The woman put her hands on her hips, giving Orazio the evil eye. “A woman is about to die here, and you are discussing paints? It has the kiss of the devil to me. Making art of such evil things.” She crossed herself.
People around them began murmuring. They pointed at Artemisia’s sketch pad.
“Guarda!” said the woman to the others. “Look what she has drawn. The very likeness of the boy.”
“The terror in his eyes,” said the beggar next to her. “Just as he is, the very image.”
“See him turn away, the guards forcing him to look!” said a man who stunk of dog dung and piss, a leather tanner taking the day off from the vats to watch the execution along with all of Rome.
“This girl is an artist,” said a voice in a hushed tone. The others nodded, staring at Artemisia.
Warmth rushed up Artemisia’s spine and colored her face, fed by the observers’ attention. She knew she had captured Bernardo Cenci’s agony well because she had felt the emotion in her gut. Her hand had transformed what she saw and felt into truth on the paper.
She basked in the onlookers’ compliments. Other than her papa and mama, no one outside the Gentileschi household had recognized Artemisia as an artist before.
For the rest of Artemisia’s life she would savor that recognition, her appetite piqued. After that day, she would crave praise as a form of addiction.
“Runs more to witchcraft, to my thinking,” grumbled the first woman. “A girl that young who can make such images—”
“Come along, Artemisia,” said Orazio. “I see Caravaggio there ahead, right by the scaffold.”
They pushed their way through the crowd.
“I knew I’d see you here, Michele,” said Orazio, as he clasped Caravaggio’s shoulder.
Caravaggio turned to see his old friend and his daughter. “You brought Artemisia to witness this debacle?”
“She insisted,” lied Orazio. He pulled out his own small notebook and began sketching. “Look how the little brother Cenci suffers.”
“Bastards!” said Caravaggio. “Filthy fucking bastardi.”
Artemisia stared at Caravaggio—his swarthy face, mop of tangled black hair, and stocky build. But it was his keen black eyes that entranced her, eyes as sharp as a crow’s. She had seen the master on a number of occasions at Orazio’s bottega. He had borrowed props from her papa—the set of dark angel wings that had terrified her as a toddler and a Capuchin monk’s habit. But Maestro Caravaggio had ignored the girl, preferring to talk about art, brawling, and whores with her father.
Caravaggio felt her eyes studying him and turned to her, a curious look on his face.
Artemisia shifted her focus to the executions, her pencil moving again.
“I heard the father began raping her from a young age, the pezzo di stronzo!” whispered a grizzled man to his companion. He pinched savagely at a large wart on his face. “The piece of shit! What justice is this?”
Artemisia tugged on her papa’s tunic. She had to confirm her suspicions. “What is ‘rape,’ Babbo?” she asked. “Is it what dogs do in the street?”
“I’m sketching, daughter,” said her father, gruffly. “I will explain later. Leave me in peace.”
Artemisia puffed out her cheeks and then exhaled noisily in frustration. She looked at his page and saw poorly drawn figures. She shook her head. Her father was a gifted painter but she knew her own sketches were already better than his.
Artemisia pushed Caravaggio aside so she could better see the scaffold where Beatrice Cenci stood. The great painter swore, annoyed that a girl would dare touch him—move him!—when he noticed the intense look on her face.
“Is the girl all right?” Caravaggio asked her father. “Look at her, Orazio.”
“She is a sensitive child,” Orazio said, still stabbing at his sketch. “With more heart and conscience than our pope and clergy, the disgusting swine.”
“Perhaps you should take her home,” said Caravaggio, his eyes pinned on Artemisia. “She looks . . . haunted.”
Orazio shrugged, exasperated. “Of course she does. She is a painter too. She’ll remember this day for the rest of her life.”
Caravaggio didn’t answer. He nodded at Artemisia as she looked up from her sketch pad at last. “May I see?” he asked.
“Certo,” she said, showing him her sketches.
Caravaggio narrowed his eyes, examining her work. “You have the Tuscan blood in you,” he said. “You captured the emotion. Impressive.”
“Grazie, Maestro,” she said, still trying to draw the ever-changing scene. She craned her neck, annoyed at having to look around him.
“I never sketch before I paint,” he said. “Your drawings are good. More than good, Artemisia. Brava.”
“Grazie, Maestro,” she said again, though she wished he’d leave her alone to draw.
He said nothing more, though his dark eyes darted now and then at her sketch pad.
The September sun baked the stones of the piazza, reflecting the merciless heat. The people pressed closer to the scaffold, their body odors mingling in sour wafts.
No one could look away.
“Are you thirsty, child?” said a kind woman next to Artemisia. She extended a gourd of cool water.
Water beads had formed on the bumpy orange surface, smudged where the woman’s fingertips had gripped it. The image mesmerized Artemisia.
“Ragazza, drink. Don’t just stare at it.” She tipped the gourd gently against Artemisia’s lips.
She drank greedily. She had had no idea how thirsty she was.
“Poor child,” whispered another woman next to her. “Her father should tend to her.”
Caravaggio glanced at Artemisia, hearing this. Artemisia blinked, saying nothing. She turned back to watch Beatrice Cenci, pencil in her hand.
After the death of her brother, Beatrice betrayed no fear, no human sentiment, facing her imminent death. She walked to the executioner like a martyr, dignity in her bearing. Without struggle, she bared her neck.
“Innocent souls!” wailed an old woman. Other voices in the crowd shouted, “Certo! Gli innocenti!”
“Innocent lamb!” cried a fishmonger. “What justice is this?” He waved his arms wide, supplicating to the heavens.
“Shut up! You will be next, you fool,” said the man’s wife. “Stick to fish. What do you know of lambs?”
“Poor girl!” moaned a gray-haired woman in a ragged kerchief. “Spare that one’s life at least!”
The crowd hummed with dissention as the sun broiled overhead.
“Spare the girl! Spare the girl!” shouted Roman voices in unison.
Artemisia stopped sketching. She cocked her head, studying the young woman on the scaffold.
“Spare the girl! Spare the girl!” she cried along with all of Rome.
Beatrice Cenci lifted her head only enough to gaze out to her defenders, the mob who had gathered to witness her death.
Then she looked directly at Artemisia.
The sword lifted.
Artemisia screamed, her pencil and sketches tumbling to the ground.
The executioner’s blade sliced through Beatrice’s neck as the Romans gasped. A spurt of blood stained the swordsman’s tunic.