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Authors: Walter Ellis
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stead to Carlo Sarasceni.
‘I’m not surprised, to tell you the truth,’ Longhi said, as soon as he could get a word in edgeways. ‘The wonder is that Carlo didn’t get in before you at the French church. I mean, he speaks French half the time and gets all his clothes sent from Marseille. I don’t know why he doesn’t just go and live there.’
‘But you’re not saying he’d have stolen the commission, are you?’ Caravaggio asked. This was a question of honour and he was not ready to concede the point.
Longhi flicked a lock of his blonde hair away from his face. ‘No – probably not. But he wanted it. He thought he was the obvious choice, even if he does call himself a Caravaggista.’
‘Remind me to give him a kick up the arse next time I see him.’
‘By all means.’
‘And I’ll hold him down while you do it,’ Orsi added. He was a small man, known generally as Prosperini, but was always there at the first hint of trouble, ready to lay in with with either fists or rapier. ‘Mind you,’ he continued, ‘it’s not Carlo’s fault that Cherubini’s a prick.’
‘No,’ Caravaggio agreed. ‘And I can’t blame him for picking up on the job after I’d already had my go. But he’d better bloody well wait until I’ve been paid before starting. Otherwise, he and I will have a serious falling out.’
‘Funny he should come up like this,’ Orsi said. ‘I ran into him the other day. He’d just come back from Venice. His father’s ill, apparently. He says the Doge and his advisers are scared the Ottomans are going to attack the city. Turns out the Sultan has re-built his fleet, and his generals and admirals are looking for any excuse they can find to go to war.’
‘So Anna was right, then.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She told me a while back that one of her clients – a Dominican from Venice – was worried the Turks were getting ready for war. He said all the Pope would do was celebrate High Mass and pray for God’s intervention.’
Longhi was picking at his teeth with a sliver of wood he’d peeled from the edge of the table. ‘If you ask me,’ he said, ‘a proper war would do us all a world of good. I haven’t had my sword out of its scabbard in months.’
‘Bollocks!’ said Orsi. ‘You were arrested just last month. You hit a baker over the head with the hilt of your sword after he overcharged you 10 baiocci for a loaf of bread. I was there, remember.’
‘Yes, well that doesn’t count, does it? He wasn’t a gentleman and I didn’t cut him, did I? Get your facts straight.’
‘Do you really think the Turks will have another go?’ Caravaggio asked. ‘You’d think after Lepanto …’
The Battle of Lepanto, the greatest naval confrontation for a hundred years, had been fought in 1571, off the west coast of Greece, between the Holy League, led by the Pope, and the Ottomans, resulting in a famous Christian victory. But Cyprus had still been wrested from the Venetians and there were endless rumours of fresh incursions into Hungary and Austria, even of an upcoming assault on Vienna itself.
‘Lepanto was thirty years ago,’ Longhi said. ‘The Turks have learned a lot since then. They’ve got new guns and new tactics. There’s even talk they’ve built a squadron of galleasses, high as houses. If you ask me, another war is only a matter of time.’
Orisi looked thoughtful. ‘I spoke to this Monsignor from the Apostolic Palace the other day, after Mass. He’d seen me at Cardinal Orlandi’s. I’m still working on that fresco about Lepanto and he came over to see how I was doing. Anyway, we got to talking about the Ottomans. Turns out he’d been to Isfahan recently as part of a delegation from the Holy See. He told me that Shah Abbas of the Persians had called on the Pope to agree an alliance against the Turks, who he said were our common enemy. The Pope was interested. Very interested, apparently. I mean, he’s got enough to do with the Protestants on the one
‘I’m not surprised, to tell you the truth,’ Longhi said, as soon as he could get a word in edgeways. ‘The wonder is that Carlo didn’t get in before you at the French church. I mean, he speaks French half the time and gets all his clothes sent from Marseille. I don’t know why he doesn’t just go and live there.’
‘But you’re not saying he’d have stolen the commission, are you?’ Caravaggio asked. This was a question of honour and he was not ready to concede the point.
Longhi flicked a lock of his blonde hair away from his face. ‘No – probably not. But he wanted it. He thought he was the obvious choice, even if he does call himself a Caravaggista.’
‘Remind me to give him a kick up the arse next time I see him.’
‘By all means.’
‘And I’ll hold him down while you do it,’ Orsi added. He was a small man, known generally as Prosperini, but was always there at the first hint of trouble, ready to lay in with with either fists or rapier. ‘Mind you,’ he continued, ‘it’s not Carlo’s fault that Cherubini’s a prick.’
‘No,’ Caravaggio agreed. ‘And I can’t blame him for picking up on the job after I’d already had my go. But he’d better bloody well wait until I’ve been paid before starting. Otherwise, he and I will have a serious falling out.’
‘Funny he should come up like this,’ Orsi said. ‘I ran into him the other day. He’d just come back from Venice. His father’s ill, apparently. He says the Doge and his advisers are scared the Ottomans are going to attack the city. Turns out the Sultan has re-built his fleet, and his generals and admirals are looking for any excuse they can find to go to war.’
‘So Anna was right, then.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She told me a while back that one of her clients – a Dominican from Venice – was worried the Turks were getting ready for war. He said all the Pope would do was celebrate High Mass and pray for God’s intervention.’
Longhi was picking at his teeth with a sliver of wood he’d peeled from the edge of the table. ‘If you ask me,’ he said, ‘a proper war would do us all a world of good. I haven’t had my sword out of its scabbard in months.’
‘Bollocks!’ said Orsi. ‘You were arrested just last month. You hit a baker over the head with the hilt of your sword after he overcharged you 10 baiocci for a loaf of bread. I was there, remember.’
‘Yes, well that doesn’t count, does it? He wasn’t a gentleman and I didn’t cut him, did I? Get your facts straight.’
‘Do you really think the Turks will have another go?’ Caravaggio asked. ‘You’d think after Lepanto …’
The Battle of Lepanto, the greatest naval confrontation for a hundred years, had been fought in 1571, off the west coast of Greece, between the Holy League, led by the Pope, and the Ottomans, resulting in a famous Christian victory. But Cyprus had still been wrested from the Venetians and there were endless rumours of fresh incursions into Hungary and Austria, even of an upcoming assault on Vienna itself.
‘Lepanto was thirty years ago,’ Longhi said. ‘The Turks have learned a lot since then. They’ve got new guns and new tactics. There’s even talk they’ve built a squadron of galleasses, high as houses. If you ask me, another war is only a matter of time.’
Orisi looked thoughtful. ‘I spoke to this Monsignor from the Apostolic Palace the other day, after Mass. He’d seen me at Cardinal Orlandi’s. I’m still working on that fresco about Lepanto and he came over to see how I was doing. Anyway, we got to talking about the Ottomans. Turns out he’d been to Isfahan recently as part of a delegation from the Holy See. He told me that Shah Abbas of the Persians had called on the Pope to agree an alliance against the Turks, who he said were our common enemy. The Pope was interested. Very interested, apparently. I mean, he’s got enough to do with the Protestants on the one
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