The Medusa Amulet by Robert Masello Read Free Book Online Page B

about Palliser, she needed it. And the pictures were quick to come.…

     … the woman is lying on a straw pallet, in a moonlit studio. It is a hot summer night, and she is waiting to be sure that her lover has fallen asleep.
    He is snoring soundly, one arm slung across her naked shoulders. With infinite care, she lifts his arm, well muscled from years of hard work, and lays it to one side.
    How relieved she is when the artisan does not stir.
    But in putting one foot out onto the floor, she very nearly knocks over one of the silver goblets that had held their wine. The workshop is filled with silver and gold, and a casket of precious jewels, some of which, she knows, have come all the way from the Pope’s coffers in Rome.
    Cellini is making a scepter for the Holy Father, and the diamonds and rubies are reserved for its handle.
    But much as she might have been inclined to steal some of it from any other studio, Caterina does not even consider doing that here. For one thing, she would never betray her lover, and for another, there are three apprentices asleep downstairs, along with a mangy mastiff.
    No, it isn’t larceny that motivates her. It is simple, but irresistible, curiosity.
    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 Celliniwas 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