“You have no training in art, no eye, no style. Uncle”—the duke hit that word hard—“you should appoint me judge.”

“You obviously have a preference.” Alidosi gestured to me.

The duke replied, “And you obviously prefer the Florentines.”

Alidosi flushed red as mulberry. “You only support the pope because he’s your uncle.”

“You only support him because he’s your—”

“Basta!” Pope Julius rapped his walking stick.

Everyone fell into strangled silence. The duke’s fingers rested on the hilt of his sword, as Alidosi reached into his bookbinding bag—I assume there was a dagger inside, although he never pulled it.

Thank the Virgin Mary that the pope broke the tension: “Cardinal de’ Medici shall judge.”

“But, Uncle,” the duke protested, “Medici is obviously biased for Florence.”

“Cardinal de’ Medici has more education in art than all of us combined,” said Alidosi, looking satisfied with the pope’s choice.

Cardinal de’ Medici, dressed as Bacchus—white toga, green grapes in his hair, goblet of dark red wine sloshing—stepped between the two. “Don’t worry, duke, I’ve had enough of my alter ego’s drink to make me tell the truth.” He took a gulp of wine.

Everyone except the duke laughed. “I don’t care how drunk you are, Medici, by being such a patriot to your country, you turn traitor on ours.”

“Wonderful,” said Chigi, clapping his hands. “Cardinal de’ Medici, I would be honored to have you judge my competition.” Chigi caught my eye and shrugged: Too bad. We gave it a go.

My stomach turned, and I could no longer recall a single drawing in my sketchbook. Cardinal de’ Medici, loyal Florentine, man who’d grown up alongside Michelangelo as his brother would never choose me. At least I had the one drawing of Guillaume. I tried not to grip it so tightly that it ripped. The Medici cardinal first flicked away Sodoma, holding a drawing of a giraffe. As a servant dropped Sodoma’s sketchbook over the balcony—plunk into the water—I felt sick, but then everything got worse—much worse—when Chigi took Sodoma’s drawing and tossed it into the river, too. It fluttered into the river like falling ash.

“He doesn’t get to keep his best?” I blurted.

Chigi shrugged. “Out with the dishes.”

Jezebel, I silently cursed and flipped my drawing around to memorize every line, fold, and shadow. I willed Cardinal de’ Medici to take his time moving down the line, flicking away Lotto, Guillaume, the sugar sculptor. He didn’t dismiss Bramante straightaway—the architect had caught an impressive angle of the colonnade of Chigi’s courtyard. Nor Pia, the lace-maker’s daughter, who’d captured Sodoma’s fairy costume quite dramatically. Medici made it to me too quickly. I had no choice but to turn my drawing around for judgment. Medici’s face was impassive. His hand went up—the noose around my neck tightened—and his fingers flicked.