Before I could argue, Chigi said, “Look there,” and pointed to a crowd of servants by the Tiber. They leaned toward the river, and then back out again, repeating the motion with grunts, in and out like rowing a boat. What were they doing? Hauling in nets? The fish in those nets caught the moonlight and shimmered white.

“I thought you were a banker,” I said. “I didn’t know you also managed a fishing business.”

Chigi chuckled. “Do those sound like fish to you?”

The fish did make the strangest tinkling sound, like . . . like . . . what was it? Porcelain against porcelain? I squinted. Mary Magdalena . . . was that . . . ? Those servants weren’t hauling up a catch of fish, were they? No. They were hauling up net after net of Chigi’s dishes.

Rome is a city built on deception. Marble covering stone, gold flake brightening dulled paint, nothing as it seems. Consider the city’s founding legend: twins Romulus and Remus born the sons of a Vestal Virgin and the god of war, but their uncle king, perceiving the twins as a threat to his rule, ordered them murdered as children. But a river god saved them, and a she-wolf nursed them through their infancy. Throughout their youth, the twins were unaware that they were at the center of a complex drama of kings and gods, but when they learned the truth, the betrayed twins set out for a war that eventually led Romulus to kill his brother Remus for control of Rome. Yes, the story is more complicated than that, and most histories don’t focus on the deception part, but that’s the root of the rot, isn’t it? A lie like that can bring down men’s souls. I’m not comparing such an epic deceit to Chigi’s prank—a few dishes not truly tossed into a river to trick a pope into playing a game to hire an artist—but it all felt like peeling paint to me, the beginnings of a blight that could eventually destroy the entire facade.

Chigi didn’t seem to see the danger. With a wink, he said, “Change perception . . .”

And Imperia finished his thought: “Change the world.”

“When you’re ready for paint, not politics,” said Chigi, circling his finger in the air, “these walls will be waiting for you.” They walked away, leaving me to stand at that balcony alone and watch the servants fishing out each dish, serving spoon, and goblet (I assume the banker lost a few gilded forks and toothpicks in the ruse). I was wondering which perception Chigi thought I should change when someone once again leaned against the balcony beside me, looking out at the servants hauling in those nets of dishes.