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.