“I can loan you money if you need food. You could go to a tavern or . . .”

“I’m too sick to eat.” He dug his heels into the boards, shaking the scaffolding. “My favorite brother is sick. My father’s terrified, yet here I am, stuck in Rome, not working, watching you getting paid enough to buy a whole wall of pigments.”

I started to snap back some rude response, but that’s when I realized that I needed a little harmony—not only in my painting, but with Michelangelo. I needed us to tell the same story. So, I said, “Your brother’s sick?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Where is he?”

“Florence.”

I turned to him. He did look too sick to eat. “Then, you should go to Florence.” I grabbed his hand and pulled him up. “Go. While the pope isn’t here to tell you no.” I ushered him toward the ladder. “If I had family who needed me, I wouldn’t be here.”

Michelangelo paused on the ladder. “The pope said if I ran away again, he’d hang me.”

“The pope isn’t here. He’s up in Ferrara. Or Bologna. He won’t be back for weeks. He won’t even know you’re gone.” My eyes darted back to my drying plaster.

“That’s true.” Thank Eve, he started to descend, but then he stopped. “But my work . . .”

“After you help your brother, go find the pope at war. Convince him to pay you.”

His forehead wrinkled. “This pope does respond well to demands.”

“Exactly. Now go. You should get out of town before the gates close.” He still didn’t move, so I added, “If your brother is that sick, every hour counts.”

His eyes flashed with concern. He descended the ladder quickly that time and called from the door, “Thank you, Raphael,” and then he was gone.

I finished Poetry just in time and went to the tavern to raise a glass with my men. When I told them what happened with Michelangelo, Lorenzo Lotto said, “Maestro, if you can find unity with that sculptor, then finding harmony amongst a gathering of painted ancient philosophers shouldn’t be a problem.”

Chapter XXXIV

Chapter XXXIV

Winter 1510