I don’t need to tell you that off that line, the pope demanded that Michelangelo keep the ceiling and make him miracles, now do I? A few moments later, I chased down Bramante in the hall. “Maestro, why did you do that? The pope was about to hand the Sistine to me.”

“And he was also about to send Michelangelo back to his marble. Did you see that ceiling, Santi? Even when he does get the right plaster mix, that composition was a disaster. He’s going to fail in the most magnificent manner, and when he does”— Bramante patted me on the back—“you’ll get his ceiling, and I’ll get his marble.”

As Bramante strode down the hall with a self-satisfied step, my shoulders dropped. But it wasn’t Michelangelo’s failure weighing me down; it was my own. I’d spent months perfecting plasters and techniques—done it all the right way—whereas Michelangelo had thrown himself in without the slightest thought, and yet, somehow, that sculptor still had the Sistine?

I walked back into the apartments and looked up at my own ceiling. It was pretty. Nice. Yes, my technique was perfect, but technique alone would never be enough. So, as the pope and his cardinals came back into the room—arguing about whether to keep the papal alliance with the French king or join with the Venetians against him—I told Lotto that he was in charge of applying the gold leaf and sat down with my sketchbook to begin working on my designs for the first wall I would conquer: Religion. Michelangelo had no feeling for composition, no delicacy, no style, no grace. And yet, he was the one throwing out papal designs and inventing, while I was busy perfecting a plaster mix like some common craftsman. It was time for me to stop being a technician and start being a painter.

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXIV

Summer 1509

How am I supposed to make a perfect painting if I can’t even settle on a decent composition?” I said during one of the rare moments when the pope was out of the room, so I could talk freely with my men. Having the pope’s desk in the library was a compliment, but also a challenge. You want patrons to believe that masterpieces flow from your fingers easy as wine down a fat friar’s gullet, not that it’s a struggle to draw even a single usable line.

“I liked the idea of using Masaccio’s The Tribute Money as inspiration,” said Lotto, as he unrolled a large scroll of paper that we would eventually use for the preparatory cartoon for our Religion wall. Eventually. I wished Lotto would stop fiddling with that paper; it only reminded me how far away I was from needing it.

“Oui, oui, The Tribute Money,” seconded Guillaume, grinding pigments that—at this rate—I wouldn’t need for months.