Behind the high altar, under which rest the remains of S. Eliodorus, is the tribune. This part of the church is unique. The apse is arranged in eight semicircular rows of seats, occupied at one time by the lesser clergy, in the centre of which, elevated to a position just under the small eastern light, is the bishop's throne. The throne is approached by a dozen steps separated from the rows of seats by a marble wall. The seats in times gone by were white marble, but have been recently restored and are now of brick. Despite their present warm colour, the damp chilliness of this beautiful little church strikes a mournful note hardly relieved by the flaring red brick, or the gorgeous tone of the mosaics which cover the vaulting of the choir and apse.
In the semi-dome of the apse a dignified Madonna and Child gaze serenely below, with white-robed Apostles ranged round. The mosaics, however, which cover the west wall are of greater artistic interest, being of the ninth century. They illustrate the narrative of early Christian tradition and are divided into five bands carrying out its ideas. The marvellous tessellated floor of the cathedral has withstood, in a wonderful manner, the damp and ravages of time, but, like that of S. Mark's, is very uneven. There is an air of decay and long oblivion about the whole building that nothing can efface.
Outside, and joined to the cathedral by a cloistered walk, is the church of Sta. Fosca. Originally a basilica of the ninth century, this much dilapidated little edifice was rebuilt in 1008 in the shape of a Greek cross. A rotunda occupies the centre, inside which runs a grey pillared arcade built to support a dome that was never constructed. There are three apses; the middle one has two rows of blind arcading with ornamental brickwork above. A brick loggia, covered with whitewash, is outside, and connects with the cloister and the cathedral. Sta. Fosca suffered martyrdom at Ravenna her native city, and her remains were brought here, and this now damp ruinous little church built around them.
On the green grass of the little piazza, which one can hardly realise was once the focus of a thriving city, stands an ancient stone chair called "The Throne of Attila." It most probably was used at the inauguration ceremony of Torcello's chief magistrates. A column of later date is beside it, and behind them, occupying one side of this deserted square, is the Palazzo del Commune, a building of the thirteenth century, now used as the museum wherein are gathered all the relics of Torcello's ancient glory that time unearths. As the gondola carries one back to Venice it threads deserted canals, and passes under many a bridge the voussoirs of which are the only remaining stones of structures that spanned the water and connected the islands over which a populous civilisation spread itself. Save for the "quack" of an occasional duck hidden in the reeds of the marsh and the garrulity of the gondolier all is silence and solitude. A vast sky above but adds to the feeling of desolation, as, level with the water's edge, we skim along. Who can tell whether Venice herself one day may not become what fascinating though dreary Torcello now is!