I carried my torch to the end of the scaffolding until I found the prophet named on the ceiling as “Zacharias.” Minor prophet from the Old Testament. Predicted the rebuilding of the Temple, I believe. That figure—like its sister the Delphic sibyl—was superb: a large-scale prophet sitting in profile, reading a book. He was full, sculptural, real . . . “What about this fresco do you think needs fixing?”

“Whose face is in that painting?” That was not Bramante speaking; that was the voice of a woman. I peered over the scaffolding, but I was too high up to see anything except a black void. The woman called up again, “Whose features did Michelangelo use for Zechariah?” That’s when I recognized her voice: Felice della Rovere.

I raised my torch toward that figure on the ceiling. Bald head, heavy-lidded eyes, large bell of a nose. “Pope Julius?”

“Pope Julius,” she repeated with a tone of confirmation. “Michelangelo is mocking my father.”

“Ah . . .” I stammered. “It’s a time-honored tradition to include a portrait of the patron in the work. This is an honor, not an insult.”

“And do you also think it’s an honor”—I didn’t have to see Felice’s face to hear the sneer in her tone—“for that boy to be flipping my father the fig?”

I squinted back up at that fresco. Michelangelo had included two boys—too old to be putti, too young to be men—peering over the prophet’s shoulder. The boy in the back had his arm slung around the shoulders of the boy in front, so that his hand was in the foreground. I stood on my toes to get a closer look and stifled a laugh. That boy’s hand was resting in a loose fist with his thumb pushing out from between his first and second fingers, quite possibly flipping the fig at Pope Julius II. “I don’t think that’s what this is,” I called down in a cheery tone. “He’s only balling up his hand a little, a very common gesture for . . .”

“If you’re defending him,” Felice called up, “I’ll climb up there and push you off.”

“I’m not.” I sighed. “It’ll never be visible from the floor. Even if it’s what you say, it’ll be Michelangelo’s own private joke.”

“Joke!” Felice screeched.

I heard rustling. “Signora Orsini, please calm down,” Bramante hissed. Was he having to restrain that woman to keep her from charging at me?

“It was probably done in a fit of anger that he now regrets, my lady.” I tried for a conciliatory tone. “If he knew it upset you, he’d change it.” Of course, he’d change it. If the pope heard about such an offense, it was enough for excommunication. Or worse.

“Fix it, please, Raphael,” pleaded Bramante. “I’d do it myself but I’m not good at painting hands.”