Sistina: A Novel

By Brian Kenneth Swain

Come and look upon these things, so that you may understand and believe.

Sistina, Brian Kenneth Swains gripping and thought-provoking new novel, is a story two thousand years in the making. The events set in motion following Christs crucifixion build to a crescendo during the Italian High Renaissance and will test the faith of the storys historical and modern-day characters, as well as that of readers.

When a violent earthquake damages Michelangelos magnificent frescoes, a team of experts undertakes the Vaticans most important restoration in centuries, only to discover a perplexing secret hidden for five hundred years beneath the chapels plaster ceiling. The message, both cryptic and incomplete due to the rash actions of a tourist at the time of the quake, baffles the team and awakens the attention of a small group of powerful menmen who have waited centuries in the shadows, hoping for the elusive clue that will lead them to Christendoms ultimate artifact.

It is a tale of murder, revenge, ecclesiastical connivance, and ancient secretsall constructed on an elaborate foundation of religious history, political intrigue, and technological wizardry. Sistina, Swains most controversial novel to date, will leave you breathless.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491747087

Brian Kenneth Swain

BRIAN KENNETH SWAIN is the author of nine previous books, including the novels World Hunger, Alone in the Light, and Sistina; the poetry collections Secret Places, My America, and Chicken Feet; the essay collection The Curious Habits of Man; the short story collection The Book of Names; and the children’s book Hegel and Hobbes Have an Adventure. Brian is a graduate of Columbia University and The Wharton School. He grew up in Brunswick, Maine and now lives in San Antonio with his black chow chows Maya and Loki.

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Copyright © 2014 Brian Kenneth Swain.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-4709-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-4710-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-4708-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014918993

iUniverse rev. date: 10/06/14

Contents

acknowledgments

historical timeline

prologue

~ book 1 ~

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

chapter 4

chapter 5

chapter 6

chapter 7

chapter 8

chapter 9

~ book 2 ~

chapter 10

chapter 11

chapter 12

chapter 13

chapter 14

chapter 15

chapter 16

chapter 17

chapter 18

chapter 19

chapter 20

chapter 21

chapter 22

chapter 23

chapter 24

chapter 25

chapter 26

chapter 27

chapter 28

chapter 29

chapter 30

chapter 31

chapter 32

Glossary of Terms

Bibliography

For my maternal grandmother, Marguerite Allard, who built destroyers for the Navy in World War II and cut her own grass with a push mower ‘til the day she died.

acknowledgments

My sincere love and thanks go out to Catia Swain, who, despite sharing my life, is not afraid to tell me what she really thinks. I am grateful, as well, to Laura Brann, Michael Lieberman, and Larry Robey, as well as Catherine Clack, Millie Mohan, Holly Varner, and the other members of the Silverlake Book Club in Pearland, Texas, who read an early draft of this book and offered many helpful suggestions for its improvement. Having access to truly critical readers, particularly among friends and associates whose natural inclination might be to say only positive and encouraging things, is a genuine blessing, and I am thankful to you all.

I am indebted, in particular, to Nicholas DeVito, friend and colleague since our days at Columbia, with whom I discussed plot points, character arcs, and historical details in far more detail than he likely ever realized he was signing on for, and without whom the story would be much the worse.

I am grateful for the assistance of University of Texas at San Antonio Classics Professor William Short, Ph.D., who provided the Renaissance-era Latin expertise needed to ensure narrative verisimilitude.

And, as always, I deeply appreciate the work of my editor Susan Ciancio, whose keen eye for detail, continuity, and logic have been critical to this and every other book I’ve published to date.

historical timeline

• Francesco della Rovere elected Pope Sixtus IV (August 9, 1471) – He is of the same della Rovere family whence will emerge Pope Julius in a few years’ time.

• Sistine Chapel undergoes major renovation under Sixtus (1480) – Originally constructed to the dimensions of Solomon’s Temple in Jerusalem, the chapel undergoes a massive four-year repair and upgrade.

• Rodrigo Borgia elected Pope Alexander VI (August 11, 1492) – Much maligned secular Renaissance pontiff who proves to be the undoing of Friar Savonarola.

• Girolamo Savonarola rises to prominence in Florence (1494) – Hyper-zealous/conservativeDominican friar who attempts to convert Florence into a new Jerusalem by eliminating all worldly temptations. Originator of the bonfire of the vanities.

