While we waited for the pope to arrive, Michelangelo kept his nose buried in that marble statue of the Laocoön, a depiction of that ancient priest and his sons being strangled by a serpent, punishment by an angry god for Laocoön’s attempt to warn the Trojans against accepting the Greeks’ gift of that legendary wooden horse. The powerful marble statue had been unearthed nearly a decade earlier. Michelangelo, I’d heard, had been present at its excavation. The bulging muscles of Laocoön and his two sons fighting against that giant snake reminded me of the tension in one of Michelangelo’s own compositions. The sculptor could’ve carved this very statue, if only he’d been alive a thousand years before. Did Michelangelo worry that no one today knew the name of the sculptor of that famous, ancient statue? Or did he only care that the marble itself had survived?

Pope Leo X finally entered Belvedere Courtyard with a coterie of cardinals, none with whom I had any particular relationship. A crowd of Michelangelo devotees, no doubt. The pope turned to me and asked, “Are we waiting for anyone else, Santi?”

“It’s only me today, Your Holiness.”

“Very well,” said the pope with a shrug. “So, who’s firs . . .?”

“Michelangelo can go first,” I interrupted.

The sculptor didn’t pull his nose out of the marble. “You can go, if you want. No reason to follow me.” He hadn’t even put on a new tunic for the occasion.

“The honor is all yours, maestro,” I insisted.

Pope Leo looked to Michelangelo—for his approval, I thought grimly—and the sculptor shrugged, “Fine with me.”

The pope clapped. “To the Sistine?”

Michelangelo nodded. “To the Sistine.”

That walk to the Sistine . . . What can I say? His Holiness and Michelangelo led the way, prattling on about some blood sausage they’d shared at some dinner when they were boys. I trailed behind. I’d avoided the Sistine since the unveiling—even playing sick a few times to skip services—but now there we were, and . . . That ceiling . . . It was even more spectacular than I remembered. Santa Madonna those colors.

Michelangelo and the pope were already discussing the future papal architect’s projects: St. Peter’s, new roads, new buildings, new paintings . . . “And Julius’s tomb?” Michelangelo asked, unable to hide the excitement in his tone.

“What’s a tomb, my brother, when compared to St. Peter’s? You’ve given us one miracle already.” He gestured to the ceiling. “We expect you to deliver more.”

No one looked at me, but I smiled, chin up, sì certo.

“Would you like to say something?” Pope Leo asked Michelangelo.

The scruffy sculptor looked up at his ceiling. Everyone waited, as only Michelangelo can make people wait. Eventually, he shook his head. “My work speaks for itself.”