My lips opened, but my tongue was too heavy to speak. I shook my head.

“Good luck, Raphael Santi of Urbino. May you get every miracle that you deserve.”

Chapter LIII

Chapter LIII

Maestro, I’m confused.” Guillaume wrinkled his nose at a drawing of a tall, winged angel in a flowing gown. “Is this figure for The Mass at Bolsena?”

“No, for The Deliverance of St. Peter.” I pointed to stacks of papers neatly collected under the arched northern wall of my miracles room. That new scene would be dark—dark prison, dark walls, dark armor of dark guards—contrasted with a brilliant blast of light as an angel exploded in the middle of the blackness to liberate St. Peter. “And these”—I handed him another stack of draw-ings—“are for the ceiling, and these are for the fire scene.”

“Pardon, there’s a fire scene now?”

“I don’t know where it goes yet.” It was only an idea for a wall; I didn’t know the story yet, but I had this vision from the riots— fires burning among ruins, people passing jugs of water, women flinging hands toward heaven, a naked man climbing out of a burning building. A scene worthy of Michelangelo. “Make a separate stack. I don’t care where. Somewhere.”

Guillaume bumped into Lotto as they hurried in opposite directions across the room. In the weeks after Margherita’s departure, work was frantic. Driven by unspent energies, I drew fast and hot. As my men built new scaffolding, enlarged preparatory drawings, mixed plaster, and ground pigments, I drew hundreds of drawings for five or six different frescoes. If I could convince the pope to promote me to Bramante’s job, then I would be powerful enough to rebuild Rome in my own vision and keep Margherita safe. Wouldn’t I? Then, I could convince her to return to Rome. If only . . .

It seemed all of my incessant painting worked because one day, without warning, Bramante was standing over me and saying, “The moment has come.”

I stretched my aching hands. “What moment?”

“The pope’s going to appoint you as my successor.”

I smoothed down my chalk-smudged vest. “Now?”

“He’s summoned me and asked me to bring you. His nephew is with him now. We’re to have an audience as soon as they’re finished.”

I stood and smoothed out my breeches, too. Today of all days to wear breeches instead of tights . . . “Do I have time to change?”

“No,” Bramante said, adjusting his lapel (a fine velvet green jacket with red trim. He’d had time to don a new set of clothes).

“Va bene,” I said, looking back at my men. Sodoma grinned, Lotto’s eyes were wide, Guillaume waved me onward. A promotion for me would mean their rise, too.