A Portrait of Sin by Newton Webb

A Splatterpunk Short Story: The sunlit alleys of sixteenth-century Florence hide a dark and tragic struggle as a brilliant painter battles a devastating creative block.

A Portrait of Sin by Newton Webb

1st November 1517, Florence, Giovanni Rossi

Giovanni sat patiently on a bench outside Bishop Lorenzo's office. The imposing oak frame held a sturdy door, reinforced with iron studs. This far into the interior, the great cathedral, Santa Maria del Fiore, looked more like a fortress than a temple.

Standing on either side of the door and staring straight ahead were the soldiers of God. Dressed in immaculate doublets and hose, their sumptuous clothing must have cost more than Giovanni could earn in a year. He glanced at the enormous halberds held to attention. The oversized axe heads seemed incongruous in such a religious establishment. Tapping his knee nervously, Giovanni hummed to the music echoing from the nave, only to have both guards turn and glare at him in unison. He instantly fell silent.

Just when the combination of nerves and inaction was on the cusp of driving him insane, a small bell sounded, and the guards opened the double doors in front of him, revealing a huge wooden desk on a raised dais with Bishop Lorenzo sitting behind it. Despite his seated posture, the elevation of the desk made him loom over Giovanni, who bowed immediately, keeping his eyes on the floor.

Bishop Lorenzo regarded him for a long moment, taking a sip of wine. "You painted that?" 

He glanced up to follow the bishop's finger. "Yes, your Excellency." His heart pounded at the sight of one of his works being owned by such a renowned and revered figure.

The Bishop leaned forward, his eyes shrewd. "It's very good."

"Thank you, your Excellency."

"Not many people know about you yet. That is useful to me. I think you have great talent. Wine?" The bishop pointed to a decanter.

Giovanni shook his head, his eyes remaining respectfully on the floor. "No thank you, your Excellency."

"The Pope is visiting Florence; it behoves us to present him with favours of the highest stature. His Excellency Bishop Guido has commissioned Piero di Cosimo, and the most Reverend and Illustrious Lord Giulio de' Medici has commissioned Andrea del Sarto." The Bishop's expression grew sour. "I had commissioned Fra Bartolomeo to paint me a picture of the Virgin Mary. But, the Lord had a greater need of him, and courtesy of the fever, he will no longer be able to complete his commission, or any further commissions."

"I'm sorry for your loss. I've seen many of his works. He was a master," Giovanni mumbled.

"Yes, well, I'm expecting even more from you. I will pay you two hundred florins, but it must be your best work, and it must be delivered here, in my office, no later than the 22nd of November."

Two HUNDRED florins?

Giovanni was struck dumb by the amount, even as his heart swelled with praise. He struggled to earn thirty florins in a year. Furthermore, if word got out that the Pope owned one of his paintings...

"If you are late, or the painting isn't up to scratch, I risk being humiliated. That won't bode well for you. In fact—" Bishop Lorenzo paused to make sure Giovanni was paying attention, "It will be construed as blasphemous. I will have you excommunicated, and your heresy will be punished in jail. Do you understand?"

Giovanni nodded excitedly. "Yes, your Excellency. I won't let you down."

The bishop sucked air through his blackened teeth. "See that you don't." He popped a honeyed almond into his mouth and crunched loudly on it. "You have just over three weeks. I suggest you get started."

Rising, Giovanni nodded and bowed, backing out of the office, almost tripping over his feet as he did so.

"Thank you, your Excellency. Thank you so much."

The bishop didn't answer him, simply waving a dismissive hand.

15th November 1517, Florence, Giovanni Rossi

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A growl of frustration rolled up from deep within his throat as he rose to open the door. But all his irritation vanished as he opened it and looked into the smiling face of his love.

"Hello." She kissed him on the lips and danced into his studio. She turned her nose up at the mess as she searched for a spare surface on which to place one of her father's loaves. "You've been busy."

