The Secret of the Glass

by Morin, Donna Russo

  The drawings sprang to life upon the parchment; in his mind they were alive and animated, scribblings that formed others and moved across the surface. He studied and ruminated, calculating and recalculating, drawing over and over again the long tube, the innumerable combinations of tube and lens variants.

  And then he saw it, saw it as assuredly as he saw his own wrinkled hands on the table before him. It was so clear. The answer lay in the notes he had taken while talking with Father Sarpi. It would work, this miracle would happen.

  A twinge of pain seared through his left wrist and he looked down at it as if he could see the treacherous ache coursing through his veins. Galileo grabbed his wrist, flung himself back in his chair, and laughed.

  Eight

  Father Paolo Sarpi sat on the hard wooden stool in the small, windowless stone chamber that served as his home in the monastery of the Servite friars. It was stark and cold—no art graced its walls, no rug warmed its floor. The thick and heavy scent of incense slithered under the door and between the cracks of the old wood door. As Venice’s Official Senate Counselor, any one of the lavish rooms in the Doge’s Palace were always at his disposal, some of which he made use of on many occasions when he needed to confer with senators or with Il Serenissimo himself. Today he needed these indistinct surroundings and the lack of distraction afforded by the bareness of this room.

  He sat in the middle of two towers, mountains of papers—one beside each hand—that rose higher above the desk than did his own small frame. Discarded and dull quills, empty and blackened inkpots, and the sifter of blotting sand with the crude and clogged holes in its lid lay on the meager work surface not covered with paper. On the floor rose more piles, boxing him in like the parapets of a castle that guarded their solitary resident. Every now and again the clacking of sandal-clad feet passed by, the sound rising and falling as the faceless person came and went, and Father Sarpi unconsciously pulled his slippered feet farther under the hanging folds of his rough-hewn robe while keeping his concentration focused on the task at hand.

  Doge Donato had instructed him to draft a reasoned and measured reply to the Pope’s edict. Reasoned and measured…the Doge’s words stifled the usually prolific man’s abilities and he clutched his unmoving quill with white knuckles. How could he be reasonable with those without reason? For the men in Rome, this conflict was not about what was right, either morally or legally, as it should have been, but about power and the abuse of it. The Vatican and those who controlled it used these issues to launch an attack upon the glittering jewel that was Venice, and as their ancestors had hundreds of years ago, the Venetians would not collapse in the face of the onslaught.

  The cittadini of Venezia owed a debt of gratitude to the Barbarian Alaric and the Goths, for if not for their plundering, the citizens of the mainland, those from Padua and Altino, Concordia and Aquilea, would not have sought salvation on this arcipelago. They had come in waves, and as each surge of the marauding invaders crossed into their lands, more and more of them turned toward Venice. Behind their bishops they found their refuge, bringing with them nothing more than steely determination, a mistrust of Rome’s rulers, and the sacred relics that bound their new life to their old.

  The birth of Venice, early in the fifth century, encompassed the unique islets and a swath of land along the main shore. By the middle of the sixth century, the distinctive silhouette of the Venetian flat-bottomed trading barges was instantly recognized in every port along the rivers of north and central Italy. It was not long afterward that the ships of Venice, manufactured in the Arsenale, the first industrial complex of its kind, ruled the seas beyond, becoming the most powerful fleet, both merchant and military, in the Adriatic, a domination that demanded the utmost respect from all of its neighbors.

  Foreigners of ever country flocked to this strange and mesmerizing land, more and more of them every year, called by its beauty and wonder, yet no one loved Venice more than the Venetians. They could, and would, do anything to maintain its independence and dominance.

  Sarpi’s pride in, and devotion to, his homeland stirred in his blood—the devout patriotism pumped along every nerve like adrenaline. It gave him strength and surety of purpose. He set his face with grim determination toward the blank parchment before him but no longer felt fear or trepidation, no longer felt anxious that he would not find words or the right words to say. His ink-stained hand prodded the quill furiously across the paper, as the urgent scratching filled the room with its unmelodious song.

