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re Gift again after all these years。
I shivered remembering the slaughter of Eudoxia's slaves。
It wasn't even midnight。
I wanted the bright new world of Italy。 I wanted the clever scholars and artists of these times。 I wanted the huge palazzi of the Cardinals and the other powerful inhabitants of the Eternal City which had risen after all the long miserable years。
Putting the creature named Santino out of my mind I went near to one of the new palazzi in which there was a feast in progress； a masquerade with much dancing and tables laden with food。
It was no problem to me to gain entry。 I had equipped myself with the fine velvet clothes of this period； and once inside among the guests； I was weled as was everyone else。
I had no mask； only my white face which seemed like one； and my customary red velvet hooded cloak which set me apart from the guests and yet made me one of them at the same time。
The music was intoxicating。 The walls were ablaze with fine paintings； though none as magical as what I had seen in the Sistine Chapel； and the crowd was huge and sumptuously dressed。
Quickly； I fell into conversation with the young scholars； the ones who were talking hotly of painting as well as poetry and I asked my dumb question： Who had done the magnificent frescoes in the Sistine Chapel which I had just beheld？
〃You've seen these paintings？〃 said one of the crowd to me。 〃I don't believe it。 We haven't been allowed in to see them。 Describe to me again what you saw。〃
I laid out everything； very simply as though I were a schoolboy。
〃The figures are supremely delicate；〃 I said； 〃with sensitive faces； and each being； though rendered with great naturalness； is ever so slightly too long。〃
The pany around me laughed good naturedly。
〃Ever so slightly too long；〃 repeated one of the elders。
〃Who did the paintings？〃 I said； imploringly。 〃I must meet this man。〃
〃You'll have to go to Florence to meet him；〃 said the elder scholar。 〃You're talking about Botticelli； and he's already gone home。〃
〃Botticelli；〃 I whispered。 It was a strange almost ridiculous name。 In Italian it translates to 〃little tub。〃 But to me it meant magnificence。
〃You're certain it was Botticelli；〃 I said。
〃Oh； yes；〃 said the elder scholar。 The others with us were also nodding。 〃Everyone's marveling at what he can do。 That's why the Pope sent for him。 He was here two years working on the Sistine Chapel。 Everyone knows Botticelli。 And now he's no doubt as busy in Florence as he was here。〃
〃I only want to see him with my own eyes；〃 I said。
〃Who are you？〃 asked one of the scholars。
〃No one；〃 I whispered。 〃No one at all。〃
There was general laughter。 It seemed to blend rather bewitchingly with the music around us； and the glare of so many candles。
I felt drunk on the smell of mortals； and with dreams of Botticelli。
〃I have to find Botticelli；〃 I whispered。 And bidding them all farewell I went out into the night。
But what was I going to do when I found Botticelli； that was the question。 What was driving me？ What did I want？
To see all of his works； yes； that much was certain； but what more did my soul require？
My loneliness seemed as great as my age and it frightened me。
I returned to the Sistine Chapel。
I spent the remainder of the night perusing the frescoes once more。
Before dawn a guard came upon me。 I allowed it to happen。 With the Spell Gift I gently convinced him that I belonged where I was。
〃Who is the figure here in these paintings？ 〃 I asked； 〃the elder with the beard and the gold light streaming from his head？ 〃
〃Moses；〃 said the guard； 〃you know； Moses the prophet。 It all has to do with Moses； and the other painting has to do with Christ。〃 He pointed。 〃Don't you see the inscription？ 〃
I had not seen it but I saw it now。 The Temptation of Moses； Bearer of the Written Law。
I sighed。 〃I wish I knew their stories better；〃 I said。 〃But the paintings are so exquisite that the story doesn't matter。〃
The guard only shrugged。
〃Did you know Botticelli when he painted here？〃 I asked。
Once again； the man only shrugged。
〃But don't you think the paintings are inparably beautiful？〃 I asked him。
He looked at me somewhat stupidly。
I realized how lonely I was that I was speaking to this poor creature； trying to elicit from him some understanding of what I felt。
〃Beautiful paintings are everywhere now；〃 he said。
〃Yes；〃 I said； 〃yes； I know they are。 But they don't look like this。〃
I gave him a few gold coins； and left the chapel。
I had only time enough to reach the vault of Those Who Must Be Kept before dawn。
As I lay down to sleep I dreamt of Botticelli； but it was the voice of Santino that haunted me。 And I wished that I had destroyed him； which； all things considered； was a very unusual wish for me。
15
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT I went to the city of Florence。 It was of course splendid to see it quite recovered from the ravages of the Black Death； and indeed a city of greater prosperity and greater ingenuity and energy than Rome。
I soon learnt what I had suspected…that having grown up around merce； the city had not suffered the ruin of a classical era； but had rather grown progressively strong over the centuries； as its ruling family； the Medici； maintained power by means of a great international bank。
Everywhere about me there were elements of the place…its growing architectural monuments； its interior paintings； its clever scholars…that drew me fiercely； but nothing really could keep me away from discovering the identity of Botticelli； and seeing for myself not only his works； but the man。
Nevertheless； I tormented myself slightly。 I took rooms in a palazzo near the main piazza of the city； hired a bumbling and remarkably gullible servant to lay in lots of costly clothes for me； all made in the color red as I preferred it； and still do to any other； and I went at once to a bookseller's and knocked and knocked until the man opened his doors for me； took my gold； and gave me the latest books which 〃everyone was reading〃 on poetry； art； philosophy and the like。
Then retiring to my rooms； I sat down by the light of one lamp and devoured what I could of my century's thinking； and at last I lay flat upon the floor； staring at the ceiling； overwhelmed by the vigor of the return to the classical； by the passionate enthusiasm for the old Greek and Roman poets； and by the faith in sensuality which this age seemed to hold。
Let me note here that some of these books were printed books； thanks to the miraculous invention of the printing press； and I was quite amazed by these though I preferred the beauty of the old handwritten codexes； as did many men of the time。 In fact； it is an irony that even after the printing press was very well established； people still boasted of having handwritten libraries； but I digress。
I was talking of the return to the old Greek and Roman poets； of the infatuation of the era with the times of my birth。
The Roman church was overwhelmingly powerful as I have suggested。
But this was an age of fusion； as well as inconceivable expansion… and it was fusion which I had seen in the painting of Botticelli…so full of loveliness and natural beauty though created for the interior of the Pope's； own chapel in Rome。
Perhaps near to midnight； I stumbled out of my quarters； finding the city under curfew； with the taverns which defied it and the inevitable ruffians roaming about。
I was dazed as I made my way into a huge tavern full of gleeful young drunkards where a rosy…cheeked boy sang as he played the lute。 I sat in the corner thinking to control my overwrought enthusiasms； my crazed passions； yet I had to find the home of Botticelli。 I had to。 I had to see more of his work。
What stopped me from it？ What did I fear？ What was going on in my mind？ Surely the gods knew I was a creature of iron control。 Had I not proven it a thousand times？
For the keeping of a Divine Secret had I not turned my back on Zenobia？ And did I not suffer routinely and justly for having