The studio was surrounded by sketches. Whenever Giovanni ran low on paper, he'd turn to drawing on the walls with charcoal. Paper was a terrible price, particularly quality art paper.

He nodded at her and shrugged. "I can't quite find the right concept. I can see the Virgin Mary in my mind, but it isn't focused, and I haven't found the pose or the expression. I keep experimenting, but it's just a torrent of—" he tailed off and looked at the floor glumly. "Well, shit, really."

Isabella punched him on the shoulder. "Don't be ridiculous. Pick one." She turned to one of his sketches. "This one looks good."

"It's not that easy," Giovanni tore the sheet from her hands. "I can't just give the bishop any old painting. It has to be perfect."

"You are being silly. This is just a crisis of faith. God shines through all your works, Vanni." She kissed his cheek.

He shook her off. "It really isn't that easy, Bella." Giovanni sniffed angrily. "I told you this painting is for the Pope. What I didn't tell you was that if he didn't like it, I'll be excommunicated. I could be imprisoned or worse for heresy."

There was silence. Isabella stared at him in horror.

"Well? Say something, say—"

"Why, Vanni? Why in God's name would you agree to such terms?" Isabella was furious, but the fear in her eyes contrasted with the anger in her posture. "You stupid oaf!"

"What do you mean, why? Are you simple?" Vanni backed away from her. "Your father won't let us get married until I've made something of myself. I did this for you!"

"Don't put this on me! This was pride. This was greed." Tears fell from her eyes. "You idiot. You stupid, pig-headed fool."

"Enough. I've never had a problem like this before. I thought I'd have the picture painted within a week."

"And you didn't stop to consider what would happen if you didn't?" Isabella asked. Her anger fell to despair. "We must leave the city."

"Leave? Oh, your father would love that, wouldn't he?" Giovanni snorted. "It would prove to him that I'm the failure he always thought I was. As if being a baker—"

"A master baker, Vanni, titled by the city itself." She walked to the door.

"Where are you going?" he called after her.

"Home, to where my baker parents have a measure of civility."

Desperation clung to his voice. "You are leaving me?"

She turned, her eyes red. "How can I leave? You’ve already pushed me away. Find me when you’re ready to apologise."

18th November 1517, Florence, Giovanni Rossi

Giovanni couldn’t sleep. For over two weeks now, he’d battled with his commission. Isabella hadn't returned. He knew he should go to her, but despair shrouded his thoughts. He didn’t want to approach her as a failure. His studio was lined with a thousand ideas, but nothing he could use.

Ten days.

More than enough time to paint the Virgin Mary if he found a splash of direction. He needed inspiration, he needed a muse! Charcoal sketches littered his studio from where he’d started drafting and then rejected idea after idea. Two weeks ago, he'd seen florins in his future. Now, he saw bars.

Or the hangman's noose, he thought morosely.

He had blown most of his saved coin on paper and canvas and reused it so much that it had all turned a grubby dark grey. He needed more.

His imagination had always been vivid, his mind a jewelled swarm of innovation. Before it had almost been a hobby, he made just enough for rent, and when times were lean, he could always rely on Isabella’s father for free bread, much as he hated accepting his charity. It was given willingly enough, but Giovanni knew what her father really thought in private and he felt desperately unworthy.

His work had never had consequences before. Fantastical riches or death in prison, those were the two paths stretching in front of him. This should motivate him to unparalleled heights, but a crippling fear of failure instead paralysed him.

The days and sleepless nights had bled into one another. He was a useless wreck.

At one point, he'd risen, inspiration lighting up his mind, only to realise that the ground-breaking idea which had sparked his fervour was in fact a recollection of Botticelli’s ‘Madonna of the Book’. He swore, cursing the people he once saw as heroes. In order to make his name, Giovanni had to create a masterpiece that eclipsed them all.

