I lifted up onto my elbows.

Che roba, that drawing.

The Battle of Cascina is esoteric Florentine history, so why would you know about it? It was a battle between the Florentines and the Pisans back in the fourteenth century—yes, the two cities have been at war forever. The Florentines won, but Michelangelo hadn’t depicted the moment of victory. No. He’d chosen an obscure part of the story when the Pisans attacked the Florentine army by surprise as they bathed in the Arno. Michelangelo’s drawing was as shocking as the attack: naked men sprang from the river as fully armored soldiers rushed in from the back, a torrent of twisting, straining figures. Today, we’re accustomed to seeing such paintings, but fifteen years ago, no one had seen that kind of pulsing, irregular rhythm. There were over a dozen figures, each more astonishing than the last: a bare-backed man with ribs pressing through his skin; a bearded soldier reaching out with terror in his eyes; a disturbing set of hands springing out of the water, all tangled together in a panic . . . Any man who can draw like that can certainly paint, too. I felt as breathless as those soldiers.

I flipped open my sketchbook and began to copy. (Oh, how I wish I still had some of those drawings to show you. No, no, I never burn my sketches, but life intervenes; some are lost to floods, fires, an overzealous maid. Moving takes others—lost along the road or left behind. Assistants, too, swipe a drawing here or there; I like to think they’re studying them, but sometimes I fear they’re selling them. Whenever I discover one missing, I feel bad as a jar of spoilt ultramarine. I’ve probably lost more than I remember; the memories of the unimportant drawings seem thrown out the window with the rest of the garbage. Or perhaps it’s not that I forget the unimportant ones, but that the act of remembering and missing and regretting makes them important.) I was so focused on copying Michelangelo’s cartoon that I didn’t notice one of Leonardo’s stray paintbrushes rolling toward the edge of the scaffolding. It’s shocking how much noise a small brush can make when it drops a great height and cracks against a marble floor, isn’t it?

The two men whirled around. Sofia cried out and—holding up her half-tied clothes—scampered across the room and out the door. Soderini chuckled. Michelangelo did not find the situation so funny. “Cosa fai?”

I stood up. “Buongiorno, maestro.” I immediately regretted not buckling my breeches.

“Cosa fai?” For someone so awkward, Michelangelo is surprisingly quick. Before I could react, he was climbing the scaffolding.

“Michelangelo,” Soderini called. “That’s young Raphael from Urbino. He’s only a student, here to study, I’m sure, nothing to upset you . . .”

“Yes, maestro. I’m a great admirer,” I said as I clumsily fixed my attire.