The Medusa Amulet

Chapter 4

Mrs. Van Owen-Kathryn to her close friends, of whom there were almost none-had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. She had hoped that no one else would ever have to be sent.

But her lawyer, Mr. Hudgins, had just informed her that Phillip Palliser was dead. His body had been found floating in the Loire, several miles downstream from a little French town called Cinq Tours.

“And what does the coroner say was the cause of death?” she asked, her eyes already straying to the huge windows that looked out over Lake Michigan from her penthouse apartment. “Drowning?”

“Probably,” Hudgins replied. “But there were considerable abrasions to the body and face. The injuries might have been postmortem, or they might have been caused by… a violent attack first. It’s unclear.”

Another one, Kathryn thought, caught in the spider’s web.

He lowered his gaze to the stack of folders and papers arrayed on her glass-topped coffee table. The afternoon light filled the spacious, expensively appointed room, and after he had waited a suitable amount of time, he said, “So what would you like to do?”

She touched a finger to a stray brunette hair, putting it back in place.

“Do you wish to go forward?” he asked.

Did she? What choice, really, did she have? “Yes.” It was all like moving another chess piece into play. “Of course I do.”

“Then it would be this young man at the Newberry,” Hudgins said, glancing at a paper. “This David Franco?”

“Yes.” She had always cultivated the next candidate before his predecessor had failed.

“And you think he has done a good job on the Dante volume?”

“A very good job.” She had been impressed with his credentials before she had seen him at the library, and she was even more impressed after hearing him speak.

“Then I’ll go ahead and make the arrangements for us to meet with him,” Hudgins said. “How soon would you like to do so?”

“Tomorrow.”

Even Hudgins seemed a bit surprised. “Tomorrow? Well, then, I will leave it to you to assemble the materials you wish to share with him.”

Kathryn nodded, almost imperceptibly, but she knew his eyes were riveted on her. Men’s eyes generally were, and it was something she had grown accustomed to over the years. Hers was a sensual face, with high cheekbones, arched brows, and full lips, unaided by collagen. But it was her eyes-a remarkable blue, tinged with violet-that made the most striking impression. One ardent admirer had even proclaimed her beauty to be “timeless,” and it had been all she could do not to laugh out loud.

“Now, in respect to your late husband’s estate,” he said, shifting gears and moving a separate folder to the top of the pile, “I’ve been in contact with his family.”

Randolph Van Owen had died a month earlier, but when it happened, one of his sisters had been on a world cruise she was loath to interrupt and the other was recovering from a face-lift.

“They have agreed to come to Chicago and hear the reading of the will this Friday.”

“That’s fine. The sooner, the better.”

“But they have asked if the service could be… less private? As one of Chicago’s most recognized families, the Van Owens were hoping for a more public expression of your late husband’s importance to the fabric of the city. In fact, they had suggested-”

“No,” she said. “Randolph would have wanted a very small, private ceremony, and nothing more.”

In actuality, she had no idea what he would have wanted, any more than she understood what he was doing racing his new Lamborghini through Lake Forest in the middle of the night. He’d hit a slight bump in the road. But at the speed he was traveling, the car had become airborne and wrapped itself around a stone gatepost. It wasn’t that she didn’t love Randolph-love was barely in her vocabulary-but theirs had been a marriage of… what? For him, she had been the ultimate trophy, a woman whose beauty made men stop in their tracks, and for her, he had been just another refuge. He had provided her with a new identity, in a new place, and a new time. She needed these anchors now and again in order to feel connected to the rhythms and the texture of ordinary life.

And now that that connection was broken-yet again-she was searching for a way out, once and for all. A way out of everything. For most people, it would be easy. But for her, it was a challenge so immense she could take no chances with the outcome. No chances at all.

After Hudgins had cleared up a few other matters, he gathered his papers, and she escorted him to the door. Then, leaving the plates and glasses for Cyril to clean up, she dimmed the lights and mounted a corkscrew staircase to a portion of the apartment accessible only to someone with the silver key she wore around her neck. Once inside, she flicked on the wall sconces, and it was as if she had entered another world. Even Randolph had not been allowed in her private sanctum.

