I spotted my countryman, maestro Bramante, official papal architect, the man in charge of shepherding me through my first meeting with the pope. I hadn’t seen him in years. He was, what? Sixty-five years old by then? His angular features had been considered handsome before time turned his skin to melted wax. He carried a bundle of scrolled architectural plans in a satchel crossing his back like a quiver of arrows. When he saw me, he looked annoyed. He said, “In Rome, on time is late.”

I bowed. “Grazie for the advice, maestro. I’ll keep it in mind henceforward.”

He waved the guards away, and they obeyed. (Yes, I took note that Bramante had the power to command papal guards.) He scrunched his nose at my appearance. One of my sleeves was missing, my pink velvet vest was split down the side, and my hat was gone—not even a feather accidentally stuck in my hair. Mud caked my knees and boots, and it wasn’t even a pretty reddish-brown clay, but a murky, gray ashen color. I also smelled like I’d been sleeping on the road for a week, which I had. “Are you trying to convince His Holiness that Urbino is, indeed, some backwater hamlet as rumored? At least brush back your hair,” Bramante ordered as he adjusted his own immaculate green velvet jacket.

I ran my fingers through my hair, smoothed down my ripped vest, and brushed off my behind. I considered tearing off the second sleeve of my shirt and proclaiming it a new fashion but thought better of it. “Perhaps I could borrow your jacket, maestro?”

“And present myself to the pope in shirtsleeves?” His nose flared incredulously. “You’re lucky that His Holiness is still here.”

When I was a child and would look proud after copying one of my father’s devotionals, my mother would pinch my ear and make me kneel and pray for humility until my knees went numb. To this day, I know when I’m looking smug because my knees tingle. That day, striding across the Sistine to meet the pope, my knees, legs, and even feet pricked.