The Secret of the Glass (26 page)

Da Fuligna entered the Piazza San Marco and veered off to the left. The women before her, her shield, swerved right toward the stalls that created a ring along the edge of the piazza.

The climbing sun lit the wide-open square, bouncing off the light stone buildings and flickering off the spirited waves of the sea just beyond. The illumination had not found its way under the great arch of the clock tower, and within its gloom, Sophia stopped, hiding in the safety of the dim, faint light. She kept her eyes trained on Pasquale’s hefty back as he strode purposefully toward the center of the piazza.

The diverse group of men gathered at the base of the
campanile
. They turned toward Pasquale and nodded or waved in greeting. Many of the faces looked familiar though their names remained elusive; she had seen them before, dressed in council robes at the Ducal Palace.

One face leapt out at her, one whose name jumped readily to her tongue. She knew every detail of the countenance; the chiseled contour of the high cheekbones, the long slim nose, and the full lips. It was the face that haunted her dreams. Teodoro Gradenigo stood head and shoulders above the others, his long, lithe shadow stretching out across the herringbone patterned pavement stones, reaching out to her. What was he doing here? Was he a friend to da Fuligna? The questions exploded in her mind, making her dizzy with possibilities. She shimmied back further into the shadows, her harsh breathing echoing back to her in the arched tunnel.

Pasquale quickened his pace. He returned the group’s greetings, rubbing his hands together as if relishing the moment. After a few short snippets of conversation, their heads spun in unison toward the
palazzo
.

Sophia sucked in a gasp of air as she found the object of their attention. Heading toward the assembled group strode
Il Serenissimo
himself, dressed in civilian clothing, accompanied by three other men—a friar in a roughly hewn cassock, Signore Sagredo, dressed to the hilt, as always, and professore Galileo, carrying a long, slim leather satchel.

Fear thrummed in her veins, not for herself, but for the endearing scientist. What business would da Fuligna have with him? Was he a threat to the man and his important work? She found only more questions where she craved answers. Her hands pushed against the still cool stones at her back, as if she could push the professore away from any impending danger, real or imagined.

The base of the square brick monolith was less than a hundred yards away and the men’s voices carried in the constant breeze blowing inward off the ocean, toward Sophia and her hiding place.

“We are ready, signore,” Doge Donato said to Galileo after acknowledging the obeisance of the group. “Show us.”

“No, no, Your Honor.” Galileo pointed to the green and white rooftop and the pyramidal spire topped by the golden archangel Gabriel over nine hundred meters above. “When you can see clearly, it is best to find a place where there is much to see.”

A few of the men appeared skeptical, the older ones in particular, but all of them followed the Doge through the narrow door leading to the interior and the hundreds of stairs within.

The men disappeared into the bell tower and Sophia set off at a run, lifting her skirts off the ground, heedless of the surprised smattering of shoppers milling about the mostly empty piazza, scattering the hundreds of pigeons who lived within the square into the sky, the abrupt flapping wings loud in the peaceful quiet. She threw herself up against the brick wall next to the door and listened as the voices drew away from the entrance, echoing up the confining staircase of the
campanile
.

For the love of God, what are you doing?

The frantic thought flashed through her mind, but she gave it little consideration, she couldn’t. If she did, the fear would paralyze her completely.

Waiting impatiently for a scant few seconds, she stole a furtive glance inside and saw only a narrow brick-walled opening—barely wide enough for two averaged-sized men to walk abreast—and light gray, uneven stone stairs leading to a narrow landing. The first flight of stairs was empty; the group had ascended the landing and turned the corner.

With a deep, fortifying inhalation, Sophia entered the small foyer and began the almost inconceivable climb to the top. She paced herself, not moving too quickly, making sure never to catch up with the men ahead of her. Their grunts of exertion echoed down to Sophia, their intensifying body odors lingered behind and mingled with the stone dust released into the air, disturbed by their footsteps. So many in the group were slow with age, trudging up step after step, stopping often to inhale deep draughts of air with rattling breaths and to wipe the perspiration off their brows and hairless heads.

