“I knew you were lacking in talent.” And with that, the duke flung open the door. Outside, Evangelista and my assistants gaped at the duke, who sneered, “Too bad, now someone else will get the glory of the Sistine.” As the duke clanged across the courtyard, my assistants buzzed: Was the studio closing? Were they out of work? Would the duke hire them?

Evangelista hustled inside and closed the door behind him. “What happened?”

“Nothing, he’s . . . it’s . . .” I straightened one chair at the table, then another and another. “He didn’t like my portrait of him all those years ago, that’s all. Not a fan of my work.”

Evangelista grabbed my elbow. “So, what do we do?”

“You should stay here and keep the studio running as long as he’ll let you. Me? I’m going to do the only thing I can.” I squeezed Evangelista’s shoulder and said, “Paint.” I wasn’t going to be able to rely on politics to get myself to Rome, was I? No, I was going to have to be so good that I would get there in spite of them.

Chapter IX

Chapter IX

I galloped back to Perugia, where I’d been working on my Lamentation of Christ altarpiece for nearly a year. If I were going to paint a masterpiece to impress a pope, then this was my best chance because it was already poised to have people talking because—you see—it had been commissioned by none other than the widow Baglioni.