The Secret of the Glass (45 page)

Viviana gasped, a throaty, guttural sound, clogged with terror, rearing back from the silhouette like a skittish animal.

Santino jumped in front of his wife and Marcella, holding up his arms, shielding them with his body.

Sophia’s slippered feet slid on the dusty quay as she screeched to a halt. Spinning toward the threatening apparition with a lurch, she bumped into her sisters, scattering them back, stumbling. In that instant Sophia chided herself for leaving her father’s sword behind, she thought to act. The arm muscles, so unfeminine, sculpted by the many years turning the heavy
ferro,
sprung into action. A bulging bag in each hand, she flailed her arms, swinging them like horizontal pendulums, the centrifugal force tossing her body around like a ship on a stormy sea.

One leather satchel met its mark; the reverberation of the strike jolted into Sophia’s joints.

With a painful
oomph,
the intruder buckled back at the wallop. Recovering, he bounded forward, grabbing at her, at her makeshift weapons, securing one between plump hands.

“Stop. Stop, I say. I mean you no harm.” The coarse whisper demanded.

Sophia took no time to listen, to hear the words; she heard only the menace in the insistence, the surge of adrenaline in her ears like the roar of a gale wind. She swung her free arm, trying to wrench the other from the intruder’s grasp as she fought.

“Signorina Fiolario, stop!”

The call of her name penetrated her feral fugue. Sophia ceased her struggle, arms jarring to her sides with the released weight of her improvised arsenal. Leaning forward, she peered into the cavernous hood but spied nothing of the man’s face.

“Who are you?”

“I’ve come to help, that is all you need to know.” The voice, no more than a murmur of sound, was indistinguishable. “We must go, this instant.”

The stranger turned and stepped away.

“No, signore, we will not go with you.” Sophia took two steps backward, placing herself between this unknown person and her family. Bags still in hand, she raised a forearm, awkwardly wiping at the sweat dripping off her brow and into her eyes. “For all we know you are our enemy, and lead us to ruin. Unless you tell—”

With two bold steps the man approached them. He raised an arm. They flinched back as one, expecting mayhem. A deep purple flower appeared in his hand as if by magic.

“Teodoro sends you this token. He said to tell you it is from your gardens.”

A bag dropped to her side with a thud. Sophia’s hand rushed to her chest, her heart crashing against it. Reaching out tentatively, she took the blossom and put it slowly to her face, its fragrance igniting all her memories of Teodoro, its power giving her strength.

“We are right behind you, signore.”

With no time to think or reason, Sophia picked up the bag, took up her burden once more, and inclined her head, instructing her family to follow.

Without another word, the camouflaged man hurried away, leading them on, his hurried gait revealing a decided gimp. Sophia could not discern if he was injured or deformed, his cloak hid him so effectively.

Viviana hurried to catch up to Sophia.

“Who is Teodoro?” she asked.

Her answer came not from her eldest daughter, but from her middle child.

“I will tell you later, Mamma, you will enjoy the story.”

Sophia spun round, finding Oriana behind her mother, her sister’s smile bright in the pitchy night.

They arrived at the launch ramp and spied the large ferry waiting at the dock. Manned by two oarsmen, the black, slick vessel, a gondola enlarged in proportions, yielded more than enough room for all of them and their baggage.

“On board, all of you.” The man gestured with an impatient wave of his hand.

Sophia took up a place at the edge of the dock, handing the bags and her loved ones into the waiting grasp of the front boatman. As she released the last package on board, their unknown benefactor stepped up behind her.

“It may become rough as the coming morning releases its wind,” he mumbled, hooded head turned away from her to the east and the glimmer of dawn tickling the edges of the horizon. “The vessel is worthy and strong, it will see you to
terra firma
. From there you must make your way to Padua and this address.”

His chubby fingers thrust the small scrap of parchment toward her. Sophia took it, tucking it safely into her bodice without taking a moment to read it. This man was an emissary of Teodoro’s, she trusted him.

“The family there will see you safely to Greece.”

