I took out my sketchbook and began to draw the procession: horses, flags, helmets, sword, pikes, spears, crossbows, cannons, a rolling sea of armor. I hated thinking about all those men marching off to war. I grew up in the middle of the peninsula, so from the time I was about ten years old, watching the horizon for war was as normal as watching for weather—take this route here because on that hill there a battle has broken out and ammunition might fall on your head like hail. And while you might think that constant exposure to war would inure me to it, the knowledge only makes me more afraid: I know how easy it is to die in war, and I know how painful those deaths can be. How familiar are you with war? Allora, you’ve seen Paolo Uccello’s The Battle of San Romano painting, right? I know we’re usually so focused on the masterful foreshortening of those kicking horses that we forget we’re looking at a bloody scene, but, next time, look closely, because it is a good representation of battle: a mad scramble of men and braying horses; clashing lances, bows, arrows; bodies of slain soldiers and horses in the foreground (the dead never fade into the background—do they?—but always stay right up there, front and center). Do you know the main difference between Uccello’s version of war and the real thing? Uccello’s has crisp, clear lines, while real war always has a dulling gray glaze over it. It must be all the smoke; it smells like death.

That day, looking out over that papal army, I couldn’t help but wonder whether those young soldiers knew what they were about to face. They looked so excited. Even the experienced men looked eager to get going. Cardinal de’ Medici, astride his horse, urged the army forward. There was Chigi, too, smiling and waving as though in an Easter parade; he was financing the war, so he joined in to oversee his investment. He’d given me the keys to his villa and instructed me to work only when inspiration struck: “I have no use for uninspired paintings.” I was surprised to see Bramante among the army; he hadn’t told me he was going to war. Then, the procession rippled. What was that noise erupting from the crowd? A groan? Screams? Cheers? I stood on my toes to see over the bobbing heads and horses and . . .

Maria Vergine.