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 assumed a desperate cast. The snakes that made up its hair waved in the air, their tiny teeth snapping in vain. The mouth opened in its habitual snarl, as if struggling to cry out.
But even if it could shriek in fury, who besides the marquis could ever have heard it?
He met its gaze in the mirror, trying not to flinch, as the severed head assumed an expression of impotent fury, of seething and inexpressible rage. Even now, he thought, the Gorgon remains the indestructible embodiment of madness, death, and desolation. To behold her reflection was to stare into the abyss. He had thought, many times, of simply consigning his gory prize to the flames. But each time his hand had been stayed by some mysterious impulse. To destroy it would seem a sort of perverse sacrilege. Glad as he was that his own life once again moved forward like anyone else’s, he was not prepared to eradicate this last living proof of immortality. Life and death, good and evil, were all part of some unknowable cosmic plan, and though he was forever done with his interfering, he was not done with his sense of wonder.
Pressing the lid down until he heard the lock catch, he slid the box backward on the shelf. Then he shut the safe and swiftly retraced his steps through the vault. He swung the heavy door closed, turned the wheel to seal it, and then, clutching the manuscript under one arm, mounted the narrow stairs. The whole way he felt as if there was something right behind him, ready to plant its claw on his shoulder, spin him around and petrify him with its baleful gaze. Only when he had reached the top did he stop and turn around and, after flicking off the lights, stare defiantly into the inky darkness. Nothing stirred, and he slammed the door to the staircase shut with a bang loud enough to awaken the whole arrondissement.
Then he stalked off to his study to continue his story where he had left off so very long ago.
In memory of my parents,
Tom and Sonia
Acknowledgments
Without a doubt, my first debt of gratitude must be to Benvenuto Cellini himself, whose engaging and memorable autobiography I read many years ago. It made such a great impression upon me, in fact, that I decided to write this novel. In the course of composing the story, I have incorporated certain elements from that book—incidents from Cellini’s life, people he knew, works of art he did indeed create—while inventing many others. La Medusa is, of course, one of those inventions, as are some of the events and characterizations, based on fact, that appear throughout the book.
The two editions of Cellini’s memoirs that I have relied upon are the celebrated translation by John Addington Symonds, and the brilliant new translation (and notes) done by Julia Conaway Bondanella and Peter Bondanella (Oxford University Press, 2002). In addition, I regularly turned to the beautifully illustrated and authoritative study Cellini, written by John Pope-Hennessy and published by Abbeville Press in 1985.
For the sections of the novel dealing with the French Revolution, I found Antonia Fraser’s Marie Antoinette: The Journey (Nan A. Talese, Doubleday/Random House, 2001), to be indispensable.
I would also like to acknowledge the Newberry Library in Chicago, a fine and venerable institution to which my brother Steve introduced me. But again, while much of what I have to say about it is true, there’s a lot in this novel that isn’t. Most notably, the library does not possess Cellini’s Key to Life Eternal. I made it up. If it did exist, it would make a fitting addition to their renowned collection of medieval and Renaissance materials.
I have taken similar liberties with several other well-known institutions, including the Louvre, the Natural History Museum in Paris, the Biblioteca Laurenziana, and the Accademia di Bella Arti in Florence, Italy. While much of their history is reliably reported, some is of my own creation—the less laudable items in particular.
Finally, this book would never have come to pass without the encouragement of my agent, Cynthia Manson, and the hard work of my eagle-eyed editor, Anne Groell. (Any mistakes are my fault.) Thank you both for helping to see me across the finish line.
ALSO BY ROBERT MASELLO
FICTION
Blood and Ice
Vigil
Bestiary
Black Horizon
Private Demons
The Spirit Wood
NONFICTION
Robert’s Rules of Writing
Writer Tells All
A Friend in the Business
Raising Hell: A Concise History of the Black Arts
Fallen Angels … and Spirits of the Dark
ABOUT THE AUTHOR