The Medusa Amulet

by Robert Masello

  “You know what it is, don’t you?” he shouted, in joy. “You know what it is?”

  But he didn’t have to tell her. She knew. It was the power of time starting afresh, of life beginning anew. The clock that had stopped, nearly five hundred years before, had started again. The hands that had been frozen in place were ticking. He lifted her off her feet and swung her around, laughing. And though he was holding her so tight she could barely catch her breath, she laughed, too. Cyril, and a couple trudging into the hospice, looked on in amazement. Who would have thought that in a place like this, where death and sorrow reigned, mortality itself could have been so celebrated and embraced? And when her feet touched the ground again, Kathryn-no, Caterina now, Caterina for as long as she lived-felt the pieces of the broken mirror crunching under the sole of her shoe.

  Chapter 47

  For a January day in Florence, it was unseasonably sunny and bright. As David approached the Piazza della Signoria, he could see not only tourists but locals, too, out enjoying the clear skies and brisk air. Several vendors tried to sell him maps and souvenirs, and one even offered to be his personal tour guide.

  But he already knew the best guide in town. An Italienisch Madchen , as Herr Linz had put it in the notebook David had stolen from the Chateau Perdu. He had read it in its entirety on the flight back to Italy. Filled with elaborate sketches and directives, it was the monster’s plan for the greatest art museum in the history of the world, to be built one day-no surprise-in his hometown and namesake of Linz. But far from being a tribute to mankind’s noblest endeavors, the Fuhrermuseum was to be a grandiose testament to Hitler’s own ruthless ambitions. With its five-hundred-foot-long facade and rows of towering columns, it was designed to trumpet the victory of the Reich and show off its master’s hoard of stolen trophies. Everything, apart from his greatest, and most secret, acquisition- La Medusa -was to be on display.

  But as David now knew-from Sant’Angelo’s lips-its like would never be seen again. The glass was gone, its magic was done. For those who had fallen under its spell, the spell was over. What was left in its place was simply life-ordinary life, starting up again where it had left off… though clean and unencumbered.

  And that was enough. Sarah was fine and healthy. It was as if the disease had never struck. Dr. Ross wanted to make a casebook study of her, and he’d even stopped by the house to plead his cause. But Gary had put a stop to that in no uncertain terms. “Sorry, Doc,” he’d told him as David stood silently by, “but we’ve had all we can stand of hospitals. No offense, but we hope we never see you again.”

  Dr. Ross had understood and taken it well. And when he’d gotten back in his car and driven off, Gary had turned to David on the front lawn. Putting a firm hand on his shoulder, he’d said, in a voice filled with gratitude, “I don’t suppose you’re ever going to tell me what really went on that night, are you?”

  “It’s a long story,” David said, “and you wouldn’t believe me even if I did.”

  Gary nodded slowly, and said, “You’re right.” Then, glancing at David’s hair, he said, “You know, it’s starting to come in brown again.”

  “It’s a big relief.”

  “I’m sure that girl you told me about-Olivia Levi?-will be relieved, too. That Andy Warhol look wasn’t working for you.”

  David had been well aware of that, and to spare her a heart attack when he surprised her in the piazza, he had put on a hat.

  Right now, she was off near the loggia, shepherding a group of seniors to the base of the Perseus. He was far enough away that he couldn’t hear what she was saying about it, but he could see her standing on the steps, arms waving with a flourish as the gray-haired men and women on the tour huddled close to catch every word.

  By the time he’d crept up to the rear of the group, he could hear her asking them if anyone knew the story of Perseus and the Gorgon.

  A professorial type in front said, “Perseus was tricked into promising the head of the Medusa as a wedding gift. But one look in the Medusa’s eyes could turn a man to stone. He had to call upon the gods for help.”

  Several others in the group nodded their appreciation of his expertise and, emboldened, he went on. “Hermes gave him a sword, and Athena gave him a polished shield, so he could catch the creature’s reflection. By looking only in the shield, he was able to kill the Gorgon without looking directly into her eyes.”

  Olivia, wearing the purple iris on her lapel, applauded. “And the man who made this magnificent statue? Who can tell me that?”

  Before the professor could pipe up, David called out, “Benvenuto Cellini!” Everyone in the tour group turned their heads to see who the interloper was.

  Olivia, shielding her eyes from the sun, said, “That is correct,” and after spotting him in back, started down the steps. “And who commissioned it?” she said, deftly maneuvering her way through the crowd.

  “Cosimo de’Medici.”

  “And why?” she asked, as David made his own way toward her, too.

  “It was a symbol.”

  “Of what?” she said, as they at last embraced.

  “Of perseverance. Perseus was always able to beat impossible odds to get what he wanted.”