When dawn came, Giovanni stood naked in the morning light in front of his easel. The blank canvas mocked him. His charcoal stick twitched nervously in his grip. He paced up and down, scratching his chin. His normally smooth face was marred with a patchy beard. This painting had to be perfect. It would define him as a person. He’d lost track of the date. The bishop was no longer on his mind.The only thing that mattered was his masterpiece. Giovanni picked up his cup of water and drained it. He wished it was wine. Taking a deep breath, he strode up to the canvas and held aloft his charcoal. He stood in front of it for several moments before deflating in an explosive gasp and retreating to an old battered wooden chair in the corner.

I’m a fraud.

He glanced at the canvas. The walls surrounding it were covered in his previous works. They all seemed tawdry and derivative. Unlike its usual state of order, his studio was in a formless, chaotic condition. It was never as clean as his beloved would like, but now the room had grown to resemble his state of mind. Both were unkempt, filthy, and hideous. He’d been a fool to think he could make a masterpiece to outshine the painters that had come before him.

Think, think, think!

Throwing the charcoal on the floor, he collapsed onto a wooden crate, his hands covering his face. Who was he to even attempt to stand tall alongside such giants as Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, or Botticelli?

I’m finished.

He couldn’t even look at the canvas anymore.

I’m going insane.

Standing up, he grabbed his jacket.

He slammed the door shut, locking it behind him as he blinked in the sudden bright sunlight. Taking a deep breath, he ignored the foetid stink around him and set off down the cobbled streets. He knew he should go and see Isabella, but shame led him instead towards his local tavern, The Gallo Nero. It was tucked away in the backstreets of the Oltrarno district, surrounded by tall, haphazardly built tenements which always seemed to be on the cusp of collapse.

A change of perspective will do me good.

Giovanni hadn’t left the studio in a week. The sound of jeering greeted him from the windows; it was as if they knew he was arriving. Poking his head in through the doorway, he was grateful to find it was due to the performance of one of the local poets. Giovanni listened to him as he recited a rather ill-thought-out piece criticising a popular local politician.

Buying the cheapest cup of wine he could find, Giovanni found himself a seat at the back, and nursed his wine, illuminated by the warm glow of the candlelight. He watched with admiration as the poet endured a barrage of hatred. The man continued his set, ignorant of the turbulent crowd.

When the poet had finished, he accepted a cup of wine from the barmaid and escaped to one of the rear tables.

Giovanni rose and approached him. The poet looked at him warily. Smiling, Giovanni motioned to the seat. “That was a brave set,” he said gingerly. “Did you expect the audience to react that way?”

The poet laughed nervously. “Nobody threw a jug at me this time. That was a huge and most welcome improvement.”

“So you knew that your poetry was going to be ridiculed?” Giovanni pressed. “How do you endure it?”

The poet paused, taking a long lingering drink of his wine. He considered the matter for a moment. “An artist's job is to find truth and portray it through art. I am reciting my truth, not theirs. It doesn’t matter if they don’t believe me. In fact, if they believed me, I would be talking to the wrong crowd. I wouldn’t have any minds to change.”

“You must have incredibly thick skin.”

The poet's eyes locked onto Giovanni with a fanatical fervour. “No, no. It’s not that. It just feels like something I have to do. Imagine a man was going to drown, but didn’t realise it.” Speckles of spittle erupted from his mouth as he ranted. He hastily wiped his lips with his sleeve. “Do you let nature take its course, or do you do everything you can to save him?”

“I… I am not sure. I would like to think that I’d save him. I’d make the effort at least.” He changed tack and introduced himself, clasping forearms with the man. “Giovanni, I’m an artist.”

The poet gave a look of relief as if that explained Giovanni’s bedraggled appearance. “Well met, I’m Angelo, a martyr to truth.” He waved for a jug of wine.

Giovanni shook his head. “I couldn’t afford to buy you one back. I only came here for one. I don’t even know if I can afford the rent this month. My latest project is—”

“This is my father’s money. He is rich, powerful, and greatly embarrassed by my works.” A cheeky grin crossed Angelo’s face. “Help me shame him a little more by spending his coin.”

