate the Farnese with gold and land, instead of a
life. He may ask for clemency – for Fabrizio.’
Costanza took in a sharp breath. Michele might help free Fabrizio from
‘Where?’
‘The piazza in front of the Colonna Palace.’
The Colonna. Caravaggio shivered as if at the touch of a forgotten dream. He picked up the papal crucifix and kissed it. ‘Let’s go. Surely tonight I’ll pick the
winner.’
Costanza Colonna pulled at the red lace cuff of her black dress and bit her lip. As she entered the reception room, her body was tight and her breath short. She always felt
this constriction when she returned to Rome, to the palace where she had grown up and to the company of her relatives. They were descended from Aeneas, the Trojan who founded this Eternal City, and
they still seemed essential to its power as they circulated with their jewelled goblets and their marten furs. In Milan, Florence or Naples, she was a respected woman of fifty-five, widow of a
Sforza, inheritor of great estates, mother of six noble boys, Marchesa of the town of Caravaggio. Before the cold faces of these masterful Colonnas, she was once more a thirteen-year-old flouncing
through the corridors because her father was sending her to marry a surly youth in a distant, misty province.
Her brother, Cardinal Ascanio, clapped his hands and the Colonnas made for the balcony. He beckoned for Costanza to join him. She took his arm and went out above the Piazza of the Sainted
Apostles.
The square was packed with men who had come to see the wrestling. In the first darkness, the torches around the ring glimmered over the jostling crowd like the lanterns of a ship at anchor
illuminating the lapping tide. Costanza scanned the heads below. Perhaps Michele will come , she thought.
Ascanio’s fingers were firm in the crook of her elbow. She recognized the same calm and calculation in him that she had known in her father. She experienced a spasm of resentment, as if
this had been the man who had arranged her marriage without consulting her, and a tremor of love and loss for the great prince now almost thirty years dead. She moved closer to her brother.
‘Your painter has a new commission,’ Ascanio said. ‘He’s doing a portrait of the Holy Father.’
The crowd cheered the arrival of the fighters. The men lifted their arms. Oiled muscles flashed in the lantern light.
‘His commission could be important for us.’ Ascanio pursed his lips in disdain. ‘For the sake of Fabrizio.’
‘Fabrizio.’ Costanza whispered the name of her youngest son, though it seemed to her that she screamed it, so much tension did it awaken in her now. Her husband had shown little
interest in his family once he had an heir. But her children had grown more special for Costanza with each birth and with her passing years. She had been a girl when most of her babies were born.
By the time Fabrizio came, she had outgrown her childish tantrums, the longing for her birthplace, the frustration with her boorish husband. Though she had been still only nineteen, she had seen
herself as a woman. Fabrizio’s delivery didn’t terrify her with new responsibility as her other births had done. Finally she had ceased to be a child; she had become a mother. It was as
a companion for Fabrizio that she had brought Michele Merisi into the household.
The cardinal’s hand pressed harder on her arm. She blinked, puzzled. He sighed, as if her inability to grasp the significance of what he told her was all that could be expected of a
woman.
‘Your painter will be in proximity to the Holy Father himself,’ he hissed, ‘and to the Cardinal-Nephew.’
‘Yes.’ She shook her head. ‘Yes?’
‘Surely you see it? Your painter may beg the things that would be beneath our dignity to request. He may petition the Holy Father to compensate the Farnese with gold and land, instead of a
life. He may ask for clemency – for Fabrizio.’
Costanza took in a sharp breath. Michele might help free Fabrizio from
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