Achieving rhythm in a painting is difficult because—unlike perspective or realism—there’s no objective standard by which to judge. You must develop a feel for how your lines keep the eye moving. But although rhythm is mysterious, it’s also essential. A painting is a static thing, so without rhythm, a painting dies. I’d landed on a melodic rhythm for my Poetry wall, lively as the bubbling water flowing from the pool in the middle of Mount Parnassus. Some figures stood, some sat, some danced and played, some pointed and turned, their gestures and colors leading the eye around, up and down the mountain and back again. If I could find a rhythm equally pleasing and appropriate for my Philosophy wall, then I would be well on my way to perfection. But the rhythm of poetry and philosophy are different, aren’t they? How do you create a rhythm for the profession of questioning everything? By listening to those arguments with the pope, that’s how. They provided my beat. A rush and pause, meander down one line, drive back up another, never fully stopping, never fully moving, never fully anything, like philosophy itself, rolling in and out, up and down, the only constant is change . . .

Just when I was becoming accustomed to working to the cadence of debate, change came again: arguing ended, and the apartments fell quiet once more. Word traveled fast that the papal army would march out to put down the rebellions without the pope. Lotto said, “How does everything always work out for you?”

I didn’t contradict him; let him think that if he wants.

The day the papal army marched out of Rome, everyone gathered in the square outside of St. Peter’s to wish the soldiers safety and strength. I’ve marched in processions to ward off plagues and attended an Easter celebration marking the half-millennium, but I’d never seen such a crowd. Every Roman must’ve gathered in that square along with legions of foreigners from across the peninsula and beyond. I even heard Turkish spoken. Turkish! The crowd was buoyant, cheering, whistling, waving flags. I stood with the other courtiers at the front of the makeshift dais next to Cardinal Bibbiena. After my victory at Chigi’s villa, he’d commissioned me to paint his portrait—sì, sì, cardinal, I’ll get to it when I have time—and he was pressuring me to meet his “niece.” By the looks of his bone structure, the girl was probably pretty, but . . . I spotted my Margherita—alongside a few boys—climbing a column to get a better look at the army. How could I consider a cardinal’s “niece” when Margherita Luti was so . . . so . . . Luti.