Read Online The Caravaggio Conspiracy by Walter Ellis - Free Book Online

cherub’s arse, was new and still smelled of wet plaster. Its owner, once a common soldier, grown rich as a Church litigant, was impossibly tall, with a hook nose and bushy eyebrows. Why he hadn’t opted for a career in the Church was a mystery. In a city in which religious devotion was measured by the hundred-weight , Cherubini attended Mass every day of his life, twice on Sundays, and, when he wasn’t defrauding his clients, could usually be found in an attitude of prayer. Cynics pointed out that he had tried to shorten his time in Purgatory by forcing most of his children to join religious orders, which was probably true. Caravaggio didn’t give a toss either way.
    He banged on the large, double-fronted door, embossed with the owner’s newly acquired coat of arms, which looked like three funeral urns against a sea of troubles. Eventually, a wizened maidservant drew back the bolt and peered out, suspiciously. With her warty nose and blackened teeth, she looked like she belonged in a portrait he’d once seen by Ghirlandaio.
    ‘Oh,’ she said, sensing trouble. ‘Master Caravaggio – it’s you.’
    ‘Is your master in?’
    ‘He’s busy.’
    ‘Don’t give me that.’
    ‘He’s talking to a bishop.’
    ‘All the better, then.’ And with that he pushed his way past the startled woman, who waddled after him flapping her arms, and strode straight into the main reception room at the end of the corridor.
    Cherubini, wearing a burgundy-coloured doublet and hose, with a preposterous fur-lined hat on his head and two sticks for legs, was examining a technical drawing of a proposed addition to Santa Maria della Scala laid out for his approval on a brightly polished table. Next to him stood a short, fat bishop, as bald as a tennis ball, who looked as if he was no stranger to a good table.
    Caravaggio bowed to the bishop, then got straight to the point. ‘What’s this about you turning down my Virgin?’
    Cherubini turned around slowly. He had a long, thin neck and, with his skinny legs and bulbous clothing, put the artist in mind of a brochette on a chef’s spit. A lugubrious, world-weary expression clung to his face, which could have belonged to a mask from the commedia dell’arte. Realizing the source of the interruption , Cherubini groaned theatrically and clasped his hand to his forehead. ‘Master Caravaggio …’
    ‘The very same. You haven’t forgotten my name, apparently, but you do seem to have let it slip your mind that you still owe me the small matter of 230 scudi.’
    The lawyer grimaced, but stood his ground. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘this is not a convenient moment. As you can see, I am busy discussing church matters with His Grace. Do you mind calling back later?’
    ‘Busy? Busy ? What do you think I’ve been these last three months? I’ve produced a painting for you that, in the opinion of many, is a masterpiece, fit to be compared to anything by Titian or Raphael. And now I hear that it’s been turned down by you and the canons because the Virgin has bare feet!
    ‘I assure you …’
    ‘And by the Discalced Carmelites, no less. Master Cherubini, may I ask you what “discalced” means?’
    ‘Why, it is Latin, of course. Dis calceus … without shoes.’
    ‘ Without shoes ! Exactly! They go about Rome without any shoes on, even in the dead of winter, just to show how bloody holy they are. But now, when I show the Virgin lying on her deathbed, they complain that I’m a blasphemer because she isn’t wearing shoes. Well, since when does anyone ever wear shoes in bed? For a quick five minutes in the local knocking shop maybe, but not, I suspect, if you’re about to meet your Maker.’
    At this, the bishop couldn’t help laughing, which only added to Cherubini’s sense of insult. Drawing himself up to his full height, he narrowed his eyes and bared his teeth, which were a bright yellow. ‘Good God!’ he said. ‘This is unconscionable . They were right about you, Merisi. You are a