"A new world!" I cried out. "No, don't leave me, Master. I don't want the whole world. 
I want you!"
  
  "Amadeo," he said in this private tongue of confidence, leaning over the bed, his hair 
dry now and beautifully brushed, his hands softened with powder. "You have me forever. 
Let the boys feed you, dress you." You belong to me, to Marius Romanus, now.
  
  He turned to them and gave them their commands in the soft singing language.
  
  And you would have thought from their happy faces that he had given them sweets and 
gold.
  
  "Amadeo, Amadeo," they sang as they gathered around me. They held me so that I couldn't 
follow him. They spoke Greek to me, fast and easily, and Greek for me was not so easy. 
But I understood.
  
  Come with us, you are one of us, we are to be good to you, we are to be especially good 
to you. They dressed me up hastily in castoffs, arguing with one another about my tunic, 
was it good enough, and these faded stockings, well, it was only for now! Put on the 
slippers; here, a jacket that was too small for Riccardo. These seemed the garments of 
kings.
  
  "We love you," said Albinus, the second in command to Riccardo, and a dramatic contrast 
to the black-haired Riccardo, for his blond hair and pale green eyes. The other boys, I 
couldn't quite distinguish, but these two were easy to watch.
  
  "Yes, we love you," said Riccardo, pushing back his black hair and winking at me, his 
skin so smooth and dark compared to the others. His eyes were fiercely black. He clutched 
my hand and I saw his long thin fingers. Here everyone had thin fingers, fine fingers. 
They had fingers like mine, and mine had been unusual among my brethren. But I couldn't 
think of this.
  
  And eerie possibility suggested itself to me, that I, the pale one, the one who made 
all the trouble, the one with the fine fingers, had been spirited away to the good land 
where I belonged. But that was altogether too fabulous to believe. My head ached. I saw 
wordless flashes of the stubby horsemen who had captured me, of the stinking hold of the 
ship in which I'd been brought to Constantinople, flashes of gaunt, busy men, men fussing 
as they had handled me there.
  
  Dear God, why did anyone love me? What for? Marius Romanus, why do you love me?
  
  The Master smiled as he waved from the door. The hood was up around his head, a crimson 
frame for his fine cheekbones and his curling lips.
  
  My eyes filled with tears.
  
  A white mist swirled around the Master as the door closed behind him. The night was 
going. But the candles still burned.
  
  We came into a large room, and I saw that it was full of paints and pots of color and 
brushes standing in earthen jars ready to be used. Great white squares of 
cloth-canvas-waited for the paint.
  
  These boys didn't make their colors with the yoke of an egg in the time-honored manner. 
They mixed the bright fine ground pigments directly with the amber-colored oils. Great 
glossy gobs of color awaited me in little pots. I took the brush when they gave it to me. 
I looked at the stretched white cloth on which I was to paint.
  
  "Not from human hands," I said. But what did these words mean? I lifted the brush and I 
began to paint him, this blond-haired man who had rescued me from darkness and squalor. I 
threw out the hand with the brush, dipping the bristles into the jars of cream and pink 
and white and slapping these colors onto the curiously resilient canvas. But I couldn't 
make a picture. No picture came!
  
  "Not by human hands!" I whispered. I dropped the brush. I put my hands over my face.
  
  I searched for the words in Greek. When I said them, several of the boys nodded, but 
they didn't grasp the meaning. How could I explain to them the catastrophe? I looked at 
my fingers. What had become of-. There all recollection burnt up and I was left suddenly 
with Amadeo.
  
  "I can't do it." I stared at the canvas, at the mess of colors. "Maybe if it was wood, 
not cloth, I could do it."
  
  What had it been that I could do? They didn't understand.
  
  He was not the Living Lord, my Master, the blond one, the blond one with the icy blue 
eyes.
  
  But he was my Lord. And I could not do this thing that was meant to be done.
  
  To comfort me, to distract me, the boys took up their brushes and quickly astonished me 
with pictures that ran like a stream out of their quick applications of the brush.
  
  A boy's face, cheeks, lips, eyes, yes, and reddish-golden hair in profusion. Good Lord, 
it was I... it was not a canvas but a mirror. It was this Amadeo. Riccardo took over to 
refine the expression, to deepen the eyes and work a sorcery on the tongue so I seemed 
about to speak. What was this rampant magic that made a boy appear out of nothing, most 
natural, at a casual angle, with knitted brows and streaks of unkempt hair over his ear?
  
  It seemed both blasphemous and beautiful, this fluid, abandoned fleshly figure.
  
  Riccardo spelled the letters out in Greek as he wrote them. Then he threw the brush 
down. He cried:
  
  "A very different picture is what our Master has in mind." He snatched up the drawings.
  
  They pulled me through the house, the "palazzo" as they called it, teaching me the word 
with relish.