A Name in Blood by Matt Rees Read Free Book Online Page A

Sant’Atanasio, he cut onto the Via dei Greci, into the Evil Garden. The low morning sun struggled to drive the night from the narrow street. A
pair of beggars knelt at the rough grey step of a small house, their fingers steepled, beseeching charity. The young woman in the doorway held a three-year-old boy on her hip. The boy was naked,
half wrapped in a towel, as though the beggars’ call had interrupted his bathtime.
    Caravaggio approached, watching the girl. The house was dark behind her. Daylight seemed to penetrate the street just for her, illuminating the eggshell clarity of her neck and chest. She
crossed her bare feet and lifted onto her toes, pivoting from her hip to swing the boy as she listened to the old woman’s story. She let her head drop to her left so that her chin touched her
collarbone, as she looked down upon the kneeling woman with compassion and reassurance.
    He recognized her. It was the maid who had been cleaning the floor at del Monte’s palace. She’s turning her hips the opposite way to her shoulders , he noted, as though she
knows about the contrapposto pose. She has found the grace of classical form without anyone having to teach her an academic term for it.
    Caravaggio leaned against the wall by the threshold. The plaster had come away beside the chipped travertine of the doorway, exposing the brick beneath. He smiled and was surprised by how little
calculation there was in his open look.
    The girl seemed confused, recognizing him from the palace and wondering no doubt how he came to be at her door. The boy in her arms reached out for her sleeve. She kissed his brow and whispered
to him.
    Concentration replaced the smile on Caravaggio’s face. Maestro Leonardo had written that a fleeting moment reflects the inner spirit and impulse of man. A painter must capture such things,
more than the mere details of physical form. Memorize them right away, the great Florentine had said. As surely as if he held a sketchbook, Caravaggio traced the line of the girl’s neck,
etched the set of her foot with its ankle turned out, and shaded the soothing quiet of her eyes.
    He took out his purse and counted his coins. Ten scudi . The exact amount I’m supposed to pay Ranuccio . He fed the coins, thin as shavings of Parmesan, into his chamois purse
and tied the top. He put the money bag into the old beggarman’s palm. It’s a ridiculous sum to give in charity. One scudi buys two dozen chickens. Ten scudi is three
months’ rent. Still, I’ll tell Ranuccio that I gave the money to a homeless peasant, rather than let him have it.
    The girl in the doorway regarded Caravaggio with astonishment and suspicion. He smiled at her wariness. She’s a Roman for certain.
    The beggars kissed Caravaggio’s hands and hobbled away. The girl turned to go back into the dark room to finish the boy’s bath.
    Caravaggio caught her wrist with a light touch. He felt as though he had reached up into an altarpiece and caressed the Holy Mother. Yet he had never seen Maria painted with such force and
verity, not even the sweet Virgins of Raphael or the ambiguous maidens of Leonardo. ‘What’s your name?’ he said.
    She stroked the child’s chin with her forefinger. ‘What’s my name, little one?’
    ‘Auntie Lena.’ The boy clapped his hands, delighted to have answered correctly. She kissed his forehead.
    Caravaggio sensed the touch of her lips as if her kiss had been bestowed upon him. ‘I’ll come back, Lena.’ He went down the street, singing to himself the song he had played at
Fillide’s party:
    You are the star that shines
    More than any other lady.
    Do not leave me.

    ‘Keep looking up there. Don’t turn towards me.’ Caravaggio came through the black curtain and lifted Prudenza’s chin.
    ‘There’s nothing there, though, nothing to look at. Just a hole in your ceiling.’ She shook her hands. ‘All the blood’s gone out of them, holding them like this.
What’re you doing behind that