Whatever was in there, she thought, she had to see. She had the curiosity of a cat, too.
And now that he was snoring loudly enough to wake the whole town, she crept, naked, across the creaking floorboards. His worktable was littered with the tools of his trade—chisels and hammers and tongs—along with the waxen model for the medallion he was fashioning for the duke. Often, she marveled at the miraculous things that came from his hands—the silver candlesticks, the golden saltcellars, the rings and necklaces, the coins and medals, the statues in marble and bronze—and at her own small role in their creation. For all his fury and willfulness, she knew she was his muse, the inspiration to one of the greatest artists in all the world. She had often heard him described so … and truth be told, he often declared it himself.
The loose board was flush with the wall and would never have been noticed by anyone unaware that it was there. Caterina used her long fingernails (men liked long fingernails, to rake their backs) to pry it open, and it swung down on a concealed hinge. That was just like him, to make everything mechanically precise. The iron casket fit neatly into the space, with only an inch or so to spare. She drew it out—it was heavier than she expected—and carried it over to the window, where the moonlight was the brightest. The sound of snoring suddenly stopped, and she stood as motionless as one of his sculptures, until she heard him roll over on the pallet and grumble in his sleep.
Sitting down on the floor, she put the strongbox between her legs, and was not at all surprised to find it locked. Nor was she surprised to find no keyhole. He was ingenious that way—but so was she. When he was deeply absorbed in his work, he thought nothing of letting Caterina riffle through his many sketches and notebooks—he was always writing, writing, writing; she had once joked that he must be trying to outdo his idol, Dante.
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.