To Serve a King (51 page)

“The Phoenicians, that’s it.” Zeno’s voice rang out in triumph. “They had been merchants, traders of nitrum, taking refuge on the shore for the night. They could find no rocks to put in their fires, to hold their pots while they cooked, so they pilfered a few pieces of their own goods. You can imagine their surprise when the lumps began to glow. This was years and years before the birth of our Lord and these were simple, uneducated people. When the clumps liquefied and mixed with the sand, the beach flowed with tiny trickles of transparent fluid. They thought they were seeing a miracle, but they were seeing glass … the first glass.”

Her father’s voice became a cadence, like the lapping of the lagoon waves upon the shore that surrounded them; its rhythmic vibrato paced her work. Her left hand twisted the
ferro sbuso
while the right manipulated the tongs, pinching here, shaping there.

“Our family has always made the glass. Since Pietro Fiolario’s time four hundred years ago, we have guarded the secret.”

Sophia stole a quick glance up; the young eyes found the old and embraced in understanding. This secret had been the family’s blessing and its curse. It had brought them world renown and an abundance of fortune greater than many a Venetian noble family. And yet it had made them prisoners in their own homeland, and Sophia, a woman who knew the secret, doubly condemned.

Time was running short; the glass was getting harder and harder to contort with gentle guidance. Already its form was a visual masterpiece, the delicate base, the long, fragile flute, the bowl a perfect symmetrical shape. Her hands flew, creating the waves on the rim, capturing the essence of fluidity to the rapidly solidifying form.

With a deep sigh, an exhalation of pure satisfaction, Sophia straightened her curled shoulders, bending her head from side to side to stretch the tense neck muscles, tight from so long in one position. She studied the piece before her, daring to peek at her father. In his glowing eyes, his shining pride, she saw confirmation of what she herself felt, already this was a remarkable piece … but it was not done yet.

“Now you will add our special touch,
sì?
” her father asked as he retrieved the special, smaller pinchers from another
scagno.

Sophia smiled with indulgence. Keeping alive the delusion for her father was yet another small price to pay him. The technique she would do next, the
a morise
, to lay miniscule strands of colored glass in a pattern on this base piece, had made their
fabbrica
famous. Since its release to the public, her father had reveled in the accolades he received over its genius and beauty. Her father had never,
could
never, reveal that the invention had been Sophia’s.

“
Sì,
Papà.” Sophia lay down the larger tongs, flexing the tight muscles of her hands. She gathered the long abundance of brunette hair flowing without restraint around her shoulders, unbound from its usual pulled-back style, and laid it neatly against her back and out of her way. Taking the more delicate pinchers from her father’s hand, she rolled her shoulders once more and set to work.

Zeno hovered by her shoulder, leaning forward to watch as her long, slim hands worked their magic, as she wielded the pinchers to apply the threads of magenta glass, smaller than the size of a buttercup’s stem, in perfect straight lines. Dipping the tip of the tweezer-like device into the bucket of water by her side, releasing the hiss and smoke into the air, Sophia secured each strand with a miniscule drop of cool moisture.

“A little more this way,” Zeno whispered, as if to speak too loudly would be to disturb the fragile material.

“Yes, Father,” Sophia answered reflexively, like a much-said prayer’s response.

“It’s patience, having the patience to let the glass develop at its
will, to cool and heat, cool and heat naturally.” Zeno chanted close to her ear, his voice and words guiding her as they had done since she was young. His muted voice small in the cavernous chamber; their presence enveloped by the creative energy. “As the grape slowly ripens on the vine, the sand and silica and nitre become glass on the rod. Ah, you’re getting it now—
bellissimo
.”

“
Grazie,
Papà.”

“Next you’re going to—”

The bang, bang, bang of a fist upon wood shattered the quiet like glass crashing upon the stone; the heavy wooden door at the top of the winding stair jangled and rocked. Someone tried to enter, yet the bolted portal stymied the attempts. It was locked, as always when father and daughter shared these moments.

Zeno and Sophia stiffened in fright, bulging eyes locked.

“Are we discovered?” Sophia’s whisper cracked, strangled with fear. She shoved the rod into her father’s hands, dropping the slender metal pinchers on the hard stone floor below, wincing at the raucous clang that permeated the stillness.

“Cannot be.” Zeno shook his head. “It can n—”

“Zeno, Zeno!” The urgent, distraught male voice slithered through the cracks of the door’s wooden planks. “Let me in.”

Parent and child recognized the timbre; Giacomo Mazzoni had worked at the Fiolario family’s glassworks since he was a young man, his relationship evolving into that of a dear and familiar friend. The terror in his recognizable voice sounded undeniable; the strangeness of his presence at such a late hour was nothing short of disturbing.

With an odd calmness, Zeno pointed toward the door. “Let him in, Phie.”

The dour intent upon her father’s wrinkled countenance told her he would brook no argument. Gathering the front of her old, soiled gown, she sprinted up the winding stairs, glancing back at the wizened man who stood stock still, rod and cooling piece still in hand.

Sophia pushed aside the bolt with a ragged, wrenching screech. The door gave way the instant it was free. Giacomo rushed through the portal, pushing past Sophia where she stood on the small platform by the door. Clad in his nightshirt, a pair of loosely tied knee breeches flapping around his legs, he looked a fright with his short hair sticking out at all angles, and his black eyes afire with burning intensity. Flying down the stairs, he ran to his friend and mentor, grabbing him by the shoulders.

“They’re dead, Zeno, dead.”

Befuddled, Zeno stared at his friend, pale eyes squinting beneath his furrowed brow. “Who, Giacomo? Who is dead?”

“Clairomonti, Quirini, Giustinian, those who tried to get to France.”

