“Where I grew up, in the middle of the peninsula, you’re constantly surrounded by booming cannons, smoke always over the next hill, this kinsman murdering that kinsman, only stopping when a plague rolls through.” I pulled my hands away from hers and tucked hair behind both ears. “Death is front and center here in Rome, yes, but war has only been a backdrop.” I wiped dust off each shoulder. “It has yet to beat down our door and set up shop as our constant neighbor.” I smoothed down my jacket and breeches. “The safest I’ve ever felt—despite it all—is holed up in the Vatican. Please let me finish!” I barked when she grabbed my hands to stop me from finishing my routine by checking my shoe ties.

“So, you expect me to sit here and do nothing, just wait to die?”

“Not nothing.” I wrested my hands from her grip again, but instead of trying to force my way through my routine, I pulled her into my arms. “We’ll do what we can.”

“Which is what?” she said into my chest.

“You take and provide comfort.” I kissed the top of her head “And I try to paint a miracle.”

Margherita stepped back as if to run away, but then she looked me in the eye. She smiled, shook her head, and kissed the tips of her bunched fingers—it seems she liked what she saw. Then, she went through my routine quickly for me: tuck hair behind both my ears, wipe off each shoulder, smooth down my jacket and breeches, and check each shoe tie. Twice. Then, she took my hand and helped ensure that we crossed through the gates back into Rome on a perfect count of seven. As we hurried toward the Vatican, she asked, “Do you think you can you paint faster than the ‘Thunderbolt of Italy’ can attack?”

“I don’t know. But I can try.”

Chapter L

Chapter L

We’ve won. We’ve won!” the pope declared, marching into the apartments, his face finally shaven clean. “We swore we wouldn’t shave until the French were defeated, and now, our beard is gone with the enemy.” The apartments filled with courtiers, cardinals, papal staff, assistants, Romans, people I knew, people I didn’t—and the rumors came winged and wild:

“Gaston de Foix, ‘The Thunderbolt of Italy,’ was killed in the Battle at Ravenna.”

“They may have won the battle, but we delivered the hardest blow.”

“The French unraveled without him.”

“They retreated.”

“God chased them off the peninsula.”

“God saved the pope.”

“God saved us all.”

When I’d finished my Heliodorus fresco, I’d covered it with a tarp, so that others couldn’t see it before His Holiness, and now, the pope called, “Let us see our painting!”

I yanked a cord to pull down the tarp and . . .