“Time for dinner,” he said, thumping his foot three times on the wooden floor; a cloud of dust and plaster lifted into the air. She had barely pulled her dress on over her head before one of his workers knocked on the door.
“Come in already,” Benvenuto called out, and the apprentice-a swarthy young man called Ascanio, whom Caterina had seen looking at her appraisingly more than once-brought in a wooden tray laden with a bottle of the local chianti, a chicken roasted on a bed of figs and almonds, and a plate of sliced fruits. As Cellini filled two silver cups (destined one day to grace a nobleman’s table), Ascanio set the food out on top of a seaman’s chest, which held, among other things, the first proofs and rare copies of the artisan’s own writings. When Caterina had asked him what they were about, he had waved a hand dismissively.
“Your head is too pretty for such stuff.”
Oh, how she wished she could read, and write, better than she did.
As they ate and, more to the point, drank, his mood improved. Caterina had to admit that, when he was in good humor, he could make her laugh like no other man, and his dark eyes could hold her in their thrall just as powerfully as his broad hands did. They were getting along famously until she made the fatal mistake of demanding her wages.
“I’m not done working yet.”
“Not done?” she said. “Now you can work in the dark, I suppose?”
“I can work anywhere. Who needs light?” From the way he was slurring his speech, and the empty wine bottle now lying between them, she could tell he was tipsy. She had deliberately held back on her own drinking, waiting for the wine to overtake him.
“I can see in the dark, like you,” he said, “ il mio gatto.”
He often referred to her this way, as his little cat. Another creature known for its stealth and its cunning.
Staggering to his feet, he dragged her not to the pedestal, but toward the bed, tumbling on top of her like a pile of bricks.
“Oof,” she said, trying to push him off. “You smell like a barn!”
“And you,” he said, kissing her lips, “taste like wine.” His hands fumbled under her dress before, in exasperation, he simply ripped it off her shoulders and tossed it aside.
“You’ll pay me for that!” Caterina cried.
“I’ll buy you a silk dress first thing in the morning,” he promised. “And a hat to match!”
She would hold him to it. Benvenuto could be coarse, but he could also be contrite. She knew how to play him.
But then, he knew how to play her, too. As a lover, he made her feel like no other man ever had. There was something about the two of them, a spark that ignited when their skin touched, that she had never known before. His hands felt as if they were molding her flesh, and his eyes studied her face and her body as he turned her this way and that, using her in any way he chose. In his arms, she felt at once compliant, ready to do whatever he wanted, and utterly uncontrolled, free to indulge any impulse of her own.
Was this, she thought, what people meant when they prattled on about love?
When the act was done, and he had dropped like a stone into his habitual slumber, she lay there, her own heartbeat slowly subsiding, her breath returning, the night breeze cooling her limbs.
The moonlight slanting through the shutters fell on the loose boards of the opposite wall.
It was there, behind one of those boards, that she had seen him conceal an iron casket large enough to hold a honeydew. He had thought she was sleeping, but Caterina had kept an eye open-her mother had warned her never to shut both eyes in life-and watched as he covered over the hiding place.
Whatever was in there, she thought, she had to see. She had the curiosity of a cat, too.
And now that he was snoring loudly enough to wake the whole town, she crept, naked, across the creaking floorboards. His worktable was littered with the tools of his trade-chisels and hammers and tongs-along with the waxen model for the medallion he was fashioning for the duke. Often, she marveled at the miraculous things that came from his hands-the silver candlesticks, the golden saltcellars, the rings and necklaces, the coins and medals, the statues in marble and bronze-and at her own small role in their creation. For all his fury and willfulness, she knew she was his muse, the inspiration to one of the greatest artists in all the world. She had often heard him described so… and truth be told, he often declared it himself.
