Cantering through that army on a white stallion, holding a lance and wearing full body armor—red cape fitted tightly over the bulky metal—was Pope Julius II. Cardinal Bibbiena and I exchanged looks, as the pope marched to the front of that army and raised his flag. It was the strangest sight to see the Vicar of Christ at the head of an army as the faithful threw flowers. Would the pope launch a cannon or wield a lance against another man? And if an enemy fired a shot that struck His Holiness, would it be a sin equal to any death in war or would it carry a special sentence in hell? I leaned over to Cardinal Bibbiena and said, “Surely God will protect His Holiness?”

Bibbiena said grimly, “Satan may never win the war, but he can always win a battle.”

“Signori,” said someone to my right. My stomach swirled when I identified the speaker as Felice della Rovere.

“Please accept my apologizes, signora Orsini,” Cardinal Bibbiena fumbled. “I didn’t see you there. I wouldn’t dare speak ill against His Holiness—I would never even think of his demise—I only meant . . .”

“I know exactly what you meant, cardinal,” she said, her dark eyes turning on me. “What you meant is, if Raphael Santi here indeed believes that he can use a bit of paint to bend the world— even if only a little toward peace—now would be the time to do so.”

Chapter XXXIII

Chapter XXXIII

The most difficult element of painting to master is harmony, don’t you think? While different artists define harmony in different ways, I define it as unifying disparate elements of a painting—line, color, gesture, movement, landscape, pattern— so that they all tell the same story. Tell the same story, and you have harmony. Tell differing stories, and you have a mess. In my Poetry wall, every figure, color, prop, and shadow could celebrate poetry and music. But how was I supposed to create such unity on my Philosophy wall when philosophers—by their very nature— are in conflict, working in a discipline founded on questioning, debate, and criticism? These concerns were taking over my every waking thought, but I had to push those worries away for one final day so I could first finish my wall of Poetry.

My assistants had laid the final patch of plaster for my Poetry fresco that morning, and now, it was evening, and the plaster was hardening fast. I’d chased my assistants out so I could concentrate; they were waiting at the tavern to celebrate. I didn’t have much time left to finish this section before the plaster dried. If I didn’t finish, I’d have to tear down this final patch and start over tomorrow. I’d never before painted such a magnificently turned-out foot as I had that morning, and the Vatican deserved that foot. I leaned in to add another flick of blue.