The next day, the pope sent the cardinal away to try to convince the Bolognese not to join with the French against the papacy. In the days following, discussions of war escalated—how dare those French barbarians invade our peninsula, invade our cities, invade our women—and the pope looked older by the hour. Sometimes, I would hear the pope mutter, “I miss his counsel.”

I painted the cardinal in his official reds against a simple black background, no signs of wealth and power, using as inspiration Leonardo’s portrait of the silk merchant’s wife, signora Giocondo. Have you seen that portrait? Even though the maestro took it with him when he went to work for the French, and I don’t know what happened to it when Leonardo gave up the ghost, you must find a way to see it. Copies do not do it true. Is she smiling? Maybe not. I used that lady’s pose for Alidosi—body turned three-quarters, hands in lap, face toward the viewer, eyes catching our gaze—and, yes, I idealized his features, too; in reality, Alidosi’s hair was not so carefully trimmed, his face was thinner, his neck more wrinkled. I also used that portrait to perfect my handling of shade. Not that the portrait of the cardinal is dark. Cardinal Alidosi’s face and torso are flooded with light, but that only makes the shadows more distinct. I spent weeks working the shadows of that lowered hood resting on his back, those in his hair, and in the creases in his hat and sleeves. No wonder Leonardo spent a lifetime working shadows; after a hundred lifetimes, you could still lose yourself in another detail of shade.

When I finished the portrait of Cardinal Alidosi and presented it, His Holiness hung the painting in his bedchamber. I imagined him asking it for advice late at night.

When Felice asked what I’d learned about Alidosi during our sittings, I rebuffed her with quotes about the goodness of godly men, and when the duke wrote to ask if I noticed whether Alidosi drank red or white wine, I pretended that the letter had been lost and ignored it. I was proud for sidestepping their attempts to use me to work in the shadows. At the time, that portrait seemed inconsequential; an unimportant detail in my career, not worth mentioning. It was a brief encounter. A small panel picture. At the time, it meant nothing. Nothing.

Chapter XXXII

Chapter XXXII

Summer 1510

I forbid you to go.” Felice della Rovere’s voice cracked like cannon.

“If anyone in this family does the forbidding, it’s me,” fired back the pope.

“Since I’m a part of you, perhaps you should listen to me, then.”

“Oh, go back to your sewing, Felice.”