by Sam Barone
With these words, what should have been a happy day of celebration turned into a moment of devastating revelations. While Antonio sat there stunned, Nicolo told him the whole story, the deathbed meeting with his father, the flight from Venice, the attack in the night that killed his mother, and the long and difficult journey to reach England.
“Years ago, after I decided to remain here in England, I told myself that it would be best if you never knew the truth about your parents.”
“Why are you telling me now?”
“For one thing, Lady Masina believes you were killed with your mother, so the danger to you has passed.”
“Why does she think I’m dead?”
“Ah, Maffeo should tell you that story,” Nicolo said, a brief smile crossing his face. “But the reason I decided to tell you about your birthright is something more urgent. You know I received a letter from my brother Marco a few weeks ago?”
Antonio nodded. Letters from anyone were rare, let alone those from a foreign country. While he had never met his Uncle Marco, Antonio knew he built guns at the great Arsenal for the Venetian Republic.
“Since Marco took charge at the Arsenal, he has been desperately searching for master gunners, men who know how to design and build fine weapons. War is coming to Venice. Perhaps not this year or the next, but it is coming. The Republic needs all the skilled craftsmen it can find. I owe . . . we owe my brother much, Antonio. Marco helped pay our way to England. And he wants to know more about the techniques we’ve discovered to drill the bronze. He offered to exchange their latest formulas for mixing gunpowder and designs for building cannons. And in this last letter, he reminded me that he helped arrange my commission with King Edward.”
His uncle Marco was calling in a family debt, Antonio realized. Nicolo’s honor would be lost if he failed his brother. Nicolo would have to comply. “Uncle Marco wants to learn our secrets. That means . . .”
“That means that you must go to Venice,” Nicolo said. “None of the senior journeymen here would even consider such a passage, not for any amount of gold. And I cannot go, not as long as Lady Masina lives.”
“You want me to go to Venice? Aren’t there cannon makers enough there, or even in Italy?”
“Antonio, the processes we’ve discovered and refined here can help our countrymen in the coming battle. For many years, the Republic has kept the Turks at bay, though they wage war against all the Christian states. City after city has fallen, and only Venice keeps the heathens from gaining control of the Mediterranean. If Venice falls, all of Italy will follow. The followers of Mohammed are led by Soleyman the Magnificent. They are ferocious warriors who have never lost a battle.”
“But, Father. . .” The word still seemed natural, and Antonio didn’t know what else to call Nicolo. “What does all this mean to us? Venice is half a world away, and the Turks mean nothing to England. Can’t you find someone else to send?”
“At first, I didn’t want you to go,” Nicolo went on. “But the more I thought about it, the more certain I became that you must go.”
“Father, I don’t want . . . I won’t go to Venice.”
Nicolo leaned across the table, his gray beard brushing the edge. “Listen to me. The journey should be safe for you. As my son and with my name, you will be in no danger. In three or four months, no more than six, you can demonstrate what we’ve mastered. And at the same time you can learn everything we need to know. With knowledge of the Arsenal’s latest techniques, you will be able to help England and ensure that our foundry continues to enjoy the Queen’s favor. Our future, your future, my son, will be assured. All this,” he waved his hand toward the buildings, “will be yours when I’m gone. That is why I needed to tell you of your heritage.”
“Father, I want to serve England, not Venice.”
“War is coming to these shores soon enough. Queen Elizabeth and the Council will try to postpone the inevitable as long as possible, but war will come, I’m sure of it. The Queen will need cannons, good cannons, more than she knows. What you learn from Marco could help England more than you realize.”
Antonio tried to withdraw his hand, but Nicolo held it firmly, as if the contact between the two of them must not be broken. “And you have a duty to perform. Now that you know the truth about your birth, it is your obligation to visit the grave of your father, and to say a prayer for your unburied mother at St. Mark’s. You may look English, but you’re a true Venetian, and you must honor your parents. Only then can they rest in peace in their graves. They both gave their lives to save you, as did those others who died that night in the forest. That is an honor debt that you must repay, my son.”
