Ademaro held him back by the arm. “You can confide in me.”
For a moment, Edgardo hesitated, but the desire to bare his soul and free himself of the load that was afflicting him was too strong to resist.
“They hanged Karamago, the book merchant, because they think he was guilty of killing two men whose eyes were gouged. But I don’t believe it was him. And, on top of that, they think I’m his accomplice.”
“You, his accomplice? But why?” Ademaro asked, alarmed.
“Do you remember when I found the body of that young man near the mill? Someone saw me and now they’re looking for me.”
Ademaro stopped, his expression dark. “I’m telling you again, Edgardo, you must leave Venetia. The abbot is also very angry with you. Your presence has become inconvenient. There are rumors circulating among the brothers . . . that you’re frequenting people of ill repute, that you’re interested in alchemy, in magic stones, in crystals—”
“Yes, because of my eyes, and you know that.”
“Yes, I do know, but what about the others? And then something strange has happened for the first time ever in the abbey. Carimanno has ordered Rainardo, the novice from Mantua, to guard the library, as though he’s afraid of burglars and intruders.”
Ademaro stared at his friend with pointed severity. Edgardo remained silent and cast down his eyes.
“Listen to my advice and go back to Bobbio. I’ll take care of your eyes. I’ll keep looking.”
“My eyes . . . At this moment, my eyes seem like the least of my worries.”
“Then don’t delay any further,” Ademaro pressed him. “Leave the city.”
Day was dawning, and an opal light was caressing the tops of the cypresses.
“It’s nearly Lauds. I’ll wait for you in the church.” Ademaro slipped away silently, vanishing behind the laurel bushes.
To abandon Venetia, leave Kallis, stay away from her forever. Edgardo felt he was being sucked into a vortex. He longed to rebel, to disobey, to think only of himself. Why should he give it all up? What did he care about all the rest? On the other hand, was he prepared to risk everything? Because if he stayed, his life would be in danger. He would have to move about with the constant fear of being ambushed, always ready to run away, hiding like a murderer. That was what awaited him.
On the one hand lay desire—could he call it love? On the other hand, there was the fear that paralyzed him. Now he had gotten to know the latter so intimately, he could no longer deny it. He had imagined for a moment that his love for Kallis would defeat his cowardice.
After leaving Edgardo in Venetia, Kallis had gone back to spend the night in Metaumaco, waiting for Segrado to return from Patavium. She felt charged with a new energy that enabled her to face and overcome any obstacle, almost as though she had just become aware of her powers. She was impregnated with the breath of knowledge she had stolen from Edgardo as they were making love.
When she came into the hut, she made herself a soup of oats and chickpeas, and swallowed it in one go, as if she had not eaten for days. Then she lay down on the bed, staring into space, thinking about herself and her destiny, and about what awaited her. Then, listening to the waves lapping against the shore, she fell asleep.
She was awoken at the dawn of the new day by Segrado’s arrival. He looked tired but in the grip of an unusual excitement. When Kallis opened her eyes, she saw him filling a knapsack with little bags he was handling very carefully. He ordered her to get ready. They had to get to the foundry as soon as possible and, with the lagoon being frozen over, the crossing would be difficult.
For a long stretch, from Metamauco almost as far as Spinalunga, their scaula slipped between floating blocks of ice that had not yet joined. Segrado would frequently help with the oar, pushing the wood against the blanket of ice. Confused sea-birds were skating on the crystal slates, and many boatmen, who had gotten stuck, were dragging their boats on foot with the aid of ropes. When they were near Luprio, the scaula got jammed and they had to walk the rest of the way, whipped by a bora wind that bent the tops of the cypresses down to the ground.
As soon as they had reached the foundry, Segrado began working at a brisk pace. Without uttering a word, he signaled the required tasks to Kallis, activities she had seen Niccolò perform on countless occasions.