  …respectful but unyielding…Princes, by divine law, which no human power can abrogate, have authority to legislate on matters temporal within their jurisdictions; there is no occasion for the admonitions of Your Holiness, for the matters under discussion are not spiritual but temporal.

  Nine

  They poured in from every direction, along every canal and calle, filling the piazza with their energy and their somber robes, stark among the bright-colored civilians like storm clouds against a brilliant blue sky. Every member of the Venetian government had been called to this early morning meeting and the hundreds of men of the Maggior Consiglio streamed toward the Ducal Palace.

  This building, this complex, served as the focal point of all Venetian life and culture; every Palazzo Ducale in history had stood on this very spot, where the waters of St. Mark’s Basin meet the land. From the desolate and dark structure built as a massive defensive fortress over eight centuries ago, the grandiose and glorious palace now rose in triumph over the lagoon and the glittering city Venice had become.

  It was the home of the government and the home of the Doge. It held Venice’s law courts, civil administration and, until the recent construction of the Ponte dei Sospiri, the new bridge that led to a larger prison across the Rio de Palazzo, its jail. Hidden deep within its bowels, like the putrid and grotesque underbelly of a beautiful mythological creature, were rooms of imprisonment and unspeakable torture. Deep, damp, and cramped, the pozzi resembled wells, the water level in the cells rising with the least bit of provocation. More than one prisoner had found a watery death as punishment for his crimes. This baronial citadel had endured floods and fire, attacks from disease and plundering invaders, and each time the Venetians had rebuilt it more grandly than before.

  Many considered the palazzo a masterpiece of architecture, a superlative example of the Venetian Gothic style. Constructed of pale pink stone, the imposing yet graceful structure rose out of the water, two tiers of porticos as its base. On the first, thirty-six simple columns of white stone supported traditional, pointed arches, while one hundred and seven columns adorned the second, each shaped in a trefoil and topped with a round medallion quatrefoil. These delicately carved traceries gave the structure its nickname, “The Wedding Cake,” yet its delicate façade did not evince the momentous work done within its walls by the hordes of men who flocked to it as they had done for centuries.

  These men were Venice’s princes, descendants of noble blood through hundreds of years. They swarmed toward the palace’s Porta della Carta, the door of paper, for upon this surface the decrees of the government would be posted. The portal closest to the Basilica, it led into the left branch of the U-shaped building. Above the entrance of the mammoth portal, one so wide many men walking abreast could enter with ease, rose the sculpture of a former doge, Foscari, with his lions. On each side, two small warrior statues, one upon the other, stood guard.

  Crossing the interior courtyard, the throng bunched into smaller groups, whispering and jabbering among themselves. Furtive looks flashed between them, clipped and hissing voices mingled with the clopping of hard leather and wood heels against the stone terrace. Climbing the three flights of stairs, they entered into the Sala del Maggior Consiglio, the massive room built to hold up to twenty-six hundred people at one time. As the Doge’s Palace was the capital of Venice, the Room of the Grand Council was the nerve center of the palazzo. Running parallel to the water, it accounted for the entire front wing and hosted the meetings of the l
arge legislative body as well as the grand balls and receptions of Venice’s festive society.

  “Signori, signori, gentlemen, to order,” called out the chamberlain, who stood beside the raised dais upon which the Doge sat flanked by the other members of the Council of Ten, his voice echoing off the high cathedral ceilings.

  Donato sat in tense silence, resplendent in ermine trimmed cape and cornu, watching the men as they filtered in the door, foot tapping impatiently as they concerned themselves more with private discussions than with the larger meeting about to commence. Clearly visible, within the gathering microcosms, were the lines of division rending the ruling body of Venice. Its very cohesion, branches upon branches, committee upon committee, fostered the segregation of the men who must work as a unified group.

