I shook my head at Chigi. It still amazes me what a man can accomplish with a hefty money bag. “And if this doesn’t convince you, Holiness,” said Chigi with an impish smirk, “Surely this shall.” He clapped again, and his servants yanked the tarp off that mysterious platform he’d rolled into the room when he first entered.

Unveiled was my Sistine Madonna, the last altarpiece commissioned by Pope Julius II.

At the sight of it, Pope Leo’s lips parted.

I could see why: my altarpiece shone.

A painted plush green curtain hanging on a sagging rod pulls back to reveal a holy scene: the Madonna, headdress billowing, standing atop fluffy white clouds holding baby Jesus, while St. Sixtus and St. Barbara kneel on either side of her. All of the faces are familiar to me: the Madonna is Margherita Luti; St. Barbara is my mother; and St. Sixtus my father, if he had been lucky enough to advance to such an age. Baby Jesus has the round cheeks of my little sister long before she fell ill.

Chigi—in a tone unexpectedly serious for him—said, “Look at the faces of this Madonna and Child. Yes, they’re beautiful, but their eyes widen, and there’s a tenseness to their mouths and jaws . . . What is it? Determination? Desperation? Fear? Unlike other scenes, this Madonna and Child aren’t removed from the inevitable tragedy lurking in their futures, are they? No. This pair can see their future—the betrayal, torture, crucifixion . . . They know, like the rest of us know, that the only end to their story is the end of life here on Earth. But this Madonna and Child don’t run from their fate, do they? No. They willingly walk into that fire. And by doing so, they give us the strength to face our own tragedies. And that’s a miracle, if I’ve ever seen one.”

Pope Leo took a step forward. His eyes scanned my painting. “So, Raphael,” he said. “Is that what you see when you look at this altarpiece? Is it a miracle?”