You’ve seen my Philosophy wall, so I’ll let you be your own judge. Besides, I loathe people who wave their own ribbons about, don’t you? It’s obnoxious. If you want an opinion about my work, ask others, not me, per favore. I will say that none of it felt real until I found Cardinal de’ Medici—fresh home from war, robes muddy and tattered, chin bruised, shoulders drooping with memories of battle—staring up at my painting, mouth open, eyes glistening. He whispered, “Perfetto.” (That’s not coming from me, mind you. No. That’s coming from the son of Il Magnifico with the best art education on the peninsula. But I don’t like talking about it. It makes me uncomfortable. Let’s move on.)

At the time, I thought that achieving . . . achieving . . . achieving that with my Philosophy was the most important thing that had happened in my entire life, a fulfillment of everything my father had ever wanted. Now, sì certo, I know that it wasn’t even the most important thing to happen in Rome during that Christmas season. In retrospect, the most important thing that happened during those weeks was a then-unknown monk, making his first trip to Rome and experiencing the sin, excess, and corruption that drove him, a few short years later, to nail those infamous ninety-five theses to the door of the Wittenberg chapel and a stake through the center of the Church. I often think back to those winter weeks, wondering if I saw him among the crowds. I wonder if he was in the papal apartments while Imperia and her ladies danced for captivated cardinals, or aristocrats gorged on enough meat to feed a village of peasants, or pilgrims indulged on too much wine. I worry that he heard my men telling Sodoma (oh, how I blush at the thought of him hearing the name Sodoma) that the priests and maids we could hear bumping in the Borgia apartments downstairs were the ghosts of the “accursed Spaniard.” I wonder if he calculated how many alms for the poor could’ve been bought with the gold leaf I’d slathered across my Religion wall or if he counted how many ducats it would’ve cost to cover my Philosophy in such brilliant blues, oranges, and pinks. Many of the philosophers in my painting were modeled on people I knew (Leonardo as Plato, Bramante as Euclid, Sodoma as the Greek painter Protogenes, even my own face—pushed off to the right side—as one of Euclid’s followers), but some were strangers I’d sketched in the streets. I’ve since studied those faces in my Philosophy, wondering whether this figure here has the doughy face of a Northerner or if that chin there has the right cleft . . . Is it possible that among my crowd of philosophers I captured a glimpse of the now-famous, world-changing monk, Martin Luther?