  The Signoria was the Doge’s inner council of six, the same number of men who represented the six districts of Venice, the Capi di Sistieri. The Signoria, three leaders called the Capi dei Dieci—who, while living sequestered, ruled the small group for a month at a time—and the Doge comprised the Council of Ten. These men were powerless without each other, working together every day without recompense, yet together they were the dominant force in the government. Over time, the Ten had become the most feared body in all of Venetian government, the watchdogs of venality and corruption, creating an underground of intelligence-gathering rivaled, yet not duplicated, throughout the world. This group took charge when quick decisions were required and executed their prescripts with unscrupulous resolve.

  The unfathomable depth of the political regime continued with the Quarantia, the judicial council of forty-one, the three public prosecutors called the Avogadori, the Cinque della Pace, the five justices of the peace, and the Signori de Notte, chiefs of police. This clotted quagmire of administration had evolved and become more contrived with the passing years. Fearing, as always, absolute power in any one family or grouping, the lines of government had become as twisted and entangled as the maze of canals, calli, and islets of land that was Venice itself.

  His patience tried beyond all measure, the Doge stood. His tall somber appearance, accentuated by the height of the dais and the austere setting, was that of a disgruntled giant staring down upon displeasing minions.

  “I have called you all here today to discuss the case of the two clerics.”

  As Donato’s booming voice thundered through the room, any man still standing rushed to sit on the chairs in the center of the room or upon the thin benches that lined the long walls. Many seats in the cavernous room remained empty, almost as many as those filled; half a century ago close to two thousand men constituted the Grand Council but plague and an increasing inclination for members of their own sex had decimated the numbers of the original clans. The new nobili, noble-blooded familes of the cittadini who had come to these shores in later years, had been allowed to inscribe their names in the Libro d’Oro, their sons to become members of the Maggior Consiglio, and perhaps one day a doge, should a vote ever fall their way. For Venetians, like all species, evolution was necessary for survival. Despite these drastic measures, barely fourteen hundred patricians embodied the powerful state’s lawmakers and the decline continued.

  With every occupant seated, the Doge gazed out at their faces, encouragement clear upon some, mistrust, even hatred upon others. The jumble of skin tones, from the pale to deep olive, mixed in his vision with the deep blues and maroons of the paintings that surrounded them from mid-wall to ceiling, on every available inch of space. Donato softened his focus, gathering strength by not peering too closely at any one face. With a deep, steadying breath he continued.

  “What the Vatican has done is unlawful. Venice will issue its own edict to all the priests living under her jurisdiction, to continue to say mass and administer the sacraments as if nothing happened.”

  The eruption burst out from all corners. Cheers mingled with jeers as each man called out his approval or disapproval. Each voice cried louder than the next, demanding to be heard.

  “Signori, please.” Donato shook his head, holding up his hands as if to hold off the tidal wave of opinion. “Per favore. We will get nothing accomplished in this manner. I will gladly hear what you all have to say, but we must maintain order. Ser Gradenigo, what have you to say?”

  The tall young man rose amid more rumbles of discontent. The liberal youngster was a known follower of Donato’s and sat amongst the most liberal of the senate, near Morosini and Sagredo; it was too unproblematic to choose him to speak first.

  “Your decision is wholly justified, Your Serenity, you made the correct move.”

  The squawks of dissension collided with calls of approval and the level of noise escalated, each voice competing for dominance. Again, the Doge urged the assembly to quiet with raised hands, calling on another, one whom he knew would not be as forgiving as the last.

  “Ser Trevisan.”

  The older man did not fully rise from his chair, barely lifting his robe-covered derrière a few inches off it, and called out.

  “It is a travesty.”

  Donato stared at the elder statesman in silent fury, curbing any desire to lash out. The muscles of his jaw twitched under his ashen skin before he spoke again.

