I pulled a scroll out of Bramante’s quiver of plans hanging across his back, marched across the room, unrolled the parchment—blank side up—on top of the pope’s cluttered desk, and took out a piece of chalk. I pulled up my one remaining sleeve, rolled my wrist four times with an artistic flourish, and put my chalk down to draw. His Holiness raised his ringed hand, halting his approaching guards. Keeping my eyes on the pope’s face, I grabbed a quick portrait: deep-set eyes, tired but with a spark of stubborn; long nose widening like a bell; jaw square as Emperor Augustus. I finished the sketch fast as able and snapped the page forward. “Your Holiness had expressed a desire to see my trifles, and I would not be a good servant to the church if I didn’t make my utmost effort to fulfill that request.”

The pope looked at my drawing. Did he like it? Hate it? Would he hang me? Hire me?

That’s when I felt Michelangelo barrel into the room behind me. “Cosa fai?”

If this pope, indeed, liked to stoke competition as Fafel claimed . . . I went against my courtly training in humility and said, “Your Holiness, there’s nothing like a younger, more talented rival to push other men to miracles.”

The pope looked at me with an expression of . . . what? Surprise? Amusement? Awe?

Michelangelo snatched my drawing off the desk. He looked at it and muttered, “How do you make everything look so easy?”

I shrugged and said, “His Holiness makes it easy to capture life.” (While we’re on the subject, have you gotten an early look at Baldassare’s new manuscript? Castiglione; you must know him . . . I think he’s calling his latest The Courtier for now, although I think he could use a more compelling title. He hasn’t released it yet, but you should ask him to show you pages. He calls this appearance of ease sprezzatura. I love the way that sounds, don’t you? Sprezzatura. He keeps showing me passages obviously written about me, thinking it’s going to upset me, but, to be honest, I find it flattering. At any rate, when Michelangelo reads it, he’ll never stop taunting me.)

Michelangelo gathered his composure and spit, “This is nothing but a parlor trick, Your Holiness.”

“So, does that mean the young man can repeat it at will?” the pope said with a lilt, and the gathered courtiers—cardinals, aides, visiting royals—chuckled appropriately.

Michelangelo said, “I mean that it’s nothing compared to what I can do.”

“Oh, go prove it, Buonarroti,” the pope grumbled and then turned to me. “You’ll return tomorrow to help paint our apartments. Best of luck, Raphael Santi of Urbino. We’ll be watching.”

And that’s how you land a job in the Vatican.

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIII