“Nice to meet you, Your Eminen”—off his scolding look I corrected—“Fafel . . . Although I wish I could stay and hear what kind of joke Michelangelo played on you”—in courts, always assume everyone has been wronged by everyone else—“if I don’t have this meeting properly prepared by the time the sculptor follows . . .” I let out a low whistle.

“You’re meeting with who? Bramante?”

I exhaled, relieved that he had provided me with such an easy answer. “Sì. Bramante.”

“I saw him heading to the papal apartments. Is that where you’re meeting?”

I nodded.

“Don’t be nervous,” said the cardinal. “His Holiness is pre-disposed to like you. He enjoys stoking competition—especially when he’s the beneficiary of the fruits.” A door down the other end of the corridor clanged, and those familiar work boots clunked toward us. My eyes must’ve widened because the cardinal said, “Go. I’ll stall him.”

“Thank you, Your Em . . .” I started up the stairs, but the cardinal grabbed my arm and pointed down. “Sì certo, down . . . it’s my first day . . . I’ll master this place soon . . . Thank you, Fafel. I won’t forget the kindness.”

“Anything to thwart one of Michelangelo’s . . . jokes.”

My heart tapped fast as I scurried down the stairs. One glance at those papal seals emblazoned in the halls proved that the corridor had taken me back to Vatican palace. Michelangelo had a secret passageway connecting his studio to the Vatican? He was even more powerful than I’d feared. Any sane man would’ve found the nearest exit to avoid finding his neck on the wrong end of a noose for trespassing in the Vatican against the expressed will of the pope, but what kind of an artist would I be if I gave up so quickly? An unemployed artist, that’s what.

You don’t need to hear me flatter my way into the pope’s apartments—do you? By now, even considering my rough appearance, surely, you can trust that I’m able. So, let’s skip forward. As I entered the pope’s private office, Bramante looked incredulous. “Raphael! What are you doing here?”