Sophia drew her shoulders up to her ears in a feeble gesture. “How can we ever thank you, signore? My family is indebted to you, a debt of life.”

“There is no need. My actions repay a similar debt of my own.” He retreated without salutation or kindness of leave-taking.

Sophia watched his retreat as she turned for the boat. A gust of the new day’s air rushed at them. It found the man’s cloak, billowed it out behind him. It snatched at his hood, yanking it off his head. He spun round, as if to catch it before it revealed his features, and with it, his identity, but he was too late.

Sophia stared into the face of Pasquale da Fuligna. Her shocked gasp etched like a scratch of metal upon stone. Pasquale laughed and Sophia stared at him, her astonishment compounded by his unexpected reaction.

“What are you most surprised by, Sophia, that it is I who help you or that I am not the monster you supposed?” Pasquale returned to her, favoring the right leg injured by an assassin’s sword, leaving the charcoal gray hood gathered around his shoulders.

Sophia opened her mouth, emitting nothing more than incomprehensible grunts like an arrhythmic beat of a drum. So many wonders rushed into her consciousness, like bats from a cave at dusk, she knew not which to respond to. That she had not seen the resemblance in the unknown form to the man she was betrothed, perplexed her, but her mind had been pulled in so many directions at once. That this man, above all others, should help her and her family flea their land, was a puzzle of monumental proportion.

“Why?” Her head bobbled. “Why do you let me go?”

“Because you are not the person I presumed you were.”

Sophia’s head tipped to the side. “I’m not—”

“You have no desire for things and status, no willingness to tolerate me for them.” Pasquale shrugged, as if it were of little consequence. “I thought you were one of them, one who would gladly sacrifice love for the prestige of my name. But you’re not.”

“No,” she agreed. “I am not.”

His lips spread in that smirk that had so angered her before. “Perhaps I am not the man you thought me to be either.”

Sophia lowered her head in repentance. One human could never know another, what lay deep and buried in the quintessence of another; no one could be another’s judge.

“I have a going-away present for you. Look.”

Sophia followed his pointing finger out toward the horizon. A thin carnelian crescent broke the line between earth and heaven. Against the edge of light pink sky and its reflection on the spirited waves, she spied the contrasting form of another boat and upon it, standing tall and majestic like its stalwart mast, a silhouette, one she recognized in an instant.

“Teo,” she whispered in wonder.

“Yes. Teodoro, the man who saved me,” Pasquale said, and in his voice Sophia heard amusement. “But it is not only to him that I owe my life, but to you.”

Sophia spun back.

“He told me you brought him to my rescue. If not for you, I would be dead.” Pasquale crossed his arms upon his chest, as if in defense. “I assure you, I do this for me. I will be indebted to no one.”

As if of its own accord, her need and desire lured her toward the boat waiting for her, ready to take her to Teodoro. A thought wrenched her back.

“What…what will become of you?”

Pasquale shrugged.

“I will find another to fill your position easily enough; there are many wealthy young women in Venice who care more for becoming titled than in finding love,” Pasquale said with an almost casual shrug, caring not if she would find his easy dismissal of her insulting. “I will have the life I want, filled with the things and the…people I choose.”

In that moment Sophia understood, recognized a like-mindedness in this man who changed the course of her life. He had a vision of what his life should be and he was willing to do whatever it took to make that vision a reality. Much as she herself had done for so long. She forgave all that he had done and in that forgiveness, freed herself.

Reaching into her reticule, she grabbed a thick wad of papers. Grabbing his hand, she shoved them into it.

Pasquale’s brow puckered in perplexity. He unrolled the sheaf, trying to read their words in the gloom.

“They are those you would have gotten at our wedding. They authorize your legal control of the factory upon my f…father’s death.” Distant torchlight caught on the moisture welling in her eyes and a small smile touched her lips. “He signed them two days ago.”

Understanding dawned. Pasquale gaped upon the parchment in wonder.

“The pieces for the Doge and professore Galileo are complete. Ask Ernesto, he will know where to find them.” Her expression softened. “They are the last pieces I will ever make.”

“They are your legacy,” Pasquale said, flippant regard replaced with gruff admiration.

