The Secret of the Glass (23 page)

She bowed her head.

“
Buona notte
, ser Gradenigo,” she whispered.

Teodoro gave her one last look, a glint of a grin on unfathomable features, and took his leave. Sophia stared after him until she lost him in the crowd, until the short, stout figure of Pasquale took his place in her attention, trudging toward her.

Sophia heaved a sigh of regret.

“It was so very nice to make your greater acquaintance, both of you,” she said to the young women with a graceful obeisance.

“And you, Sophia.” Florentina leaned toward her, Nora close by her side, one hand clasping Sophia’s arm. “You are one of us, now. We will see you often, I’m sure.”

In their smiles, these women offered nothing but empathy and Sophia accepted it with gratitude as she accepted the arm her future husband thrust before her. As ill-fitting together as when they had entered, the couple quit the convent. Once outside, Pasquale handed her over to his squire who would see her home.

“
Buona notte
,” Pasquale bade her, with a clipped bow and a click of his heels. With no more regard, he strode off into the night.

His retreating form lumbered off, fading to a phantasm in the dim light. She thought of her new friends and their advice. With her mind’s eye Pasquale transformed, he grew tall and slim, bushy brown hair grew where there was none. Her imaginings filled her with lightness and, as her inner being accepted the vision, her lips lifted at the corners.

Sixteen

“C
ome in, Sarpi, come in.” Donato beckoned for him with a hefty hand. Bereft of
cornu
and cape, Venice’s ruler sat behind the long marble escritoire clad informally in a thin linen shirt, breeches and hose, his silhouette, large and imposing, cast by the bright, late afternoon sun streaming in the window at his back. Few ever saw him like this, or for that matter, in this private room of the first-floor palace apartments. In their shared battle, these two men had long ago lost any reason for pretense and ceremony.

The diminutive cleric shuffled forward with a nod of thanks to the servant who had opened the door for him, as he crossed the dense maroon and gold rug that sat upon the polished stone floor.

“Have a seat my friend, I need just a moment.” Donato’s booming voice echoed off the high, coffered wood ceilings.

Sarpi sat in the richly upholstered wing chair across from the Doge’s desk, his brown cassock puffing up around him, and studied his country’s leader, a man he called a friend. In the light flickering down from the multi-branched chandeliers hanging from the vaulted, stucco-adorned ceiling, the discolored, almost bruised-looking skin beneath the Doge’s eyes appeared sunken into his skull. Donato suddenly seemed as if he had aged years in the few months since his inauguration.

With a final scratch of his quill, Donato put down the instrument, sat back in his chair, and looked at Sarpi.

“So, what wonderful news do you have for me today?” Donato’s voice cut with unmistakable sarcasm.

A shy smile played at the sharp features of the thin priest.

“Almost all of the clergy have come to take oaths of fealty; the Bernardines brought one hundred and fifty thousand gold pieces with them, but there is still trouble with the Jesuits.”

Donato raised his elbows to the chair arms and twined his fingers together in front of his chest.

“That
is
good news. What a wonderful change of pace. And what of our neighbors, have we heard from them?”

Sarpi opened the leather-bound folio in his hands and consulted his notes.

“England and Holland offer their support, but Spain is still hostile.”

Donato said nothing. The reaction from Spain had been expected; they were a strong Papalist state, they would never go against the Holy See.

“It is difficult yet to be sure of France,” Sarpi continued, squinting down at the pages and pages of tightly written text. “There has been support, though much less overt than that of England and Holland. But the King has offered his services as mediator.”

Donato sat forward.

“Good King Henry has agreed to arbitrate?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“This is a good day, indeed.”

Donato rose from his chair and crossed the large distance to the sideboard with a few wide strides. Crystal clinked against glass, liquid flowed from decanter to receptacle, and he carried the two drinks back to the desk. Handing one to Sarpi, he sipped at his own, leaning back against the front of his white stone desk.

“And the Pope’s new ambassador? Is he taken care of?”

“He is in ensconced in the
palazzo
at San Francesco della Vigna.” Sarpi nodded, licking a drop of the strong, sweet Malmsey from his thin bottom lip. “And our people are right beside him.”

