The Venetian Read Free Page A

patiently waiting for the Venetian to die. Abramo tried to speak. What was happening? He opened his mouth, bubbles of dark blood coating his chin. Finally he slumped, eyes frozen in bewilderment. The Mamluk dipped his blade and gently pulled, sliding the scimitar from Abramo’s chest. The body crumpled to the ground, its blood slowly mingling with the city’s dust like the ritual waters of the Nile Abramo had arrived too late to see.

Three
    T omaso Avesari shuffled slowly along the Fondamenta dei Vetrai in the small morning hours just before dawn. A chill wind blew off the canal. Pulling his light coat tight, he huddled, trying to lessen the surface area exposed to the sting of the swirling air.
    He was getting too old for such early morning excursions, but his pre-dawn stroll had become a routine. He needn’t go out at all with the workshop attached to the house. But it helped clear his head of the fog from sleep and prepared him for the day. Besides, he had little choice until Ciro took over the daily running of the shop. His elder son had made great strides in his technique over the last few months he mused, ducking further into the coat like a badger into his burrow.
    One of Europe’s most respected glass blowing houses, Avesari e Figli had become known for its expertise in the latest trends in decorative glass, particularly the filigrana a retortoli ; vases, goblets and bowls infused with threadlike patterns of colored glass, as though lace were made from light itself. Tomaso was close to handing over the reins of the business to his son. He was tired yes, but still not ready. While Ciro had demonstrated a natural affinity for producing the clear cristallo glass and a firm grasp of the complexity of lattimo , the white glass mimicking porcelain currently in fashion with the Venetian nobility, he had yet to master the intricate composition of the filigrana a retortoli .
    And then there was Paolo. Tomaso shook his head sadly in the unconscious reflex that always attended thoughts of Ciro’s younger brother. His disappointment in his second son was something he had never been able to conceal. Paolo had shown such tremendous promise, far more than his older brother, his talent nothing short of a revelation, and Tomaso had been convinced of his continuing legacy and the survival of Murano’s most revered family of glassmakers. But Paolo rejected his family’s art, choosing to waste his talents on shipbuilding in the Arsenale, Venice’s tribute to greed and the wars waged to protect it. Tomaso was devastated, taking Paolo’s decision as a betrayal. The relationship, once so loving, had become nothing more than two men with a shared name.
    Merda! But it was cold. His old bones were as peevish as the rest of him now. The flickering lamplight reflected in the canal’s restless water brought to mind the fireflies and warmer days of his youth. The squat buildings, shuttered against the damp, leaned forward, straining for a glimpse of the light play on the water.
    The scraping of his soles rang loudly in his ears without the competing sounds of day. The skiffs and gondolas of the canal chafed against their mooring poles, protruding from the black water at awkward angles as though placed there by chance.
    Finally the twin doors of the workshop emerged from the gloom, two enormous oaken tablets, gracefully curved at the top, embracing their reinforcing strips of iron, making the shop’s entrance look more like a fortress than the seat of gifted artisans.
    While early mornings at the workshop were necessary to ensure a full day’s productivity, Tomaso knew that he was unique in his habit of commencing this early. And he attributed his success to that practice. Talent and technique were surely the lynchpins of his art, but many a talented and starving artist littered the streets of Venice. Desire and discipline, a strong work ethic, these were the things that kept his family from peddling his wares, beautiful though they