The Secret of the Glass (34 page)

Twenty-six

T
he patter of rain beat upon the roof and gray light filtered in the long narrow windows. A large group of men gathered in the masculine room, but silence prevailed in the solemn, mournful atmosphere, quiet and foreboding like the light that infused them. They had come one at a time, called together by no certain assignation other than their grief. So many of them, there were not enough chairs in the
palazzo’
s large study to accommodate them all. They congregated into a haphazard circle, drawing as close together as the large furniture and their bodies would allow. The circle of men standing around those in chairs soon grew to two deep.

Teodoro Gradenigo stood behind a large winged chair, having surrendered his seat to an elderly man who had shuffled in after all the seats were taken. By his side, in more ways than ever, stood a sedate Alfredo; across from him sat Pasquale da Fuligna.

A severe-looking servant weaved among the somber convocation, unbidden and unnoticed, passing out the small, thimble-like pewter cannikins filled with clear
anisette
, handing them to some of the men, placing some on tables by the elbows of others with chirp-like clinking.

“You may leave us, Lanzo,” Andrea Morosini instructed him with a curt nod of thanks and dismissal once all his guests had a portion.

As the door shut behind the servant, the host raised his cup and his morose, swollen eyes to the heavens, the other men mirrored his gesture.

“To Corrado Sassonia.”

“Corrado Sassonia.”

Their masculine voices growled as one, muted yet powerful, filled with grief and admiration for their fallen comrade. Most put rim to lips and threw back the biting flavorful drink in one jerky gulp; a few sipped.

“First Sarpi and now Sassonia.” Gianfrancesco Sagredo’s low, rumbling voice cut the air with a sharp edge of anger and bitterness. With an impatient gesture, he pushed the erratic tangle of long, lush hair from his face, revealing handsome, youthful features set firm in a hard cast. “It cannot be a coincidence.”

Grumbled agreement echoed through the room, mutterings that spoke of mischief and mayhem.

“No, you are right, Gian,” Rinaldo, the younger Bassaro agreed, his long horse-like face pale, his almost adolescent voice cracking with emotion. “It is the work of the devil, disguised as the hand of God.”

The elder Bassaro, seated next to his offspring, put a comforting hand on the young man’s shoulder, stilling the youth’s agitation as best he could. Though frightening, his son’s words brought about another outraged barrage of accord and more adamant nodding of heads.

Sagredo scanned the room, eyes lighting for an instant on each face, each determined countenance.

“We were all there. Surely one of us must have seen
something.”

Teodoro’s gaze glazed over, the book-lined study fading away, the Grand Council chamber in the Palazzo Ducale rising up in its stead. Bursting images of the night flashed through his mind, the bright light of chandelier candles, the jewels glittering below them, the colorful silks and satins blending with the paintings that surrounded them. He saw Galileo, the man he esteemed, the friend he treasured. He saw Sophia, her captivating beauty, her outward, emotional reaction to the touching ceremony that reflected his own. “It was such a turbulent moment. I was so…so…”

“Joyful,” Alfredo called out.

“Overwhelmed,” offered another.

“Yes, exactly.” Sagredo sat forward in his leather chair with a squeak. “It was an event we will all remember forever. We have embedded the moment in our minds; I know I have. Look at them, gentlemen, close your eyes and look at your memories of last night.”

Many of the men followed his instruction, closing their eyes, and calling up the images of the emotionally fraught evening. The large oak wood cabinet clock in the corner ticked out the seconds in the room filled with a cloying licorice-root odor.

“There was so much noise.” The older man sitting in the chair in front of Teodoro spoke with a raspy whisper, his papery eyelids fluttering as he kept them closed. “I could feel it thundering in my ears.”

“When the professore bowed, people started jumping up and down. I remember I lost sight of Galileo for a few seconds, as they surged and leaped around him,” a diminutive man in maroon silk standing near the door spoke out, and those nearby nodded in shared recollection. “I too rushed forward. I don’t recall seeing Sassonia until…no, he was definitely behind me. I had to turn around to see him when the screams rang out.”