A sparrow with a red breast landed on the end of the bench, its eyes moving from father to son, hoping for a crumb. When it realized none was coming, it chirped at them in annoyance and darted away, swooping low across the meadow.
Antonio watched it go, sitting in silence until the creature disappeared. All this was too much to comprehend. This morning, he’d thought only of the feast that would cover the table tonight. What obligations did he have to a country he’d left as an infant, and to parents he hadn’t known existed until moments ago? Now he learned of his ignoble birth at the same time his father planned to dispatch him halfway across the world. The thought of leaving his home, his country, and traveling alone across the world sent a chill through him.
Turning his gaze back to Nicolo, Antonio saw tears in his father’s eyes.
“No.” Antonio raised his voice, the first time he’d ever challenged his father’s will. “Send someone else to Venice. I want to be a soldier, like Bernardo. I want to learn to fight.”
“A soldier!” Nicolo’s hand clenched into a fist on the table. “Put such foolishness out of your head at once. Bernardo disobeyed me, something no good son should ever do. But we both knew he had no head for the craft of making cannons. He would never have risen above a good journeyman. You, my son, have the skills and the mind to master every secret. With time and the proper training, you will be one of the master cannoneers of Europe.”
Antonio met his father’s eyes. “If war is coming to England, then I want to stay here. I want to be a soldier. I’d planned to speak to you about this soon after my birthday.”
“Any dolt of a farm boy can be a soldier,” Nicolo said, his rising temper hardening his voice. “A few months in Venice, and you will earn the Queen’s favor with your future secured forever. And be well paid in the process. You can build on my work here. The House of Pesaro will make guns for England for many years, and you, not Bernardo, will be my heir. You can make more of a difference for England than any ten soldiers. Do not dare to disobey me in this.”
Antonio shook his head and stood. “If you’re not my father, then you can’t command me to go.”
His father’s eyes winced in pain at the words. “You will go to Venice,” Nicolo said, rising to his feet. “The foundry, everything I’ve worked for all these years is at risk. You must bring back the Arsenal’s secrets, or everything here could be lost, given to another who might arrive from abroad with the latest knowledge and win the Queen’s favor.”
A shout from the foundry carried across the meadow. “Master, your visitor has arrived.”
The words halted Antonio’s angry reply. A visitor meant a customer. Yesterday, Captain Stukeley had sent word he wanted to see what weapons Nicolo had for sale.
“We’ll speak more of this tonight,” Nicolo said, struggling to keep his own temper in check. “Just remember you are and always will be my son.” He turned his head back to the foundry. “Captain Stukeley must be eager to buy, if he arrives so early in the day. Come, my son. We have work to do.”
Nicolo strode back across the meadow, leaving Antonio trailing behind, his fists clenched. His father was treating him like a child, ordering him to a distant land as if he were a mere apprentice. No, not his father. Merely his distant cousin, and a cousin did not rule a household with the same authority as a natural father. Antonio
thought about that as he made his way back to the foundry.
***
Captain Thomas Stukeley and Nicolo were already deep in conversation when Antonio approached. Dressed like a fine gentleman, the captain wore his fur-trimmed cloak thrown back over his left shoulder, and he rested his left hand on the hilt of his sword. A frown appeared on Stukeley’s face, and Antonio guessed that the price of the guns had already come up.
A big man, Thomas Stukeley carried his bulk with ease, and the unadorned blade at his side was meant for more than decoration. Rumor claimed he was a bastard son of old King Henry, born to one of the court attendants, which would make him a half-brother to the young Queen Elizabeth. Gossip in London’s lanes also hinted that the Queen had twice banished Stukeley from her presence, and that even in the best of times his person was not always welcome at court. Thomas Stukeley’s favor and influence waxed and waned as much with his latest deeds as with the Royal mood.
