That’s when the pope caught me looking at him. His eyes flashed, and like a candlewick catching a flame, his face lit up with . . . what was that? His smile was strangely wide—even showing off his gums—and his cheeks were raised and brightened, but his eyes seemed glazed with carbon black. “It’s magnificent,” the pope said in an overblown, theatrical tone. “Exactly what we would’ve painted if God had given us a brush, instead of a robe.”

As everyone else exchanged confused murmurs, I looked up. The scaffolding was down, and tarps were removed, presenting an unobstructed view: one half of the ceiling was blank white plaster waiting for paint, but the other half . . .

Uffa.

It’s difficult now to mentally separate the first half of that ceiling from the whole—isn’t it?—but the next time you’re in the Sistine, take time to look at that first half objectively. There’s little rhythm, balance, harmony, or grace. The central panels depicting scenes from the Old Testament are so cluttered with tiny figures that they’re nearly impossible to read from the floor. And what was going on with those nude adolescent males perched atop painted pedestals like grotesque statues, twisting and turning into strange poses? Too young to be men, too old to be putti, they have no story purpose at all, only decorative, if you can even call them that. The first half of that ceiling was an affront to everything I’d been working toward in the apartments. So, if I’m right—and I was right—why was the pope proclaiming, “It’s wonderful, simply wonderful. We’re very eager to see what he does with the second half”?

I wasn’t the only one who seemed confused. “Che cavolo,” a voice called out from the back. That was my duke shoving through the crowd. “You promised when I came here that all was forgiven, and you wouldn’t hold any of this against my countrymen.”

I silently pled, Please don’t be referring to me. Please don’t be referring to . . .

“Raphael Santi of Urbino,” my duke spit, “is the far superior painter.”

I closed my eyes and exhaled to the count of four.

The pope’s tone was disquietingly pleasant when he said, “And we’ve kept that promise, nephew. We’ve proven that we side with family over climbing cardinals. However . . .” I opened my eyes. Not only was the pope’s tone too pleasant, but also his entire countenance had a sweet coating like a dessert fritter at a royal wedding. He said, “The only thing that I promised you is that I would give your countryman the remainder of the Sistine if his work was better.”

“I’m no art expert”—the duke flung his arm skyward—“but even I can see that’s awful.”

“Precisely,” said the pope in a happy, lilting tone. “It’s an ugly, chaotic mess.”