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the church and the Nine, and be ever present. Well, it is very far-fetched.
    And devilish?
    Must you be so glib, Maestro Simone? I do not concern myself with the little schemes Siena’s government might or might not beconcocting, I have no time for it. But Signor Rettore and I agree that our institutions, or rather God’s, could cooperate much more. We acknowledge that we can be of unique help to each other.
    There. The bishop has all but told the artist he and Rettore Giovanni di Tese Tolomei have formed an alliance. No, Simone sneers inwardly, more than an alliance; they are in cahoots. He pictures the handshake: one hand gnarled and sinewy, covered in the spots of age, clasping the other, plump and pink, the jewels on their knuckles knocking together. What Vescovo Donusdeo dei Malavolti says next confirms his suspicions.
    I understand you are planning a trip to Avignon, Maestro? If you manage to have a private moment with the Pope, please convey my personal greetings to him as his humble servant, admirer, and brother.
    You are misinformed. I have not yet made up my mind about going to Avignon. If I make the journey, I will of course pass on your message.
    I hope you will also consider putting in a good word for Santa Maria della Scala hospital. The Holy Father is able to bestow favors on the agencies performing God’s works, you know.
    Yes, I am aware.
    I was holding a light aloft for you. Our Lady would want you to remember Siena’s hospital to the Pope, I guarantee it, and I shall entreat her to speak to your better judgment.
    The painter reexamines the sallow features of the bishop and wonders what precisely the rector of the hospital has offered him that has him so enthralled? Something more than mere strategic advantage. It has a filthy-dark quality to it and moves Simone to change the subject. Tell me, Vescovo, when does the Opera del Duomo expect their new altarpiece?
    By the feast of Saint Ansanus, on the first day of December.
    That is less than two years hence, but not inconceivable.
    Considerably less than two years. They want it by this coming feast of Saint Ansanus.
    Simone Martini stares at Vescovo Donusdeo but does not speak. The acquisition of materials, carpentry, and gold-beating alone would normally take at least a year.
    If the bishop perceives a problem, his face does not betray him. He waits serenely for Simone’s reply.
    The artist’s mind turns to the wife he will neglect if he accepts this commission, and intuitively he recalls her birthday and the gift he gave, her intake of breath when she saw it, the gratification to have chosen a present she adores . . . and his annoyance when she insisted on having her fortune told (it was her birthday, he could not refuse her whim). A card was turned over for him, La Papessa. He says aloud, I have a condition before I agree.
    A condition? The bishop crosses himself and mutters a prayer. Maestro Simone, I am not a well man. I cannot vouch for what will happen if you presume to make demands. But you may make a request, and I shall take the matter to the Opera for discussion.
    I want to do an Annunciation.
    He recoils. Oh, my dear Simone. Extraordinary. I am amazed. What an idea. Oh. I am struck by your audacity. Are you sure this is what you want me to tell them?
    Do you not think the Opera will approve? Did they not specifically request something new?
    The bishop’s serenity appears to have deserted him; he succumbs to a vicious cough.
    The artist does not inquire after the bishop’s health, remarks instead, Funny that you should approach me now, when I am actively considering retirement from painting—did I not mention it before?—in order to spend more time with my wife. She tells me I have made my mark on the world. I take her views very seriously.
    Vescovo Donusdeo puckers his dry mouth and draws his hairyeyebrows together, two caterpillars meeting on a leaf. Eventually he says, Can you do it?
    Simone does not need to look at Duccio’s Maestà