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39 Campidoglio for Don and Sarah Beaudry Paul pushes him out of the palace and onto the Capitoline at the edge of town, Caput Mundi of executions and assignations. Enough painting, you need some fresh air. The Holy Father actually winks. The Great Man, old, no longer even partly pagan, spins the hill toward St. Peter’s bones and plants an emperor plump in the piazza. Constantine, Marcus, he’ll go on forever raising his hand toward his successors. Up is what the old man finds he wants, lifting the city on a ramp toward the clouds prodded by the relocated campanile. Chaos, cosmos—he paves the mud, prolongs the pilasters. (Nobody’s ever done that before!) He walls off a little piece of heaven, secretes the Middle Ages. He makes them all turn their backs on Caesar’s pastured ruin, dreams a new dome in the distance, right there, beyond the invisible river. ...

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