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."
"You miserable little whelp," said the man, and fell towards me, losing his balance. I darted out of the chair to the right. He slipped over the chair and fell to the floor.
There was uproarious laughter from the others. The two remaining dancers gave up their patterned steps.
"Giovanni Longo was brave," my Master said calmly, surveying everything and then returning his cool glance to the red-haired man. "They were all brave. But nothing could save Byzantium. Her hour had come. Time had run out for the Emperors and chimney sweeps. And in the holocaust that followed, so much was irretrievably lost. Libraries by the hundreds were burnt. So many sacred texts with all their imponderable mysteries went up in smoke."
I backed away from the drunk attacker, who rolled over on the floor.
"You lousy little lapdog!" the sprawling man shouted at me. "Give me your hand, I tell you."
"Ah, but Sir," I said, "I think you want more than that."
"And I'll have it!" he said, but he only skidded and fell back down again with a miserable groan.
One of the other men at table-handsome but older, with long thick wavy gray hair and a beautifully lined face, a man who had been gorging himself in silence on a greasy joint of mutton-looked up at me over the joint and at the fallen, twisting man who struggled to get to his feet.
"Hmmm. So Goliath falls, little David," he said, smiling up at me. "Mind your tongue, little David, we are not all stupid giants, and your stones are not for throwing just yet."
I smiled back at him. "Your jest is as clumsy as your friend, Sir. As for my stones, as