• Savonarola executed (May 1498) – Captured at last by agents of the Vatican, the diminutive friar is hanged and burned along with two of his closest colleagues.

• Giuliano della Rovere elected Pope Julius II (November 1, 1503) – Nicknamed Il Papa Terribile or the Warrior Pope, he becomes a significant art patron and driver of Renaissance artworks by Michelangelo, Raphael, etc.

• Ancient Roman statue of Laocoön unearthed (1506) – Missing since its sculpting around 20 BCE by Agesander, Athenodoros, and Polydorus, its rediscovery causes a sensation in Roman art circles.

• Michelangelo signs contract to paint Sistine ceiling (May 10, 1508) – Michelangelo reluctantly accepts down payment of 800 papal ducats for the painting of the Sistine ceiling. The total agreed price for the work is 3000 ducats, though collection will prove to be an ongoing challenge for the artist.

• Piero Rosselli removes Pier Matteo d’Amelia’s original painting from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel (May-July 1508) – The work goes faster than expected and catches Michelangelo unprepared when Rosselli’s team completes the removal and scaffold erection in record time.

• Fra Jacopo di Francesco of the Gesuati monastery receives initial pigment order from Michelangelo (May 30, 1508) – The monastery is renowned throughout Italy for its stained glass and fresco pigments, most especially the blues and ultramarines.

• Painting begins on Sistine ceiling fresco (October 1, 1508) – It takes the master a while to get up to speed with fresco technique and selecting assistants, and some early work is destroyed and redone.

• Battle of Ravenna (Easter 1512) – The pope’s Holy League suffers a crushing defeat by the French, costing more than 12,000 mainly Spanish casualties in a single day. Rome panics at the prospect of an imminent French invasion.

• Sistine ceiling completed and revealed to the public (October 31, 1512) – The unveiling takes Rome by storm. Even Raphael, Michelangelo’s greatest competitor at the time, admits he has been bested.

QVOD · ERAT · LONGE · PRIVS · PERDITVM

IAM · EXORTIVO · LATET · SVB · PARIETE

TVTVM · ATQVE · INVISVM · APVD

ILLORVM · FRATRVM · DIVERSORIVM

VNDE · VENIT · VLTRA · MARINVM

prologue

And they found the stone rolled away from the sepulcher. And they entered in, and found not the body of the Lord Jesus.

Luke 24:2-3

APRIL 3 – 33 CE

Nicodemus looks away as Joseph grunts and puts all his weight into the bar, drawing the heavy iron nail from out of the black oak, freeing Jesus’ limp left hand from the cross. The task is excruciating, physically and emotionally, and there is no respite from the unforgiving afternoon heat. They are two men, observed only by a pair of centurions, but working alone, and with the crudest of tools: a heavy winch to lift the massive cross from its support hole and lower it gently to the ground, and a stout iron bar to grip the heads of the six-inch-long spikes and draw them screeching from the timber. The man upon the cross appears barely human—beaten, scourged, pierced, and crucified almost to the point of unrecognizability. Neither Joseph nor Nicodemus attempts to hide his emotions as the final nail is removed and the broken body rolls to one side and onto the dusty ground.

Joseph extends a hand toward Jesus’ bloody head, meaning to dislodge the ring of thorns placed there by the Romans. The spines are enormous, each nearly the length of a finger, and Joseph winces as he tears his thumb on one of the savage tips. Take care, my friend, Nicodemus whispers. His face, like Joseph’s, is dusty, tracked with sweat and tears. Joseph rises, bringing his torn thumb momentarily to his lips, and steps toward his donkey, reaching into the saddlebag for a piece of heavy cloth to protect his hands while he pulls the deeply-embedded crown from Jesus’ head.

Lift … here. Joseph grasps the feet while Nicodemus places his hands beneath Jesus’ inner arms. Together they lift, marveling at the lightness of the body, the torment of his treatment by the Romans having taken its final toll on his already frail constitution. It is several miles back to Joseph’s estate at Arimathea, and they have brought an extra donkey on which is mounted a wooden bier. They wrap the body with heavy linen shrouds, place it delicately onto the bier, and lash it securely in place.

It is fitting that he go to his rest in this manner, Nicodemus observes, bending to retrieve the spikes and thorned ring. He drops the four nails into his saddlebag and inserts the crown as well, though with some difficulty. He arrived in Jerusalem on a donkey. Now he departs that way. They exchange sad smiles.