She fueled the fire in the oven with sweet, dry wood, to ensure that the flames would be clear, smokeless, and not too high. Segrado started heating the molten glass, which he had already prepared with the Ticino pebbles. Then he took a tub of clean water and as soon as the molten glass had cooled he poured it into the receptacle and ordered Kallis to wash it several times, until the water was clear. Afterwards, he took the solidified molten glass, put it into a glass mortar, and pestled it finely before pouring it back into clear water to remove any residual salinity that would make the glass dark. After all these washes, Segrado put the vitreous paste back into the crucible and, checking that the flame was pale and smokeless, placed it in the oven to melt.
Every gesture, every move was made with extreme precision, in religious silence, like the celebration of a ritual. Just a look, a sign to Kallis, and she executed his orders immediately. There was an understanding, a synchronicity that surprised Segrado and, for the first time, he felt proud of the woman’s qualities.
“Now we have to wait for it to melt,” he finally said. “And then, God willing, we’ll try to perform a miracle.”
He took a full leather bag from the knapsack and placed it delicately on the bench. Kallis watched but chose not to ask questions. This time, it was the maestro who could not resist.
“It’s my final attempt, and if I fail, I’ll give up my dream forever.”
He fell silent, unsure whether or not to reveal his secret to a woman, an inferior being, but in the end his excitement got the better of him.
“It’s powder of manganese. Even the ancient Romans knew about it, and called it a ‘magnetic stone’ because it attracts the impurities in the glass and cleans it like soap. If my gut feeling is right, perhaps I’ll succeed in creating totally pure glass.”
Kallis said nothing. Her motionless face betrayed no emotion, but her heart was burning with joy, because the maestro had revealed the secret of his formula to her.
While waiting for the pestled glass to melt, they left the foundry to breathe some clean air.
The saltworks were at a standstill. The sails of the mill were covered in frost and the expanse of salt blended with ice crystals, reflecting a pale blue light. Two workmen were warming themselves by a makeshift fire. Kallis and Segrado approached to dry their waterlogged cloth boots. No sooner did they see steam rise from their feet than Zoto, the crystal-maker, appeared at their side. He was muffled in a threadbare fur that made him look even smaller and squarer, with a frozen wisp of hair standing up straight on his head.
“You should thank me,” he said to Segrado. “I was the one who discovered Niccolò’s murderer. If you walk past the basilica, you’ll still see him hanging there. With this cold, he’s likely to keep a long time.” He burst into a whooping laugh, and spat into the fire.
Segrado did not as much as afford him a glance.
“And now it’s the monk’s turn. You know him well, don’t you?” He gave Segrado a dirty look.
Kallis gave a start. Still silence, except for the crackling of branches devoured by the fire.
“How’s work? These days, everybody’s huddling in their homes. The nobles are thinking about crusades, the merchants are afraid of traveling because of the pirates, and there’s not a penny to be made.”
Segrado kicked a log without looking up from the fire, while Zoto continued his monologue.
“I saw smoke coming out of the oven. Are you preparing something? If you need a good crystal-maker, you know I’m the best, don’t you?”
Maestro Segrado rubbed his hands over the fire one
more time and, without replying, went back to the workshop with Kallis. Zoto followed him with his eyes, grumbling something or other, then turned his back to the fire, to warm his ass.
As soon as they were back inside, Segrado lifted the crucible out of the oven. The glass had melted, and he handed it to Kallis. He picked up the small leather bag from the bench, took a pinch of sifted manganese with the tip of a spoon, and cautiously poured it into the glass. Then he stirred the mixture slowly with an iron rod, until it had completely dissolved. As he worked, he watched the glass paste. Kallis watched as he rubbed his bald head thoughtfully and uncertainly before taking another pinch of manganese with two fingers and letting it slide onto the surface of the mixture. He stirred it once more, then waited breathlessly, murmuring a prayer: that God might grant him a miracle.
XXII.
THE PERFECT CRYSTAL
The silence was so deep you could only hear the sizzling of the glass in the crucible. Kallis was trying to read the outcome of the experiment in the maestro’s face. The paste, which still had a pale lilac tint, was transforming before his eyes. Segrado held his breath.
