He had been poisoned … and by a common enough method among princes and noblemen.
A powdered gem—a diamond—had been introduced into his food. Unlike other pulverized stones, the diamond kept its sharp edges and, instead of passing harmlessly through the body, its tiny pieces—no matter how fine—clung to the intestines and pierced the linings. The result was not only a slow and agonizing death, but one that could be confused with a host of natural afflictions. The duke, who had no doubt hatched the plan, could never be held accountable by his father that way.
Cellini keeled over, his forehead touching the damp floor, reciting a Miserere under his breath. It was just a matter of time—hours, or maybe a day or two—before he would begin to feel the effects.
But what then?
The shock of the thought actually brought him back up. What would happen to a man such as he, a man who had manufactured La Medusa and gazed into its magical depths? He would not die; he could not die.
But would he, then, be destined to suffer forever?
Suddenly, he had to wonder if his adventures in sorcery were not the making of his own doom. Hadn’t Dr. Strozzi warned him?
But when had he ever listened to warnings?
The bulrushes, they had been one thing. The ones that had clung to his clothes in his escape from the Gorgon’s pool, he had gathered in a bunch—not an easy task, as they continually appeared and vanished and reappeared—before swiftly twining them together and dipping the garland in a bath of molten silver. Settled upon the brow, like the laurel wreath upon the head of Dante, the finished piece granted the wearer the gift of invisibility.
By the standards of his trade, it was a comparatively simple procedure.
But the looking glass was quite another matter. When he had made it, he had been so intent on its creation that he had hardly stopped to think through its myriad implications. He had focused all his skills, all his cunning, on replicating the fearsome visage of the Gorgon he had slain. Countless hours had been spent in his studio, the midnight oil burning in the lamp, as he made models, then casts, for the front of the mirror. And though glassmaking had not been among his many talents, he had apprenticed himself for weeks to a master blower, who had taught him how to make the beveled glass in back.
And when he thought he had acquired the requisite skills, he made one mirror—just as he had told the Pope—as a gift for the Medici duchess, Eleonora de Toledo. (He was forever having to find ways to stay in her good graces.) To add some luster to its burnished niello finish, he had placed two rubies in the Gorgon’s eyes.
And then, satisfied that he could accomplish the work, he had cast another.
This one was for himself, to achieve his lifelong dream.
This one was to award himself the gift of the gods themselves … the gift of everlasting life.
He had consulted Strozzi’s books, he had pored over the grimoires from France and England, Portugal and Spain, and then, with the greatest care he had ever mustered, he had opened the flask containing the pale green water he had salvaged from the infernal pool. The waters of immortality that had returned with him, trapped in his boots.
With the mirror laid facedown on his workbench, he had poured the glistening liquid into the hollow of its back. The droplets swished and hissed in the tiny, lead-lined basin, moving and coagulating like mercury. It was almost as if they were struggling to get out, but Cellini quickly fixed the glass into place and sealed the edges tight. Under his breath, he recited the Latin incantation from Strozzi’s book, the final benediction that would complete his task and forever empower his creation.
“Aequora of infinitio,
Beatus per radiant luna,
Una subsisto estus of vicis,
Quod tribuo immortalis beneficium.”
And then, for good measure, he recited his own translation, in the vernacular tongue he preferred.
“The waters of eternity,
Blessed by the radiant moon,
Together stop the tide of time
And grant the immortal boon.”
With the talisman made, only one step remained—to see if it would work. If it did, then anyone catching the moonlight in its glass, along with his own reflection, would find himself frozen in time forever, as unchanging as the image trapped in the glass.
Had anyone, Cellini wondered, ever accomplished so much as he? Could any artisan, in his own age or the ages to come, boast of such achievements?
He had sat back on his workbench, the lantern light reflected in the glass of La Medusa and felt … what? Exultation? Yes, but mixed with the bitter rue that came from knowing he could never trumpet it to the skies.