The next few weeks were frantic. Cardinals hurried up and down halls, whispered in corners, bribed one another for silence, secrets, and votes. Riario, Bramante, and my duke—who stayed in Rome after the funeral to use whatever talents he could to influence opinion—paced across the papal apartments, sharing hourly rumors of hypothetical scenarios: if this faction of cardinals votes this way, then this faction votes another, and that puts these two cardinals up for grabs and . . . I couldn’t keep up. I suppose I could try to detail all the highs and lows of that campaign season for you, but, I’m bored by political machinations, aren’t you? Don’t hear me wrong; I understand why people were plotting. There was a lot at stake in that election: enormous political power and money, not to mention my position in the Vatican, but I didn’t want to win the job because of politics. Would you? Yes, the thought of Cardinal Riario becoming pope and anointing me Bramante’s successor was terribly grand, but it also seemed, I don’t know . . . disappointing. I wanted to win the job in a flood of my own beauty not because this cardinal over here bribed that cardinal over there into voting for that other cardinal on the other side of the room . . . you understand. However, Bramante made a good argument: “If Michelangelo is appointed papal architect, the first thing he’ll do is tear down your frescoes. He knows how good they are; he’ll never leave his rival’s work on those walls.” So, I did what I could to help the cause: I added Cardinal Riario’s image to the crowd of my Mass at Bolsena fresco, so that as cardinals scurried in and out of those rooms, they would see Riario’s face already gracing the walls of the papal apartments and believe he was destined to be there. (You know where Riario is in the fresco, don’t you? Standing over to the right, in his red robes with that tuft of curly hair circling his balding head.)

And, yes, it all really did seem to be sliding in my direction. The night before the College of Cardinals was to convene for conclave—locking themselves in the Sistine under Michelangelo’s ceiling, where they would sleep and eat and remain until two-thirds could agree on who should be the next pope—Fafel entered the apartments and stood beside me, as we both peered up at his image in my fresco. “Soon, we’ll cover the world with your miracles, Rafa. Very soon.” And, it’s hard to remember now, but . . . I guess I believed him?