To Serve a King (52 page)

They meant to isolate the glassworkers, to inhibit any contact with the outside world, curtailing any opportunities for the industry’s intricacies to be revealed to foreigners. As time passed, the pretense of the edict dissipated as clear and outright threats of bodily harm were made to any defecting glassworkers and their families. The seclusion was to protect the secret, and nothing else, for the exquisite
vetro
of Venice brought the state world fame and filled the government’s coffers with overflowing fortune.

The statutes of the
Capitularis
swelled to include the
Mariegole,
a statement of duty for all glassworkers. It told them who was allowed to work and when, when the factories could close for vacation and for how long, going so far as to dictate how many
bocche
a furnace must have, as if the government knew better than the workers the best number of windows a crucible needed. In these infant days of the seventeenth century, their malevolent control had surpassed all acts that had come before; their hand of power had turned into a fist and would pummel anyone who publicly defied them.

Sophia stood as close to the brick-trimmed apertures of the church as her height would allow, nodding her head in silent yet fervent agreement with Signore Barovier’s sentiment. As a woman, she could only make the glass, indulge in her one true passion, in secret, another of the
Serenissima
’s dictates; she was no supporter of their fanatical controls.

“Sshh,” she hissed at the murmuring women around her, a pointed finger tapping against her pursed lips, surprising every-one—herself included—with her boldness, straining to hear the discussion continuing within the dim confines of the church. She was too desperate to hear to remain hidden in her usual timidity.

Vincenzo Bonetti stood up, long face and long nose bowed, one of the youngest men there but still the
padrone
of the Pigna glassworks.

“I would like to hear what signore Fiolario has to say.”

Wood groaned and fabric rustled, all eyes looked to Zeno, quiet so far, amidst the disparate discussions boiling around him.

The men often looked to Zeno for his counsel. Though he had not been the steward of the
Arti
for almost ten years, some considered him the best there had ever been and many sought his wisdom like the child seeks approval from the parent. Like the others before him, Zeno stood, twisting his thin body to face the assemblage.

The morning sun’s first rays found the stained glass of the long, arched altar window and a burst of colorful streaks illuminated Zeno’s angular features with hues of shimmering moss and indigo. He appeared like a colorful specter, prismatic yet surreal.

“We are like precious works of art, cloistered in locked museums, trotted out for show when visiting royalty appears, but kept behind bars otherwise.”

“Sì, sì,”
incensed cries of agreement rang out. Heads waggled with accord, hands flew up in the air as if to beseech God to hear their entreaties.

Time after time, the
Serenissima
flaunted the talent and wealth of Venice in the faces of sojourning royalty, using the artisans of Murano for audacious displays. Not so very long ago King Henry III of France had been the most exalted guest of the Republic. Many prestigious members of the
Arte dei Vetrai
had been ceremonial attendants, including a younger Zeno just achieving the apex of his artistry, participating in exhibitions for the delight of the visiting monarch.

At the sound of her father’s voice, Sophia had stood on tiptoes to see in the high windows. She waited now in rapt attention, as did they all as calm descended once more, for Zeno’s next sagacious dictum.

Zeno stared at the expectant faces. His lips floundered, but no words formed. His head tilted to the side and his gaze grew vacant. He looked down at the empty space on the pew beneath him, and without further statement, sat down.

Sophia released her straining toes and flexed calf muscles and leaned her back against the warm russet bricks of the church. Her young features scrunched unbecomingly; she didn’t understand why her father had not said more. He had appeared as if about to speak but the words or their sentiments had been lost on the journey from brain to lips.

Within the church, the same confusion cloaked the congregation; men shared silent, questioning glances, their faces changing in the shifting shadows as the rising sun began to stream in through the windows.

Cittadini took advantage of the appeasement. Stepping out from the podium, he crossed the altar, and stood in line with the first of the many rows of blond oak pews, at the intersection of forward and sideward paths.

“Tell me, de Varisco.” The steward addressed a middle-aged man sitting close to the front, Manfredo de Varisco, owner of the San Giancinto glassworks. “You are not a nobleman, yet you live in a virtual
palazzo
. You own your own gondola.
Sì?
”

De Varisco nodded his head, dirty blond curls bouncing, with an almost shameful shrug.

“And you, Brunuro, you are always wearing your bejeweled sword and dagger.”

Cittadini strode down the aisle, approaching a handsome man, black-haired and ruddy, sitting a third of the way down. Baldessera Brunuro, with his brother Zuan, ran both the Tre Corone and the Due Serafini.

“Would you enjoy such privileges, such luxuries, if you weren’t glassworkers?”

No one spoke, though many shook their heads, for the answer was most assuredly no; other Venetian members of the industrial class did not—could not—relish such refinements as did the glass-makers.

Jerking to his right, the robust and rotund Cittadini raised an accusing finger, pointing to another middle-aged man, one with finely sculpted features, the owner of Tre Croci d’Oro.

“You above all, signore Serena, your daughter is to marry a noble. Your grandchildren will be nobles. For the love of God, your male heirs may sit on the Grand Council, may one day become Doge,
Il Serenissimo,
the ruler of all Venice!”

Cittadini punctuated his impassioned plea, throwing his hands up and wide with dramatic finality.

Serena’s brown eyes held Cittadini’s, beacons shining from out of puffy, wrinkle-rimmed sockets. He struggled to stand, his long white beard quivering from his chin onto his chest with each strain of exertion. For a few more seconds he held the steward’s rapt attention in the preternatural quiet of the packed church. The women outside became captives, their noses pressed to the sills, their fussing and fluttering ceasing once and for all.

“None of us wants to give these things up, these glories that make our lives so rich, so abundant.” Serena spoke of their splendors, yet the sadness in his face, his furrowed brow, his frowning mouth, told another tale. “But at what price? It is naught more than extortion. We should be, we must be, able to live as we please, go where we please. We have earned the right.”

Cittadini didn’t answer. He studied the familiar face of his friend. He turned, impotent, to the righteous faces all around and curled his broad shoulders up to his ears. “Then … what do we do?”

Within this house of God, amidst the aura of his benevolence, no one had an answer.