Andrea della Robbia took off his hat and said, “His fresco is to be the same size as Leonardo’s. In the same room.”

“They’re comparing that lowly stonecutter to Leonardo.” Ghirlandaio banged his fist against the table, rattling cups. I adjusted mine so that the handle was once again aligned to the table’s edge. “The only reason you’re not upset about it, Leonardo, is that the city’s touting it as a competition between the two greatest living artists.”

Sarto, always one for theatrics, hopped up onto the table and exclaimed: “Leonardo on one wall! Michelangelo on the other! Who will prevail?”

“I don’t mind that promotional campaign,” quipped Leonardo.

Ghirlandaio shook his head. “I can’t believe you’re consenting to share your work space with that dirty, dusty . . .”

“Lowly stonecutter!” We called in unison and raised our cups to drink to that insult.

But Ghirlandaio held up a hand. “Filthy stonecutter.”

We groaned and lowered our cups.

“You’re only jealous because your brother gets all the credit for Michelangelo’s success,” said Sarto, sitting back down.

“Your brother?” I asked. “Who? Domenico?”

Ghirlandaio squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Michelangelo’s maestro for a time.”

I pressed my lips to avoid gaping. Was there a more skilled frescoist of his generation than Davide’s older brother, Domenico Ghirlandaio? Michelangelo wasn’t only trained as a sculptor, but as a painter?

Ghirlandaio flicked his fingers under his chin in an obscene gesture. “The only thing my brother should get credit for is turning his famed student into a misanthropic recluse.”

Sarto shook his head. “You make him sound a little coarse.”

“In that case, allow me to make my meaning clear: he is extraordinarily coarse.” As an aside to me, Ghirlandaio added, “He built a privacy shed so that no one could see his progress on his David until it was publicly unveiled. Once, when he caught me sneaking a peek at his work, he chased me out of his studio with a marble hammer. Then, he locked himself back inside with his precious stone like a deranged hermit. He’s an aggressive sort of paranoid.”

“He’s impressive is what he is,” said Sarto, looking at me with earnest eyes. “Michelangelo was trained in the Medici sculpture garden, taken in by Lorenzo de’ Medici, Il Magnifico himself, light of Florence, greatest patron our city has ever seen, finest eye on the peninsula, most educated, most intelligent, most perceptive . . .”

“On with it, Sarto, we all know who Il Magnifico is,” Ghirlandaio grumbled.

“The point is Il Magnifico himself recognized Michelangelo’s talent and took him in to live in the Medici palace like one of his sons.”

“All this according to Buonarroti,” grumbled Ghirlandaio.

“It’s not only according to Michelangelo,” argued Sarto. “I heard one of Il Magnifico’s own sons, Cardinal Giovanni de’ Medici himself, once call Michelangelo ‘brother.’”

“When did you meet Cardinal de’ Medici?” countered Andrea.