  “I can assure you all that this decision has not been made lightly and was done so at the recommendation of Father Sarpi, the man we’ve all chosen as our counselor.”

  “We have been in Rome’s disfavor for decades.” A dark, pointy-faced man on the far side of the room stood without recognition from the Doge. “Our moderate, humanist stance brands us rebels.”

  Grumbles of agreement rolled through the men like the sound of falling rocks down a hillside. Venice had never been fanatical in their religion, presiding as the only state in Catholic Europe not to have burnt a heretic. Far worse, in the eyes of the Vatican, was the Republic’s tolerance of other religions. In the small acreage that was the Venezia isoletti, Muslims, Jews, and Greek Orthodox all found a place to call home.

  More men vied to speak. Donato called upon them one after the other…ser DiMauro, ser Maccanti. In Venice there were no ranks—no marquis or barons—they were all noble, courtiers of equal status; they were all the nobiluomini di Venezia. Individual power was achieved with great effort, with popularity and persuasion. Only the Doge, a position elected to for life, held a rank as the Reigning Duke of the Most Serene Republic. For all the pretension of the title, his position, above all, afforded the least freedom, forever watched and scrutinized. Law upon law prohibited the holder from accumulating too much personal influence.

  Minutes ticked into hours as man after man stood and aired his opinion. The Doge stepped off the dais and moved among them, listening intently to what each had to say, hoping this open debate would clear the antagonism and unite them against their true enemy.

  “You had no right to make this decision without approval of this Council.”

  Donato spun round; in an instant he recognized the deep voice full of disapproval and loathing as that of the eldest da Fuligna.

  “The decision had to be made quickly and I had the approval of the Ten.”

  “It will not enhance your standing with the people.” Eugenio da Fuligna’s words slipped from his lips with stinging sarcasm; he knew he’d struck a painful chord. From across the room, he felt the heat of his son’s scathing glare.

  “Hah!” Donato laughed a short, withering bark. “I am a fairly poor man who replaced one of the most popular, richest doges in our history, one who died on a Christmas Day. My standing with the people was not firm to begin with.”

  His cavalier manner would have been more believable had his scowl not deepened, his hands not wrung. Privately his unpopularity bothered Donato greatly, but he cared more to do the best he could for his beloved country, whether the people recognized it or not.

  “There is nothing I can do now to change what took place at my inauguration.”

  How well he remembered that day, what should have been one of the greatest in his life
had held moments of profound humiliation. As it had been for centuries, the citizens’ first impression of each new doge was conceived at the new ruler’s induction celebration, most specifically during the procession around the Piazza San Marco, when the new doge and members of his family offered the crowd their munificence, throwing coins to the cheering crowds. A single man with no children and hardly any fortune, Donato had thrown little to the people, had had little to throw, and the popolani had tossed snowballs at him in return. Marino Grimani, the man Donato had replaced, had deluged the crowd with gold pieces, as had his wife and sons who sent handfuls down from the windows above. Throughout the day of Grimani’s inauguration, unlimited free bread and wine had been distributed to all the poor of the city. Donato, like many of the nobles in this room, could not have competed with such philanthropy had he tried.

  “We are here to protect our people,” Donato continued, the depth of his emotion and conviction clear in his strong voice and set jaw, the fire bright in his penetrating steel-blue eyes. “Above all else we are Venetians and we must act in a manner best for Venice.”

  The majority of men leapt up, cheering and applauding, riding the wave of their leader’s fervor. The dissenting minority, their numbers not appreciably smaller than those standing, could do nothing but stew in their discontent as the sound rumbled around them; there would be no good to come from more public discussion. The matter must be dealt with in private.

  Donato’s barrel chest rose and fell with a cleansing sigh; he knew there would be no more arguments today, knew too that the matter, and the conflict, was not resolved, but he would bask in this momentary peace. He turned away from the crowd of nobles, his large chair firmly in his sights, longing for nothing more than to heave his weary body into its relaxing confines.