And what of the cross? Nicodemus asks, watching suspiciously as the centurions laugh together in the distance.

Arrangements have been made, Joseph replies. My servants will come later this afternoon with oxen to retrieve it.

Joseph draws a small paper from his tunic pocket—his receipt for the body. It contains a couple lines of text, a signature, and Joseph’s family seal. He walks toward the centurions who do not stop their banter until he is within a step of them. He holds out the paper without expression.

I believe this concludes our business, he says, as one of the guards takes the paper from his hand.

And you will return for the timber? the centurion asks. If not, my wife can use it to build us a new chicken coop. He looks to his companion and smiles broadly.

My servants will come for it shortly, Joseph replies. He turns without further comment and walks back to where Nicodemus sits astride his donkey. As Joseph climbs upon his, he turns to face his friend.

Surely now no one can displace these animals, he glances indignantly over his shoulder as the centurions begin to walk away, still laughing and talking loudly. He was our greatest hope.

My friend, Nicodemus says, I believe he remains our greatest hope. And if I know you as I think I do, then you believe this as well.

Joseph is a good and pious man, though he does not display his piety in public ways, lest he incur the wrath of the Jewish elders and business associates on whom his livelihood depends. However, in recent months, his silent support for Jesus had been an increasing source of internal conflict. He closely followed the travels, teachings, and rapid rise to fame of the man who garnered the unwanted focus of the Roman government in Judea, and who seemed so utterly unconcerned over the consequences he might incur for having the temerity to offer hope and inspiration to the masses. Joseph is a believer, a man who now waits, along with a rapidly growing number of followers, for the inevitable return of the kingdom of heaven on earth. A braver man would have shared in spreading Jesus’ message and taken on some of that risk—a man without a family to feed and a business to run.

Joseph is also well-to-do. When first he heard of the impending crucifixion, he immediately beseeched Judean governor Pontius Pilate for possession of Jesus’ body following the execution. Pilate had found this a strange request. It seemed that Joseph, a well-regarded member of the Sanhedrin, but of no known religious proclivity, was in effect taking Jesus into his own family—a curiously magnanimous gesture toward such a controversial figure. Joseph had not been a known associate of Jesus throughout the months of sermons and miracles that had captured so much attention, and which ultimately led to his prosecution and condemnation. Still, Joseph had asked fervently that he be allowed to care for the body and to inter it in a family sepulcher on his estate, and Pilate had seen no special reason to deny the request.

Joseph had gone to the courtyard on that fateful day; he witnessed the mock trial and the chants of the crowd to free the insurgent and murderer Barabbas. He walked the path that Jesus walked, watched him struggle with the ponderous oaken cross, and, despite repeated attempts to force himself to look away, had watched as the hours passed that it took for Jesus to finally expire, suspended there in the searing sun. He thought again of these things as they rode solemnly back to his estate, where he had arranged fine linen strips, myrrh, and aloes in preparation for the entombment of the body.

In the preceding months, Joseph had excavated from a hillside near his home a sepulcher intended to serve as the final resting place for members of his family. It required the work of many men, and when completed, extended more than thirty feet into the heart of the hill. It is here that Jesus is laid to rest later that afternoon. The mouth of the cave, nearly seven feet across, is covered by an enormous round stone that traverses a track in the ground before the opening. It has been constructed with multiple uses in mind, since several members of Joseph’s family will ultimately be interred here. The massive stone requires a pair of harnessed oxen to roll it over or back from the opening, and it is nearly sundown on Friday evening when, with a final round of prayers, the door is sealed and Jesus’ body laid to rest.

The two men, exhausted and perspiring from their labors, are then met, through a prior quiet arrangement, by three of Jesus’ Apostles: James and John, the sons of Zebedee; and Philip. The five drink wine, dine on bread and lamb, and discuss the events of the day, as well as those leading up to the execution. Following a lengthy draught from his wine cup, Joseph broaches the topic that has been weighing on his mind since word of the trial first began circulating.

The prophets have said—indeed, Jesus himself told us—that on Sunday morning he will rise from this sepulcher and walk again among us. Do you believe such a thing?

His question is directed to no one in particular, but John, the younger son of Zebedee, takes up the response.