As it evaporated, the colored shade dissipated: the substance grew increasingly pale and transparent until it had reached a clarity and a light never before seen in ordinary glass. The maestro poured the substance into a mold. Kallis approached with trepidation. A piece of the purest crystal glowed before her eyes. Not a single impurity, not a shadow, not the slightest crack: glass that looked exactly like rock crystal. Segrado, his face red and his eyes moist, looked at Kallis.
“The perfect crystal,” he said, overwhelmed. “I’ve been chasing after it my whole life, and now I have it.”
Suddenly, a thought flashed through his mind and his face twisted into an angry grimace.
“Close the door securely—and the blinds,” he ordered.
Kallis, frightened, obeyed immediately.
“Open your ears. You must never tell anyone what you’ve seen here. No detail, not even a hint. You’ve seen nothing. Swear it.”
Kallis hesitated.
“Swear it—your life depends on it.”
“I swear,” she whispered.
“When the first crystalline glass objects start appearing in Venetia, the news will spread like wildfire, and everybody will want to know. They’ll use every possible means, and even all sorts of witchcraft, to find out every detail of how it’s made and the formula. No matter what happens, you must keep quiet. If you let as much as a single word slip, I’ll cut out your tongue—remember that.”
Kallis nodded.
“This discovery will change the course of history for glass and glassmakers. Glass so pure, malleable, and inexpensive will quickly replace rock crystal, and will pave the way to other discoveries even I can’t begin to imagine. That’s why it’s so important to keep this secret. We must be watchful and not leave anything in the foundry that could lead to the formula.”
He took the empty little bag and shoved it into the knapsack.
“I’m going back to Metamauco. I need some more powder of manganese. I want to do more tests. You’ll sleep here and guard the place. If anyone tries to enter, don’t hesitate to cut his throat.”
He wrapped the crystal cast in a piece of cloth and hid it in the trunk. Then he huddled in his cloak, covered his head, and left. Slipping on the ice as he struggled to reach the scaula, which was tied to a pole on the rio behind the mill, he noticed Zoto standing at the door of his workshop, spying on him.
When Edgardo walked into the scriptorium, the creaking of quills on parchment ceased, as though a blank line had suddenly been inserted into every page to be copied. The copyists imperceptibly raised their heads from their lecterns, and turned their eyes toward him.
“I wonder why my presence is causing so much amazement,” Edgardo thought.
The only one to put on an act of sincerity and spontaneity was Ademaro. He stopped conversing with Ermanno di Carinzia and came to greet him with a smile.
“I’m happy you’ve come to visit us, Brother.” His tone was formal and slightly false.
“I needed to breathe the scent of parchment,” Edgardo lifted his mouth to his nose with a pointed expression, “but, in particular, I was looking for our most reverend Abbot, and they told me I’d find him here.”
Carimanno was sitting on a high-backed chair at the end of the hall, consulting a manuscript, and had been the only one who had not paid the least attention to Edgardo’s entrance. It was all too clear that he was ignoring it on purpose.
Ademaro approached him.
“Illustrious Father, allow me to interrupt your reading,” he murmured respectfully. “Our brother Edgardo d’Arduino wishes to speak with you.”
Carimanno lifted his head slowly and deliberately, as though his mind were struggling to emerge from a world of mystery, and looked at the guest. Edgardo knelt.
“I have come to ask Your Worship’s permission to leave San Giorgio.”
Ademaro could not hold back an expression of satisfaction.
“My health does not allow me to remain in this holy place any longer. I thank you for your kind hospitality. This visit has proved to be very rich in lessons for me, as well as a most enlightening stage on a path of discovery of the human spirit.”
The abbot listened with his eyes closed, without betraying any feelings. “The path to holiness is twisted, full of suffering and hidden dangers we common mortals often find hard to understand. If this visit has helped you delve into the most secret parts of your soul, then I’m immensely happy . . . ” Carimanno opened his eyes and stared at him with pity and a trace of melancholy. “I hope you find your way, Edgardo d’Arduino.” He gave a deep sigh. “I give you permission to leave the abbey, and may God be with you.”
