For that moment, even the angel seemed to listen.

Michelagnolo closed his eyes and let the music wash through him, a brief peace amid the turmoil of dust and stone, the filth of the room set against the purity of the song. Then he opened his eyes, shut his mind to everything but the work, and returned to his task.

His arm rose and fell, rose and fell. More small pieces fell off the prison. Her shoulders were free. Now, to release her wings.

A thud behind him and he flinched. The door had been flung open, banging against the wall. He’d give that assistant a holy tongue lashing later. Right now, he ignored the irritation, ignored whoever had disturbed his work, and went back to it. Immersed once again.

They were talking, two of them had entered. Talking rapidly.

And if they don’t shut up, I’m going to give them more than the rough side of my tongue. Damn them both.

Antonio and Pietro usually knew more than to keep babbling once they entered. He struck the stone a little harder than he meant, knocking another chunk off the form. He mentally cursed himself. He’d knocked off more than he should have done. But wait. No, the piece that was ruining the line of the wing was gone. No, it would be alright then. He closed off again, sure these two could take the hint and be quiet again.

Someone called his name, faint and as far in the distance as that tenor. There, someone else said it. Someone closer.

“Michele. Please. We came to—”

“—We have something to tell you, Michele. Please.”

Michelagnolo whirled, tools in hand, with the hammer raised in his fury. He brought his arm down—and stopped. Francesco Granacci and Aristotile da Sangallo. The two men he trusted most in this city. The two men who were his closest friends. Which did not automatically give them the right to burst in and interrupt him.

“Oh. It’s you two. What the hell do you want?”

He turned back his work. He shouldn’t have to tell them to leave. They should have known that coming into his workshop uninvited was an invitation to having their asses beaten.

“Michele—”, Granacci started and was interrupted.

“Fiorenza has fallen. The Republic is no more,” da Sangallo finished, not one for patience.

Granacci sighed and shook his head. “Oh, Bastiano….”

Da Sangallo ignored the admonishment.

Michelagnolo paused before turning to them. “What are you talking about?”

“Michele, where have you been for these last two to three weeks? There is no more Republic. It has been dissolved.”

The words made no sense. They would not penetrate his mind. He lowered the hammer and chisel to his side, staring, open mouthed, at the two men.

“Oh, Michele.” Granacci put a hand up to his nose and mouth to cover them. “Have you not gone outside? Although, why I ask, I don’t know. Sir, you need to get out of here and dive into that river with a bar of soap. Or failing that, a tub.”

Ever the diplomat, da Sangallo took up the narrative. “My friend, they are talking about it in the streets of Fiorenza. The Medici have returned with Papal blessing and backing.”

“The Pope?”

“Yes. The Pope. The former Giulio di Giuliano di Medici? Pope Clement VII?”

The chisel fell from Michelagnolo’s nerveless fingers. The Medici had broken the siege of Fiorenza. Somehow, they’d gotten through his defenses, the ones he’d designed for the city. The Republic that he’d given his strong support was broken into pieces on the ground.

“And the people?”

“Have welcomed them back,” Granacci said in as matter of fact a tone as he’d ever heard.

“But it’s more than that, Michele.” Da Sangallo stepped forward. “They’ve got backing from Roma. The Medici have started rounding up their enemies.”

He bent over to pick up the chisel again. The hammer in his other hand. Michelagnolo took his place in front of the stone again. But that knot in his belly refused to dissolve. They were back. They were the government again. The Medici family who’d given him everything—taking him in to educate him, guide him. They encouraged him and apprenticed him to one of the best sculptors in all Fiorenza. They’d financed him. And what had he done to reward them? The moment they were cast out of the city, he’d supported the Republic and helped build the very defenses that kept the Medici out for months.

And why? Because the people that could be so kind, so giving had also shown a streak of cruelty against anyone who opposed them. As far as they were concerned, he was now a traitor. An ungrateful traitor.

He bent to his task. Another chunk of marble fell off the angel. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the hand reach forward to take his wrist. Calm and sure, but insistent.

“Michele, your name is on the list.”

He let his arm go limp, gripping the handle of the hammer hard enough for his knuckles to go white.

“I’m going to die.”

By Jess Austen

Book Two — Chapter Excerpt

…chnk…chnk…

Somewhere a tenor began singing. A lauda spirituale. Michelagnolo hesitated for a few moments, caught by the gentle melody. The man was too far away for the words to reach him, but the song itself was soothing, nourishing to his soul.