How can it not be believed? Have we not seen countless other miraculous occurrences take place at his hand? Did not Lazarus himself walk again to his family? It is the fulfillment of his journey.

But that was in life, my friend, Nicodemus replies. Can a man, even one so great as our master, truly be expected to conquer his own death?

James sits at the far end of the long table, gazing upward, addressing no one and everyone. "Everything depends on fulfillment of the prophecy. The others look in surprise at the quiet utterance. If it does not come to pass, then what has this all meant? For what have we sacrificed our livelihoods, our families?"

There are more than a few, Nicodemus intones, who have a vested interest in the failure of the prophecy. There are economic interests, political consequences, men who will do whatever is required to see that Jesus’ work comes to nothing. And many of these men know where we have placed his body. They may take steps to actively thwart the prophecy rather than rely on chance to ensure their continuing power.

He is right, responds Joseph. There are men who will not take that chance. Even if they believe the prophecy to be false, they cannot allow for the slightest threat.

They will come, John says, stating the conclusion that all of the men have arrived at more or less simultaneously. And what can we do to stop them from this heresy?

There is nothing we can do, Joseph replies. We cannot fight centurions if they are committed to taking our Lord’s body. And they know the prophecy as well as we. If they are going to act—and they must act—they will do so before the appointed time. They will do so tomorrow.

And we are powerless to stop them, John adds. They will take him away, and perhaps even kill us as well.

A silence pervades the room, until after an interminable minute Joseph rises from his seat and places his hands upon the heavy table.

The body must be moved, he says resolutely. It must be moved and it must be done tonight—before the politicians have the time or opportunity to agree their course.

But what of the prophecy? protests John. What of the resurrection?

Yes, agrees James, and where else can we place him?

Nicodemus raises his right hand and pauses thoughtfully before addressing the first part of John’s question.

If, as we all believe, the prophecy is true—that our Lord will indeed rise on the third day—then the location is of no consequence. If he will rise, he will rise, and whence he rises will not concern him in the least. Our responsibility is to our master, most especially now in the hour of his greatest need and weakest state.

Joseph, asks John, do you know of such a place? Is there somewhere he can be made safe, if only for a few days?

Yes, my friends, I do know of such a place.

And so it comes to pass that, by working through the remainder of the night, and with the assistance of two irritated oxen who had thought their night’s work complete, the body of Jesus is, with great care and reverence, lifted from the family sepulcher and taken more than three leagues away to a well-hidden cave in the forest along the northern border of Joseph’s vast estate. It isn’t a tomb in any real sense of the word. It isn’t even a proper cave—more of a deep crevice at the edge of a ridge. There are two major advantages, though, to the location. First, and most important, no one knows of this place, save for Joseph and a handful of his domestic servants. Second, it is set high enough in the wall of the ridge to preclude any chance of rain collecting inside. Also to their advantage is the large broad stand of cypress trees that grows just before the opening—a natural camouflage that will dissuade discovery by any but the most well informed of searchers. There is, however, no feasible way of securing the entrance against possible predators or accidental visitors. Thus, Joseph directs one of his most trusted servants to stand watch over the makeshift tomb until relieved later on Saturday morning. Of course, if something spectacular should take place, the servant will immediately bring news of any such blessed event.

Rather than risk a life unnecessarily, no one is allowed to stand guard over the family sepulcher lest the Romans or other unscrupulous visitors might harm them upon visiting the tomb. They leave the massive round stone pulled back and the sepulcher empty, presuming that any visitors, nefarious or otherwise, will assume that the prophesied resurrection has already occurred. As a measure of further insurance, Joseph directs another of his servants to hide in the woods within sight of the family sepulcher, watching to see if it attracts any unwanted visitors. None appear until late on Saturday night, and then not the centurions that Joseph and the others have expected. Rather, the visitor, difficult to discern in the shadows of the night, appears to be a lone young man—a spy perhaps, or simply someone curious—who tentatively approaches the massive opening, looks around furtively, and then steps inside. Moments later, still watched from a prudent distance by Joseph’s servant, the man exits the tomb and departs stealthily down the path from which he has come. Whether he passes the word of the sepulcher’s vacancy, or the men’s suspicions are ultimately unfounded, no one else appears at the tomb for the remainder of the night.

Having successfully relocated Jesus’ body deep into the north woods, Joseph and the four others reconvene again in his kitchen to discuss and agree upon what they ought to do next.