“I remember Sassonia stood near me during the professor’s speech,” Morosini murmured, his lined face cupped in the palm of his hand, his elbow perched on the arm of his chair. “He had a glass in his hands. The poison might have been in it. I did move up with the crowd, but I don’t remember him moving up with me.”

“Do you remember what happened to the glass?” Alfredo hissed, surprising Teodoro with his urgency; his temperate and fun-loving friend had found his innermost foul emotions touched by recent events.

Morosini shook his head, eyes rolling about in their sockets as he searched his recollections.

“Does anyone?” Sagredo put the query out to the room. When no one answered, he continued with his own musings. “Whoever took the glass wanted to erase all the evidence. Does anyone remember anyone picking anything up?”

Again, no one answered. Sagredo pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed at his eyes.

The elder Bassaro shook his head, thick lips parting in a subtle smile at his own memory.

“I was embracing my wife. We were cheering like children. She was in tears.”

“Weren’t you standing beside your future wife, da Fuligna?” Teodoro asked. It was a taunt, but one only he could comprehend.

“Was I? I don’t remember.” Pasquale mused, putting his round head back against the high cushion of the green and gold embroidered chair and closing the baggy skin over his eyes. “I had been watching Galileo, my father and his ilk also. There were three or four men standing with him. De Luca and Costa were there. I…I don’t remember the others though. I confess I was enjoying their discomfort as much as Galileo’s elation.”

Teodoro smiled while others laughed; most here enjoyed the idea of an uneasy Eugenio da Fuligna.

“The privileges the Doge conferred on Galileo have angered them. The more they chafe, the more dangerous they become,” the bald, gray-bearded man sitting in the chair beside Pasquale said. “They are but an extension of the Pope.”

Pasquale’s smirk faded.

“They are fanatics.”

He opened his eyes and sat forward, putting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands in front of him.

“I have no doubt that he is involved. For all my own childish, spiteful feelings toward him, I can look at my father and see him clearly. There is evil enough in him for this.”

The tinge of regret in his voice was a thin thread of sound; the sadness in his narrow, blinking eyes was stark in its clarity. The young man saw his rival’s lament and for a brief instant, pity dispelled the monster of Teodoro’s jealousy.

“If Signorina Fiolario was close by, I have no recollection of it.” Pasquale’s flippant words dismissed any thought of Sophia as complacently as a hand would shoo away a bothersome insect.

Teodoro snorted a small puff of air out his nostrils, shocked by the man’s callous disregard of Sophia, any sympathy fleeing with the speed of a shooting star. He stared at Pasquale. He had never studied the man. Like most men, he didn’t peruse those of his own sex intently. They were often at the same place, sharing the same experience, but Pasquale was no more distinctive than the old stuffed chair that sat waiting in the corner of the room. Teodoro had given the man little thought before meeting Sophia; they shared many common interests, attitudes and beliefs and in them, a kinship, but no great friendship had ever formed between them.

Pasquale rubbed his face with stubby, age-spotted hands. Teodoro shuddered at the thought of those hands upon Sophia. They were nothing alike as far as he could tell; da Fuligna was ice where Sophia was fire.

Pasquale raised his brows at Teodoro.

“I stood at the door,” Teodoro said quickly. “I believe I was looking elsewhere at that moment. I—”

An image flickered in his mind, little more than a vague impression.

“Someone brushed past me.” He placed his right hand on the top of his left arm, as if he felt the contact at that moment. “Away from Sassonia, heading out of the room.”

“Think, Gradenigo, can you remember anything more?” Morosini urged. “Any physical details?”

“It must have been a man. His head rose nearly to mine and I am…”

“…a bean pole,” someone shouted out, but not unkindly.

Teodoro waggled his head with a self-effacing smile of agreement. The group shared a laugh and the sound loosened a thread of the tension so tightly woven in the room.

“Tall, yes.” Teodoro grew quiet and mindful once more. “And dark hair. I remember a flash of very dark hair, long, I think, and curly.”

“Perhaps it was someone running to fetch the Doge’s physician.”

“It’s possible,” Sagredo bobbed his head thoughtfully. “Or perhaps it was someone who had no desire to be seen in the room with the body.”

