“I don’t care about the Medici.” Ghirlandaio got up to pace. “Stonecutters are nothing but craftsmen. They use heavy tools to beat into rock. They’re nothing like painters. Donatello, arguably the greatest sculptor in history, didn’t also claim to be a master painter. Nanni di Banco, della Quercia, Nicola Pisano, none of them painted.”

“What about Verrocchio?” I chimed in. “His Baptism of Christ, Tobias and the Angel . . .”

“Tell me you aren’t suggesting that Michelangelo is another Verrocchio,” he said, and I lowered my eyes to avoid an argument. “Not even Ghiberti,” Ghirlandaio went on, “whose baptistery doors have so much grace that they themselves look like masterful paintings—painted anything worth quoting. That job should never go to a lowly stonecutter.”

On those final two words, we clinked cups and drank, but none of us were laughing. Michelangelo was picking up our weapons and marching into our arena, and yet—the uncomfortable truth was—we had no idea how good of a painter he would be. Imagine if Michelangelo managed to keep another David secret; imagine if this time, the David was in paint. I put down my cup and asked, “So, who are Michelangelo’s friends?”

The others exchanged looks. Andrea was the one who replied, “He doesn’t have any.”

“Then, how are we supposed to get into his studio to copy his work?”

“We don’t,” they all answered in unison.

“We have to find a way to see his designs.” I straightened my cup. “Don’t we?”

Ghirlandaio slumped back into his chair. “Raphael’s right. We need to find out if Michelangelo has any chance of catching us.”

And with his inscrutable half-smile, Leonardo added, “Or if we have any chance of catching him.”

Chapter V

Chapter V

1505

For your lips, cinnabar. For your eyes, finely ground umber. And for your skin . . .” I paused to kiss her collarbone. “Gypsum, but with a hint of pinked carmine.” The lady was my favorite model of late—what was her name, again? I don’t remember. Let’s call her Sofia. I liked a Sofia once. I’d been using this Sofia as the model for the Madonna in my newest altarpiece for the Ansidei family. She had a lovely long face and high forehead that made for a wonderfully believable Virgin. In paint, at least.

She touched a strand of my hair. “Do you use saffron or sulfur to lighten your locks?”

“Neither. It’s all natural,” I said and leaned in to kiss her again.

But she pushed her hand against my face. “Do you hear voices?”

“Only the voice of the poet Catullus imploring us to let live, let love, my Le . . .”

“Listen.” She closed up her blouse.