  And then they were done talking. As he bent his head to kiss her, he could hear the members of the tour group speculating among themselves about who this guy was… and then, only seconds later, starting to grumble about the unexpected delay in the tour.

  Finally, the professor in front decided to pick up where he’d left off. “I used to teach art in Scranton,” he said, and the group seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. “So I know that if you look at this statue from behind, you’ll see just how ingenious it is. The face of its sculptor is hidden in the design of the helmet,” he said, while the tour group dutifully followed him around to the back of the statue.

  “These tours,” Olivia murmured to David, “they are not free, you know.”

  “So what do I owe you? As the newly appointed Director of Acquisitions at the Newberry Library, I have an expense account now.”

  “Really? Then I will think of something.”

  He kissed her again, holding her so tight her purple flower was crushed flat and his hat fell off. When she finally pulled back enough to see his two-toned hair, she looked puzzled and said, “What happened here? You did not tell me you had dyed your hair.”

  “I was saving that part.” In point of fact, he had spared her all the details of his own experience with the mirror. It was enough that she knew it had saved his sister.

  “This was not a good idea,” she said, frowning and ruffling his hair with one hand. “Don’t do it again.”

  “I’m certainly not planning on it.”

  “But what else have you been keeping from me?” she said, and then, her tone abruptly changing from playful to serious, added, “Your sister-she is still doing well?”

  “Yes,” he replied, “she’s doing just fine. And she’s looking forward to meeting you very soon.”

  “I look forward to it, too,” Olivia said. “But what does she remember, about what happened that night at the hospital?”

  “Not much.” David considered it a blessing. “And what little she does remember just seems like a bad dream to her.”

  “ Un miracolo,” Olivia said with a knowing look, “that is what I would call it.”

  “Whatever you call it,” David said, “it isn’t something that will ever happen again.”

  Olivia nodded, sagely. “ So La Medusa -it is truly gone? Forever?”

  “Gone. Mrs. Van Owen even insisted that the silver be melted down and made into a pin.”

  “A pin,” Olivia said, a note of regret in her voice. And David understood her sadness at the loss of such a miraculous device. True, it had fallen for a time into the worst hands imaginable, but now, no sooner than it had been recovered and restored to its rightful owner, its magic had been lost again for good.

  “This statue represents the apogee of Cellini’s c
areer,” the professor from Scranton was declaiming, and quite happily. “In the long and prolific career of this magnificent artist-one of the greatest masters of the Renaissance-it remains his single greatest achievement.”

  And though David and Olivia might easily have disputed that last contention, neither one of them said a word.

  Chapter 48

  “At this time the duke left with his entire court and all his children, except for the prince, who was in Spain. They went through the marshes of Siena, and by that route they went to Pisa. That bad air poisoned the Cardinal before the others; so that after a few days he was attacked by a pestilential fever that quickly killed him. He was the apple of the duke’s eye: a handsome and good man, and his death was a tremendous loss. I let a few days pass until I thought their tears had dried; and then I set off for Pisa.”

  The marquis put the ancient manuscript down beside his cup of chocolate. Outside, he could hear a siren wailing on the Paris streets.

  He had written these words, the last of his published autobiography, in December of 1562. Then, he had lost heart. Over the centuries, he had occasionally written down further scraps, but then consigned them to the vault deep beneath his town house. What was the use of telling his story, he’d thought, when it was necessary to withhold the darkest and most critical secret that lay at its core?

  And what could be the point of telling a story that would never have an end?

  But he had noticed a change in himself of late. It was as if his hands had found their talents again. He had sketched a design for a statue, and he had been pleased with it. He had even ordered a block of marble for the first time in ages. And he felt an accompanying urge to pick up the pen and resume his fantastical tale, regardless of whether or not it would ever be published-or believed.

  “Benvenuto, it’s almost midnight,” he heard from the doorway. “Why don’t you come to bed?”

  Caterina, her long black hair spilling over the shoulders of her white silk nightgown, was standing like an apparition in the shadows.

  From her intonation, it was more than sleep she was suggesting.

  He smiled and said, “I’m having my hot chocolate. Would you like some?”

  Ascanio had left the silver pot on a tray by the desk.

  “That’s what keeps you awake at night.”

  “I like the night. Don’t you remember how I would try to rig my studio with torches, so that I could work until all hours?”

  “I do,” she said, holding up a hand to conceal her yawn.

  “And how the neighbors would complain about the incessant hammering?”

  “And yet you still managed to be late with every commission. I sometimes wondered why the duke didn’t have you hanged from the top of the Bargello.”

  “Because then he would have been stuck with that numbskull, Bandinelli. Why, when I think of that atrocity he committed in the Piazza della Signoria…”

  Caterina refused to take the bait; she’d heard it all before, countless times.

  “I’m going to sleep,” she said, coming to his side and bending down to plant a kiss on his brow.

