A Name in Blood by Matt Rees Page B

shoulder. ‘Finish the picture.’

    Once Caravaggio’s voice started to slur, Onorio found it hard to follow his friend’s surly dialogue. Something about a brother – or someone who was like a
brother – and the Colonna family and Cardinal Scipione. Onorio assumed there had been a complaint to the cardinal as a result of the fracas with Baglione at the Church of the Gesù.
That hardly merited this morose mood. Scipione wouldn’t be too upset. His painter had been in far worse rumbles.
    When the food came, Onorio pointed at the platter the waiter had laid before them. ‘Is this goat’s cheese, Pietro?’
    ‘It’s from a cow,’ the waiter said.
    ‘Which cow? Your mother?’ Caravaggio growled.
    ‘Leave the poor little slob alone, Michele.’ Onorio grinned as the sullen waiter made for the bar. Others recoiled from Caravaggio when he was in this mood, but Onorio enjoyed it.
This was when he felt the greatest bond with him. They alone were fearless and not to be toyed with. A night at the inns and whorehouses with Michele gave him a feeling of camaraderie that was
bone-deep, as he imagined soldiers must feel when they fight a battle side by side.
    Caravaggio cut a slice of cheese and ripped away some bread. ‘More like a brother to me than my own damned brother ever was . . .’
    ‘I didn’t know you had any family left, cazzo . Remember my brother Decio? If he wasn’t in holy orders, he’d be chained to the oars of a galley.’
    ‘Decio’s trouble,’ Caravaggio lifted an unsteady finger before Onorio’s face, ‘like you.’
    ‘My record is much the same as yours, Michele.’
    ‘I’m poison.’
    ‘It’s in our blood.’
    ‘Fabrizio . . .’ Caravaggio shook his head. ‘Blood? That’s not why I do these things.’
    Why, then? Onorio wondered. Does Rome do this to us? Or is it that we’re men who know we’re talented enough to be needed even by people who detest our behaviour?
    The door of the tavern opened fast. Onorio tensed, peering into the dim light to see who entered. Mario Minniti walked in between the tables. He was breathless. ‘Fillide killed the poor
bitch.’
    Caravaggio stopped chewing. ‘Who?’
    ‘That girl Prudenza, she’s dead.’
    Caravaggio let his head drop back against the wall, his eyes shut. Onorio frowned at him. Something in his friend’s stillness reverberated like the tremors he had experienced when he was
in Naples once and the earth had jolted the walls of the buildings.
    ‘Fillide found her in bed with Ranuccio,’ Mario said. ‘Before he could stop her, she slashed Prudenza and the girl bled to death. Ranuccio put her body in the street so that
Fillide won’t have to go to trial. He doesn’t want to lose two of his whores in one day.’
    Onorio held up his hand to silence Mario. The little Sicilian was always heedless of the emotions of those around him. He watched the candle’s trembling touch over Caravaggio’s
immobile features. His compassion endures even after a decade and a half in the Evil Garden , he thought. Michele can’t hide it from me, though the rest of Rome thinks he’s the
Devil himself.
    Caravaggio rubbed his face and moaned like a man waking from sleep. Then he looked with disgust around the inn.
    Onorio watched his friend close himself up. Still, the girl’s death had broken him open for just a moment and some softness had leaked out. She meant that much to him. But he’ll
have to block it out now. If you can’t do that, you have to get out of the Evil Garden. ‘This quarter is crawling with whores who’ll pose for you,’ he said. ‘Find
another one, Michele. One with more sense, this time.’
    ‘May God bless her. He has taken her to His care.’
    ‘It’s only in stories that whores are redeemed, Michele.’
    ‘What about me? How am I to be redeemed?’
    Mario giggled, but Onorio’s response was quick and wondering. ‘Your painting, Michele. Your painting is from God, and it will redeem you.’
    Caravaggio’s