Suppose our Lord rises on Sunday morning as he foretold? James says. What will he think of us, of our faithlessness?

My friend, Nicodemus replies, placing a calming hand on the man’s shoulder, it is not faithlessness we have demonstrated this night, but respect for the prophecy and commitment to its completion. If our Lord rises, as we have agreed, the spot from which he rises will matter neither to him nor to any of those he gave his life to redeem.

But are we not interfering with the fulfillment of the prophecy? objects James.

Or could it be that we and our actions are indeed a part of those prophecies? Nicodemus responds. Nowhere is written the place from which our Lord will rise, nor the manner in which he will do so. Nowhere does it say with whose assistance this wondrous event will take place. Only that he will rise up and ascend bodily into heaven. If there is some small part we are called upon to play in bringing this to pass, then I say so be it!

But, my friends, says Joseph, rising from his seat, should we not also consider what our course will be if Sunday comes and there is no sign of the resurrection? What then shall we do?

The exhausted men debate long into the early hours of Saturday morning—whether to leave things to their natural course or to take steps to actively bring about the Lord’s prophecies themselves. In the end, they agree that advancing Jesus’ work on earth is what matters more than anything else—this is so whether he rises or not. They agree, as well, that should Jesus not rise and ascend into heaven, the body they have so carefully prepared and protected must be preserved at all cost, against any who would abscond with or otherwise desecrate it. Finally they agree that, one way or another, there is going to be a resurrection on Sunday morning.

~ book 1 ~

chapter 1

An inheritance may be gotten hastily at the beginning; but the end thereof shall not be blessed.

Proverbs 20:21

February 1496 – Florence

This winter has been a cold one, at least by the standards of Northern Italy. It is early February and a mild frost has set in the previous night, not a common thing in this part of the country, much less so in the heavily populated center of Florence. It is now two hours past sunrise and a teenage boy stands on the street corner, stamping his feet and holding each thinly-gloved hand under the opposing armpit. This gesture is made more awkward by the loose-fitting white smock he wears over his clothes. This is at the friar’s insistence; all the boys wear them. The morning sun is trying its best to warm things, but at this hour the boy can still watch traces of his breath rise and twirl in the clear air with each exhalation. He is tall and thin, and his hair is closely cropped, again at the insistence of the friar. The north wind whistles around him as though he were not there. A bag made of thick coarse cloth, tied at the top with twine, lies at his feet. At this hour it is nearly empty, but his charge, like that of dozens of other boys around the city and surrounding areas, is to see to it that the bag is as full as possible when he returns to the plaza tonight.

The plaza—the Piazza della Signioria—is the cultural hub of Florence. Carnival begins tomorrow, and there is genuine excitement in the air, though, it must be confessed, it is excitement of a different sort from that experienced by Florentines in the past. The city has changed in recent years and Carnival has as well. The old ways, with their raucous music, dancing, and celebration, have now been deemed vile and pagan. It has, since the friar’s ascension to power, become a deeply serious and religious affair, seriousness beyond the boy’s ability to fully comprehend, though he feels the change at a visceral level, as they all do. The boy is Tomasso Galimberti, born in southern Florence just fourteen years ago, at a time when the Medici family was still in control of the city. But things have changed politically as well. The great Lorenzo is dead nearly four years, and his son, the incompetent Piero, has been run out of town. Florence’s Byzantine political structure has, for the moment, been usurped by a new power—the charisma, the force of will, that is the Dominican friar Girolamo Savonarola.

The friar is a tiny man; the boy at fourteen already exceeds him in height. But what Savonarola lacks in physical stature he more than compensates for with his exuberance and self-professed holiness. Tomasso’s uncle and guardian, Pietro Galimberti, is a long-standing priest in Florence, who, with the benefit of Savonarola’s considerable influence, has only in the past eighteen months been elevated to bishop. Tomasso has lived with his uncle nearly his entire life, the mother lost in childbirth, the father vanished under unexplained circumstances less than two years later. Tomasso has not yet reached an age where he feels a need to question this arrangement, despite the presence of other relatives in Florence. His uncle has been there for as long as he can remember. And his uncle, or more explicitly, his uncle’s relationship with the friar, is the reason the boy now stands on a street corner warming his hands, watching as his breath disappears in diaphanous clouds above his head.