  But before she could get away, he threw an arm around her and pulled her into his lap. “Remember the night I first saw you, on the arm of that fop at Fontainebleau?”

  “Yes-though I was the one who saw you first. You were busy telling the French king that he needed a new fountain.”

  “I was right.”

  “You were bold-that’s what I liked.”

  “I liked your eyes.” Indeed, they were still as violet and inviting as they had ever been.

  “What’s this?” she said, turning the pages of the manuscript on the desk. “Ah, I see. Are you planning to pick up where you left off?”

  “I was considering it.”

  “You have an awful lot of ground to cover, don’t you think?”

  “But an awful lot to tell, don’t you think?”

  “No one would ever believe you.”

  That much he would concede. But who cared? An artisan did his best work without worrying about what his audience might think or believe.

  They kissed, her arm around his broad shoulders, and then she squirmed out of his grasp, saying, “You know where to find me.”

  Benvenuto drained his cup, then turned off the desk lamp. He was still wide-awake-she was probably right about the chocolate-but he had an itch to read over the old papers that had been gathering dust in the vaults. He was feeling oddly inspired tonight.

  He made his way down to the main floor, then down another flight of stairs to a ponderous steel door, heavy as the door on any bank vault. Pressing his finger, then his eye, to the biometric scan, he turned the wheel and the door swung open. The lights automatically went on and the fans began blowing.

  There were several interconnecting vaults, holding bronze statues, oil paintings in gilded frames, antique tapestries, and cabinets filled with priceless gems. An Ali Baba’s cave, if ever there was one. But he didn’t stop until he came to the deepest and farthest recess of them all. Although the overhead light fixture there was the same wattage as in all the other vaults, for some reason that corner always seemed darker, as if some other force were struggling against the light. Even the marquis had never liked to linger in that spot. Against the farthest wall of rough-hewn rock stood the squat, black safe in which his most valuable treasures were kept. Lowering his head to the lock, he entered the combination, then turned the handles and opened the double doors.

  On the bottom shelf, the harpe nestled on its black velvet cushion, right beside the silver garland.

  In the middle, the manuscript pages rested in a cracked leather binder, which he removed and placed on top of the safe.

  And in the shadowy confines of the topmost shelf, the iron strongbox glinted as silently and dully as a crocodile’s eye.

  He was already closing the safe again when something made him stop. It had been years since he had last opened the iron box-first made to contain the looking glass-and even then he had sworn to himself that he would never do it again.

  But at present, for whatever reason, it beckoned to him. His curiosity was aroused, and he found himself drawing the box far enough forward that the circular dials on its lid were revealed.

  The combination, of course, was as simple as Caterina’s nickname, and he turned the circles one by one, carefully, until he heard the tiny click of the lock unlatching.

  He paused, wondering if he wanted to go on.

  But his fingers, as if possessing a will of their own, were raising the lid and pressing it back on the hinge.

  The cold, white light of the vault pierced the black hollow of the box. For a moment, there was no response from the trophy resting inside. But then, as the marquis kept his eyes firmly fixed on the mirror affixed to the underside of the lid, it awakened to the sudden glare. Bewildered and unfocused at first, the yellow eyes quickly assumed a desperate cast. The snakes that made up its hair waved in the air, their tiny teeth snapping in vain. The mouth opened in its habitual snarl, as if struggling to cry out.

  But even if it could shriek in fury, who besides the marquis could ever have heard it?

  He met its gaze in the mirror, trying not to flinch, as the severed head assumed an expression of impotent fury, of seething and inexpressible rage. Even now, he thought, the Gorgon remains the indestructible embodiment of madness, death, and desolation. To behold her reflection was to stare into the abyss. He had thought, many times, of simply consigning his gory prize to the flames. But each time his hand had been stayed by some mysterious impulse. To destroy it would seem a sort of perverse sacrilege. Glad as he was that his own life once again moved forward like anyone else’s, he was not prepared to eradicate this last living proof of immortality. Life and death, good and evil, were all part of some unknowable cosmic plan, and though he was forever done with his interfering, he was not done with his sense of wonder.

  Pressing the lid down until he heard the lock catch, he slid the box backwa
rd on the shelf. Then he shut the safe and swiftly retraced his steps through the vault. He swung the heavy door closed, turned the wheel to seal it, and then, clutching the manuscript under one arm, mounted the narrow stairs. The whole way he felt as if there was something right behind him, ready to plant its claw on his shoulder, spin him around and petrify him with its baleful gaze. Only when he had reached the top did he stop and turn around and, after flicking off the lights, stare defiantly into the inky darkness. Nothing stirred, and he slammed the door to the staircase shut with a bang loud enough to awaken the whole arrondissement.

  Then he stalked off to his study to continue his story where he had left off so very long ago.

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