No matter what his lineage or present status at court, everyone in London knew about Captain Stukeley. He’d campaigned with the army against the Irish, fought French and Dutch pirates at sea, and involved himself in several brawls in London’s less reputable taverns. He’d fought two duels, at least one of them over another man’s wife.
None of that impressed Nicolo, Antonio saw. His father might nod his head respectfully to the nobility, but he bowed low only to the Queen. Nicolo treated everyone the same, and expected to receive the deference owed to his position as a free man, a master craftsman, and a holder of the Crown’s warrant.
For the next hour, Antonio attended Nicolo while struggling against the turmoil in his mind. A bastard. That’s what people would call him if they learned the truth, just as he had applied the epithet to Captain Stukeley. Even having a nobleman for a father didn’t overcome the stigma of an illegitimate birth.
When Antonio wanted to marry, well-bred women would turn aside, unwilling to sully their names by entering into a union with him. Even his friends and companions would treat him differently. In one step he’d descended into the world of the ill-bred, social outcasts always kept separate from the highest society.
Antonio’s birthright of seventeen years had vanished in the meadow’s morning breeze. His real father had sired a bastard child with one of his mistresses, and Antonio was the fruit of that illicit union. Nothing could ever change that damning fact.
The word “bastard’ would ever be whispered behind his back. Rude comments and snide looks would follow Antonio for the rest of his life. He worried his friends would guess the truth, perhaps see it on his face.
Already the word “father” sounded strange in his ears, just as Nicolo appeared different to his eyes. Antonio now had to force the word past his lips. Not that Nicolo noticed. His attention remained focused on his customer. Business always came first, and Antonio tried to put the distracting thoughts aside while he helped Nicolo give his guest a tour of the foundry.
Stukeley had come to purchase four iron cannons for his ship, the Pinnace. In the last few years, Nicolo had begun to shift the major part of his efforts into bronze weapons instead of iron, especially for those weapons intended to be used at sea. Among the seafaring cognoscenti, Nicolo’s guns were now the most sought-after.
“The Pinnace is already outfitted with iron cannons,” Stukeley said. “Why should I spend more gold for fewer guns?”
“How old are they?” Nicolo challenged, unperturbed at his customer’s haughty attitude.
Stukeley shrugged. “I’m not sure. Perhaps six or seven years. I took command of the Pinnace only a year ago.”
“I know most of the ships built in the last ten years,” Nicolo said. “But I don’t think the Pinnace is that new. And before you took charge of the ship, the original guns might have been replaced with older ones. That’s what happened to Captain Marcy. He put to sea without testing his weapons, and two cannons burst after a few shots, killing several of his crew. I know. I took what remained of them as scrap. Captain Marcy purchased six of my finest bronze guns only last month.”
Antonio, listening a few steps away, caught the momentary frown that crossed Captain Stukeley’s face. Swapping newer guns for the oldest and cheapest available happened many times. Captains were loath to leave good weapons behind when they advanced to a larger or better ship. Even if the vessel came from the Queen’s own fleet, the previous captain or owner wouldn’t hesitate to make a quick profit by selling off newer weapons and replacing them with the cheapest that could be found. Sometimes guns meant to be used on land appeared onboard ships, despite their greater bulk. No doubt Captain Stukeley had fallen victim to the same scheme.
“And your ship’s guns have likely been weakened by rust from the salt air after all these years,” Nicolo went on. “Iron guns fail too fast at sea. Have any burst on you yet, Captain?”
“No, of course not,” Stukeley snapped, but his mouth closed into a thin line.
Nicolo smiled politely at the too-quick reply. “Still, you can expect them to begin to fail, especially under hard use.” Nicolo lifted his hands and let them drop. “In my opinion, a fighting sea captain who spends months in the Channel or rainy Atlantic should invest only in bronze. But I’m sure you know the quality of your weapons. Our iron cannons will last many years even at sea, you can be sure of that. And they do cost much less, if that’s all you can afford.”
Antonio winced at his father’s words. They bordered on insult.
