What do you remember about Gaston de Foix? Allora, he was general to the French army, nephew to the French king, and known as the “Thunderbolt of Italy” for his lightning-quick attacks against Italian cities. He was young—twenty-one or so—handsome, brilliant, and an enthusiastic warrior. According to rumors, Gaston hummed children’s songs while he sliced necks with his sword, and now, that sword was pointed at the pope. A few years before, the pope had been in an alliance with King Louis XII against Venice, but then the pope teamed up with the Venetians and pledged to “evict the French barbarians from the peninsula.” King Louis took the betrayal personally. He didn’t only want the pope’s territory; he wanted the pope’s head. And Gaston de Foix had been charged with bringing it back.

“Gaston himself may already be inside the palace,” said one papal guard, holding the pope’s arm in one hand and a spear in the other. “We must get you to safety in the Castel. Now.”

The Castel Sant’Angelo, that huge, hunk of a round, stone fortress sitting on the banks of the Tiber like a fat warrior. Have you ever been inside? It’s dark. Dreary. Feels like a tomb. No wonder, since it was originally built by Emperor Hadrian as a mausoleum. Did you know that it’s connected to the Vatican via secret passageway? The Passetto, it’s called, a corridor that shuttles popes to safety whenever Rome is under attack. If the pope was moving into the Castel, it meant danger from the French was imminent.

“Pack up,” I ordered my men, and we grabbed a few supplies— our best paintbrushes, sketchbooks, a stack of gold leaf, anything we couldn’t afford to lose—and joined in with the entourage hustling after the pope. Cardinals ran down halls, servants hid silver, guards waved us along, “Quickly, quickly . . .”

Felice dropped back in the pack alongside me. She was pregnant again, her intensity only heightened by her condition. “You can’t go to the Castel,” she whispered.

“Why? Is the pope still that upset about the portrait? I wasn’t the one who . . .” I couldn’t even say the word murdered.

She waved her hand dismissively. “He’d happily have you. But you have to stay behind.”

“There are assassins in the Vatican.”

“Maybe. Or maybe this is only panic.”

“And if it’s true?”

She shrugged. “They’re hunting for the pope, not his painter.” I’d like to see her shrug if it were her life we were bandying about like dice.

“Are you going into hiding?”

She shot me that look. “Haven’t I told you the story of enemies kidnapping daughters to get to their fathers?”

“Then, I’m going into hiding, too.”

She tapped her temple. “Think. We’ll all be away. My father, cardinals, Michelangelo . . .”

“Why does everyone always choose Michelangelo over me?”