I’ve never felt so small or so foolish. I could only hope that no one remembered me strutting into that chapel. Now, the crowds gathered around Michelangelo, kissing his cheek, patting his back, hugging him, praising him. And there I was, off to one side, unnoticed and unseen. And maybe that was where I should be. Maybe I’d been obliterated along with my work, and maybe that was for the best. As Michelangelo and the pope dropped their heads together—brother to brother, patron to painter, father to son—and gazed up at the glory of that ceiling, that’s when I saw— that’s when it tumbled down over me true as falling rain or rays from the sun or moon—that I couldn’t win, I’d never win, Santa Madonna, I can’t . . .

And I turned and ran out of that chapel.

Chapter LVI

Chapter LVI

After seeing the Sistine, what did I do? Rent a horse and ride out of Rome fast as able? Take a chisel to my paintings in the papal apartments? Climb a bell tower with the intention of flinging myself off it? All of these actions—considering my understandable devastation—would’ve been logical decisions, wouldn’t they? But did I do any of them? Of course not. I decided that it was the perfect moment to rub lime in my wounds by heading directly to Old St. Peter’s to face something that I’d been avoiding since the day I arrived in Rome. I decided it was finally time to face Michelangelo’s Pietà.

The nave of Old St. Peter’s was empty. Everyone was still gathered up the palace, so I was alone. Dusk was falling, so shadows darkened the wilting church. My breath smoked in the cold air. I knew where to find it: up the nave and to the right. I’d always been able to feel it there thumping—somehow—against the side of my face whenever I walked past, although I’d always refused to turn my head to look. But that day . . .

I closed my eyes. He was right; I could hear it, couldn’t I?, a low, baleful hum. I exhaled to the count of seven. Then, I turned to look.

Even from across the dimming nave, that great marble masterpiece of the Virgin Mary cradling her crucified son flared white as if lit from inside. It’s a pyramidal composition—balanced and stable—but with an undulating curve cutting across the middle, it doesn’t so much sit as flow. I approached slowly, taking in every line, turn, shadow, highlight, and when I reached it, I knelt and ran my fingers along the smooth marble. There was the sculptor’s name, just as rumored, scrawled across the Madonna’s chest in Latin: Michael Angelus Bonarotus Floren Facieba. “Michelangelo Buonarroti, Florentine, made this.”