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Again came his laughter in answer。
〃For reddish locks such as these；〃 he said caressing my hair； 〃for eyes of the deepest and most sympathetic brown。 For skin like the fresh cream of the milk in the morning； for lips indistinguishable from the petals of a rose。〃
In the small hours； he told me tales of Eros and Aphrodite； he lulled me with the fantastic sorrow of Psyche； beloved by Eros and never allowed to see him by the day's light。
I walked beside him through chilly corridors； his fingers clasping my shoulders； as he showed me the fine white marble statues of his gods and goddesses； all lovers…Daphne； her graceful limbs turned into the branches of the laurel as the god Apollo desperately sought her； Leda helpless within the grip of the mighty swan。
He guided my hands over the marble curves； the sharply chiseled and highly polished faces； the taut calves of nubile legs； the ice…cold clefts of half…opened mouths。 And then to his own face he lifted my fingers。 He did seem the very living and breathing statue； more marvelously made than any other； and even as he lifted me with powerful hands； a great heat came out of him； a heat of sweet breath in sighs and murmured words。
By the end of the week； I couldn't even remember one word of my Mother Tongue。
In a storm of proffered adjectives I stood in the piazza and watched spellbound as the Great Council of Venice marched along the Molo； as the High Mass was sung from the altar of San Marco； as the ships moved out on the glassy waves of the Adriatic； as the brushes dipped to gather up their colors and mix them in the earthen pots…rose madder； vermilion； carmine； cerise； cerulean； turquoise； viridian； yellow ocher； burnt umber； quinacridone； citrine； sepia； Caput Mortuum Violet … oh； too lovely … and of a thick lacquer； the name Dragon's blood。
At dancing and fencing； I excelled。 My favorite partner was Riccardo； and I fast realized I was close to this elder in all skills； even surpassing Albinus； who had held that place until I came； though now he showed me no ill will。
These boys were like my brothers to me。
They took me to the home of the slender and beautiful courtesan； Bianca Solderini； a lithesome and inparable charmer； with Botticelli…style wavy locks and almond…shaped gray eyes and a generous and kindly wit。 I was the fashion in her house whenever I wanted to be； among the young women and men there who spent hours reading poetry； talking of the foreign wars； which seemed endless； and of the latest painters and who would get what mission next。
Bianca had a small； childlike voice which matched her girlish face and tiny nose。 Her mouth was a mere budding rose。 But she was clever； and indomitable。 She turned away possessive lovers coldly； she preferred that her house be full of people at all hours。 Anyone in proper dress； or carrying a sword； was admitted automatically。 Almost no one but those who wanted to own her were ever turned away。
Visitors from France and Germany were mon at the home of Bianca； and all there； both from afar and from home； were curious about our Master； Marius； a man of mystery； though we had been schooled never to answer idle questions about him； and could only smile when asked if he intended to marry； if he would paint this or that portrait； if he would be home on such and such a date for this person or that to call。
Sometimes I fell asleep on the pillows of the couch at Bianca's or even on one of the beds； listening to the hushed voices of the noblemen who came there； dreaming to the music which was always of the most lulling and soothing kind。
Now and then； on the most rare occasions； the Master himself appeared there to collect me and Riccardo； always causing a minor sensation in the portego； or main salon。 He would never take a chair。 He stood always with his hooded cloak over his head and shoulders。 But he smiled graciously to all the entreaties put to him； and did sometimes offer a tiny portrait that he had done of Bianca。
I see these now； these many tiny portraits that he gave her over the years； each encrusted with jewels。
〃You capture my likeness so keenly from memory；〃 she said as she went to kiss him。 I saw the reserve with which he held her aloof from his cold hard chest and face； planting kisses on her cheeks that conveyed the spell of softness and sweetness which the real touch of him would have destroyed。
I read for hours with the aid of the teacher Leonardo of Padua； my voice perfectly in time with his as I grasped the scheme of Latin； then Italian； then back to Greek。 I liked Aristotle as much as Plato or Plutarch or Livy or Virgil。 The truth was； I didn't much prehend any of them。 I was doing as the Master directed； letting the knowledge accumulate in my mind。
I saw no reason to talk endlessly； as Aristotle did； about things that were made。 The lives of the ancients that Plutarch told with such spirit made excellent stories。 I wanted to know people of the now； however。 I preferred to doze on Bianca's couch rather than argue about the merits of this or that painter。 Besides； I knew my Master was the best。
This world was one of spacious rooms； decorated walls； generous fragrant light and a regular parade of high fashion； to which I grew accustomed pletely； never seeing much of the pain and misery of the poor of the city at all。 Even the books I read reflected this new realm in which I had been so securely fixed that nothing could take me back to the world of confusion and suffering that had gone before。
I learned to play little songs on the Virginal。 I learned to strum the lute and to sing in a soft voice； though I would only sing sad songs。 My Master loved these songs。
We made a choir now and then； all the boys together； and presented the Master with our own positions and sometimes our own dances as well。
In the hot afternoon； we played cards when we were supposed to be napping。 Riccardo and I slipped out to gamble in taverns。 We drank too much once or twice。 The Master knew it and put a stop to it at once。 He was particularly horrified that I'd fallen drunk into the Grand Canal； necessitating a clumsy and hysterical rescue。 I could have sworn he went pale at the account； that I saw the color dance back from his whitening cheeks。
He whipped Riccardo for it。 I was full of shame。 Riccardo took it like a soldier without cries or ment； standing still at a large fireplace in the library； his back turned to receive the blows on his legs。 Afterwards； he knelt and kissed the Master's ring。 I vowed I'd never get drunk again。
I got drunk the next day； but I had the sense to stagger into Bianca's house and climb under her bed； where I could fall asleep without risk。 Before midnight the Master pulled me out。 I thought； Now I'll get it。 But he only put me to bed； where I fell asleep before I could apologize。 When I woke once it was to see him at his writing desk； writing as swiftly as he could paint； in some great book which he always managed to hide before he left the house。
When others did sleep； including Riccardo； during the worst afternoons of summer； I ventured out and hired a gondol