However, he didn’t flick me away. No, he waved away Pia first. Then Bramante.

I caught my breath as their sketchbooks splashed into the Tiber. There were only two of us left: me and Michelangelo. He’d drawn a torso of one of Chigi’s ancient marble statues—no legs, no arms, no head—but, as always, despite its brokenness, there was life under that skin.

Hands shaking, I turned my drawing around. Forget the lines, try to memorize the energy, the feeling, the spark. Don’t pay attention to the cardinal taking Michelangelo’s drawing in his hands, pulling it close, lips parting. Focus on my drawing, tuck it into my heart and prepare to run back to the studio and capture it before the flame smokes out.

“Raphael.”

I looked up. Cardinal de’ Medici, holding Michelangelo’s drawing limply in his hand, looked as shocked as everyone else at the word that had come out of his mouth.

“What did you say?” the pope asked.

“I swear on my father’s grave, Il Magnifico himself, that Raphael Santi has made the best drawing.” Cardinal de’ Medici crumpled up Michelangelo’s drawing and threw it into the river.

Chigi clapped—“We have a winner!”—and the crowd erupted as a servant pressed my sketchbook into my hands, and the duke threw his crown in the air, and Margherita clapped, and the pope repeated, “Santi, Santi, Santi!” Michelangelo’s nose flared, and then he marched away from the river, disappearing beyond the torchlight.

I despise being so self-referential—I do—but have you ever seen my St. Michael panel? Either version—the large or small one—will do. They both depict a winged St. Michael vanquishing a foe—dragon or Satan, depending upon the version—but it’s that feeling of triumph upon which I want you to focus: legs strong, chin up, shoulders back. That was me, in that moment. I’d slayed Michelangelo in a drawing competition where I hadn’t even shown my best. So, when Bramante hugged me and whispered, “The Sistine will be yours in no time,” I believed him.

Chapter XXX

Chapter XXX