Sophia crumbled the important documents tighter into a firm grasp upon Pasquale’s.

“Treasure it as we have…as I have, always.”

With a nod, Pasquale accepted the heritage the Fiolario family had worked for so long to uphold. Turning to the last page, he ran the pad of one finger over Zeno’s shaky scrawl.

“He was a talented, good man. From what I saw of you together, he was what a father ought to be.”

Sophia tried to thank him but her throat closed tight; devoid of sound, her trembling lips formed the words. She looked at him and the features of a man she knew not at all were becoming more distinguishable. Dawn waited for no one.

Sophia took one step away, but spun back yet again. She grabbed his arm and squeezed it with all the power in her hand, her voice loud with insistence.

“Above all else, you must protect the secret of the glass.”

Pasquale smiled a tender smile, the first she had ever seen from him and in that vision, Sophia knew she had done the right thing.

“I will.”

Sophia leaned forward, brushing his rough, stubble-covered cheek with her lips. She jumped onto the boat, turned her face to the growing light, toward the man and the life waiting for her.

Epilogue

L
eonardo Donato served as doge of Venice from 1606 until 1612. Pope Paul V eventually accepted French mediation in the case of the two clerics, arbitration that ultimately resulted in a victory for Venice. The city ceded very little while the Vatican grudgingly lifted all edicts and interdicts. Although Donato’s decisive and incisive actions against the Papacy ensured his Republic’s independence for many years to come, he never gained the popularity he so privately, yet sincerely, sought.

Gianfrancesco Sagredo became a Venetian diplomat, traveling the world on behalf of his republic. Many sources contend he never married; most agree that he visited the most expensive and lavish courtesans and gambling houses of the world to the end of his days. He died, ever a stalwart friend and supporter of Galileo, in 1620 at the age of forty-nine. He lives on forever in Galileo’s writings, appearing as a character in the
Dialogue Concerning the Two Chief World Systems
(1632) and
Discourses on Two New Sciences
(1638).

Two more attempts were made on the life of Father Paolo Sarpi, yet he lived until 1623, serving Venice for the rest of his life. He corresponded with Galileo throughout the remainder of his life. Sarpi’s writings forever railed against religious excesses and the secular powers of the Pope. He died of illness in his own bed, where he uttered his last words,
Esto Perpetua,
“May she live forever.”

In 1633, Galileo Galilei was arrested and tortured by the Court of Inquisition in Rome. To avoid being burned at the stake, Galileo publicly denied the Copernican doctrine in which he believed so deeply. He was sentenced to life imprisonment and subsequently released to home confinement, but was banned from publishing more books. He was allowed to return to his villa at Arcetri outside Florence and to write and receive letters. Privately he began working again, focusing on the principles of motion. Galileo’s observations and experimentation methods helped establish the modern practices still in use by scientists today. He lived until 1642 when he died a natural death at the age of seventy-eight. The movement of Earth was not scientifically proven until the mid-nineteenth century. The Roman Catholic Church eventually forgave Galileo…in 1979, and recognized the validity of his work…in 1993.

The glassmakers of Murano lived and worked under the laws of
La Serenissima
until the fall of the government to Napoleon in 1797. Their artistry continues on much as it has throughout time; their magnificent pieces are as widely revered and coveted as they have ever been. Though others have tried to duplicate it, most fail in their attempts, producing only cheap imitations. To this day, the glassworkers of Murano guard, and hold dear, the secret of the glass.

A
UTHOR’S
N
OTE

Once again, I have taken my dramatic license out for a temporal spin and have played loosely with the timing of the events depicted in this book. While never mentioning an exact date, the book was written with the implication that all the events took place at the same time, at the turn of the seventeenth century. In actuality, the dispute between Venice and Rome over the case of the two clerics began in 1605, the attack on Fra Paolo Sarpi took place in 1607, and Galileo’s triumphant moment atop San Marco’s
campanile
took place in 1609.

It is the history book writer’s function to tell us where and when things happened; it is the function of the fiction writer to tell us how it felt.