The day was falling when I stopped under the incomplete porticoes of my Basilica.
The wooden scaffolding, pitch-black and gnarled, climbed like skeletons along the façade, enveloping the building in a lattice that seemed suspended in time.
The resinous smell of damp wood mingled with the acrid scent of red-hot metals, carried by the wind from the goldsmiths' workshops nearby.
I was not alone.
The shadows lengthened around the workers who, on the scaffolding, were shaping the last stone frames of the day. In the gloom, some familiar figures moved in the distance: a low conversation, the echo of footsteps on the pavement.
The air was thick with whispers, as if too many minds, too many projects were coming to fruition at the same time, in the heart of the city.
That day, before my tired eyes, the Jewel of Vicenza was taking shape: it would be an ex voto to the Madonna di Monte Berico, which now involved hands, talents and opinions that transcended the confines of our walls.
Francesco Albanese, still young in my eyes, accompanied Matteo Priuli, following in my footsteps and that of the elderly bishop, Niccolò Ridolfi. I had glimpsed at least his advice in the details of the wooden work underneath, in those surfaces ready to welcome the silver that was ennobling it.
Alessandro Vittoria had arrived from Venice.
I knew him, we had already worked together, just as many of the gentlemen who surrounded us came to greet him. His reputation preceded him even in the comments among the artisans of the Basilica and the Palazzo del Capitaniato, on the other side of the square: for everyone he was the magnificent sculptor of implacable portraits, the man of few words and measured gestures. I had noticed him a little earlier, touching with his fingers a piece of chiseled silver still to be assembled, as if to measure the purity of the metal and the cleanliness of the line.
But his gaze was not only directed at the object. He had studied, more than anything, the men at work. He did not intervene, not then.
There was another, who had come from further away, who did not go unnoticed.
Hendrik, or at least that was what he called himself, did not speak our language except for a few words, but he made himself understood well with gestures. From his jacket and hat I would have said he was Flemish...
From his belt hung tools that I knew were not for silver, but for the fine working of gold. He must have been passing through Vicenza these days, and he had come closer to observe.
That work called us all with a magnetism that went far beyond duty or curiosity.
In the rain, in the chiaroscuro of the arcades, the silver sparkled faintly, glimpsed between the hands of the craftsmen.
An imposing disk, yes, but still unfinished.
It had the grace and weight of a gift destined to last through the centuries, something that could be lifted with two hands, yet born to dominate the gaze of an entire city.
The goldsmiths worked in silence.
They were not men known for their names, but for the precision of their fingers.
I had glimpsed a certain Lodovico, hands dark with calamine and a careful gaze like that of the oldest engravers of the Fraglia.
Another, with the accent of Nanto, traced very thin lines on the metal, almost from memory.
There was no need for words between us, but I knew that Alessandro and Francesco also noticed the details. It was not the moment of form, but of meaning. What was being created had to be not only beautiful. It had to weigh, in the soul of the city.
Suddenly a sound of metal fell between the scaffolding.
I turned, alarmed.
No one seemed to have heard, nor noticed anything unusual.
And yet, for a moment, I had the impression that someone, on the upper floor, was watching me too.
The memory of death returned to visit me, as was happening more and more often.
I was still with Leonida and Orazio, the two sons I had lost five years earlier, and I knew that soon it would be my turn too.
It's a matter of a moment - I reflected, returning this time to the various workers I had lost on my construction sites.
A carelessness, bad luck, fate...
"Too dark to check the reflection"
Vittoria's voice, low. It was behind me, touching the silver with a finger. A barely perceptible, almost disturbing glow along the edges.
What was outside of me was also inside of me.
I continued in my thoughts: everything, for all of us, through all of us, would live forever.
Our beautiful Vicenza was destined to shine like a talisman in the folds of history, thanks to the hands and ideas of those who thought and worked.
The wooden boards creaked with every blow of the hammer, and the acrid smell of wrought iron mingled with that of still-fresh lime. In that network of beams and ropes, I, Andrea Palladio, observed the beating heart of my city.
Everything was a sign. A promise. An omen.
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