And then Evangelista looked this way and that and stared me dead in the eye when he replied, “No, Rafa. It’s not so bad. I’m sure you’ll be just fine in Rome.”

Chapter X

Chapter X

Fall 1508

Rome

My meeting with the pope was to start in less than an hour, and yet, there I was, hiding up in the branches of a cypress tree outside the gates of Rome. Through the needles, I could make out seven—no, eight—swords, three maces, and five daggers ornamenting that pack of armored men camped at the bottom of that tree. The pine was making my nose itch. Mia Madre, one sneeze would give me away faster than Judas’s kiss.

I’d been warned about the dangers of traveling down the pilgrimage route alone: wolves, wild boar, bears, thieves, and unemployed mercenaries on the hunt for any excuse to expend pent-up aggressions. So, whenever I heard something coming down the path, I did what any reasonable courtier would do: I climbed the nearest tree. Paintbrushes lose to daggers every time. Especially to this pack of men with a certain crest emblazoned upon their shields: red and white stripes with a red flower up top. (I expected more of a reaction from you. How could you not recognize that crest? The Orsini family. Yes, that Orsini family. One of the most notoriously dangerous Roman families in all of history. Red and white diagonal stripes with a red flower on top—commit that crest to memory. It could save your life.) This was back before the Pax Romana, when those ancient Roman families—the Colonna, Savelli, Massimo, and, worst of them all, the Orsini—were still openly battling it out for control of Rome. Brutal days. Be glad you weren’t here. But since that was my first time in town, I didn’t yet know that those families posted sentries outside the gates to extract protection fees from travelers—ironic, since what we most needed protecting from were those offering protection.

From my perch, I could see the crumbling bell tower of St. Peter’s Basilica on the horizon. I should’ve been in Rome the night before, washing off grime, getting a good night’s sleep, organizing my sketchbook, but instead, there I was, still up a tree. Oh, how I regretted not sneaking out during the night, but those men had drunk so much wine that one or another was always up relieving himself.

The sun was already halfway up the morning sky. Roman thugs or not, it was time to go.

I scooted to the far side of the tree as quietly as able. Hugging my small travel bag close—Evangelista had promised to send most of my things down in trunks after I settled—I dangled my feet off a branch. Uno, due, tre, quattro . . .

I hit the ground hard, rolling head over feet through crisp leaves. “Uffa!”