Bramante dropped his head into his hands. “The pope’s own nephew, Francesco Maria della Rovere.” He lifted his gaze to meet mine. “The Duke of Urbino.”

“Cardinal Alidosi was murdered by our duke?” I cringed at the word our. “Why?”

Bramante shook his head but managed to stammer through an answer. “There was an argument over who was to blame for the loss of Bologna: our duke, the head of the papal army who fled leaving the people undefended, or Cardinal Alidosi, the unpopular papal ruler who dressed up like a maid to escape the city before the invasion. The duke blamed Alidosi, sì certo, and Alidosi blamed the duke. The pope summoned both of them to Ravenna to make their case. His Holiness swore that whoever was deemed responsible for the loss of that great city would pay with their life.”

“Blessed Mother,” I muttered. I didn’t say this out loud at the time, but I’ll say it now: think about all those times when Alidosi whispered in the pope’s ear, touched the pope’s arm, followed the pope back to his bedchamber . . . The pope never would’ve ordered Alidosi’s execution. Never.

“I was part of the duke’s entourage,” Bramante went on. “While we were on the way to the meeting, we met Cardinal Alidosi on the road by chance. I was hoping it was fortuitous. I thought maybe the two men would stop, talk it over, find common ground. Perhaps they could both blame the French or the revolting Bolognese or maybe even the Venetians—it’s always easy to blame the Venetians—anyone but each other. Maybe they could land on the same side, unify for the benefit of the Church, save both of their necks, but before a conversation could start, the duke called out ‘traitor’ and . . .” Bramante made the sign of the cross.

I couldn’t sit any longer. I got up to pace. Uno, due, tre, quattro, uno, due, tre . . . “Was it poison?” I asked, thinking back to that white vial in the duke’s armored hand.

“Nothing so civilized. He stabbed him, right in front of me. The cardinal’s blood splattered across my cheek and ran through the grooves of the cobblestones at my feet.” Bramante’s voice cracked. “I’ve seen a lot of ugliness at war: that desperate look in a soldier’s eye when he realizes he must kill or be killed, boys weeping over friends and fathers, men beheading other men, but I’d never seen something so depraved as to kill a cardinal.”

I took out my father’s old paintbrush and began to twirl. “That’s bad.”

“That’s bad,” seconded Chigi.

“It’s bad,” repeated Bramante.

We must’ve all looked very pale, because Margherita said, “I understand how this is all bad for the duke, but why do you three look like you’re the ones slated for execution?”