His Holiness held his lips tight when he smiled. From the look of his hollow cheeks, he’d probably lost all his teeth and was trying not to flash his gums. “Indeed?”

To Michelangelo, I said, “I apologize for startling you that day, but maestro Leonardo”—my eyes darted to the pope—“from Vinci”—eyes back to the sculptor—“had given me permission to be in that room, where you were both working.”

The sculptor’s face turned crimson. “And does Leonardo give you permission to use his name for your attempts at social climbing?”

I turned my body fully toward the pope but kept my eyes humbly lowered. “I don’t like to boast, and I never would’ve brought this up on my own, Your Holiness, but the maestro from Vinci has offered a letter of recommendation if it would be of benefit . . .”

“That master”—Michelangelo snarled when he said the word— “did not have the right to give you permission to copy my designs that day.” He turned to the pope and said, “This young climber hasn’t only stolen from me, Your Holiness, but from Perugino, his own teacher.”

And I said, “He is a poor student who does not surpass his master.”

Michelangelo huffed, “Gesù, now you’re quoting Leonardo, too? Do you have one original thought in that head of yours?”

My lips parted, but I didn’t have time to parry before the pope flicked his fingers and said, “We shall be the judge as to whether he steals or improves.”

That’s when Michelangelo shifted my sketchbook to behind his back. “I’ve seen his work, Your Holiness, and it’s not good.”

“You’ve seen my work?” I said, still young enough to be flattered by such a revelation.

“It’s not good,” Michelangelo repeated.

“We’ll be the judge,” said the pope.

“Michel, per favore,” whispered Cardinal de’ Medici. “Hand over the sketchbook.”

The sculptor’s eyes twitched this way and that—I’d never seen him calculate before—and then he clenched his jaw and said, “If he’s working in the Vatican, then I won’t be.”

Pope Julius cocked his wild, gray eyebrows at me. I’d comported myself quite well already and speaking again would only feed the argument, so I made the courtly choice: I held a genial smile and waited for the fair deliverance of justice.

But the pope only shrugged—shrugged!—and said, “So be it.” He flicked his fingers, and two papal guards marched toward me. What had just happened? As Bramante groaned, the pope said to Michelangelo, “Since we’re giving up such a prize for you, you owe us in return. We expect miracles on your ceiling, Buonarroti.”

Michelangelo bowed; it was less clumsy than I’d imagined. “And you shall have them.”