Robert Masello - The Medusa Amulet

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 career,” 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.

“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?”