It is the custom, in such writings as I now embark on, to begin by describing the circumstances of the author’s birth, and thus by what genuine authority he may claim to address the reader (his position in life, what he has achieved, and so forth, naturally being determined by his place in society).
Alas! I can make no such claim, my birth being humble and my upbringing mean.
I was, I believe, no more than seven or eight years old when the Persian, Ahmad, took me from my family. All I can now recall of the island where my parents lived was how the groves of almond trees turned white in the spring, like the snow on top of the great volcano which looked down on them, and the greenness of the sea on which my father fished. This same sea brought us ships such as the one on which Ahmad had come, seeking a child to take into his employ. Seeing my father and I mending nets together, he spoke to my parents of the great life that I would follow, of the grandeurs of Florence and the marvellous court in which I would be placed. From that day on I found myself in the service of a cruel and capricious master. Not Ahmad – although he was stern, he was no worse than many others. No, the master who treated me so harshly was ice itself...