Higher and higher they climbed, slower and slower they moved. The sun rose in the morning sky and the meager light from the small rounded windows at each landing filtered into the staircase, the dust dancing in its glow. Sophia crested another flight, turned another corner, her own young and healthy heart thudding against her chest. An unobstructed beam of sunlight found her, and she crouched low, back into the shaded pit.

The group arrived at the top. Sophia slunk up the last flight of stairs on her hands and knees, keeping close against the cold stone, covering the front of her gown with the gray, sooty dirt. Peeking above the uppermost step, she peered furtively into the square landing above. The last of the men to reach the pinnacle clustered together, leaning upon one another in an exhausted group, holding each other up as they caught their breath.

Sophia lunged, using their huddling, groaning mass as a cover, sneaking past them to hide behind the farthest and largest bell. Within the safety of its unlit silhouette, as her own ragged breath slowed through quivering nostrils, Sophia looked around. Her full bottom lip lowered in unfettered astonishment. Though she had lived in this land, passed by the tall base of this obelisk all her life, she had never hurdled its stairs, had never seen this magnificent architecture waiting upon its zenith.

The rounded peaks of the belfry’s white stone arches created symmetrical shaped shadows upon the large dado supporting the spire and the five intricately wrought bells of varying sizes. Sophia had heard their mellifluous tones all her life—they were the music of the passing years. She hid behind
La Marangona
in the northwest corner, the largest bell of them all. Named for the carpenters of the land, the
marangoni
, its deep clang began and ended the work-day.
La Trottiera
called magistrates to meetings and the
Pregadi
the senators to their chamber, while
La Nona
announced mid-day. The smallest—called
Renghiera
by some,
Maleficio
by others—whose high haunting tones made the
cittadini
cringe, announced executions.

“Over here, if you please, Your Honor.”

Sophia heard Galileo’s call and stole a stealthy peep around the curved edge of the bell. Diagonally opposite from Sophia’s position, he stood in the southeast corner of the tower, beckoning the Doge to join him, and extracting a strangely shaped device—long and circular—from his bag.

The other men swarmed around them against the parapet, their hair dancing in the buffeting, powerful wind of the lofty altitude, their low murmurs and questions tripping over one another. Galileo held one end of the lengthy, round cylinder up to his left eye and pointed the other end out toward the lagoon.

“My God!” His cutting whisper, like a fervent prayer, silenced the quizzical, conjecturing voices around him. Without another word, he offered the instrument to the Doge.

Galileo sparkled as a dumbstruck, enraptured smile spread upon his face, like a man who had seen his newly-born child for the first time.

Donato took the device and held it up to his eye, mimicking Galileo’s posture, pointing it out to the glittering ocean. The large man jerked back his head as if struck, and thrust the tube away from his face. The attentive men gathered around him came on guard, heads spinning about searching for the threat, hands drawn to hilts. The Doge’s large, horse-like face turned to Galileo, probing the scientist with his questioning glare.

“Yes, yes, it is real.” Galileo’s long beard quivered from his chin. He smiled with childish joy at Sagredo and the priest who stood close beside him.

The Doge shook his head as if to deny the man’s words, but put the instrument back to his eye.

“Holy Mother of God.” Donato’s breathy whisper ripped the expectant silence to shreds. “It is a
miracolo!”

Sophia forced herself not to crow aloud, forced back the joyous laughter that bubbled within before it could forsake her hiding place behind the large bell. She knew what this device was, why this group had gathered upon this tall summit. Galileo had finished his creation, and from the shock upon his face and that of the Doge, it worked stupendously.

For a fleeting moment, Sophia forgot the strange confluence of events that had brought her here, reveled instead in this moment of discovery and her own small part in its inception. And yet, as the sprightly wind nudged the heavy bell against her, the insistence of her circumstances nipped at her. She could not deny nor ignore that her new knowledge put her life in jeopardy; in her unwilling grasp, she held another secret that could cost her her life. Her body swayed, weak with fear, or was it the tower itself that careened and she merely a helpless speck upon it, powerless to fight the forces pushing against her. She huddled tighter into the ball she had created with her body, wrapping the long folds of the homespun gown around her legs, tugging the material away from the greedy, snatching wind blowing like a gale up on this tall citadel.

