“The pope is dying?” Chigi asked and hardly waited for Bramante to nod before sprinting off. He, no doubt, had friends to inform, treasure to protect, and cardinals to bribe to elect the next pope.

As Margherita handed me my jacket and hat, Bramante asked, “Do you know who’s been appointed Dean of the College of Cardinals and is the favorite to be elected the next pontiff?”

I shook my head; I couldn’t fathom this pope gone, much less another on his throne.

“Cardinal Riario.”

“Fafel?!” I said, my voice echoing down the loggia.

“Fafel,” confirmed Bramante.

“The short balding cardinal who enjoys hearing himself talk?” Margherita asked. “Isn’t he Julius’s cousin?”

I nodded, unable to speak.

Margherita looked from me to Bramante and back again. “Upon the news of a pope’s demise, why do you both look so happy?”

“Because, young lady,” Bramante said, rocking from heel to toe, “there is nothing in this world that could convince Cardinal Riario to appoint Michelangelo, a cheating art forger who once made a fool of him by selling him a faked ancient cupid, to be his official papal architect, certainly not over his favorite painter . . .” And with that Bramante gestured grandly toward . . .

Me.

Chapter LIX

Chapter LIX

1513

Pope Julius II had run out of miracles. He breathed his last on the 20th day of February 1513, a day so cold and gray that you’d think the heavens mourning. Two of my paintings accompanied his body during the funeral procession. Cardinal Riario, the pope’s cousin, led a group of young priests carrying my official portrait of His Holiness, while Felice carried a devotional that she’d picked out herself: my Madonna of the Veil of baby Jesus, wriggling in bed, playing with the Madonna’s veil as Joseph, standing in the shadows, watched over her shoulder. A tender, vulnerable family scene to escort the Warrior Pope to heaven. As his holy body paraded through the streets of Rome, women kissed the pope’s purpled feet, children threw berries, men wept like widows.