Spring rolled into Rome crisp and sunny, with birds singing, the rotted stench of the city fading beneath flowering honeysuckle. I’d painted so much and so well that I’d bent the world toward good. I’d kept my promise to my father. My quest was over. Nothing more to do but enjoy the love and life and beauty I’d created with my brush.

Then, one day, Margherita and Imperia were lying half-naked in a pile of my drawings as Chigi and I strolled up and down the loggia, trying to choose the best section of wall for my The Triumph of Galatea fresco when we heard servants calling, “Basta,” and a figure barged in. It was Bramante, hair disheveled, face scratched and bruised, breath coming heavy and fast. “What in the name of Mount Olympia?” said Chigi, as we hurried over to take the architect’s shaking arms. We led him to a bench and helped him sit.

“It’s Bologna,” Bramante said, trying to catch his breath. “We lost Bologna.”

“To the French?” Chigi asked.

“To the French,” Bramante confirmed, and Chigi sat down hard next to him. “I built cannons, fortifications, but it wasn’t . . . it wasn’t . . .” he stammered. “It wasn’t enough.”

“I’m sure you did everything you could,” Chigi consoled.

Bramante wiped muddy sweat from his brow. “No wonder we call the French barbarians, they come with cruelly curved swords that split men in two with a single swipe, and their horses are bigger than ours, and their soldiers stronger. They have no mercy. God save us all.” He shook his head as though trying to shake away the memory.

But still, the old architect looked like he’d ridden too fast and too hard to only be reporting yet another loss on the battlefield, no matter how gruesome. I found my tongue to ask, “Is His Holiness . . .” I cleared my throat. “Did he . . . ?”

“He’s alive,” Bramante replied without me having to finish the sentence. “There was one cannon shot that almost . . . Thank Our Father in Heaven for guiding it away from the holy head. But Bologna . . .” He shook his head. “He was determined not to lose it.”

Chigi glanced up at me and added, “His Holiness will be enraged.”

“He was. Is. Won’t eat, sleep, shave—his beard grows fast and white. But it’s even worse than that.” Bramante hardly took a breath before adding, “Cardinal Alidosi is dead.”

I lost my breath. Cardinal Alidosi wasn’t always the best to me, but I’d enjoyed painting his portrait. I slumped down next to Bramante and asked, “In battle or . . . ?”

“Murdered,” said Bramante. “Assassinated on the way to a meeting with the pope.”

Margherita and Imperia wrapped each other in a hug. Chigi rubbed the back of his neck. I felt my cheeks cool with a loss of color. Assassinated? The pope’s dearest friend, confidant, and . . . “Who would dare?” I whispered.