First, the nine schismatic cardinals who were rebelling against Pope Julius finally met in Pisa and voted to depose the pope. While this was not taken as good news in the Vatican—I’ve never heard such cursing or seen so many walking sticks come down over the heads of cardinals—there was a rim of gypsum for me because, you see, Florence’s government had backed the schismatic council; Florence had turned traitor against the pope. And every Florentine would have to share in the blame for the sins of its leaders. Michelangelo was no longer the cherished son; he was a patriot to the enemy. Whereas a few months before, thanks to my duke’s murderous activities, it was Urbino that was like the spoiled paint at the bottom of the jar, now, it was Florence’s turn to grow a little mold.

The second good omen came with word that Michelangelo’s bronze equestrian statue of Pope Julius had been melted down by the Bolognese, who used that bronze to cast a cannon mockingly called La Giulia, named after the pope himself. Now, if the papal army tried to invade again, the Bolognese would use La Giulia to fire back. Michelangelo’s great statue was no more. I put on a suitably severe face when I heard the news of the destroyed statue and didn’t dare tell anyone of my glee. I wouldn’t even admit it now, except that the pope is dead, so there’s no one to hang me for the treason. But privately, I smiled because by exploding perfection in paint, I had finally started to bend the world away from Michelangelo and in the direction of me.

Chapter XLVI

Chapter XLVI

Spring 1512

The French have breached the walls!” guards cried as they burst into the papal apartments. A guard grabbed the pope by his underarms and began spiriting him toward the exit, as his stockinged feet dragged behind.

I looked up from working on my final preparatory cartoon for the Heliodorus wall in the room of miracles. As soon as the riots had ended, rumors started flying fast that the French army of twenty-five thousand men was marching down the peninsula toward Rome. War—with its smoke and booming cannons and blood and screams—was coming to our door.