Edgardo stood up, struck by the words of the abbot, who seemed to know exactly the torments afflicting his heart. Then, walking from lectern to lectern, he took his leave of his fellow brothers. He would have liked to stop beside Rainardo and praise his progress in writing, but his eyesight no longer allowed him to make out words and the whole page was just an expanse of muddy gray. So he just smiled at him and walked on. When he had reached the door, he bowed in a gesture of thanks.
As they walked down the stairs that led to the library, Ademaro had slipped back into his old friendly tone. “You’ve made the right decision,” he said.
Edgardo had a moment of doubt. “I don’t know . . . I really wish things were different.”
“This has been an important experience, Edgardo, but the time has come to return to the serenity of your past life. Back in Bobbio, you’ll be with our fellow brothers again, you’ll go back to your habits, prayer times, books—” Ademaro suddenly broke off, aware that he had said the wrong thing.
Edgardo pulled a funny face, and wrinkled his nose. “The only thing left for me to enjoy of books is their scent.”
“Yes, I know, but don’t despair. I’ll still keep looking, I’ll try everything. I’ll find a remedy for your eyes, you’ll see.”
Edgardo shook his head doubtfully. In the cloisters, he breathed in the frosty air that smelled of snow.
“When do you plan to leave?” Ademaro asked.
“At dawn tomorrow.”
“Then we’ll meet again in Bobbio.”
Edgardo smiled and bowed his head.
“I’m telling you again, you’ve made the right decision,” Ademaro repeated before leaving him. “Go with a light heart. Don’t take burdens with you that could weigh on your soul. Free yourself of all your loads, and leave all memories behind.”
Edgardo had the impression that Ademaro wanted to convey one last message.
“Farewell, my friend.”
Ademaro looked at him in surprise. “See you in Bobbio,” he replied, hugging him.
Along the rio of the glassmakers in Amurianum, the freigh
t boats were still stuck in slates of melting ice. Zoto’s lame footsteps echoed eerily on the frosted fondamenta.* He stopped on the threshold of the foundry and immediately recognized Tàtaro among the workmen. Lean, his upper body naked, dark as a root blackened by smoke, he was blowing into a blowpipe. His cheeks were so inflated, they looked about to burst, and his face was like that of a toad. Zoto took a couple of hesitant steps forward. As soon as he saw him, Tàtaro handed the blowpipe to a garzone and signaled to Zoto to follow him to the back of the workshop.
“Do you have any news?” he asked abruptly, wiping his mouth with a rag.
“You said there was work for me,” Zoto replied with an air of naivety.
“There’s only work for those who deserve it.”
Zoto swung his shorter leg, as though about to kick an invisible ball. “I’ve seen some activity at Segrado’s.”
“Don’t try my patience. What have you seen?”
The crystal-maker spat green phlegm on the floor. It was a way of stalling. Finally, he made up his mind. “They’ve bolted the door and the windows. He rushed off on the boat and left the slave to sleep there.”
“So?”
“He doesn’t usually do that. Normally, he leaves everything open while he’s working and nobody ever sleeps there . . . He’s hiding something.”
Tàtaro threw a coarse canvas cloth over his shoulders. “And have you seen the monk?”
“No, I haven’t, but I’ll get my hands on him sooner or later . . . There’s already a gallows waiting for him on the Brolo.”
“Calm down. We need the monk alive. He’s the only one who knows the contents of the Arabic book. If Segrado’s discovered some new recipe, it’s thanks to the monk and any information he will have given him. Segrado is nothing but a braggart. All he’s capable of making on his own is beads.”
Tàtaro laughed, and Zoto joined in with an unctuous gurgle.
“Stay vigilant. You’ll see, sooner or later the monk will come out of the woodwork. And try and find out what Segrado’s up to.”
The Eye Stone Page 18