The Glassmaker's Daughter

Chapter 3-2

With the congested stream of people, the Fiolario family rushed into the stone-paved Piazza San Marco, the largest and most opulent open square in all of Venice. As the bells of the towering brick campanile began to peal, they surged forward with the jostling crowd toward the domed Basilica and its distinctive façade and huge golden domes that dominated the Venetian horizon. Squeezing tightly against the throngs of worshippers, the family filtered through the massive Romanesque arching doorways and into the glowing interior, illuminated by thousands of candles whose light reflected off the gold mosaics and colored marble.

Only a smattering of empty seats remained, and the girls surrendered them to their elders with respect. Standing in one of the many rows of people along the back, Sophia strained to see the front of the church. People filled every space of the building, uniquely designed in a cross of four equal arms, as opposed to the more popular Latin style found in most churches. She bowed her head to give thanks, allowing the chanting of prayers and singing of hymns to engulf and fill her. The cloying scent of the incense, emanating from the tendrils of smoke rising from the swaying, clacking gold censers, did little to mask the musky and bitter stench of so many bodies.

Sophia’s own whispered yet fervent prayers mingled with those of the hundreds of other parishioners. Her gratitude overwhelmed her, for the beauty of this day, the magnificence of her country, and, most of all, the love of her family. She felt a moment’s repentance, for choosing the life she had, for forsaking marriage and motherhood as both society and the church insisted was her duty. She squeezed her clenched hands together, feeling the slim, hard bones within them. God had given her the gift in these hands; surely he forgave her and loved her for using it.

Sophia sent a special prayer to Saint Mark, he who gave his life to spread the word of Jesus and whose remains lay entombed below them. His body—smuggled out of the heathens’ land by Venetian sailors and hidden amidst a cache of pork, rendering it untouchable to the Muslims—came to these shores hundreds of years ago, and his capacity to ignite the people’s passion remained as powerful as the day he arrived. He was their patron and the source of their strength.

The mass ended and cheerful voices joined rustling fabrics and the now restless and cramped congregation filled the aisles. Behind Doge Leonardo Donato, a tall, somber man and the Republic’s ninetieth ducal ruler, they emptied out into the already crowded piazza, where more celebrants, too many to fit into the Basilica, waited. Surrounded by black-robed senators and council members, bishops and priests, Doge Donato, sweating under full ducal regalia—a scarlet brocade robe, cape, and doge’s cap—strode past the Palazzo Ducale and into the smaller Piazzetta where they stopped between the two majestic marble columns.

The twelfth-century stone projectiles—“acquisitions” from Constantinople—marked the aperture of the Molo, the waterfront—the majestic gateway—of the grand city. Atop one stood the winged lion of St. Mark while upon the other St. Theodore, the former patron of the Republic, battled a crocodile.

Sophia refused to look up to the top of the long, bright stone pillars. As a frightened child, she had seen men hanging upside down from a gibbet strung between them, and the horrifying sight had forever blighted their beauty in her eyes.

The Fiolario women slowed as they neared the shore, but Zeno urged them on.

“No, not this year. Today we will not just watch. We will be a part of this celebration.”

He smiled infectiously, urging them forward through the teeming masses to the ramp of a plumed and festooned barge. He dug in his pocket for the many gold coins to pay the family’s fare. Viviana opened her mouth to protest, snapping her jaw shut, offering a serene, if forced, smile in place of any harsh words.

With a wave to the crowd packing the piazzetta and overflowing into the larger piazza, Doge Donato stepped through the mammoth arch formed by the columns to board the Bucintoro with his chosen special guests. Among the contingent were not only the most powerful senators and council members of the land, but also the visiting kings, queens, and princes that Oriana so longed to see.

She grabbed Sophia’s arm. “Can you see any of them?”

Both young women strained to see across the water from where they stood near the rail of their garlanded craft and onto the ceremonial galley.

Sophia pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes as she looked off into the distance. “Sì, I see someone. Oh, he is very handsome, very slim, and muscular. What’s this? He’s stopped … he’s looking around for … for something.”

“What?” Oriana popped with excitement. “Che cosa? What does he look for?”

Sophia stood on tiptoe and craned her neck back and forth to see over and around the heads in front of them. “He looks … he looks … for you.”

“Uffa!” Oriana slapped Sophia’s arm, annoyed but laughing.

“Shh,” Sophia insisted with an indulgent sidelong grin. “The best and last part is coming. Wait until it’s over and we’ll find your prince for you.”

Oriana quieted, chastised, but took her sister’s hand in hers as the ceremony began.

Venice’s Festa della Sensa, Marriage to the Sea, had been celebrated for almost six hundred years. What began as a commemoration of the Serenissima’s naval prowess was now a tradition on Ascension Day to pay tribute to the sea that held their land in its loving embrace, a ceremony that paid homage to the power, prestige, and prosperity each brought to the other and their interdependence.

