And now, despite all my bravado, the moment was upon me, and I was nervous. No, I didn’t want the job for political reasons, but if I did get the job—even if for political reasons—I could use that position to reach even higher, paint even better, and one day maybe even surpass . . . I reached for my father’s paintbrush to twirl. Beh. Right. It was gone. (I’d searched Old St. Peter’s for that paintbrush many times since that night in front of the Pietà. I still look for it sometimes, but it’s never turned up. It’s gone.)

A voice cried out in Latin: “Annuntio vobis gaudium magnum: habemus papam,” and the crowd passed along the traditional announcement: “I announce to you a great joy: we have a pope.” As the people in front of us turned to pass these words back, and we turned and repeated the same words to those behind, I felt a thrill. We, in that square, would be the first to greet a new pope, a new leader of our Church, a new voice of God. And I couldn’t stop thinking: Which name would Fafel—Raffaele Riario—take? Pope Julius III after his cousin? Pope Sixtus V, after their uncle? Could there be a Pope Raphael?

Bramante stood on his toes. The crowd held its breath.

And then, the doors of that Vatican Palace balcony opened and . . .

Do you know what I saw first? Before my eyes registered the pope’s ceremonial white robes or golden staff or papal tiara— before I saw any of that—my eyes landed on the misshapen, bulging, flaring nose of . . .

Michelangelo.

I felt sick. Dizzy. Sweat beaded along my forehead. I might’ve stumbled backward or run my hands through my hair, I don’t know. But there was Michelangelo up on the papal balcony. There was Michelangelo standing next to the new pope.

“Medici.”

I heard the name before my eyes registered his face.

“Medici, Medici, Medici.”

Standing on that balcony, no longer dressed in cardinal reds, but in the brilliant bright, white vestments of the holy pontiff was—wide shoulders, round head, jowls thick as ever—Cardinal de’ Medici . . . Mi scusa . . . No longer cardinal, but pope. The crowd passed his papal name back, and my tongue felt heavy as I turned to repeat the news to those standing behind me: “Cardinal de’ Medici has taken the name Pope Leo X.”

“Oh God, no,” muttered the duke, as he stumbled backward out of the crowd. (I guess Francesco Maria was right to flee that day. A short time later, the Medici pope drove him out of Urbino; without his uncle on the throne to protect him, he’s in exile now, miserable and powerless, as he should be.)