Unlike the rest of the apartment, which was flooded with natural light, this was like entering a catacombs, thirty-five stories in the air. The floors were made of dark tile, and the walls were decorated with oil paintings of religious scenes. An ivory crucifix hung at the end of the short hall, with one room on either side. On the left, a tiny chapel had been erected, with a stained-glass window-artificially backlit-depicting Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead. There was a simple pew set before the altar, on which rested as many as two dozen small urns-some of them ornately carved of marble or porphyry, others cast in silver or steel. The low hum of an air-filtration system was the only sound.

On the right, a slightly larger room was lined with mahogany bookshelves packed with everything from old books in cracked threadbare bindings to memorabilia from around the globe. Egyptian candlesticks, bronze inkwells, carved totems, an ivory saltcellar. There was little furniture-just one armchair, an end table, and a torchere, which she turned to its highest wattage. Atop the table, there was a bundle of papers, as yellow and crackly as parchment, tied with a frayed string. Kathryn sat down in the chair and took the stack into her lap. She carefully undid the string, which nearly disintegrated, and lifted the top sheet of paper; even now, so many years after it had escaped being burned, it gave off an ashy odor.

But the black scrawl was still entirely legible. La Chiave Alla Vita Eterna. The Key to Life Eternal.

Scanning the pages, hastily scribbled in Italian with a sharp quill, she could imagine their creator at his desk, head down, brow furrowed. She could envision him filling one page, then tossing it aside and, without so much as a pause, starting on another. Each paper was crammed with words and sometimes drawings, all a testament to the ferment and the fecundity of his thoughts.

But when she came to one page in particular, she stopped.

Its center was dominated by a fierce scowling visage, its hair a mass of writhing snakes. Written beside it, in a florid hand, were the words La Medusa. She stared at the creature’s grim face and traced the lines with the end of one nail. She had to remain strong, she told herself. At least a little longer. She had to have hope, however tenuous. If she, of all people, did not know that anything was possible, who did?

Closing her eyes and turning out the lamp, she sat in the perfect darkness, hearing only the hum of the air-filtration unit… and allowing her thoughts to transport her backwards into an age-old dream, of another place-the city of Florence-and another time, centuries ago, when the Medici ruled… and a woman then known as Caterina had been the most sought-after artist’s model in all of Europe.

It was an indulgence she rarely permitted herself. But after the bad news about Palliser, she needed it. And the pictures were quick to come…

… the woman is lying on a straw pallet, in a moonlit studio. It is a hot summer night, and she is waiting to be sure that her lover has fallen asleep.

He is snoring soundly, one arm slung across her naked shoulders. With infinite care, she lifts his arm, well muscled from years of hard work, and lays it to one side.

How relieved she is when the artisan does not stir.

But in putting one foot out onto the floor, she very nearly knocks over one of the silver goblets that had held their wine. The workshop is filled with silver and gold, and a casket of precious jewels, some of which, she knows, have come all the way from the Pope’s coffers in Rome.

Cellini is making a scepter for the Holy Father, and the diamonds and rubies are reserved for its handle.

But much as she might have been inclined to steal some of it from any other studio, Caterina does not even consider doing that here. For one thing, she would never betray her lover, and for another, there are three apprentices asleep downstairs, along with a mangy mastiff.

No, it isn’t larceny that motivates her. It is simple, but irresistible, curiosity.

Caterina prides herself on knowing all there is to know about men. In ten years of plying her trade, she has seen and learned plenty. But that was only by keeping her eyes open and her wits about her at all times.

Earlier that day, she had been due to model for a medallion Cellini was casting, but she had arrived only at dusk. She knew that coming so late would make him angry, but she rather liked that. She liked making the great artist stew, liked knowing that without her he was unable to proceed with his work; he had once told her so-in front of all his apprentices-and she occasionally liked to wield the power that it gave her.

Still, he had his own ways of showing his displeasure.

As soon as she had come through the door, he had ordered her to strip off her clothes, without so much as a word of greeting; then, when he was posing her, his hands had been rough. But she didn’t say a word. She would not give him the satisfaction of complaining-or a reason to withhold the six scudi he would owe her at the end of the session.

When the light was utterly gone, and even the candles were not enough to work by, he had tossed his tools down on one of the worktables and rubbed the back of his hand across both sides of his thick moustache.

That, she knew, meant he was satisfied with what he’d done, for the moment. She dropped her pose-oh, how her limbs ached-and stepped down from the pedestal, then went to fetch her clothes.

“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.”