“Your bronze guns cost more than twice as much as the iron ones,” Stukeley argued, choosing to ignore any possible slur on his purse. “Why are they so expensive?”
“I’m sure you know bronze is much more expensive to cast than common iron. And there’s the quality of the ore required, not to mention the skill of the workers.” Nicolo again lifted his hands, this time in sympathy. “And don’t forget, they’ll last much more than twice as long,” he added, reciting the familiar litany. “They’re smaller, they won’t rust, and the new carriages make them easier to handle.”
The haggling continued, and Antonio found himself smiling. His father knew well how to steer a customer to the more expensive weapons. It didn’t take long before Captain Stukeley agreed to a demonstration, and the little group moved out to the testing area at the head of the meadow.
A row of six cannons faced down the field. Two of them were bronze Demi-culverins, their new barrels gleaming in the sunlight, resting in their oak carriages, muzzles pointing down the grassy heath. Just over seven feet in length, almost a foot shorter than the standard iron cannon, they weighed quite a bit less and could throw a 12 pound cannon ball over 2,000 yards, at maximum elevation.
Antonio had helped cast these two weapons, and he knew the bores to be true and the bronze free of flaws. They could hurl a shot with accuracy up to 500 yards. With the help of the testing apprentices, Antonio loaded one of the guns, while laborers set up the usual target at the end of the clearing, an old sail strung between two poles.
Antonio had paced the distance himself, and knew the target to be exactly an eighth of a mile distant, well within the gun’s effective range yet close enough for any customer to see the shot’s effect. Taking his time, he made sure the gun sat level on the ground, with the barrel pointing toward the target and at the correct elevation. The apprentices stepped away, and Antonio touched a burning taper to the touchhole. The gun recoiled backward with a burst of smoke, a flat sound boomed across the meadow, and the shot punched a hole through the patched sail, to the cheers of the apprentices.
“A fine shooting weapon, isn’t it, Captain?” Nicolo nodded approvingly at Antonio.
“It’s easy enough to hit a target here, with plenty of time to load and aim,” Stukeley countered. “Aboard ship, with the deck heaving and pitching, and the enemy moving as well, it’s another matter.”
“Of course, Captain. I understand. Perhaps we should let my son give you a demonstration of the iron cannons.”
But Captain Stukeley wanted to examine the gun
carriages, which he grudgingly admitted might provide a slight improvement over the older versions aboard the Pinnace. “Can you put my iron cannons on these new carriages?”
At a signal from his father, Antonio spoke up. “No, Captain. The weight is distributed differently, and the carriage needs to be larger. For these bronze guns, the oak frame has been reinforced with extra iron rivets, and the wheels are wider and larger, to roll easier on the deck of a ship.”
Stukeley stared at the gun, uncertainty showing on his face. He obviously wanted the newer guns.
“Come to my quarters, Captain,” Nicolo said, before the silence grew too long. “I can at least offer you a cup of wine while you decide.”
Nicolo led the customer into the small frame structure where he designed his creations. Antonio stayed behind. His father needed no help in closing the sale, and hard bargaining and bickering over prices was best done alone.
When the two men emerged a quarter of an hour later, Nicolo had a broad smile on his face.
“Antonio, Captain Stukeley has purchased two of our newest guns, and forty of our roundest shot as well. But he wants to take possession today and have the guns installed by nightfall. Please make all the arrangements.”
“Yes, Father,” Antonio said, already rearranging his plans for the rest of the day. It would require four wagons to transport the guns, the carriages, and the cannon balls. Fortunately, one wagon had just arrived with its cargo of wood, and another could be seen in the distance, lumbering its way toward the foundry. The liverymen would jump at the chance to transport guns back to London, of course at Captain Stukeley’s expense. The ship owner’s purse would be much lighter by nightfall.
The preparations for transporting the weapons began. Despite this activity, Antonio’s thoughts about his heritage returned again and again to trouble him. His father had lied to him all these years and now wanted him to travel to Venice merely to learn the Arsenal’s latest secrets. What Antonio wanted meant nothing.