“Is maestro Michelangelo . . . here?”

That’s when I remembered that I was standing there in nothing but stockinged feet and tunic. Oh, how it must’ve looked . . . “I was studying his drawings?”

Averting his gaze, the first guard lowered his sword. The second backed down the ladder.

Persephone. They hadn’t taken my “studying his drawings” comment as a delicate way of suggesting . . . You know how common sodomy is among artists in Rome. It’s nearly impossible to escape the rumors, and standing on another man’s private scaffolding in nothing but tunic and tights . . . I wouldn’t care about such a rumor except for the whole threat-of-hanging-as-a-punishment problem. I wanted to come up with some courtier line to smooth over the moment, but I was so rattled all I said was, “Prego.”

The guards descended the ladder without another word, and I followed them out of the chapel. In the hallway, I incongruently blurted, “Buongiorno” to the guards and, head high as possible, strode away. As I scurried down the hall, I checked behind—that woman wasn’t following me, was she? I bolted my door behind me and pressed a kerchief into my bloody chin. At least I wasn’t dead. Although, considering how Rome had treated me so far, I couldn’t help mentally adding: not yet.

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVI

The rest of the night and into the next morning, my nerves were jangled as a bell on a brothel door in the weeks after Lent, but I had to put that terrifying Orsini woman out of my head and prepare for my first day of work in the Vatican. The Vatican! At daybreak, Bramante’s steward brought up an extra simple black velvet jacket and belt; I could play it as stylishly understated. I peered into the reflection of a silver wine jug to inspect my eyebrows, hairline, and nose for stray hairs. I buttoned and rebuttoned my jacket and checked my boot ties twice. Since I was sleeping in the palace, I didn’t need to cross even a single dusty street that morning, but I still waited for a kitchen maid to smuggle up a sprig of fresh lavender for my belt.

Bramante was waiting for me at the door outside of the papal apartments, arms folded like the king of Mycenae demanding labors from Heracles. He said, “You’re in competition with every other artist behind this door. You aren’t friends, you aren’t colleagues, you aren’t partners. Don’t expect their help and do not be swindled into offering yours. If you fail, you will not only embarrass me and your duke, but face the wrath of His Holiness. Understood?” He didn’t give me time to respond. “Andiamo,” he barked and led me through that door.