A Name in Blood by Matt Rees Page A

shoulders dislocated before he had risen a dozen feet. He screamed that he was innocent of whatever small crime had incurred this punishment. The market-goers gathered to jeer. At the foot of
the pole, another offender was bent double in the stocks. His tongue had been pulled forward and caught in a clamp, a penalty for speaking ill of the government. Caravaggio crossed the square to
the palace gates.
    Scipione Borghese was at the window when Caravaggio entered to work on his portrait of the Pope. The cardinal held the edge of the curtain between a finger and thumb, as though he were peeling
back an undergarment to look on the very sex of his lover. He gazed with a quivering intensity at the man writhing on the strappado . ‘You’ve been called to the courts many times,
Maestro Caravaggio. Have you ever—?’
    ‘Been tortured for evidence? No, Your Illustriousness.’ His voice was louder than he intended. Still nervous around Scipione, aren’t you, Michele , he told himself. Or
are you anticipating some torture?
    Scipione frowned as though he was sorry not to hear how torture felt. ‘I saw you cross the piazza. You didn’t stop to watch the punishment.’
    ‘The view is better from up here.’
    A nasty shadow clouded Scipione’s eye. ‘You’re bleeding.’ He prodded the spot where Caravaggio had cut his brow in his fall outside the Church of the Gesù. A
scarlet bulb of blood ran down his finger. ‘Could you use this to paint?’
    ‘Blood? As a pigment, you mean?’
    Scipione wiped his finger on Caravaggio’s doublet. ‘Yes.’
    ‘It rots and gives off a foul smell, Your Illustriousness.’
    ‘You’ve tried it?’
    ‘No. But I know what happens to blood.’
    ‘I’ll wager you do.’
    The man on the strappado bellowed as he came down. The crowd in the piazza thinned and the bailiffs untied the prisoner. His arms dangled from shoulders strangely squared by the
dislocation. He dropped to the cobbles.
    Caravaggio went onto one knee. He imagined Fabrizio undergoing his punishment like the criminal outside. As if he held his friend’s tortured body in his arms, he felt a pang of wounded
love. The skirt of the cardinal’s red cassock rocked before him. ‘I beg of you a favour, my lord.’
    ‘Ask.’ It was as though Scipione’s voice came from some other organ than his throat, so strangled and tense did it seem.
    ‘My beloved mistress the Marchesa Costanza Colonna has a son.’
    ‘Several sons.’
    ‘I speak of Signor Fabrizio. He’s held for some offence. Might Your Illustriousness grant him a pardon?’ The painter kept his head down. He should have flattered Scipione,
spoken of his famous capacity for mercy and other qualities churchmen liked to think they possessed by the grace of God. But he reckoned Scipione would have felt mocked, and he anyway doubted he
could bring himself to speak such words. His mind was overcome with the pain awaiting Fabrizio.
    ‘For a crime of this nature, the Holy Father himself must grant a pardon,’ Scipione said.
    Heat crept around Caravaggio’s throat. A crime of this nature. He had neglected to ask Costanza of what her son stood accused. What has she asked of me?
    ‘If he had merely killed a peasant or even a gentleman . . .’
    There it was. He recalled Fabrizio’s handsome, playful face. Caravaggio had known men who had done others to death. He never knew how to detect the wickedness in their eyes until it had
been made plain. In the Evil Garden, all men’s features flickered with butchery.
    ‘. . . then I’m sure something could’ve been arranged. But he killed a Farnese, a member of a powerful family, whose support the Holy Father needs as much as the Colonnas. You
understand the politics? We can’t simply overlook this killing.’
    There was no way back. ‘I beg of you, Your Illustriousness. I owe a debt of gratitude and loyalty to the Marchesa which I would pay at any cost.’
    ‘Would you, now?’ Scipione laid a hand on Caravaggio’s