All the members of the procession were aboard, the bells began to peal, a cannon exploded on shore, and the Bucintoro began to sail out into the glistening blue waters amidst the cheering. The burgundy and gold ducal galley, constructed in the renowned Arsenale, was a floating palace, rebuilt once every century. Its wood shimmered, polished to a glossy finish, its flags bright and flapping in the midday sun. Now and again, the golden trim sparkled as if kissed by the sun. The gilded mythological creatures rose in stark relief along the bright red sides of the long slim vessel. Forty-two crimson oars, each eleven meters long and manned by four arsenaloti—the craftsmen of the Arsenale, one of the greatest industrial complexes in the world—propelled the flagship, named for the ancient mythological word meaning “big centaur,” out toward the port.

The waters around them churned and a flotilla of boats of every shape and size, including the barge carrying the Fiolarios, whirled around the Bucintoro, worker bees buzzing around the queen. Eagerly they followed it out to the Porto di Lido, where the deeper waters of the Adriatic waited, where the tip of the long curved sandbar ended. As the large boat stilled, the Bishop of Castello, the religious official who had presided over the ceremony since its inception, stood beside the Doge on the bow. Below them, adorning the prow, was the gilded wooden sculpture representing Venice dressed as Justice, with both a sword and scales.

From the Fiolarios’ perch a few boats away, the distinct figures of the two men were visible, the short one in a black robe, purple sash, skull cap, and beard, and the taller one, with his gold, embroidered cape furling out in the wind and distinctive headdress upon his skull. Nevermore than when seen in profile did the ducal cap cast a unique silhouette; rising from the flat top front of the head, the back rising majestically to peak in a small horn shape, the elongated flaps extending down to cover the Doge’s ears.

Sophia and her family could see the Bishop raise his hands and form the sign of the cross, blessing the waters of the sea in peace and gratitude. His hand lowered, fumbled amidst the folds of his robes, and rose back up, the Blessed Ring now in his hands. As he turned to address the Doge, his words took wing on the wind. Mere mutated snippets of sound found the pilgrims on the shore, the melodious tones blending with the strains of madrigals performed by two groups of singers, one on each side of the towering columns. Every man, woman, and child in attendance knew the ancient words the Bishop intoned to Il Serenissima on behalf of his people.

“Receive this ring as a token of sovereignty over the sea that you and your successors will be everlasting.”

Doge Donato stepped forward, accepted the token, and bowed in thanks. Gesturing to the crowd on the banks of the water, he held it high and his archetypically dour countenance broke into a grin.

“We espouse thee, O Sea, as a sign of true and perpetual domination.” The Doge’s pledge carried across the blue and green waters to the boats and farther on, to the shore, and the sea of anxious captives.

With a short swing of his long arm, he hurled the ring into the sea. For a moment it glittered against the bright azure sky, a reflection of the golden sun as bright as a star in the black heavens. It arced and fell into the waiting sea, the splash small yet resounding, sealing the marriage. The crowd roared, erupting into cheering jubilation as the small piece of jewelry splashed into the waters, to sink forever into its depths.

The Fiolario family hugged and kissed each other and many of the crowd around them, strangers who were no longer unfamiliar as they shared this moment of renewal and blessing, cheering and crying as one. These Venetians, forced together by the physical confines of their land, were bonded spiritually, perhaps more than the inhabitants of any vast kingdom. The applause and adulation continued until La Maesta Nav, the ship of majesty, returned to shore, disposing of its passengers amidst the exultant crowd. Only when the Doge, the Bishop, the government officials, and honored guests passed through the throng, embracing and shaking hands, did the horde begin to disperse.

“Come.” Zeno gathered his women as they lit ashore and onto the piazzetta. “Now to enjoy ourselves.”

“It is so wonderful to see you, Signore Fiolario.” Doge Donato shook Zeno’s hand with both of his large paw-like ones, his strong voice almost inaudible over the cacophony around them; music of all types, from all corners of the square, mingled with thousands of voices, strange and familiar languages blending into one stream of human sound. Bowing over their hands, brushing a kiss on those of Marcella and Viviana, the imposing ruler acknowledged each of the Fiolario women one at a time.

It had been a day of wonder and delights, filled with all that the ostentatious celebration had to offer, the bountiful banquets, processions and performers, the jugglers, dancers, and acrobats. Oriana and Lia had glimpsed a prince or two, mooned over their handsome faces and opulent dress, but in the end, had been too shy to approach them. The sadness and turmoil of the past few days, though not forgotten, had been kept at bay like water behind a temporary dam, but the Doge’s presence had loosened the flood gates once more. The powerful leader would not have deigned to give a moment’s thought to a family such as theirs if Zeno were not a prestigious member of the Arte dei Vetrai.

Mother and grandmother gave small, respectful curtsies to the Doge and the group of powerful men behind him, Sophia and her sisters following suit. The small bevy of men offered bows and nods in return.

“It is a great day for all Venetians.” Zeno’s wide mouth curled up in a ghost of a smile. “A day of compassion and understanding for us all, is it not?”

Viviana tugged on her husband’s arm, a stiff smile crinkling her plump, flushed cheeks.