“A few years ago,” the cardinal told me. “I bought a marble statue of a sleeping cupid promised to be from Ancient Rome. It had the right heroic build, proper boreholes in its hair, and was scuffed up as though it had been buried for hundreds of years. It was only after I laid down a hefty sum that I learned it was not, as advertised, an ancient artifact, but a fraud by some precocious Florentine sculptor—you guessed it—Michelangelo.”

I laughed. “Michelangelo began his career as an art forger?”

The cardinal nodded. “I graciously forgave the prank and brought the sculptor down to Rome—even paid for his passage— and hired him to sculpt another statue. Oh, but Raphael, that man was mocking me. The Bacchus he carved was fat and slovenly, mouth open, eyes lulled with drink. There was no heroic grandeur to the thing, so, of course, I refused to pay and dismissed him.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “I feel responsible for bringing that lout to Rome, so if there’s ever anything I can do to help you . . .”

That notorious villa is closer to the Vatican than expected. (Stop acting so coy, you know where it is. In Piazza Scossacavalli. The villa with that frieze of a nude Venus cavorting in the countryside . . . Yes, that one. I painted that frieze a few years ago—did you not know?—in appreciation of Imperia’s exemplary goods and services.) That night, as always, the villa was bubbling with music and merriment. As I jogged toward the entrance, Cardinal Riario chuckled. “When I was young, patience wasn’t my cut of veal, either.”

The women inside were as intoxicating as poppies, and a swarm of red-hatted cardinals buzzed like bees from petal to petal. Cardinal Riario introduced me to the lady of the villa—tall, curvy, amber hair tumbling down shoulders, dress embroidered with gold thread. She flicked her fingers, and I showed her the contents of my pouch (Beh, I mean that literally—my money pouch). Her name was Imperia. No last name or city of origin, simply Imperia. (I’d like to get away with that one day, wouldn’t you? Forget the “Santi” or “from Urbino,” just Raphael!) I complimented her on the elegant disegno of the frescoes adorning her ceilings, and she replied that most men were more taken by the color of her carpets.