Work inside the Sistine had stopped in a rush: partially pulverized pigments tumbled out of tipped mortars, wooden spoons bobbed in buckets of lumpy plaster, a half-eaten crust of bread soaked up a puddle of red wine. I grabbed a ladder and climbed up to the scaffolding. The day’s light was fading fast, but once my eyes adjusted, I easily found the platform from which he had been painting, littered with drawings, rags, and brushes. He hadn’t started painting at one end of the chapel, which would’ve been a logical place to begin, but between the second set of windows. Why start in such an out-of-the-way place? Probably because his fresco was . . . lousy. He seemed to have rushed in with the hope that he’d figure out what to paint while painting. I picked up a few drawings off the scaffolding floor. The overall design for the ceiling was extraordinary. Elegant architectural elements divided the awkward space into a series of neat panels and spandrels. Each panel along the spine would contain a scene from the Old Testament, while prophets, sibyls, and ancestral families filled each side and lunette. There had to be—what? Over a hundred figures planned? The overall scheme was complex and dramatic— brilliant, even—but the individual panel above me was . . . uffa. A sea of figures crawled over one another in a chaotic mess. Was that a tree? And a . . . what? A boat. No. An ark. Was this fresco supposed to depict Noah’s ark during the Flood? The composition was so cluttered, it was nearly unrecognizable. The figures were sculptural and powerful—I’ll admit—grotesquely twisting and straining as they fought against the rising tide, but the overall composition was . . . Let me put it this way: Michelangelo should’ve been on his knees thanking that mold for making him tear it all down and begin again.

Speaking of mold, I’m not exaggerating when I say there were fields of crystalized salts growing across that fresco. I ran my finger along the ceiling, and pigment flaked off in my hands. There was no way any painter could’ve missed this. Had Michelangelo grown the mold on purpose, so he could throw the competition, let me win, and return to his marble?

I heard Michelangelo’s clunky work boots and a herd of other footsteps climbing the scaffolding. I didn’t have any place to hide, but luckily, His Holiness ascended first. If Michelangelo had found me up there alone, he no doubt would’ve tossed me over the edge. But, already in trouble with His Holiness, all Michelangelo could do was throw me a nasty glare. The pope looked up at the ceiling and grimaced. Cardinal de’ Medici rubbed his face and muttered, “Good God,” and Cardinal Riario said, “Did you do this on purpose?”