“Well, as it is for such a noble cause, I’d be honoured.”

The wine arrived, along with a small loaf of bread. Giovanni chewed the bread carefully, checking for pieces of millstone. They were halfway through the jug before Angelo asked him about his latest project.

Giovanni screwed up his eyes in frustration. “Please, I can’t even think about it. I can’t sleep. I’m stressed.” He opened his eyes, his expression one of desperation. “I fled the studio. I fear I’ve lost my talent. No, not just that, my mind also. Before this month, the paint always seemed to flow through me. I was offered the biggest commission of my life and all of a sudden, it just dried up.Now my mind is as blank as the canvas. It should be simple, a picture of the Virgin Mary, but do I have her holding a child? A lamb? Does she wear an expression of serenity or is she warm and welcoming?” He accepted a top-up from the wine jug. “This painting should be the making of me, but instead, it is my undoing. If I don’t complete it, my life is over and I face jail.”

“Forget about the consequences,” Angelo said, placing his hand on Giovanni’s. “It sounds to me that instead of a creative block, you are struggling to find exactly what truth you wish the painting to convey.”

“The truth?” Giovanni muttered. “I need something a little more substantial than that.”

“Truth is the most powerful force in all creation.” Angelo raised his cup.

“Maybe. If truth can get me started on my painting, then I’ll drink to that.”

“My friend, another jug and we’ll see what truths reveal themselves tonight.” Angelo waved the empty jug to the barmaid. “Love is truth, passion is truth. Find it and your painting will paint itself. Put your body, your heart, your soul into it. Your painting of the Virgin Mary will be an expression of you.”

“That’s pig shit,” Giovanni laughed.

“See, you’ve uncovered the truth already. You are a natural!”

They clashed their cups together, sloshing wine onto the roughly hewn wooden table. For the first time since the commission had been issued, Giovanni laughed, even if it was tinged with mania and nervous exhaustion, it felt good.

19th November 1517, Florence, Giovanni Rossi

Giovanni lay on the stuffed mattress in the corner of the studio, his mouth dry and his stomach turbulent. Giovanni liked wine, but he could count the number of times he had drunk to excess on the fingers of his hands.

He tried to return to sleep, but the sound of chatter rose up from the alley below his window and tormented him, joining the endless pealing of the bells. Levering himself up with a groan, Giovanni tried to focus his vision. At least the wine had knocked him out, even if it was only for a few precious hours. He levered himself up and—

A sketched outline of the Virgin Mary lay before him on the canvas; the charcoal showed her with her arms outstretched as if to embrace the viewer. Her expression was one of placid divinity. His hangover paled in significance as a broad grin spread across Giovanni’s face.

He had no memory of getting home, let alone of starting on the painting, but it didn’t matter; inspiration had struck. What now? He looked at his collection of pigments. None of them seemed appropriate. Then his eyes locked on the nearly empty jug of wine. He must have brought it home last night. It was nearly all sediment, scarcely worth drinking. He emptied the wine into a dirty cup and drained off the liquid into his mouth, leaving behind the solids. His stomach roiled in protest, but the noises in his head quietened a little.

He looked at the thick layer of sediment settling below the remaining wine then reached for his pestle and mortar to grind the gritty solids into a usable powder. No, it was still too liquid. He ground rust flakes into it and watched as the colour turned into a beautiful, dark red. He added linseed oil to bind it and returned to his canvas. The red gave gravitas to the Virgin Mary’s gown as the paint slid across the sketched outline. As the contents of his cup ran dry, he hastily gathered together the meagre coins he had left, and raced to the nearest wine seller. Such was his haste that the majestic spires and domes of Florence might as well not have existed. He had to have more wine; he might even be able to finish his masterpiece, his magnum opus, in time for the bishop.

