Unlike the others, I felt relieved. My right arm had turned tingly from reaching up toward the ceiling day after day, the left side of my leg—from hip to ankle—ached all night, and my shoulder blade clicked every time I moved. Listen. You can still hear it. That’s from those early days in the Vatican. (This is one thing that I will grant Michelangelo: his back, legs, and arms must’ve truly hurt from painting that enormous ceiling over the course of—what? Four years? Neck and back bent, hips and belly pressing forward, arm stretching overhead, face pointed up collecting paint splatters like an old tarp. After I stopped work on my Justice, I saw spots of paint for weeks. I can’t imagine how he must’ve felt.) All this to say, I was glad that my task of painting that scrap of ceiling was finished.

When a pope enters a room, he doesn’t only bring himself, does he? No. He brings holy rings, holy walking sticks, and a holy entourage of cardinals, servants, and advisers. He brings the smell of incense and—more often than not—strong red wine. But most noticeably, a pope brings the feeling of fear. This was especially true for Julius II. Everyone was nervous. It was a cold morning, and yet, there was Perugino patting sweat off his balding head. Lorenzo Lotto kept pulling his collar away from his throat. Bramante mimed “take a deep breath” to Bramantino. (Do you still think of Bramante as my unwavering protector? No. He was always on the side of “Little Bramante.”) Sodoma was so anxious he was breathing hard as a dog after a hunt. I, too, felt nervous but stood firm and kept my hands clasped behind my back with an easy smile, even after I saw Cardinal de’ Medici and Michelangelo, leaning in a doorway near the back, looking annoyingly relaxed.

His Holiness, wearing white cassock and skullcap, extended his elbows. “We’re ready.”

The papal entourage rippled as a cardinal I didn’t recognize— tall and wiry, with a walk so slow and purposeful that he projected the confidence of a royal—took the pope’s left arm. And then, guess who stepped up to the pope’s right hand. No longer pregnant, but still in her widow’s weeds. That’s right. Felice della Rovere Orsini. I leaned over to Sodoma and whispered, “Why is she here? Aren’t new mothers usually home with their babies?”

Sodoma hissed, “Don’t talk about that.”

“Why not? Was it a girl? Fathers should really learn to appreciate daughters.”

“Worse. A boy.”

“What?”

Out of the corner of his mouth, he said, “It died. The baby boy died.”

“Che?”

“She lost the baby.”