Such shouting around the pope’s desk was constant in those days. Sometimes it was Felice, sometimes a company of cardinals, and sometimes a squadron of staff, advisers, or friends, but they were always there, trying to talk the pope out of marching himself off to war; the only battle the Vicar of Christ was supposed to lead was for men’s souls, they said. But Pope Julius II always imagined himself the way Michelangelo cast him in bronze: a warrior astride a stallion, bravely marching into battle. And now that Cardinal Alidosi had sent word that the very city where Michelangelo’s bronze equestrian stood—Bologna—was joining the French to rebel against papal rule, the pope wanted to march in on a real stallion—as opposed to the sculpted sort—and prove that his authority was as indomitable as that bronze. His advisers disagreed:

“If you die, the French will march on Rome.”

“The Florentines will make a grab for the papacy.”

“Romans will riot.”

“Construction on St. Peter’s will end.” (That was Bramante, sì certo.)

My men had similar fears. “We aren’t half finished with the first room. If this pope dies, a new pope will tear down our work and start again,” whispered Lorenzo Lotto as we huddled on top of the scaffolding while the pope and Cardinal de’ Medici went around and around again down on the floor (“Per favore, Your Holiness, send me in your place.”

“And let you get all the acclaim? The other Florentines would have me deposed and you on the throne before the gunpowder cooled.”)

“If the pope’s killed, we’ll probably be buried beneath, alongside the accursed Spaniard,” whispered Sodoma, nervously peering down as if a ghost might rise up through the floorboards.

Guillaume added, “Unless the new pope is French, bien sûr. Then, you’ll have to beg me for a job.”

“Lord, help me and keep this pope from war,” whispered Lotto with folded hands.

I patted him on the shoulder. “As Aristotle said, fear is nothing but pain arising from the anticipation of evil. Don’t fear, mio amico. I see the real purpose behind all this fighting.” I passed out blank pieces of paper to my men. “This is the Fates of old helping us with our fresco.”

“Call a priest,” muttered Lotto. “We have a demon of delusion amongst us.”

I ignored him. “What’s happening before us is a philosophical debate: What does it mean to be pope? Can the Church and violence coexist? What’s the meaning of morality? What we need to do is capture the rhythm of this debate for our Philosophy wall.” I pulled up my sleeves, rolled my wrist, and set to work.