He returned with two large wax-stoppered, earthenware jugs of wine. Breaking the seal and swilling a large measure into his cleanest dirty cup, he took a swig. The foul vinegary taste turned his stomach; the wine might as well be posca, but it loosened his inhibitions and freed him from his more earthly concerns. Giovanni used a more delicately measured portion to mix more paint, using the resulting deep red to block out sections of the canvas.

---

The painting occupied his mind so much that he almost didn’t hear the knocking on the door. It had blended into nothingness, like the rest of the background noise. It was only when it escalated to a thumping that Giovanni was shaken of his trance-like state.

He looked at the door, confused, then turned back to the painting in a moment of indecision before another barrage of pounding drove him to throw open the door, revealing the furious face of his landlord, Bartolomeo.

“I could hear you in there! Don’t think you can hide from me.” He looked Giovanni up and down and sniffed with disgust at the artist's unwashed stench. “You were supposed to pay me my rent yesterday.”

“The rent?” Giovanni murmured before suddenly becoming animated. “The rent, yes. I’ve almost finished this painting, then I’ll be paid by the bishop. When I’m paid, I can give you six months rent in advance! I just need a little more time.”

“More time? Who do you think I am? The money, all six months worth, will either be on my table by tomorrow evening, or I’ll be turfing your disgusting hide out onto the street.” The landlord shook his head, his expression filled with revulsion. “It’ll be good riddance.Look at my walls, you animal. When I come for the rent, these walls had better be immaculate. And what’s more, you stink!”

Giovanni looked down at his painting shirt and realised it had been three days since he had bathed or washed. His anxious face cracked in a nervous smile. “Yes, Signor Bartolomeo.” He bobbed his head, his hands shaking with a desperate need to return to his work. “Of course, Signor, you can trust me.”

Turning away, Bartolomeo muttered angrily under his breath, leaving Giovanni to slam the door shut and race back to his painting. Two more days to complete his project. This morning he’d woken up gazing into the eyes of Death, but now, now he was painting. He was alive once more, and for the first time since he’d started, he felt confident that there was every chance that he would remain that way. Giovanni paced back and forth as he regarded the blocked out areas, the sketched image, and wondered how he would follow it.

Howling in frustration, he picked up his cup and hurled it at the wall when he realised that his puffed-up landlord, Bartolomeo Gallo, had derailed his train of thought. The cheap clay shattered on the floor, coating the wall with red wine. The liquid ran down, leaving the impression of a blood stain.

Gold? A gold-coloured halo?

He laughed hysterically at the thought, falling to his knees. A tear fell from one eye. Perhaps sleep would help? No, his turbulent mind wouldn’t let him sleep.

Giovanni considered the painting. He had to finish it. It had to be a masterpiece or the Bishop’s wrath would fall upon him.

Maybe Isabella would run away with me?

He angrily dismissed the thought. Even if she’d abandon her family, the bishop’s men would just stop them at the gate.

Giovanni gnawed at his knuckle. The skin was already torn from his nervous habit, his nails had been reduced to the quick. He picked up a cup of water and gulped it down desperately, before lying back and covering his eyes with his arm.

21st November 1517, Florence, Giovanni Rossi

Once again Giovanni paced up and down the studio. He was dressed only in his nightshirt as he padded across the floorboards. “It just needs some changes, something to set it apart, something special to make it shine,” he mumbled to himself, scratching the side of his head. He’d made no progress since he’d blocked out the image with red. It was still just a glorified sketch. Giovanni hadn't slept for over two days now. His hands shook. He felt nauseous from exhaustion. He had tried to sleep, but fear and anxiety kept his brain spinning like a loom. 

Thud. Thud. Thud.

He contemplated ignoring it, but curiosity and frustration at his work overwhelmed him, and he went to the door. Opening it, he saw the furious face of his landlord and, panicking, immediately tried to shut it again.

“Try to close the door on me, would you?” The landlord clouted him on the side of his head. “Look at the state of you.”

“I’m sorry, I, I just—I’m so close to finishing.” Giovanni rubbed his bruised temple as he backed away, scattering broken pottery with his stumbling gait.

