The dates were neatly inscribed, in a spidery but still quite legible script, at the top of each page, and David began to turn to the most promising sections, the years in which Cellini was most regularly employed by the duke. Theirs had been a volatile relationship, and when they were at loggerheads, Cellini had often taken off for Rome, or for the court of the King of France, before coming back to his native town. The Perseus statue had taken him nine long years to complete—from 1545 to 1554—and for most of that time he was begging for his pay, or for supplies, and sparring with the duke’s accountants, who were forever asking him what was taking so long.
Part of the problem was the constant distractions he had had to deal with. The duke’s wife, Eleonora de Toledo, was often peeved with Cellini—his social graces were somewhat lacking—but she recognized his immense talent and was forever pestering him for his opinion on one thing or another; in his book, he’d written about his falling-out with her over a rope of pearls, and the time she’d try to lay claim to some of the figures designed for the pedestal of the Perseus. Still, if it was a looking glass that Cellini had made, David figured there was a good chance it had been made for her, and probably before he had ever created the remarkable Medusa now in the piazza. It was hard to imagine an artist like Cellini scaling down. Once he had made the definitive Gorgon, he would hardly be inclined to do another, and in reduced proportions besides.
David studied the pile of ledgers and papers that the Academy director had left him, looking for the volumes from the mid-1530s, a period when Cellini had been steadily employed by the duke. Finding a couple, he put the other books on a neighboring table and concentrated on scouring the endless lists for jewelry and other items a duchess might have ordered. And though it was slow work, he did find them—lists of bracelets and earrings, adorned with pearls and precious stones, ornaments for her hair, amber combs and brushes, rings with short descriptions, such as “acanthus motif, sapphire,” or “gold band, diamond pavé.” The duchess was vain, and very particular about the design of everything she commissioned … which was one reason David found the idea of a mirror in the shape of the Medusa so strange. It was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a fetching image—far from it—but perhaps that was its purpose. Perhaps it was meant to be defensive. Italians were always wary of il malocchio, the evil eye, and a mirror in this grotesque cast might have been considered the perfect way to ward it off.
He was up to June 1, 1538, and about to take a break and call Olivia for an update on her own progress, when his eye happened to fall upon a notation, in that same spidery hand, at the bottom of a page.
But it was listed not as a commission, but simply “dalla mano dell’artista.” From the hand of the artist.
“Parure,” it said, “in argento.” Or silver. This sort of thing—a matching set of jewelry, usually including a tiara and earrings and bracelet—would surely have been right up Cellini’s alley. And though he did not yet see any mention of a mirror, it would have been a likely component. “Con rubini”—with rubies—was added to the general description, and though David’s sketch of La Medusa indicated no such jewels, they might have been destined for any one of the various pieces.
But it was the last words, hastily scrawled in the margin, which made his heart thump in his chest.
“Egida di Zeus motivo.” Aegis of Zeus motif. According to classical mythology, the king of the gods carried a shield, or aegis, that had been a gift from Athena. And on that shield, David knew, was emblazoned the head of the Medusa. “Un faccia a fermare il tempo” was also appended there—a face that can stop time—the very phrase that was used in The Key to Life Eternal to describe the mirror. Not a face to kill, not a face to turn its observer to stone. A face to stop time.
At last, he felt he had stumbled upon the trail of the thing itself, that he had found some recorded proof—outside of the papers that Mrs. Van Owen had provided—suggesting that La Medusa had indeed seen the light of day, that it was more than something Cellini had simply sketched, or claimed to manufacture.
But if that were the case—if he had succeeded in making the Medusa—why in the world would he have given it away, much less to a duchess who was no particular favorite of his? The Key to Life Eternal claimed that the Medusa could grant the gift of immortality. Cellini would never have given such a creation away.