That’s the first time I remember looking at Michelangelo again. His head was ducked, shoulders rounded, like Atlas carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. “Michelangelo’s figures always struggle and push and strain, as if his cursing is captured in his paint,” I started in a timid voice. “He makes everything look so difficult, Your Holiness, while I make it look easy. So . . .”—I didn’t look at the pope. I kept talking to the top of Michelangelo’s bowed head—“. . . since I think the world should know just how difficult it is to paint a painting or sculpt a statue or create anything, I say we keep the Sistine. All of it.”

Michelangelo’s eyes lifted. My cheek burned under his gaze.

“Bene. And, what shall we do with our countryman?” the pope asked. “Shall we keep his talents for papal use or send him on his way?”

It was too much, too fast. I was in no condition to make good decisions, so you can’t blame me for what I did next. “I think we should send him on his way.”

“Do you?” said the pope, sounding surprised.

Michelangelo’s face flamed.

“I do.” I tried my best to keep my courtly composure, but I don’t trust that my voice was smooth. “Everything in the Vatican can be executed by me and my men: St. Peter’s, paintings, tapestries, whatever Your Holiness pleases.”

“We see.”

“So, I request that Michelangelo’s talents be released . . .”

Michelangelo shoved his hands deeper into his pockets.

“. . . to his marble.”

Michelangelo’s head snapped up. He searched my face.

I said, “I believe the previous pope is in need of a tomb?”

“He is,” replied Pope Leo.

“Then that would be a priority. And although I know it will be difficult for us to lose the sculptor’s talents here in Rome,” I went on, “didn’t I hear a rumor, Your Holiness, about a certain chapel up in Florence that could also use a marble tomb or two?”

“In San Lorenzo. Our family chapel. We did say that,” said the pope.

“I apologize, maestro Buonarroti, for making you leave Rome and return to Florence and put up with your family”—my eyes darted to his brothers, who were grinning—“but we all must sacrifice for our art. I will promise to argue for increased compensation, if that helps ease the pain.” I turned to the pope. “Your Holiness, you don’t mind spreading the wealth, do you?”

Pope Leo clapped. “God has given us the papacy. Let us enjoy it.”

As the crowd cheered and cardinals patted a flushing Michelangelo on the back, His Holiness leaned over to me and asked, “So, after all of those fine words praising the agony on the Sistine ceiling, does this mean that the great Raphael is going to stop painting perfection?”