anner.bloodandgold-第70章
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on in marvelous strokes。 I knew the painted face。 It was the face of Christ！
What did this mean？ In a solemn silence； I listened。 No other voice mattered to me。 I banished a city full of whispers。
It was a woeful crying。 It was the voice of a child behind thick walls who on account of the recent cruelties done him could not remember his native language or even his name。
Yet in that forgotten language he prayed to be delivered from those who had cast him down in darkness； those who had tormented him and jabbered at him in a tongue he didn't know。
Once again there came that image； the painted Christ staring forward。 The painted Christ in a time…honored and Greek style。 Oh； how well I knew this fashion of painting； oh； how well I knew this countenance。
Had I not seen it a thousand times in Byzantium； and in all those places East and West to which its power had reached？
What did this mean； this mingled voice and imagery？ What did it mean that the child thought again and again of an ikon and did riot know that he prayed？
Once again there came the plea from one who thought himself to be utterly silent。
And I knew the language in which he prayed。 It was no matter to me to disentangle it； to put the words in order； having as I did such a knowledge of languages the world wide。 Yes； I knew his tongue and I knew his prayer。 〃Dear God； deliver me。 Dear God； let me die。〃
A frail child； a hungry child； a child who was alone。
Sitting up in the gondola； I listened。 I delved for the images locked away inside the child's most wordless thoughts。
He had once been a painter； this bruised and young one。 The face of Christ had been his work。 He had once mixed the egg yolk and the pigment just as I mixed them。 He had once painted the face of Christ； again and again！
Whence came this voice？ I had to discover the source of it。 I listened with all my skill。
Somewhere very near； this child was imprisoned。 Somewhere very near； he offered up his prayer with his last breath。
He had painted his precious ikons in the far country of snowy Russia。
Indeed； this child had been supremely gifted in the painting of ikons。 But he could not remember that now。 That was the mystery。 That was the plexity！ He could not even see the images which I was seeing； so broken was his heart。
I could understand what he himself could not understand。 And he was pleading silently with Heaven in a Russian dialect to be delivered from those who had made him a slave in Venice and sought to make him serve others in a brothel through acts which to him were sins of the flesh which he could not abide！
I told my oarsman to stop。
I listened until I had found the exact source。 I directed the boat to go back only a few doors until I found the precise place。
The torches were burning brightly before the entrance。 I could hear the music inside。
The voice of the child was persistent； and yet there came that clear understanding on my part that the child did not know his own prayers； his own history； his own tongue。
I was greeted by the owners of the house with great fanfare。 They knew of me。 I must e in。 I could have whatever I wanted under their roof。 Just beyond the door lay paradise。 Listen to the laughter； and the singing。
〃What do you desire； Master？〃 a pleasant…voiced man asked of me。 〃You can tell me。 We have no secrets here。〃
I stood listening。 How reticent I must have seemed…this tall； blond…haired man with such a chilly manner； who cocked his head to one side and looked away wifh his thoughtful blue eyes。
I tried to see the boy； but I could not。 The boy was locked away where no one saw him。 How would I proceed？ Ask to see all of the boys of the house？ That would not do it； for this one was in a chamber of punishment； cold arid quite alone。
Then suddenly the answer came to me as though angels had spoken it； or was it the Devil？ It came swiftly and pletely。
〃To purchase； you understand；〃 I said； 〃with gold of course； and now； a boy you want to be rid of。 One recently arrived here who will not do as he's told…〃
In a flash I saw the boy in the man's eyes。 Only it could not be true。 I could not have such luck。 For this boy had beauty as bountiful as Bianca's。 I did not count upon it。
〃Recently e from Istanbul；〃 I said。 〃Yes； I think that is correct； for the boy was no doubt brought from Russian climes。〃
I need say no more words。 Everyone was scurrying about。 Someone had put a goblet of wine into my hands。 I smelled the lovely scent of it； and set it down on the table。 It seemed a flood of rose petals descended。 Indeed there was everywhere the perfume of flowers。 A chair was brought for me。 I did not sit on it。
Suddenly the man who had greeted me returned to the room。
〃You don't want that one；〃 he said quickly。 He was greatly agitated。 And once again； I saw a clear image of the boy lying on a stone floor。
And I heard the boy's prayers： 〃Deliver me。〃 And I saw the Face of Christ in gleaming egg tempera。 I saw the jewels set into the halo。 I saw the egg and pigment mixing。 〃Deliver me。〃
〃Can't you understand me？〃 I asked。 〃I told you what I wanted。 I want that boy； the one who won't do what you try to force him to do。〃
Then I realized it。
The brothel keeper thought the boy was dying。 He was afraid of the law。 He stood before me in terror。
〃Take me to him；〃 I said。 I pressed him with the Mind Gift。 〃Do it now。 I know of him and won't leave here without him。 Besides； I'll pay you。 I don't care if he's sick and dying。 Do you hear me？ I'll take him away with me。 You'll never have to worry about him again。〃
It was a cruel small chamber in which they'd locked him； and into that chamber the light of a lamp flooded upon the child。
And there I saw beauty； beauty which has always been my downfall； beauty as in Pandora； as in Avicus； as in Zenobia； as in Bianca； beauty in a new and celestial form。
Heaven had cast down upon this stone floor an abandoned angel； of auburn curls and perfectly formed limbs； of fair and mysterious face。
I reached down to take him by the arms and I lifted him； and I looked into his half…opened eyes。 His soft reddish hair was loose and tangled。 His flesh was pale and the bones of his face only faintly sharpened by his Slavic blood。
〃Amadeo；〃 I said； the name springing to my lips as though the angels willed it； the very angels whom he resembled in his purity and in his seeming innocence； starved as he was。
His eyes grew wide as he stared at me。 In majesty and golden light； I saw again in his mind those ikons which he had painted。 Desperately he struggled to remember。 Ikons。 The Christ he had painted。 With long hair and burning eyes； I resembled the Christ。
He tried to speak； but the language had left him。 He tried to find the name of his Lord。
〃I'm not the Christ； my child；〃 I said； speaking to that part of him deep within the mind of which he knew nothing。 〃But one who es with his own salvation。 Amadeo； e into my arms。〃
19
I LOVED HIM INSTANTLY and impossibly。 He was fifteen years old at the most when I took him out of the brothel that night and brought him to live in the palazzo with my boys。
As I held him close to me in the gondola； I knew him certainly to have been doomed…indeed； snatched at the last moment from an inconsequential death。
Though the firmness of my arms forted him； the beat of his heart was barely sufficient to drive the images which I received from him as he lay against my chest。
Reaching the palazzo； I refused Vincenzo's assistance； sending him off for food for the child； and I took my Amadeo into my bedchamber alone。
I laid him upon my bed； a wan and ragged being； amid the heavy velvet hangings and pillows； and when the soup at last came； I forced it through his lips myself。
Wine； soup； a potion of honey and lemon； what more could we give him？ Slowly； cautioned Vincenzo； lest he take too much after the starvation； and his stomach suffer as the result。
At last I sent Vincenzo away from us； and I bolted the doors of my room。
Was that the fateful moment？ Was it the moment in whic