The loose board was flush with the wall and would never have been noticed by anyone unaware that it was there. Caterina used her long fingernails (men liked long fingernails, to rake their backs) to pry it open, and it swung down on a concealed hinge. That was just like him, to make everything mechanically precise. The iron casket fit neatly into the space, with only an inch or so to spare. She drew it out-it was heavier than she expected-and carried it over to the window, where the moonlight was the brightest. The sound of snoring suddenly stopped, and she stood as motionless as one of his sculptures, until she heard him roll over on the pallet and grumble in his sleep.
Sitting down on the floor, she put the strongbox between her legs, and was not at all surprised to find it locked. Nor was she surprised to find no keyhole. He was ingenious that way-but so was she. When he was deeply absorbed in his work, he thought nothing of letting Caterina riffle through his many sketches and notebooks-he was always writing, writing, writing; she had once joked that he must be trying to outdo his idol, Dante.
But among all the papers, she had noted a rectangular design just like this box, and there was a series of circles with many small numbers and lines and letters surrounding them. Circles like the ones embossed on the box. And the letters G and A and T and O-as in her nickname. She had memorized the placement of the letters, and thought that if she turned the corresponding circles-and yes, she discovered, they did indeed turn-so as to spell out the word, the box would undoubtedly open.
She smiled at surmising that she had outfoxed the master.
The first circle, where the G had been noted, was in the upper left corner of the lid. She turned it easily, then turned the A on the upper right. The T was at the lower left-she turned it twice around-before finishing with the O. Then waited for the box to click open.
It did not.
She hated risking her fingernails again, but she had to, and tried to find a little crevice that she could use to pry the lid up.
But it was perfectly sealed.
She tried the whole ritual again, turning all the circles, feeling for a latch, but again there was nothing. The master artisan had made another foolproof mechanism.
She wanted to drop the damn thing on his snoring head.
She studied it again, wondering if the box could be opened with a simple use of force. To do that, she would have to find another time, a time when she could finagle her way into the studio when Benvenuto was gone; but even then, it would be well-nigh impossible. The iron was welded so firmly, the hasps so tight, it was like a solid block. She would not have known where or how to strike it.
Outside, in the Via Santo Spirito, she heard the slow clip-clopping of a horse’s hooves. A woman’s voice called out an invitation to the passing rider: “It’s late,” she said. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
Caterina grimaced. Never, she thought. Never would she let herself be reduced to that. She hadn’t come all the way from France to wind up as some common whore.
But then she almost laughed at the picture she presented instead-a naked model, on the floor in the dark, her legs spread on either side of a locked iron casket she was unsuccessfully trying to break into.
A faint breeze stirred the hot summer air, raising goose bumps on her arms and shoulders.
She could put the box back and forget the whole thing, but when, she wondered, would she ever get another chance like this? Think, she told herself. Think like he did.
In the quarters below, she heard the dog bark, followed by one of the apprentices throwing a saucer at it.
Benvenuto rolled over again, onto his other side, and for
a moment it looked as if his hand was groping for her. But then it fell slack off the side of the pallet.
And she knew the answer.
He was always quoting the late master, Leonardo, and more than once he had mentioned that da Vinci could write backwards, so that the best way to read his writing was to hold it up in a mirror. Benvenuto had tried the trick himself, but to no avail. “It is a gift that God bestows, and alas, in this one thing, He has forgotten me.” He was forever comparing his own talents to those of his friends and rivals-Bronzino, Pontormo, Titian-and of course Michelangelo Buonarroti. In fact, he was such an admirer of Michelangelo’s that he had once come to blows in his defense. “Of all the men in Italy,” he declared, “Michelangelo is the one chosen by God to do His greatest work!” His marble statue of David, in Cellini’s view, was the testament to that.
But even if Benvenuto couldn’t write backwards, he could do other things in reverse, such as setting a lock. Carefully, she turned the circles in reverse order, and at the last one she heard a satisfying little click as the interior gears released. She nearly shouted in triumph.