The landlord advanced on him, his eyes fiery. “Close?” He looked at the painting and sneered. “I might not be an artist, but it looks to me as though you’ve barely started.”

Giovanni tapped him politely on his shoulder. “Please, one more day. Just one.” He held his hands up, pleading.

“One more day? It’s taken you nearly a month to make this—this waste of canvas.” The landlord shook off Giovanni. “No, you are getting out right now. You and all this horse dung, starting with that—” He marched up to the painting with his arms outstretched.

“—No!” Giovanni leapt onto the landlord's back.

“You dare?” The landlord tossed Giovanni’s weak, sleep-deprived form back into the table. His jars crashed to the floor and shattered. His expensive pigments ran into one another, becoming unusable. He turned to look down at Giovanni. “Who do you think you—” But blood burbled out of the man’s mouth.

“Oh God. Oh, saints preserve me.” Giovanni looked down at the knife in his hand; he had no recollection of grabbing it. As he pulled it clear from under the landlord's ribs, the man’s corpse slumped down onto him, bleeding out onto the floor with a rich, lurid flow of crimson. He was transfixed, briefly, by the sight. “No, no, wait!” Giovanni searched around for an intact bowl, his eyes wide at the sight of the beautiful colours pouring from his oppressor's chest. Realising this wasn’t working, he tore off his nightshirt and held it over the knife wound, then slit the man’s wrist. The red flow efficiently filled the bowl. It was a fitting substitute for the pigments the man had ruined.

He barely recognised his new status as a murderer. He was too busy looking at the painting with fresh eyes. Taking a large measure of blood, he smoothed it over a flat tablet, then watched as it matured into a dark ruddy brown. Scraping off the dry flakes, he ground them into a thick paste. It took repeated efforts to get enough of the dry powder, until he saw the blood in the bowl was thickening too in the sweltering summer heat. He left the bowl to season as he worked with his new pigments, mixing them with linseed oil and then applying them to the canvas. The picture seemed to grow with a new sense of life as he feverishly worked on it, rescuing what pigments he could from the floor. As the landlord died of blood loss, Giovanni heard the corpse's bowels loosen.

More pigments.

He looked up at the painting. The Virgin Mary was smiling down at him. 

Did I paint her smiling?

He couldn’t remember, he no longer cared about details. Giovanni’s exhausted frame was filled with nervous energy as his brush played across the canvas, detailing the Virgin Mary. Her eyes looked back at him, beseeching him to finish his work. He obeyed lovingly as he stood naked before her. His hands, though shaking, seemed to paint with a precision he’d never known before. As the painting began to flesh out, he could hear the unmistakable sound of hymns from somewhere outside. Or was it inside? Pausing for a moment, he tried to listen to the words, but while sounding familiar, they remained incomprehensible, their meaning always just on the edge of understanding. He capered around his studio, laughing with ecstatic joy at the sheer clarity that drove him. When his ears itched, he returned to painting, letting the hauntingly beautiful music flow through him.

The image itself seemed to shimmer and move, responding to his brush strokes as if they were the touch of a lover. Sweat ran down his forehead as he brushed it out of his eyes with his grubby arm. The painting, under the illumination of his remaining candles, approached fruition. His brush was down to the highlighting now. The canvas seemed to shift under his fevered touch.

22nd November 1517, Florence, Giovanni Rossi

The dawn sun rose, flooding his studio with sunlight. An exhausted Giovanni lay sleeping on top of his bed blankets. His sleep was so deep that when he woke, his back was in agony from remaining so long in the same coma-like position. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, he felt exhaustion running deep through his bones.

I've done it. I did it!

A broad smile crossed his face as he stretched. Looking at the window, he could see that the sun was almost at its peak. With just hours to go, he’d managed to complete the Pope’s commission. He had a future now. He would have wealth! No more thoughts of prison and he could marry his beloved with her father’s blessing.

I must apologise to Isabella. She’ll understand.