The homes on either side of the foreign ambassador’s new residence had been emptied of their regular occupants and populated by the government’s own
provocateurs
. Venice functioned as the epicenter of espionage; every surrounding nation established embassies, agencies, and trading centers within its boundaries serving as clandestine clearinghouses of secrets. As hostess, Venice used her every wile to spy on the spies.

Sarpi lowered his head and his voice. “
La cortigiana onesta
will present herself this very evening.”

Doge Donato smirked at his friend’s embarrassment—that a holy man should feel such shame in this discussion was no surprise. Sarpi was a forward, enlightened thinker, but not for the good of the state would he see these women as anything but sinners. Venetian courtesans were renowned throughout the world. Few knew, however, that many of an intellectual bent, such as
la onesta,
were under the employ of their government, using their considerable charms to spy on unwitting subjects all too susceptible to the talented women’s attentions.

“Veronica?” Donato asked, needing nothing more to refer to Venice’s reigning courtesan and poet, as treasured for her blond beauty and physical abilities as for her mastery of language and imagery.
La Serenissima
had begun to wonder if some of the ladies in their employ were not playing both sides, selling what they knew to those for whom they were paid to spy upon, but Donato himself could vouch for la signorina Franco, guaranteed by his own familiar relationship with her.

“
Sì,
” Sarpi assured him.

“
Bene
, you have done your work well, father.” Donato threw back his head, the glass at his lips, and finished off his drink. “But there is still much left to do.”

“I’m ready,” Sarpi intoned with vigor.

“You always are, my devoted friend.”

This simple man, the son of a struggling merchant from San Vito, and his unwavering dedication to his land, his mother’s birthplace, was a stalwart, unwavering guardian of Venice. His intensity fostered not only a staunch, almost fanatical following, particularly among the Venetian people, but an equally antagonistic fervor of hate against him. Many, those in Rome above all others, believed he served the needs of the Doge before that of the Savior.

Doge Donato put down the small bowl-shaped glass and crossed his arms against his broad chest.

“First, I need you to send yet another warning to the Jesuits…”

Sarpi waited expectantly.

“…fall in line or into the cage.”

Donato stood resolute, heedless of Sarpi’s nakedly astonished reaction. Only the most wicked of priests were imprisoned in the iron cage and hung from the
campanile
, forced to live on no more than bread and water for weeks while exposed to the elements. To suggest such a repugnant punishment revealed just how deadly Donato’s intentions were.

“Next, I wish to issue a letter to King Henry, humbly and gratefully accepting his offer as mediator. Be sure to send more than one copy and be sure at least one of them falls into our enemy’s hands.”

Sarpi scribbled the instructions in his notebook with a slight grin of satisfaction.

“And last, I need you to make sure you are wearing the gift I sent you.” Donato narrowed his dark eyes at the cleric. “You’re not wearing it now, are you?”

“Your Honor,” Sarpi began, dropping his hands into his lap and shifting uncomfortably on the leather chair with a squeak. “I don’t feel it’s necessary—”

“I do,” Donato barked, pointing a long accusatory finger at the cleric. “And after you send that missive to the Jesuits it will be that much more necessary.”

The large man leaned over, arresting Sarpi’s attention with undenied authority.

“I need you, Venice needs you, too desperately to take any chances.”

Sarpi bowed his head in gratitude; he knew Donato’s conviction arose out of genuine concern for his welfare.

“But I—”

Three knocks upon the heavy, carved wooden door obliterated the rest of his words. The door opened without a call of permission and a page rushed in, a small roll of parchment in his outstretched hand.

“
Mi scusi
, Your Honor, fra Sarpi.” The young man stopped before them and bowed. “But this message has just come from professore Galileo who said it was urgent that you receive it immediately.”

“
Grazie.”
Donato accepted the letter, dismissing the servant with a nod.

Returning to his seat, he unfurled the parchment, glance sliding back and forth across its surface. His eyes crinkled at the corners as a wide smile spread upon his large face.