Raising the lid, she saw that its underside was mirrored. A good sign. But just as she tilted the box to catch the moonlight, a cloud passed across the moon. She ran her fingers along the sides of the box and felt the plush velvet lining he had made for whatever it was constructed to protect. Another promising sign. He wouldn’t have done that if it were just a strongbox for coins, or documents. Her fingertips grazed a cold metal band that she withdrew and held up to the light.
It was a silver garland, and made to look as if it were fashioned from gilded bulrushes. It was admirably done, but the metal, she could tell, was thin. It was a nice piece, one that would make a handsome present for some aristocrat, but nothing to rival the riches lying around the studio.
There had to be something more.
She put her fingers back in the box and found the interior mount, where a circular object, the size of a woman’s palm, was neatly settled. Waiting for the cloud to pass, she glanced over at the bed again to make sure Benvenuto had not been awakened by the sound of the latch releasing. But apart from the rhythmic rise and fall of his burly chest, he lay still.
The night sky cleared, and suddenly the thing beneath her hand glinted dully in the moonbeams. She withdrew it from the box, expecting to find the richest ornament she had ever seen-a brooch or bracelet fashioned from a dazzling array of sparkling gemstones. Emeralds, sapphires, diamonds, all embedded in beaten gold. His other claims notwithstanding, Benvenuto was universally acknowledged to be the finest goldsmith in Florence, a city acclaimed for that art. But this medallion on a simple silver chain was almost as utilitarian as the iron chest it came from.
It depicted, though quite skillfully, the head of the gorgon, Medusa-she whose gaze could turn any mortal to stone. Her hair, a writhing mass of serpents, coiled around the edges of the piece, while her fierce eyes and gaping mouth comprised the center. It was done in the niello style, very fashionable just then. The image had been engraved into the silver with a sharply pointed burin-Caterina had often seen such work done-and then the hollows had been brushed with a black alloy made of sulfur and copper and lead. As a result, the design appeared in starker, bolder relief, though Caterina preferred her own silver-what little she had-to shine more brightly.
Still, this was a finely wrought piece, like the garland. Indeed, nothing that came from Benvenuto’s hand was not finely made. But why all the fuss? There were a dozen things in the shop that had to be more valuable. Idly, she turned the medallion over, and found, interestingly enough, a stiff black silk backing, neatly anchored by several silver clasps. These she turned, until the silk fell free, and she suddenly saw her own inquisitive face staring back at her.
It was a small circular mirror, with finely beveled edges. Now that was something out of the ordinary. She held it higher in the moonlight, angling the glass to capture her own face. There was something about the curvature of the glass, a swelling outward of its surface, which captured her features in a ruthlessly clear fashion, while simultaneously, and subtly, distorting them. It was as if the more she looked, the more deeply she was drawn into the glass, and the more she wanted to look away, the more she could not.
She drew the mirror closer to her face-close enough that her breath clouded its lower half, close enough that she could see her own bright eyes, looking back at her as if she were not looking into the glass at all, but was inside it instead, and looking out. It felt as if the thing had come alive, as if it were beating with a subtle pulse. The moonlight flooded across the glass like a silver tide, washing over her image, eclipsing her… and that was the last thing she remembered.
When she awoke, she found herself lying flat out on the floor, with the morning sun pouring through the window. A rooster was crowing on the rooftop.
And Cellini himself-in nothing but a pair of loose cotton drawers-was kneeling above her.
“What have you done?” he said, his expression a complex mixture of fear, anger, and concern. “What did you do?”
She looked around, but the mirror, the garland, and the iron box were gone.
Benvenuto helped her to her feet, throwing a sheet around her naked shoulders, and she stumbled, as if she had been at sea for weeks, across the studio. There was a pewter basin and pitcher on the bureau by the bed, and she filled the bowl with water. Her skin felt as if it had been scoured with sand. But when she bent down to throw the cold water on her face and saw her reflection, the breath caught in her throat. Her lush black hair, one of her most prized assets, had turned as white as snow-as white as if the Medusa herself had terrified her beyond imagining.
