The pope smiled. Cardinals nodded. Buonarroto and Giovansimone nudged each other with brotherly admiration. Leave it to Michelangelo’s uncourtly style to win the moment.

“How many times have you told us that painting is not your art, Michel?” said the pope. I cringed at the name Michel—a boyhood nickname between brothers. The pope turned to me, his brow knotting pityingly, and said, “He did offer to let you go first.”

I nodded.

“To Raphael’s apartments,” the pope said, waving the others toward the door.

“Wait,” I called, not moving from my spot.

Pope Leo turned back. “Yes?”

“I don’t want to take you to those apartments today, Your Holiness.”

The pope’s brow lifted. “You have better work somewhere else?”

I wanted to stare at my feet, but “chin up, Raphael, chin up,” came my mother’s voice, so I did. “Your Holiness, while I appreciate your kindness in considering me for this illustrious position, I, like you, can see . . .” I raised my eyes to the ceiling again. “That.”

The Buonarroti brothers—all three—smiled.

The pope exhaled sadly at my truth.

I went on. “So, instead of spending my audience with you today arguing for a position that I’ll never receive, I prefer to spend my limited time arguing for something more important.”

The pope nodded; he knew a papal audience was precious, especially for a man on the way out the door. “You’re welcome, son, to use your time for anything you desire.”

I bowed. “Thank you, Your Holiness.” Michelangelo shushed his whispering brothers as I said, “I understand that when this day is finished, my colleague here”—I tilted my head at Michelangelo— “will be papal architect, and it will be up to him to decide which art goes and which stays. So, what I’d like to do today is fall at your feet”—I dropped to my knees—“and beg you to protect a few bits of paint from the crack of Michelangelo’s chisel.”

The pope raised his brow. “You want to save a painting?”

“A series of paintings.”

Did I hear a snicker? The pope ignored it. “A single room?” he asked.

“A set of rooms.”

Someone in the crowd snorted with derision and whispered, “Desperate . . .”

I held the pope’s gaze—this pope who was raised by one of the greatest art patrons of our time, whose boyhood home was filled with art, with artists, with humanists and paintings and sculptures . . . “Very well,” the pope said, “Whichever paintings you choose shall be protected.”

I exhaled. “Grazie, Your Holiness, grazie, grazie, grazie,” I said, too relieved to show courtly restraint. I stood up. “Now, if you’ll follow me, I’ll show you which ones.”

“As if we couldn’t guess,” someone murmured—a cardinal, Granacci, I don’t know who, except that it wasn’t Michelangelo or the pope. Everyone followed dutifully along as I led them out of the chapel, down the hall and . . .