Silver blade, sharp point—all right, it was a dagger not a sword, but in the moment, it looked long enough to drive through a horse—handle encrusted with rubies and was that a crest? Red and white stripes, red flower . . . That’s right. I’m glad you remember. The crest of the infamous Orsini family. I was on a high scaffolding facing off against an Orsini. You’re thinking about all those corpses hanging in the streets, aren’t you? That was my thought, too.

“I apologize, my lady.” I backed away on unsteady feet. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your . . . your . . .” What was she doing up there? “Work. I’ll let you return to it.”

“I told you to get out of here. No one can know I was here.”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

“No one.” She pushed the dagger into my chest. One of my stockinged heels dropped over the edge of the scaffolding. I looked back. There was no railing. I tried to think of a Dante quote appropriate for such a situation but came up blank. She pushed the point of the dagger into the soft flesh under my neck. “You should’ve left when I said.”

Women always elicit strong emotions in me. If I love a woman, I gush—a Petrarch for Laura kind of a thing. If I lust, I’m David with Bathsheba. If I feel protective, I’m Orpheus to Eurydice, traipsing off to the Underworld to take on Hades. So, it’s not surprising with that woman I felt as fearful as a mortal facing Medusa. My second heel slipped off the scaffolding.

There’s no point in dragging out the tension any longer; as you can see, I didn’t fall to my death. I suppose I could invent some heroics. Others might spin a mistruth, make themselves out to be more than they are, because that’s what we all must do to be noticed—isn’t it?—be more than we are? But, no. The truth is, someone burst into the chapel at the right moment. If I’d been in ancient Greece, I would’ve said some goddess or another favored me, perhaps Athena; she championed Odysseus, so why not me?

“What’s all that racket?” Two papal guards ran in. They must’ve heard me calling.

She pressed the blade into my chin. “If you say anything, I can do worse than a flaying.”

“Who’s up there?” A guard called.

I turned to see two guards ascending the scaffolding.

When I looked back, the woman was gone.

“Identify yourself,” said the guard, pulling out a sword. Oh no. Not again.

“I’m a friend of Michelangelo’s.” My hand went up to my chin and came away with a splash of crimson. I pressed my thumb into the wound. “I’m . . . I’m . . . sorry for screaming. I fell. Cut myself.” I showed them my thumb of blood. “It’s nothing.”