“It appears your friend has succeeded. He wishes to show us his new creation.”

“When?” Sarpi asked with a quick, thankful glance to the heavens.

“Early Tuesday morning.”

Seventeen

“T
ell me again why we’re here?”

Alfredo Landucci got off the barge just a few paces behind Teodoro Gradenigo, jumping nimbly off the end of the ramp, avoiding a small puddle left behind by the morning’s shower. The warm spring sun peeked through the breaking clouds, rays of light streamed down from holes in the fluffy, gray ceiling, and glistening water droplets coated the land like embedded jewels. The small island of Murano lay clean, scoured by nature’s brush, refreshed and sweet smelling.

“To get my mother a birthday present.” Teodoro stood in the muddy
campo
and waited for his friend to catch up. “A glass swan, if I can find one.”

Alfredo shook his head and his abundant blond curls danced around his smooth, comely features. “You couldn’t find one in La Mercerie?”

Teodoro rolled his eyes and gave his friend a playful shove, pushing him in the direction of the Rio de Vetrai.

“Did you look?” Alfredo asked with exasperation, stopping to flick a speck of mud from his saffron, ribbed-silk stockings. “Why are we wasting our time? It’s bad enough we’ve been locked away in chambers for hours and days on end. We finally have some time off and you want to spend it here? Shopping no less?”

“Calm yourself,” Teodoro tutted, assuaging his childhood friend as he would a little boy. “I want…there is more selection if we go to the
fabbrica
itself.”

Of the same age, these two had attended school together, played together on the
calli
and canals of San Barnaba. They’d been united in moments of learning, great accomplishment, and minor acts of mischief. Having come of age within months of each other, they served side by side as members on the Grand Council. Equals in their pride and loyalty to
Il Serenissimo
, Teodoro’s diligence to his duty, however, was not an attribute they shared.

“But Cannelita is waiting for me.” Alfredo paused, scratching his head, his thin mustache curling as his mouth quirked into a smile. “At least I think it’s Cannelita, or is she for tomorrow?”

Teodoro shook his head, his vexation denied by his tolerant grin. “I don’t understand how you can keep track of all your women. Or why you need so many.”

“Ah, because they are there to be needed,
paeseano
,” Alfredo answered with a lecherous waggle of his pale brows.

“What I can’t understand, is how you get them to be so…so accommodating. You are not that pretty.”

Alfredo swept out his hand, flicking the back of Teodoro’s head in playful rebuff.

“Have I never explained my secret maneuver?”

Teodoro raised a skeptical brow as he shook his head.

“I tell them all that I am the youngest son of a poor
Barnabotti
, that I may never marry, and that my heart is riven, torn by the fact that I must live out my days alone, with no wife or child to love and care for me.”

Teodoro stopped with cutting abruptness, leather-soled shoes sliding along the dusty buff stone
fondamenta
, turning to the rogue beside him with a skeptical, scathing look.

“Sorry, my friend.” Alfredo shrugged, his innocent, helpless air contrary to his saucy smile. “Yours is a sad and pathetic story. It works every time.”

“Do you ever tell them the truth, that you
are
the son of a poor
Barnobotti,
the oldest, and that you
must
marry?”

“Good Lord, no.” Alfredo tossed back his head with a laugh. “My version is much more romantic.”

Though he tried hard not to, Teodoro snorted with laughter.

“Why doesn’t it work for me?”

“Do you tell any women the truth?”

“No, not usually.” Teodoro said. “Except for—”

“Here’s one.” Alfredo pivoted to his right, striding purposefully to the first large display window filled with a vast array of shaped and colored glass, the pigments iridescent in the burgeoning sun. “I don’t see a swan, but perhaps there’s one inside.”

“No, let’s keep going. It’s farther…” Teodoro faltered, stepping into a mud puddle, unmindful and unaware as the dirty water splashed up his leg. “There’s another just down the way I’d like to look in.”

Alfredo jumped to avoid the earthy, moist muddle, long legs like Teodoro’s hurling him swiftly back to his friend’s side. He tugged his companion to a stop with a forceful hand on Teodoro’s arm.