“I can see the ships far out in the distance.” The Doge kept the device up to his eye, spinning from north to south, east to west, finding everything visible. “I can see La Accademia.”

“In San Barnaba?” an incredulous voice squeaked.

“
Sì
, Contarini,
sì
,” the Doge assured, spinning back toward north. “My God, I can see all the way to Murano, to the glassworks and beyond, to Santi Maria e Donato.”

Sophia clasped her hands together in silent delight, squeezing them in contained celebration.

The Doge spun off to the northwest, almost taking the tall Teodoro’s head off.

“
Madonna mia
, I can see the mainland…I can see
terra firma
.”

Cries of disbelief rang out, loud and thunderous, as if the monstrous bells themselves pealed.

“Give it here, it’s my turn.”

“No, I’m older than you, I get it first.”

“I was the first one here this morning. I should get to look before anyone else.”

The men argued, shoving each other, trying to grab the device with clutching hands, like children vying for the last treat left on the platter.

“Silence!” Doge Donato used his powerful voice to still the rabble. “You will all get a turn, I promise. One at a time, like gentlemen, if you please.” He offered the tube to Soranzo, the elder statesman standing to his right. “We will go around in a circle.”

The men nodded and stilled, donning façades of contrived composure, but as each peered through the instrument, their voices rose once more, echoing against the stone enclosure of the belfry.

“I can see the
Arsenale
and the men about to launch another ship.”

“I see a ship about to launch from Maghera, it must be coming this way,” Pasquale said when it came his turn with the gadget.

“I can follow the path of the Canalazzo…look, look where the water changes from green to blue as it flows into the ocean,” Teodoro said, moving the tip of the device to follow the serpentine path of the more than three kilometers of canal laid out before him.

As the men marveled, Galileo watched and listened, hands clasped together in front of his chest as if in prayer.

“You are a genius, professore,” Teodoro said after passing it on to the next man.

Sophia smiled, so pleased Teodoro of them all remembered the gadget’s creator and gave him his due, prompting the others to follow suit. Pasquale thumped him on the back. Sagredo embraced him with a rough, masculine bear hug.

“Truly well done,” the Doge concurred with a nod and smile and the others chimed in with enthusiastic agreement.

Galileo bowed and blushed under their praise. His stubble-covered chin quivered and his eyes filled again with moisture. She longed to run to him, to embrace him in this moment of consuming joy. Crossing her arms about herself, she squeezed, as if she sent him her affection spiritually across the span that separated them.

“How strong is the magnification?” Teodoro asked, bright with the rapture of discovery.

“I believe it is nine-fold,” Galileo replied.

“Nine-fold?” Pasquale’s squinty eyes popped wide. “Amazing.”

“
Grazie.”
Galileo bowed and pointed to the device, now in the hands of Priuli, one of the Doge’s closest friends and advisors, a dashing man in his late thirties. “The tube is of equal diameter from tip to tip, but one end holds a plano-convex lens while the other, a plano-concave. What occurs between them, the changing and bending of light, that is the key, gentlemen, the solution to the puzzle. I wouldn’t have discovered it without the help of Father Sarpi, he is
mio padre e maestro
.”

The humble cleric lowered his head with a shake, but a contented smile formed on his thin lips. “No, no, the genius is all yours, my friend.”

“What do you call it?” the Doge asked.

Galileo stood taller, his chest puffing up under his academic robes.

“
Cannoncchiale
.”

Tubespectacles. Like the others, Sophia ruminated on the unfamiliar word, testing it silently on her tongue.

“I can see my garden,” Priuli cried, the instrument still firm against his face. “
Mio Dio
, I can see my wife in the window. Ah, she looks so lovely with her hair down. And look, there’s…there’s Giovanni.
Uno momento
. What is he doing there, in my wife’s bedchamber? Giovanni…get—get your hands off my wife!” Priuli screamed and wrenched the device away, bulging black eyes probing out in the direction of his
palazzo
as if he saw the act his wife committed far off across the distance. He shoved the instrument away from him, uncaring whether anyone was there to catch it and ran for the stairs, his short, thin summer cape streaming out behind him.