As I followed Bramante through the maze of hedges toward the pope, I smoothed my eyebrows, rubbed the corners of my mouth, a whole host of checking in addition to my usual routine. When His Holiness saw me, he held out his hands, and I landed in front of him on a perfect count of seven. I was grateful to kneel, so that my knees didn’t buckle under me with nerves. The pope offered his ring. I kissed it, and he put his hand on my head. “Raphael, you are a great light for your country. And for our Church.” The pope’s fingers rubbed the top of my head. I’ve not—in a long time—felt like such a beloved son. “Bramante has assured us that you will follow his plans for St. Peter’s, ensuring that his vision—our vision—for our church is realized.”

Somehow, I kept my voice steady when I replied, “Yes, Your Holiness.” I felt as awed as St. Peter kneeling as Christ handed him the keys to heaven. (That’s right; at the moment of my most important triumph, I felt like I was in the middle of a Perugino painting, and not just any painting, but his fresco Christ Giving the Keys to St. Peter on the walls of the Sistine. I’d spent my career trying to surpass Perugino and the last three years trying to outstrip Michelangelo, and yet, at my moment of victory, I was anchored back to a painting by that old teacher, decorating a wall beneath that sculptor’s ceiling.)

The pope went on. “Although we cannot officially appoint a successor until the Florentine unveils his work, we shall give you a commission today that proves our intentions.” The pope put his craggy finger under my chin. “We commission from you a painting, a Sistine altarpiece to honor our uncle, Pope Sixtus IV. It’s to decorate the altar in Piacenza, newly under papal control after the French fled. As our influence spreads across the peninsula, so shall yours, Raphael. Include my uncle’s namesake, St. Sixtus, as well as the great martyr St. Barbara, a favorite in Piacenza. As for the central subject matter, perhaps a Madonna with Child . . . you choose. Just make it beautiful. Make it perfect. Make a miracle.”

As my chest swelled with pride—I was the pope’s favorite, the pope’s promised, the pope’s future architect—I kissed the holy ring, and that’s when Michelangelo himself rounded the corner, saw us framed there so perfectly in the gardens—I couldn’t have timed it better if I’d painted it myself—and called out, “The ceiling is finished.”

Chapter LIV

Chapter LIV

October 31, 1512