jail. He’ll be sure to do it , she thought. Even after so many years apart, their childhood forged a bond
Michele wouldn’t forget.
Her older boys had been preoccupied with courting the favour of their father while he attended on dignitaries in Milan. Abandoned, like her, to the quiet, provincial life of Caravaggio, Fabrizio
and Michele had grown close and conspiratorial, but they had allowed her to enter their play. They came to her chamber every morning and clambered inside the curtains of her bed, blowing
raspberries on her neck to wake her. She had joined in eagerly, as if to recover the childhood cut short by her father’s order of marriage. The peace she had felt with them was disturbed only
by her other sons. They teased Michele, called him an orphan, though he was not, and a commoner, which, because it was true, provoked him to attack them.
‘See to it, Costanza,’ Ascanio said. ‘Our family can’t afford a quarrel with the Farnese.’
‘Of course.’
‘The Farnese will demand revenge for what Fabrizio did to one of their number.’
Costanza’s tongue bristled with bitterness. She couldn’t bear to consider the actions of her son. It doesn’t seem possible that he . . .
‘If you can’t get your painter to secure Fabrizio’s release,’ Ascanio said, ‘we shan’t be able to help him. To do so would mean a war with the Farnese, a
Roman civil war. We need the Holy Father to call off the Farnese.’
‘I see.’
‘Do you? Because if your painter can’t help, we must let them have Fabrizio.’
One of the wrestlers dumped his opponent onto the floor of the ring. Costanza squealed in shock at the sound of his bulk hammering onto the canvas. She watched the pinned man struggle.
Caravaggio came down the hill from the Pope’s palace and pushed to the front of the crowd in the Piazza of the Sainted Apostles. Prospero bought wine from a stall and
guzzled a long draught. He wiped his beard on his sleeve, hitched up the thin belt which drew his doublet in below his heavy belly, and handed the flagon to Caravaggio.
The wrestling ring was on a platform set at head height before the Colonna Palace. Craning his neck to watch the bout, Caravaggio saw her on the balcony of the palace with the family grandees.
Costanza Colonna inclined her head to him. Some constraint froze her features. He bowed to her. When he looked up her eyes were elsewhere, but he sensed she was thinking about him. Not about his
work or the life he lived now. She’ll be thinking about the old days , he thought. When I was her boy. His distraught mother had collapsed after his father had died of the
plague. Costanza had brought the poor woman’s eldest child to her house out of love for his grandfather, who had served her as a surveyor. Michele had grown up chasing through the palace in
Caravaggio with Fabrizio. Until she sent me away.
A groan and a cheer from the crowd. He turned to the ring. A wrestler had dropped his opponent onto the canvas and now grappled with the wriggling man beneath him. The two fighters were thickly
muscled, broad across the back, peasants bred for labour and combat. The pinned man hammered the floor with his hand. A herald wearing a scarlet surcoat with the golden column of the
Colonnas’ crest lifted the arm of the victor.
The winner doused his shoulders in water from a ringside pail to cool himself for the next bout. It was a pleasant May evening, but the exertion and the torches in each corner of the ring made
the fighters hot. The wrestler took a wineskin and slung his head back to drink. He wore his hair long. His beard was thick and black. He held the wineskin at a half-arm’s length from his
mouth as he poured so that it wouldn’t touch his lips, like one accustomed to drinking from a shared vessel.
‘Look at the size of his arms,’ Prospero said. ‘If that was the jawbone of an ass instead of a wineskin, we’d be looking at Samson himself.’
The torchlight caught the wine,
Michele wouldn’t forget.
Her older boys had been preoccupied with courting the favour of their father while he attended on dignitaries in Milan. Abandoned, like her, to the quiet, provincial life of Caravaggio, Fabrizio
and Michele had grown close and conspiratorial, but they had allowed her to enter their play. They came to her chamber every morning and clambered inside the curtains of her bed, blowing
raspberries on her neck to wake her. She had joined in eagerly, as if to recover the childhood cut short by her father’s order of marriage. The peace she had felt with them was disturbed only
by her other sons. They teased Michele, called him an orphan, though he was not, and a commoner, which, because it was true, provoked him to attack them.
‘See to it, Costanza,’ Ascanio said. ‘Our family can’t afford a quarrel with the Farnese.’
‘Of course.’
‘The Farnese will demand revenge for what Fabrizio did to one of their number.’
Costanza’s tongue bristled with bitterness. She couldn’t bear to consider the actions of her son. It doesn’t seem possible that he . . .
‘If you can’t get your painter to secure Fabrizio’s release,’ Ascanio said, ‘we shan’t be able to help him. To do so would mean a war with the Farnese, a
Roman civil war. We need the Holy Father to call off the Farnese.’
‘I see.’
‘Do you? Because if your painter can’t help, we must let them have Fabrizio.’
One of the wrestlers dumped his opponent onto the floor of the ring. Costanza squealed in shock at the sound of his bulk hammering onto the canvas. She watched the pinned man struggle.
Caravaggio came down the hill from the Pope’s palace and pushed to the front of the crowd in the Piazza of the Sainted Apostles. Prospero bought wine from a stall and
guzzled a long draught. He wiped his beard on his sleeve, hitched up the thin belt which drew his doublet in below his heavy belly, and handed the flagon to Caravaggio.
The wrestling ring was on a platform set at head height before the Colonna Palace. Craning his neck to watch the bout, Caravaggio saw her on the balcony of the palace with the family grandees.
Costanza Colonna inclined her head to him. Some constraint froze her features. He bowed to her. When he looked up her eyes were elsewhere, but he sensed she was thinking about him. Not about his
work or the life he lived now. She’ll be thinking about the old days , he thought. When I was her boy. His distraught mother had collapsed after his father had died of the
plague. Costanza had brought the poor woman’s eldest child to her house out of love for his grandfather, who had served her as a surveyor. Michele had grown up chasing through the palace in
Caravaggio with Fabrizio. Until she sent me away.
A groan and a cheer from the crowd. He turned to the ring. A wrestler had dropped his opponent onto the canvas and now grappled with the wriggling man beneath him. The two fighters were thickly
muscled, broad across the back, peasants bred for labour and combat. The pinned man hammered the floor with his hand. A herald wearing a scarlet surcoat with the golden column of the
Colonnas’ crest lifted the arm of the victor.
The winner doused his shoulders in water from a ringside pail to cool himself for the next bout. It was a pleasant May evening, but the exertion and the torches in each corner of the ring made
the fighters hot. The wrestler took a wineskin and slung his head back to drink. He wore his hair long. His beard was thick and black. He held the wineskin at a half-arm’s length from his
mouth as he poured so that it wouldn’t touch his lips, like one accustomed to drinking from a shared vessel.
‘Look at the size of his arms,’ Prospero said. ‘If that was the jawbone of an ass instead of a wineskin, we’d be looking at Samson himself.’
The torchlight caught the wine,
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