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He turned, jammed his elbow into my Master's clothes and said, "That boy of yours is a beauty. Don't be hasty. Think this over. How much?"

My Master burst out laughing more sweetly and naturally than I'd ever heard him laugh.

"Offer me something, something I might want," said my Master as he looked at me, with a secretive, glittering shift of his eyes.

It seemed every man in the room was taking my measure, and understand, these were not lovers of boys; these were merely Italians of their time, who, fathering children as was required of them and debauching women any chance they got, nevertheless appreciated a plump and juicy young man, the way that men now might appreciate a slice of golden toast heaped with sour cream and the finest blackest caviar.

I couldn't help but smile. Kill them, I thought, slaughter them. I felt fetching and even beautiful. Come on, somebody, tell me I make you think of Mercury chasing away the clouds in Botticelli's Primavera, but the red-haired man, fixing me with an impish playful glance, said:

"Ah, he is Verrocchio's David, the very model for the bronze statue. Don't try to tell me he is not. And immortal, ah, yes, I can see it, immortal. He shall never die. " Again he lifted his goblet. Then he felt of the breast of his tunic, and pulled up out of the powdered ermine trim of his jacket a rich gold medallion with a table diamond of immense size. He ripped the chain right off his neck and extended this proudly to my Master, who watched it spin on the dangle in front of him as if it were an orb with which he was to be spellbound.

"For all of us," said the black-haired man, turning and looking hard at me. There was laughter from the others. The dancers cried, "Yes, and for me," "Unless I go second with him, nothing" and "Here, to go first, even before you. "

This last was said to the red-haired man, but the jewel the dancer tossed at my Master, a carbuncle ring of some glittering purple stone, I didn't know.

"A sapphire," said my Master in a whisper, with a teasing looking to me. "Amadeo, you approve?"

The third dancer, a blond-haired man, somewhat shorter than anyone present and with a small hump on his left shoulder, broke free of the circle and came towards me. He took off all his rings, as if shearing himself of gloves, and tossed them all clattering at my feet.

"Smile sweetly on me, young god," he said, though he panted from the dance and the velvet collar was drenched. He wobbled on his feet and almost turned over but managed to make fan of it, twirling heavily back into his dance.

The music thumped on and on, as if the dancers thought it meet to drown out the very drunkenness of their Masters.

"Does anybody care about the siege of Constantinople?" asked my Master.

"Tell me what became of Giovanni Longo," I asked in a small voice. All eyes were on me.

"It's the siege of. . . Amadeo, was it? . . . Yes, Amadeo, that I have in mind!" cried the blond-haired dancer.

"By and by, Sir," I said. "But teach me some history. "

"You little imp," said the black-haired man. "You don't even pick up his rings. "

"My fingers are covered with rings," I said politely, which was true.

The red-haired man immediately went back into the battle. "Giovanni Longo stayed for forty days of bombardment. He fought all night when the Turk breached the walls. Nothing frightened him. He was carried to safety only because he was shot. "

"And the guns, Sir?" I asked. "Were they so very big?"

"And I suppose you were there!" cried the black-haired man to the redhead, before the redhead could answer me.

"My Father was there!" said the redhead man. "And lived to tell it. He was with the last ship that slipped out of the harbor with the Venetians, and before you speak, Sir, mind you, you don't speak ill of my Father or those Venetians. They carried the citizenry to safety, Sir, the battle was lost. . . "

"They deserted, you mean," said the black-haired man.

"I mean slipped out carrying the helpless refugees after the Turks had won. You call my Father a coward? You know no more about manners than you know about war. You're too stupid to fight with, and too drunk. "

"Amen," said my Master.

"Tell him," said the red-haired man to my Master. "You, Marius De Romanus, you tell him. " He took another slobbering gulp. "Tell him about the massacre, what happened. Tell him how Giovanni Longo fought on the walls until he was hit in the chest. Listen, you crackbrained fool!" he shouted at his friend. "Nobody knows more about all of it than Marius De Romanus. Sorcerers are clever, so says my whore, and here is to Bianca Solderini. " He drained his glass.

"Your whore, Sir?" I demanded. "You say that of such a woman and here in the presence of drunken disrespectful men?"

They paid no mind to me, not the red-haired man, who was again draining his goblet, or the others.

The blond-haired dancer staggered over to me. "They're too drunk to remember you, beautiful boy," he said. "But not I. "

"Sir, you stumble at your dance," I said. "Don't stumble in your rounds with me. "