The men scrambled for their weapons. Several yanked up their pants. Others hastily unsheathed swords. “Get him!” They charged.

As I stumbled away, the strap of my traveling bag caught on a branch. I yanked on the bag, but it wouldn’t come free. My sketchbook was in that bag, and I had to have those drawings for my meeting with the pope. A holy man may have faith in the unseeable spirit, but not even a pope would put faith in a painter unless he could see evidence of his talents. I fumbled with the latch and threw open the flap. Two Orsini men approached, swinging maces. I stuck my hand in—there were ducats, why didn’t I think to grab five? And then, just as my fingers found my sketchbook, one of the men caught my arm. “Got you.” His breath smelled of rotted meat.

Luckily, I was wearing a silk shirt, so his grip slipped. I wriggled my arm out of the sleeve, and the man’s dirty fingers closed in around empty silk. I broke free, and the man roared as he waved my torn sleeve in the air like a battle flag.

I’ve never been the fastest courtier on the small ball field, but that day, sketchbook hugged close, I sidestepped stumps and sailed over roots. I was feeling wonderfully about myself— how strong, how fast, that I could outrun such men—but when I looked back, they weren’t chasing me. They were gathered around my bag, counting my coins. They didn’t want me; they wanted my money. But I had my sketchbook, and at the time, I thought that was all that mattered.