Robert Masello - The Medusa Amulet

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.