Two voices echoed down the hallway. Footsteps approached. Had I remembered to lock the door? I’d locked it yesterday. And last week. Two weeks ago, I’d forgotten, but no one had come in. This time, let’s see . . . I’d entered first and held the door. When Sofia passed, she’d smelled of fresh peaches. Yes. Yes! I’d definitely locked it; I’d cursed myself for wasting time locking that door. “Calmati, the door is—”

A key slid into the lock.

“Andiamo.” I yanked a tarp down over the scaffolding and pulled her to the back wall. If we were discovered, my reputation would survive, but Sofia’s prospects for a good marriage would drop faster than a jar of red lead off a high shelf. I smoothed down my vest. It would be all right; as long as whoever entered didn’t want to look at the fresco, we were well hidden. I winced. Why would anyone come into that room unless they wanted to look at that fresco?

We were in the great salone of the Palazzo della Signoria, where Leonardo’s Battle of Anghiari fresco was going up on one wall. Have ever you been inside Florence’s Great Hall? It’s monumental: ceilings two stories tall with light coming in through high windows. It feels like a cathedral, which is appropriate considering the Florentines hold their civic duties as dear as their spiritual ones. At the time, the most prominent features of that great hall were Leonardo’s spread of scaffolding and his preparatory drawings rolled out across the floor. His designs for that fresco were extraordinary: soldiers and horses swirling in the chaos of war. The Battle of Anghiari had been a great victory for the Florentines, but instead of depicting the glory, Leonardo captured the violence and fear. It was extraordinary, and every Florentine was eager for a preview. So, yes, I gallantly gave my models a private tour of the famous fresco whenever they asked. Leonardo was always happy to take a walk in the hills during such visitations. No wonder he finished so few projects: he was always looking for any excuse not to work.

On that day, two voices—neither belonging to Leonardo— entered the room.

“I’ll pay whatever you want.”

“It’s not about the money. You’re asking me to expose my soul.”

Two men, both with Tuscan accents. I didn’t recognize either.

“So? That’s what artists do.”

Artists? I signaled for Sofia to stay back while I peeked through a slit in the tarp. I could only see the back of one of their heads.

“I’m not asking to inspect it as a city official, but to see it as a friend, Michelangelo.”