Immortalized by some famous painter who would capture your face for the ages as Venus or the Virgin, and of course be in love with you as well, and the romance of it all was just entrancing, especially if you were twelve. The reality of sitting for a portrait was quite different: hours of shivering in a cold studio, getting a crick in your neck from holding your head at some exquisitely uncomfortable angle, and being chided by the painter, who was generally far too busy trying to match your skin tone in paint to even think about falling in love with you. I told Maestro Botticelli so, and he laughed.

“Madonna Simonetta complained of my cold studio too,” he agreed, a faint spark of laughter in his eye, and I liked him. I wondered if he regretted the decision not to paint anything more sinful than an Annunciation—maybe it had been the right decision for his conscience, but certainly not his prosperity. His hose and cloak were far too threadbare for this winter cold, and he looked haggard as though he hadn’t had enough meals.

Well, whether he painted me or not, I’d see he went back to Florence with a full purse. And a new set of clothes!

Poor Pinturicchio looked about to faint as he saw the stooped figure that followed the Holy Father into the Sala dei Misteri. “Maestro—” he stammered, and there was a great deal of bowing and complimenting and demurring over the finished frescoes, and Pinturicchio turned quite white when it became clear he was to work in front of his idol. “Surely His Holiness would rather sit for the Resurrection another day . . .”

Rodrigo looked tempted, but I scolded and chivvied him into his pose in the splendid jeweled cope that would show to such nice effect in the finished Resurrection, and he resigned himself. The cardinals and archbishops settled themselves about the walls, whispering behind ringed hands or going through documents as they waited, and the remaining pages, servants, and petty dignitaries squashed in as best they could around the clutter of paint and plaster, buckets and drapes and artist’s paraphernalia. Leonello settled on a stool at my feet, pulling out a book and ignoring us all utterly. He seemed to have suffered no ill effects from his hair-raising stint in the bullring—really, I could have clouted him for being so rash! “I shan’t kiss you next time you decide you feel like throwing your life away,” I’d scolded him. “I’ll knock you down and sit on you instead, until the madness passes!”

“Some things are worth risking one’s life for.” He looked sober and troubled at that, but he still went off whistling the way men always do when they feel they’ve proved some nebulous moral point with a totally unnecessary act of bravery.

“If Your Holiness will perhaps lift the chin?” Pinturicchio glanced at Maestro Botticelli, glanced at the Pope, and cleared his throat. “Just a touch—”