Michelangelo, wait!” I spotted him across the piazza outside Vatican palace, his shoulders hunched like a defensive turtle. “Basta,” I cried. Following his head bobbing through the crowd, I dodged around mangy pilgrims, prostitutes in their yellow dresses, and dealers of cheap church trinkets, but Michelangelo was—as always—quick. “Stop, please!” But he didn’t stop, he turned one corner, another, and another . . . I hurdled a puddle, scooted around a donkey, sidestepped a group of children playing dice in an alley. “Michelangelo!” Under a tree, over a pile of horse manure, around a broken wagon . . . I grabbed for his elbow and missed, but with the second swipe, I caught his arm and bashed us both against a wall of brick. Of course, it had to be one of those Roman alleys trimmed with hanging dead bodies. I took a gulp of rancid air and searched for something to say to convince him that I wasn’t out to harm him or . . . “I wanted to warn you that the Duke of Urbino wants you dead.”

“You chased me down to tell me someone wants to kill me?” He leaned over, hands on his knees, breathing hard. “Welcome to Rome . . . what’s your name, again?”

“Raphael Santi. Of Urbino.”

Michelangelo spit into the dirt. “Leave me alone. Raphael.” He marched through the maze of swaying corpses.

I shielded my eyes with my hands as I chased after him. “You stole my sketchbook.”

“You’re nicer than I am.”

“What does that have to do with stealing my sketchbook?”

“I can’t have the pope finding out that there are artists who are both nice and talented.”

“You think I’m talented?”

“Gesù.”

“Wait, Michelangelo, I . . . I meant what I told the pope. I was never trying to steal from you. I admire you.” I had to jog to keep up with his quick strides, but at least he didn’t tell me to take a leap. “Gonfaloniere Soderini put your city hall cartoon on public display.” Was that a nod or . . .? I went on. “You heard that everyone raved?”

“About Leonardo.”

“About you.”

He slowed his pace.

“We all sat there, day after day, sketching your designs. They’re remarkable.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’m not a painter.”

“You keep saying that, but you fought to keep the Sistine, and people don’t fight for things they don’t love. I’d fight to the death for the paint, my work, my sketches . . .”

He stopped walking. His eyes flicked down to my hands, and I balled up my fingers to hide the specks of paint that—no matter how often I chipped them off—always returned. He whispered, as if confessing. “It’s silent.”

I leaned in and whispered, too. “What is?”

“The paint. It doesn’t say a word.”

“I don’t understand . . .”

He glared like . . . Dai, you know how he glared: like I was a fool.

I asked, “Are you having trouble with painting?”