Tomasso, along with all the other young boys who attend the convent San Marco, is supposed to be knocking on doors. It is the friar’s goal to make Florence a beacon of holiness for all of Italy—a new Jerusalem, as he is wont to assert in his more animated moments, which is most of them. And aside from continually chastising the Church leadership in Rome and elsewhere as materialistic, corrupt, and tepid in its faith, he has also taken it upon himself to rid Florence of all that he deems vanities—objects of the material world that are impediments to a total focus on spiritual matters. These include playing cards, chessboards, dolls, cosmetics, musical instruments, jewelry, or anything else that can be even loosely construed as detrimental to one’s spirituality. These objects—these vanities—are collected in the days leading up to Carnival, and they serve as the centerpiece for the friar’s annual pièce de résistance, a mammoth bonfire in the center of the Piazza della Signioria. With an effigy of the devil atop the enormous blaze, the fire symbolizes a purging of the city, a step closer to the purification Savonarola so yearns for.

Aside from his huge and yet growing influence in Florence, it is an exciting time for the city, both politically and creatively, with names like Michelangelo and Machiavelli on the minds and lips of nearly every citizen in the republic. Even the great Leonardo, now an old man of forty-four, though long since emigrated to Milan (and reputedly hard at work on a magnificent rendering of the Last Supper), is nonetheless a personage known and revered by all. Tomasso has a great interest in, and an apparent talent for, art. Through the auspices of his uncle, he, just a few weeks prior, even had the pleasure of meeting the young sculptor Michelangelo. He reveled in the opportunity to shake the hand of the man rapidly becoming the best-known artist in all of Italy, Leonardo notwithstanding. It is just a fortnight since the sculptor departed for Rome to accept a commission for what will become the Pieta. Tomasso is more given to painting, but he cherished the chance to meet such a distinguished and accomplished artist. He has wondered more than once what such a man might accomplish with a brush if he ever chose to put down his chisel.

By day’s end, Tomasso and the group of three younger boys that he leads have returned to the plaza struggling with bulging bags containing all manner of iniquitous objects. These are added to the pile that is already twice the height of the boy—a result of the efforts of several hundred such boys dispatched throughout Florence and the surrounding areas. Mercifully it is their final trip, at least for a while. The bonfire will take place tomorrow evening. Tomasso and several of the others turn north, laughing and shouting their way up the Via Dei Calza Luoli to the Cathedral Santa Maria del Fiore, Florence’s magnificent main church, from which many of the friar’s best-known sermons have been rendered. The friar has requested that all of the boys meet this evening for a final Mass before the festival begins tomorrow. Following what they expect will be an hour or so of good-hearted haranguing (say what you like about the friar’s politics, the man gives a great sermon), it’s then home to his uncle and what he hopes is a big dinner and a warm bed. There will be news tonight, though, and sleep—despite the boy’s weary legs—will not be quite as quick in coming as he would like.

It is late, well past nine, and a weeknight. But despite the hour and the boy’s fatigue from his afternoon canvassing of the city for the friar’s vanities, Tomasso is suddenly in possession of newfound vigor, energy he is applying to his one true passion, drawing. Florence is a city renowned for its art, most especially painting and writing, and the boy has definitely inherited a healthy dose of whatever it is that has caused the Tuscan city to produce names like Michelangelo, Machiavelli, Donatello, Dante, and Boccaccio. Though he is an excellent student at the San Marco Convent, he spends more time than his uncle or the friars would like practicing his drawing. He longs to try his hand at painting, but the pigments are expensive, and his uncle, though now a bishop, still has not the income to indulge the boy’s fantasies. He sits hunched over a small desk, quill in hand, when his uncle steps quietly into the room. He stands behind the boy, watching with subdued admiration as Tomasso sketches from memory a respectable rendition of the Piazza della Signioria as though viewed from high atop the tower of the government building—an image made all the more more striking given that, so far as his uncle is aware, the boy has never ascended the tower. In this moment, he knows that he has made the right decision about the boy’s future.

The resemblance between the bishop and his nephew is striking, the former apparently but an aged version of the latter. The similarity has not gone unnoticed in the city, but the more discreet citizens of Florence ascribe it simply to their blood relationship and leave it at that. Galimberti’s brother, the boy’s father, was not a terribly dependable man, and not at all kind to his wife. Prior to the father’s disappearance—a loss neither examined nor bemoaned by