With a grunt, he realised that the Bishop would be expecting him to bring the painting to him immediately.

He sat up with an urgent start. 

His eyes instinctively sought out his magnum opus.

Staggering out of bed, he crashed to the floor as his legs took a while to wake up. 

Rising, he took in the image of his painting, and saw it for what it really was for the very first time. In the sober light of day, he looked aghast at his monstrous creation.

"What have I done..."

“Whatever have I done?”

His hands fumbled for the knife, still stained with the remnants of his murderous crime.

He continued to stare at the painting, tears running down his cheeks.

Forgive me, Isabella.

The knife quivered in his hand before he gritted his teeth and drew it deep across his throat. Blood sprayed from his artery. He knelt on the floor praying for salvation as life fled from his cursed body.

22nd November 1517, Florence, Bishop Lorenzo

"Hurry," the Bishop urged his bearers as they manoeuvred his carriage through the Oltrarno district. He had no interest in the sun-bleached, terracotta buildings, nor the towering spires. Instead, he held an ornately stitched bag of dried herbs to his nose and rapped out his orders"Just make all speed, so that I can get out of this uncomfortable contraption and return to my palace."

A thump preceded a man's scream as one of his guards employed the butt of his spear on an unsuspecting member of the crowd. Bishop Lorenzo smiled cruelly as the carriage sped up once more.

He cursed the artist for making him come out to find him. He'd been ready to just send out his guards when a nagging suspicion crossed his mind.

What if another Bishop had poached him?

He'd be damned before he'd let someone else take the credit for the effort he'd personally deployed in finding an artist of Giovanni's talent.

The carriage drew to a halt. He disembarked without a word to his exhausted bearers, instead calling to his guards, "Surround the building. Nobody leaves." He gestured to his majordomo. "Alessandro, lead on."

The older man bobbed a bow and led the Bishop through the battered tenement building. The stairs creaked under their footsteps, filling the Bishop with fear that they wouldn't be able to hold his magnificent presence. He sniffed deeply at his herbal bag and hurried up the stairs, gasping at the unaccustomed exercise. A thrill ran down his spine in anticipation of seeing the painting. A grim smile crossed his face as he imagined what he'd do if Giovanni had failed him or betrayed him in any way. He would make that wretch scream—

—Majordomo Alessandro beat him to it. A scream of horror was followed by him backing out of what the Bishop assumed was Giovanni's apartment.

"Get out of my way," he huffed. He pushed past him only to pause as he surveyed the carnage. Black flies clustered all over the bodies. A constant buzzing filled the room. Before he could back out, he saw the painting and gasped. He approached it reverently with his arms outspread.

"Tell me, Alessandro, have you ever surveyed such beauty?" His eyes drank in the image of the Virgin Mary. The detailing was exquisite. She seemed almost alive.

"Beauty Monsignor? Surely you jest.This isn’t the Virgin Mary. It is the most vile, most heretical—"

"Silence!" With a solemnity that surpassed even the most theatrical of his sermons, he approached closer and drowned in the strong colours, the depth of its creative passion, the beauty of those seductive eyes. Those eyes... They almost seemed to follow him around as he paced. "The Pope will be delighted when I give him this; he'll summon me back to Rome for sure."

Had the Virgin Mary been smiling when he entered? 

She must have been. He shook his head and looked closer. Yes, a broad smile crossed her face. Her beauty was unparalleled.

His servant looked at him with unabashed horror. Before Alessandro could say anything, Bishop Lorenzo raised a hand. "When the oil dries, I want you to get some men and bring this masterpiece to my palace. If anyone scratches or smudges it, then I'll flay them alive." He looked around as if noticing the horrifying scene of ghoulish slaughter for the very first time, before raising his herb bag to his nose and leaving. “I must go choose a frame that will do it justice.”

"When you are done, torch the place. No-one must ever know what happened here."

If you enjoyed this free short story, then please consider Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1. My first collected works on Amazon containing sixteen short stories and novellas by Newton Webb.