“Dio Santo.”
The words slipped from Zeno’s mouth through the lips of his falling jaw. His legs quivered. With a shaking hand he reached into empty air, groping for a stool. Rushing to his side, Sophia grabbed the wooden seat, yanking it forward and guiding her father into it by the arm.

Zeno looked to his beloved daughter’s face. Once more, their frightened gaze locked.

“They’ve killed them.”

T
hey entered through the bell tower entrance, their footfalls echoing upon the marble floor to rise up into the tall confined space of Santo Stefano’s brick
campanile
. Dawn’s pale light touched the land and the peal of the bells summoning all to work reverberated in the new morn’s fresh air; the powerful warmth of the late spring day had not yet crept in to muffle the mesmerizing sound.

Men of all ages, shapes, and sizes filed in, their wondrous diversity as varied as their styles; some dressed in the grand fashion of the Spanish, with embroidered doublets, sword and dagger hanging from their waist. Long hair flowed past their shoulders and thin mustaches or goatees adorned their faces. The less-ostentatious wore simple linen or silk shirts and breeches, with plain but elegant waistcoats. From the chins of the older, mostly bald, gentlemen hung long, dignified beards, while the younger, still pretty men preferred clean faces and closely cropped caps of hair. They converged from almost every glassworks on the island, the owners and their sons, concern and fear tempering any joy to be had in their assembly.

The sun hovered at the horizon, its rays imprisoned by the close-set buildings, and the gloomy shadows clung to the parish church’s interior. In the muted light, the solemn procession soon filled the church pew’s wooden benches. These men were the
Arte dei Vetrai,
the members of the glassworkers’ guild. In their bonds of craft and dedication, this league of
artigiani
united in self-protection, to provide aid for the sick and aged of their profession, and to the widows and children of their lost loved ones.

Deep, solemn whispers rumbled through the air, permeated with incense, pungent pockets of aroma hiding in the small statue-filled alcoves and candlelit transepts of the church, remainders from the dawn’s devotions. In Murano, as in other parishes of Venice, there were as many churches as there were winding curves of the canals. The
Arti
had chosen Santo Stefano as their home decades ago, selected for its simple grace and its centralized location on the Rio de Vetrai, the main canal through the glass-making district. Legend held that it had been built by the Camaldolese hermits at the time of the millennium, and had been restored and renovated many times since. The cloister of the old monastery flourished with beautiful gardens and within the vestry hung a painting by Jacopo Robusti, the Venetian master the world knew as Tintoretto. The
Arti
gathered their inspiration and strength here, their power and determination from the imposing sepulchral monument to Bartolomeo D’Alviano, a
condottiero
of great renown, perhaps one of the land’s greatest soldiers.

The rapping of a gavel upon the podium broke the reverential discourse as Domenico Cittadini, owner of the Leone d’Oro glassworks, and steward of the
Arti,
called the meeting to order.

“It is with great sadness that we come here today to discuss the deaths of our compatriots, Hieronimo Quirini, Norberto Clairo-monti, and Fabrizio Giustinian.”

“Parodia!”

“Terribile!”

“Orribile!”

Cries of protest and outrage rang out like cracks of thunder. They volleyed and ricocheted against the stone walls of the church, lofting to its high, vaulted ceiling and out the windows where the women of the town stood and listened, huddled together with heads straining as close to the partially opened windows as they could.

“Silenzio!”
Cittadini countered with a return volley. The veins on his forehead bulged upon his skull in stark relief, his olive skin splotched with color, and his dark eyes bulged under thick salt-and-pepper brows. “The
Capitularis de Fiolarus
is clear.”

He threw a thick wad of string-bound vellum on the floor with a violent release. The men in the front pews flinched from the resounding slap. The statutes imposed upon the glassworkers by the Venetian government were a long, imposing list.

“I am as ravaged by their demise as any of you, but our lost brethren knew what could happen when they left for France, when they allowed the foreign devils to entice them away with promises of riches and fame.”

His words hung heavy in the oppressive silence; almost two hundred men stifled any immediate countering protests that lingered distastefully upon their tongues, attention focused firmly upon their leader. Cittadini had thus far served a scant two months of his one-year, elected term of stewardship, but he had shouldered his duties with utmost dedication, already meriting the men’s early respect.

From the back, wood creaked as a slight, elderly man rose up, unfurling his curved and bent body as he slid a blue silk cap from his balding pate. Every head swiveled at the sound. Every ear strained to hear the words of Arturo Barovier, descendant of one of the greatest glassmaking families in the history of Murano.

“For over two hundred years they’ve kept us prisoner and now they’ve killed.” His warbled voice vibrated through the congregation like warbling birdsong. “We must tolerate this no longer.”

Impassioned, angry diatribes erupted, scarlet-faced men pointed fingers at one another as they punctuated their arguments, any semblance of order dispersed like smoke on the breeze of discontent. The debate fell not upon the existence of the restrictive control of their government, but whether or not it was warranted. Under the guise of protection for the workers,
La Serenissima,
the government of the Most Serene Republic of Venice, had begun its meticulous ascendancy over the glass-working industry nearly four centuries ago. A fanatical Republic, one that took complex and convoluted steps to keep absolute power from falling into any one hand, it was ruled by perversely tyrannical patriots, motivated by a deep and profound love of their country; there was no action too egregious if it would benefit the state.

Their control spread, as did the renown of Venetian glass. They spoke of fear for the growing population living in mostly wooden structures and the risk of fires posed by the glassmaking furnaces. The decree restricting all
vetreria
to the island of Murano came late in the thirteenth century, and the virtual imprisonment of the glassmaking families began. The regime’s sophistry was an ill-fitting disguise and it was not long before the true intention of their actions became clear. It was not safety at the crux of the regime’s concern, but the secret of the glass.