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Now it was his turn to laugh.

"You're seeking the greatest painter in Florence," he said. "You won't have any trouble finding him. He's always busy, no matter how many idlers hang about in his workshop. He may be painting now. "

"Where is the workshop?" I asked.

"He lives in the Via Nuova, right before the Via Paolino. "

"But tell me¡ª. " I hesitated. "What sort of man is he? I mean to you?"

Again, the man shrugged. "Not bad, not good, though he has a sense of humor. Not one to make an imprint on your mind except through his painting. You'll see when you meet him. But don't expect to hire him. He has much work already to do. "

I thanked the man, laid down money for more wine if he wanted it, and slipped out of the tavern.

With a few questions I found the way to the Via Nuova. A night watchman gave me the way to the home of Botticelli, pointing to a sizable house, but not a great palazzo, where the painter lived with his brother and his brother's family.

I stood before this simple house as if it were a shrine. I could see where the workshop most certainly was by its large doors to the street which were inevitably open by day, and I could see that all the rooms both on the main floor and above it were dark.

How could I go into this workshop? How could I see what work was being done there now? Only by night could I come to this place. Never had I cursed the night so much.

Gold had to do this for me. Gold and the Spell Gift, though how I would dare to daze Botticelli himself I had no idea.

Suddenly, unable to control myself any longer I pounded on the door of the house.

Naturally enough, no one answered, so I pounded again.

Finally a light brightened in the upstairs window, and I could hear footfall within.

At last a voice demanded: Who was I, and what did I want?

What was I to answer to such a question? Was I to lie to someone whom I worshiped? Ah, but I had to get in.

"Marius de Romanus," I answered, making up the name at that very moment. "I've come with a purse of gold for Botticelli. I've seen his paintings in Rome, and I greatly admire him. I must put this purse into his own hand-"

There was a pause. Voices behind the door. Two men conferring with each other as to who I might be, or why such a lie might be told.

One man said not to answer. The other man said it was worth a brief look, and it was he who pulled back the latch and opened the door. The other held the lamp behind him, so I saw only a shadowy face.

"I am Sandro," he said simply, "I'm Botticelli. Why would you bring me a purse of gold?"

For a long moment I was speechless. But in this speechlessness, I had the sense to produce the gold. I handed the purse over to the man, and I watched silently as he opened it and as he took out the gold florins and held them in his hand.

"What do you want?" he asked. His voice was as plain as his manner. He was rather tall. His hair was light brown and already threaded with gray though he was not old. He had large eyes that appeared compassionate, and a well-formed mouth and nose. He stood looking at me without annoyance or suspicion, and obviously ready to return my gold. I didn't think he was forty years old.

I tried to speak and I stammered. For the first time in all my memory

I stammered. Finally I managed to make myself plain:

"Let me come into your workshop tonight," I said. "Let me see your paintings. That's all I want. "

"You can see them by day. " He shrugged. "My workshop's always open. Or you can go to the churches in which I've painted. My work is all over Florence. You don't have to pay me for such a thing. " What a sublime voice; what an honest voice. There was something patient and tender in it.

I gazed upon him as I had gazed on his paintings. But he was waiting for an answer. I had to pull myself together.

"I have my reasons," I said. "I have my passions. I want to see your work now, if you'll let me. I offer the gold. "

He smiled and he gave a little even laugh. "Well, you come like one of the Magi," he said. "For I can certainly use the payment. Come inside. "

That was the second time in my long years that I had been compared to the Magi of Scripture and I loved it.