I slid the parchment out of my jacket pocket and passed it to Leonardo. A messenger had brought it to me, two days after Bramante’s passing. The summons was written in flowery calligraphy on thick paper, stamped with the papal seal. It requested my presence at a meeting two weeks later when Michelangelo and I would both present our best work, so that the pope could decide which one of us would inherit Bramante’s job. “This leaves the decision open,” whispered Leonardo, passing the summons to Chigi.

“What this does is leave the Medici pope free from criticism,” I whispered back. “No one can accuse him of playing favorites if he gives me a chance. If you don’t already know that the Medici pope is going to hire his Florentine brother to be his next papal architect, then those flying machines of yours have gone to your head, maestro.”

“Rafa, I don’t want to live in a world where a man like you gives up on his ambitions and just lets a man like Michelangelo win,” Chigi said, handing the summons back to me. “With no competition? It doesn’t seem right.”

“But I’m not giving up, signor Chigi,” I whispered as we filed out of the pew to receive the Eucharist. “I’ll never give up. It’s only that I’ve decided to fight for what’s truly important.”

Chapter LXII

Chapter LXII

Come by yourself today?”

“Buongiorno to you, too, Michelangelo.”

“You’re usually such a bravo with your band of brothers,” Michelangelo shot back. Yes, I’d come to the meeting alone, although I don’t know how he’d seen that, since his gaze was focused only on a marble statue on display in the Vatican’s newly completed Belvedere Courtyard. That courtyard, with its elegant clean lines and classical colonnades, would make for a handsome backdrop of a future painting. Too bad, after today, I might never see it again.

I nodded to Michelangelo’s entourage: Francesco Granacci, a handful other Florentine assistants, and the sculptor’s two brothers, Bounarroto and Giovansimone, whom I recognized from Florence. “And you’re usually the hangman, alone on your scaffolding,” I replied.

Giovansimone snorted a laugh. Buonarroto elbowed him and tugged at his ill-fitting jacket. Both Buonarroti brothers were dressed uncomfortably for court. Giovansimone was failing to pull off whatever fashion he was attempting: short, belted white tunic; red velvet tights; knee-high white boots. I, on the other hand, had dressed conservatively for my execution: cream shirt, black jacket, black tights, simple black cap. I’d grown a beard—a trend ever since Julius’s grizzly growth during the war—and had trimmed it short and neat that morning.