Oh, how I wish I could tell you that it was dropping my father’s paintbrush or a heavenly whisper from my mother that made me get up and walk out of that church that day, but it wasn’t my parents who gave me the push. As much as I hate to admit it, it was Michelangelo who taught me that the only person I needed to chase, catch, and best . . . was me.

Chapter LVII

Chapter LVII

I hadn’t left the walls of Rome in four long years—I’d hardly even left Vatican palace—so those first moments out in the countryside were like escaping a corked bottle. As my horse galloped along, I felt as if I’d entered a hilly landscape from the backdrop of a Piero della Francesca painting—wild, unclaimed, and free. (Although, the farther north I went, the more I saw signs of war with the French: grooves of heavy artillery wheels dug into roads like scars, burned-out houses and villages, black gunpowder blasted across splintered trees, makeshift graves of soldiers, a stray shoe. I didn’t stop to see whether there was still a foot inside.) I headed north on a good pilgrimage route, galloping dawn to dusk for what must’ve been three or four days. (I spent twelve hours a day riding. I’d stop at stations to trade out horses but then kept going. After only a few hours in the saddle, the pain in my delicate court painter’s behind made me long for the rack.) I’d packed my travel bag, pockets, and boots with enough ducats to pay off inevitable thieves, and once they discovered that I was happy to pay an ample protection fee, the robbers became downright amiable; I even promised one young, unemployed mercenary a tour of the Old Forum, if we were ever back in Rome at the same time. Despite the signs of war and my throbbing backside, the farther I went from Rome, the better I felt. The Vatican was Michelangelo’s territory now, and, probably, no one had noticed my absence. The tightness in my throat released. My shoulders relaxed. I didn’t count, not one step. I even laughed with no political motivation!

About two days into my journey, I started showing pictures to peasants, traders, and pilgrims. That’s one nice thing about being a painter. Instead of having to rely on ineffectual words, I get to draw what I seek. South of Siena, a young woman on foot driving a pig to market recognized one of my pictures. “Ah! The baker!”