While I twirled the thought of the pope’s official portrait in my head instead of twirling my father’s old paintbrush, the guards hurried the pope toward safety in the Castel while a few of us stopped briefly in the Sistine to fetch Michelangelo. But that sculptor is never so amenable to other people’s plans, is he?

“I’m not leaving my work unprotected,” he called down from the scaffolding. “If the French destroy this building, my frescoes will go down with it. I’ll stay behind and fight them off, one by one, if I have to.”

Felice pled—“Michel, it’s not safe here. You have to go. We’re all going. Please”—but Michelangelo waved her off and disappeared back up his scaffolding.

As we exited the chapel without him, I sighed with relief; maybe the assassins would burn down the Sistine with Michelangelo in it, and I would get the portrait by default. At least, I would be safe. But as I started to follow the others down the Passetto, Felice grabbed my arm. “What are you doing?” she hissed. “You’re supposed to peel away and go back.”

“That was only if Michelangelo went with you.”

“You still have to find a way to see that ceiling.”

“You expect me to break into the Sistine?”

There was that look again. “If it were that easy, I’d do it myself,” she said, pushing at my chest, away from the exit, away from the Castel, away from safety. “You’re going to have to convince him to invite you up.”

“You’re turned by the tides.”

“Now’s your chance. When the Vatican is empty, his guard will be down.”

“His guard is never down.”

“Rafa,” she said, nudging me like one courtier daring another outside a maid’s window. “If anyone can convince him, it’s you. After all, I’ve heard, the great Raphael can charm anyone.”

Chapter XLVII

Chapter XLVII

Michelangelo was an admirer of Dante. Perhaps I could sneak back to my personal rooms, scrounge up one of my bound copies of the Inferno, wave it in front of him and . . . No. He wouldn’t be deceived by that. Besides, what if I encountered the French army as I crossed the piazza? Michelangelo might feel sure of his prowess with a marble hammer, but I wasn’t so confident. Maybe I could light a torch, barge into the chapel, pretending to be an invader and . . . what? Make him even more paranoid? Maybe I could light the Sistine on fire and smoke him out. But if the pope discovered that I’d burned down his chapel, he’d burn me at the stake.