Michelangelo didn’t attend a single event. Yes, I’m sure he’d say that he was busy preparing the Sistine, but if it had been me, I would’ve been by the pope’s side, laughing at all of his jokes, complimenting his refined tastes, cowering at his curses. On such an important day, I would’ve left no politeness untried. But Michelangelo? He left me to play the part of court painter. His loss.

People watched me and whispered about me all day—“the best painter in the Vatican, the painter whom Michelangelo can’t catch, the painter who will be proven the best in history in a few short hours.” I laughed harder than usual; the heat of all those gazes does that to me. A wealthy, powerful Roman banker—not of Chigi’s level, but close—Bindo Altoviti, admitted he was nervous to meet me. “I hear you capture a man’s soul with the flick of a brush,” he said and then begged me paint his portrait. A new commission, just like so. At lunch, the pope invited me to sit next to him as we dined on meat pies and pomegranates. Once, His Holiness nudged me as he told a joke. Nudged me. In front of all of those people. Can you imagine?

Michelangelo’s name did not come up. Not once.

Then, as we paraded down the halls, approaching the doors of the Sistine, the pope flicked his fingers, beckoning me to his side, Felice on his right, me on his left. As the pope’s grooms reached to open the doors, I broadened my shoulders. I’d bested every one of my earlier opponents and was now about to face off against my last. This time, I’d not only painted my best, but even politics was on my side, too, so as the doors of the Sistine opened and we started to escort the pope inside, my victory was all but guaranteed.

Chapter LV

Chapter LV