She whipped around to look at Benvenuto, praying for an explanation. “What have I done?” she exclaimed. “What have you done?”
But he simply stood there, silent.
“Is this one of your silly pranks?” she demanded. “Because if it is, I don’t think it’s very funny.”
But shaking his head, he came to her and put one of his rough hands to her cheek. “If only it were, il mio gatto… if only it were.”
Chapter 5
David had barely hung his coat on the back of his office door before his phone rang with a call from Dr. Armbruster.
“Guess what we received by courier this morning?”
She was not normally this playful, and it took David a second to say he had no clue.
“A generous check for our library restoration fund from Ambassador Schillinger and his wife. It seems he was very impressed by your lecture last week.”
“That’s great,” David said, wondering how this might affect his chances of clinching that spot as the new Director of Acquisitions.
“And I have some other good news, too.”
At last.
“Another of the audience members would like to come in today and meet with you in person.”
As quickly as his hopes had been raised, they plummeted again. He prayed it wasn’t just some frustrated academic who wanted to debate Dante’s indebtedness to Ovid.
“Who is it?”
“Her name is Kathryn Van Owen.”
Anyone who lived in Chicago knew the Van Owen name. At one point, the family had owned much of the Loop. And Kathryn, the recently widowed wife of Randolph, was a prominent, if rather reticent, figure in local society.
“Up until now,” Dr. Armbruster continued, “she had asked to remain anonymous, but as you may have figured out already, she was the donor of the Florentine Dante.”
For some reason, David instantly knew that she was also the Lady in Black-the one who had come in late, wearing the veil.
“She’s arriving here this afternoon, with her lawyer. Apparently, she’s bringing along something else for your opinion. I don’t need to tell you that it, too, could wind up in our collections.”
“Do you want me to prepare anything in advance?”
“I can’t think what it would be. Are you wearing a decent shirt?”
“Yes,” he said, quickly looking down to check. “Do you have any idea what she’s planning to give us this time?”
David could almost hear her shrug. “Her late husband’s family is as rich as Croesus-though you probably know that already-but frankly, he never showed much interest in culture or the arts. He built that car museum in Elk Grove, but I think it’s really Mrs. Van Owen herself who’s donating these things, from her own collection. And she’s what you would call,” she said, plainly pausing to find a neutral term, “an unusual woman. You’ll see what I mean when you meet her. Be in the conference room at a quarter of three.”
Hanging up, David ran a hand around his jawline-he should have put a new blade in his razor that morning-and reopened the Dante files on his computer, checking online for any other libraries or archives that might have something that shed some further light on it. He thought it would be cool, when meeting Mrs. Van Owen for the first time, if he had something new to share with her about the book, something he hadn’t already discovered and mentioned at the public unveiling. But he also hoped that she could tell him something more about its origins than he already knew. The text, by and large, was the standard, written in the Italian vulgate. Up until the early 1300s, when the Comedy was composed, Latin was the only choice for such an epic work, but Dante had changed all that. By writing his poem in the spoken language of his day, and in his inimitable terza rima stanzas, he had thrown down the gauntlet, making a clear break with the verse of the ancient Greeks and Romans and conferring a legitimacy upon the demotic tongue used by his own contemporaries.
But what really intrigued David about this edition, of which he could find no other record, were its illustrations. There was a life and a vigor to them that was unparalleled. They were unlike any other illustrations he had seen, in countless other printings, in a dozen different languages.
At two thirty-and having turned up nothing new and earthshaking-he took his emergency tie and sport jacket off the back of his office door and went down to the men’s room to put them on. As he adjusted the knot of his tie, he noticed that his hair, thick and brown and starting to curl up over his collar, could definitely have used a trim. He did his best to get it under control, then headed off to the conference room for his meeting with the mysterious Mrs. Van Owen.
The Medusa Amulet Page 5
