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.
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
