I lit candles and sat down to practice making figures as sculptural as Michelangelo’s. Over the next few weeks, I didn’t stop at the tavern or dawdle by the baptistery doors drinking cherry red wine with the others. No. I stayed in my room, slept little as necessary, and worked on perfecting the details I could remember from Michelangelo’s cartoon: lunging figures, twisting muscles, protruding bones . . . I’d never seen abdomens, ankle joints, or knuckles captured with such precision. (Yes, I’ve heard the same rumors as you, about Michelangelo breaking into mortuaries to cut into the dead to study anatomy. Can you imagine all that blood and gore and stench? Every time I think about driving a chisel through a breastbone . . . uffa! Instead of dissecting the dead, I think I’ll stick to dissecting the work of others.) I practiced drawing the muscles of Michelangelo’s figures bulging bigger, knees bending tighter, and torsos swiveling farther until I felt I’d come as close as I could to capturing his designs. Then, I drew hundreds of additional sketches, incrementally adjusting those figures to fit my own tastes: elongating muscles, smoothing curves, softening flesh, idealizing faces, moving away from the rhythm of battle toward dance. But even after all of that, I wasn’t sure I’d captured his energy, his passion, his . . . his . . . He was good. Too good.

One day, Sarto poked his head into my studio. “Michelangelo’s leaving for Rome.”

My fingers throbbed, but I didn’t put down my chalk. Not yet. “Why?”

“To carve the pope’s tomb.”

My fingers loosened a little. “In marble?”

“Of course, marble. Rumor is, it’s a three-story facade filled with forty marble statues. Forty. It’ll take him a lifetime to carve. If he ever finishes it at all.”

“And what about his city hall fresco?” I asked.

“Abandoned before it’s even begun.”

As Sarto ran off to continue spreading the news, I put down my chalk and stretched my cramping hands. Michelangelo was to return to marble. I exhaled. Thank the Blessed Virgin Mary and Her Blessed Son and Her Blessed Blue Robe and Her Blessed Fingers and even Her Blessed Toes that sculptor is not to be a painter.

Chapter VII

Chapter VII

March 1505

If you’re trying to convince me to show you his drawing, he’s sworn me to secrecy,” Gonfaloniere Piero Soderini said as I walked alongside him through the cacophony of fishmongers and butchers lining the Ponte Vecchio.

“I’m not trying to steal his designs, Gonfaloniere.” I bumped into a maid carrying a basket of mackerel on her hip. She huffed hair out of her eyes. She was pretty, so I gave a quick nod of apology before continuing after Soderini. “I’m offering my services to finish the fresco.”