His words provoked the memory, Sassonia’s body writhing on the floor, falling still in his death. Their grief rushed back to them in a blanketing fog of silence.

“There are what, thirty, forty or more of us here today?” Morosini speculated after a few moments, scanning the group of men gathered round. “There must be at least three times that many who meet here regularly. Between us all, we should be able to find out more.”

“But where, what do we look for?” Rinaldo Bassaro sounded fearful now, and his pale eyes bulged out of his long face.

“We look for what’s not there,” Sagredo answered, his square jaw jumping.

“
Che cosa?”

“What?”

“
Scusi?”

The curious men stirred in their chairs and shuffled on their feet; the baffled questions abounding.

“If it was one of the nobles, they will make themselves scarce,” Sagredo exclaimed, a long finger punching the air. “After committing two crimes they may take the opportunity the warm weather affords to vacation on
terra firma
for a time. We must take note of whomever is consistently absent from council meetings.”

“And if it was not a nobleman, but a hired scoundrel?” Pasquale asked; his father, like others, would never dirty their own hands.

Sagredo locked his dour gaze with da Fuligna’s inquisitive one.

“Then we must all watch our backs.”

Twenty-seven

“W
e should not sit together today,” Sagredo stood on tiptoe to whisper in Gradenigo’s ear.

The sound of more than a thousand men converging in one place whirled around them as did the black-robed members of the
Maggior Consiglio.
Pounding heels joined with rustling fabric, conversations rose above the scratching of moving furniture on the hard, glossy floor, and the noise expanded to fill the farthest corners of the large Grand Council Chamber.

“If we all spread out we’ll be better able to see who’s here and who’s not. Tell the others.”

Teodoro agreed with a quick dip of his head. In the milling horde of men, he found Alfredo and other members of their group and, like Sagredo, gave them their instructions. As the benches and chairs filled with council members, they flanked the room, their scrutiny washing over the milieu like a breeze across the ocean.

Rinaldo Bassaro approached Teodoro and took a place by the taller man’s side. “I know so few,” he said apologetically. “I fear I’ll be of little help.”

“Do not make yourself uneasy,” Teodoro assured him. “It will be a plenum today, of that I am sure. Not a one of us can know and recognize them all. What we can share together will be what helps us. If you can add no more than a name or two, it may be one the rest of us miss, yes?”

A faint smile spread across Rinaldo’s mouth and he cast a determined glance about the vast, densely populated room.

The pounding of the herald’s staff settled the men as the red-robbed Doge took his seat, his inner council flanking him in the chairs on each side.

“Signori.” The Doge appeared tired and drawn. His large shoulders hunched over in a curve and glum shadows formed rings around his eyes. “I think we need no more dialogue on the matter before us. We have discussed it ad nauseam, as I’m sure you all have.”

Donato used both hands to gesture to the men beside him. The nine council members inclined their heads with a positive accord.

“I come here today to make it official, to enter the action as a part of the record.” He took in a deep breath, his long nostrils closing with the force of it. “I will instruct the Papal Nuncio to leave Venice immediately and take our message of dissension to the Pope himself.”

A few catcalls rose above the restrained applause; the decision came as no surprise to anyone, yet the foreknowledge of it did little to ease its heavy burden. For all the disagreements and confrontations
La Serenissima
had encountered with the Vatican, never before had they so definitively severed their ties, so jaggedly cut the tenuous strings that bound them.

“I call for a vote!”

The voice rang out from the middle of the room, from among the benches that sat in the curved rows of seats facing the dais and the Doge.

Voices rose—confused and combustive—words fell upon one another in a jumble of sound. The Doge sat up in his chair, peering about, searching for the man who posed the proposition.

“Who was that?” He leaned toward ser Corner seated to his right.

“I don’t know, Your Honor.” Corner strained to see the man, raising himself up in his chair.

“I believe it was Calieri,” Valier said from around Corner.

Donato slumped back with a shake of his head and roll of his eyes heavenward. Alvise Calieri was a powerful man, had almost taken Donato’s place as doge during the last election. He knew Venetian law; it would be difficult to argue point of order with him, his actions fell well within allowed protocol.