by Sam Barone
Antonio ran down the stairs and out into the rear garden. As he walked to Maffeo’s side, Antonio noticed the young man beside Maffeo eyeing him carefully.
Not really a young man, Antonio decided, though the stranger might be only a year or two older than himself. Long blond hair hung to his broad shoulders, cut short across his brow. The man’s brown eyes had the same hardness Antonio had noticed in Captain Stukeley. Calculating eyes that missed nothing as they took your measure.
“Antonio, this is Will. That’s Martin over there, thrusting with Bernardo. They’re both soldiers who campaigned with your brother.”
“Good day to you, Master Antonio,” Will said, with a brief nod of his head.
Not much of a greeting, Antonio noted. In England men bowed to their betters, doffing their caps and showing proper respect. In the streets of London, a soldier would be expected to step aside for any respectable tradesman, just as Antonio would be expected to step aside and doff his cap for the gentry or clergy. If anyone complained about the lack of deference, or a passing city bailiff noticed the disrespect, the offender could earn a fine or wind up in the stocks.
Antonio forgot about that when he noticed that Will had a crossbow slung across his back and a quiver at his waist. A soldier’s weapon, one not often seen on London’s streets. Antonio wondered why Will hadn’t left the bow in his quarters.
“Good day to you, Master Will.” Antonio decided to treat the man as his equal. Just then Martin and Bernardo put up their swords, laughing as they saluted each other. Breathing hard, they joined the others.
“Antonio, this poor excuse for a swordsman is Martin,” Bernardo said. “We fought together in Ireland.”
“Master Antonio.” Martin’s bow showed only a trace more respect than Will’s nod. Martin looked to be about Bernardo’s age, though his eyes showed more worry lines at the corners. A small jagged scar on his left cheek hardened his appearance.
Antonio bowed as he replied. His brother and Maffeo treated these men as equals, not mere soldiers, a trade that had even less status in England than serving in the Queen’s navy. Antonio noticed that Martin’s eyes, like Captain Stukeley’s, had the same glint and calculating sweep that noticed every detail. Both Martin and Will were dressed in mismatched and patched clothing. Their worn boots had seen more than one campaign.
He watched Martin sheath his sword. The blade looked well-made, just like the one Bernardo carried. Neither showed the slightest trace of rust.
“These men will be your bodyguards on your trip to Venice.” Maffeo smiled as he saw the effect of his words. “Bernardo and I made the arrangements. You’ll need good men beside you to keep you out of trouble.”
Antonio felt his face flush at the thought of these two men taking care of him, as if he were still a child.
“I understand you fought in a sea battle, Master Antonio. Well done.” Martin made no mention of Antonio’s stowing away, though he no doubt knew the whole story.
“I just loaded the cannon, sir, and followed Captain Stukeley’s orders.”
“That’s what fighting’s mostly all about, Antonio,” Martin said, “doing your duty and following orders. Nonetheless, London’s full of men who can’t do either.”
“You can talk about his sea campaign later,” Bernardo said. “But I must be off, and first I want to speak to Antonio.” Sheathing his sword, he took Antonio’s arm and guided him toward the house.
Inside, Bernardo led his cousin into Nicolo’s office, empty now. Nicolo wouldn’t return before sunset. As long as the light held, he and his foundry workers would remain at their labors.
They sat facing each other on the bench before the great desk.
“Antonio, I have to rejoin my company before noon. We take ship for Ireland with the afternoon tide.”
“But you’ve just returned . . .”
“And lucky to get back at all, and even more fortunate to see you. If you’d gone to sea, it might have been years before we met again.” Bernardo shook his head. “Enough of that. You’ll be leaving for Venice soon and you’ll be facing more danger there than I’ll probably see fighting Irish rebels. At least I’ll know who and where my enemies are.”
“But Father said that …”
“I know what Father said, Antonio, but he won’t be there, you will be. You’ll be walking the streets surrounded by those stiff-necked, pompous Italians, all of them jealous of their honor and their women, and looking for trouble. If Lady Masina finds out who you are, your mere presence will offend her, and she’s not likely to leave you alone.”
“I’m not planning to challenge her, Bernardo. She’s nothing to me.”
“She killed your parents and tried to kill you, you’ll remember that. Besides, it’s what you might mean to her that’s reason enough to worry.” Bernardo put his hand on Antonio’s shoulder. “But that’s my advice as well. Avoid her if you can. Whatever you do, don’t provoke her or try to claim any of your father’s rights or title. She has a powerful husband and friends of her own. With luck she won’t notice your presence, or even know who you are.”
“I’ll stay clear of her, I promise.”
“Good.” Bernardo smiled at him. “Now, about Martin and Will. I want you to listen to them, take their advice.”
“But they’re soldiers . . .”
“They’re not just bodyguards, Antonio, they’re men who’ve lived by soldiering for more than 10 years. And they’ll train you to fight, so you can protect yourself.”
“I’ve taken fencing lessons. I can take care of myself.”
Bernardo sighed and shook his head. “Venice isn’t like London. There are more duels fought in a Venice week than in a London year. Not to mention the beatings and street fights. So you listen to these men and learn from them. There’s no finer swordsman than Martin in the country.”
“He speaks like a gentleman, not a soldier.”
“Well noted,” Bernardo said. “You’re learning. Rumor says Martin was born to a noble family, but had to leave in disgrace.”
“Is it true, do you think?” Suddenly Martin seemed more mysterious and exciting.
“ Maybe. I wouldn’t ask him if I were you. Just listen to what he says and take his advice.”
“And what of Will? Is he another nobleman gone wrong?”
“Not that one. Will’s as country bumpkin English as you’ll find. But he and that crossbow have killed more men than Martin and I together.” Bernardo frowned for a moment. “That reminds me. You’re to say nothing to anyone about them. They’ll be sleeping here until you depart.”
Antonio felt surprised that the two soldiers would be staying at the house. “But why must they . . .”
“The Duke of Cumberland’s men are looking for them. There was a bit of trouble a month ago, and two of his retainers got killed. One of the dead was a kinsman of the Duke, a distant cousin or something. Enough of a relation for the Duke to put a warrant on Martin and Will’s heads. The bailiffs have them on their lists. That’s why they can’t stay in England or return to Ireland. The Duke’s men will be there as well.”
Antonio’s eyes widened. “You mean they’re murderers?”
Bernardo sighed again. “What a local magistrate, after groveling before the Duke, calls murder, others might say was self-defense. But when you fight with your betters and win, you have to pay the price. In six months or a year, likely everything will be forgotten. When you come back from Venice, they’ll be able to return in safety. Meanwhile, their misfortune is to your benefit. They need a master’s protection, and they’ll be grateful for passage out of England, not to mention a chance to earn some shillings without fighting the Irish. Most of all, they’ve given me their pledge to keep you safe. You may not understand such things yet, Antonio, but among soldiers that means something.”
Every day seemed to bring some new situation that Antonio didn’t fully understand, but he heard the urgency in Bernardo’s voice.
“I’ll do as you say, Bernardo.”
“Good. Learn as much as you can from them, and treat them honorably. Officially they’re your servants, but show respect to them. They may keep you alive. Remember, you’ve a difficult journey ahead of you. The roads and seas are full of bandits and rogues. They’ll see you and your purse as easy pickings. And Venice will be even worse. You’ll be an outsider, more English than Italian, without a strong family to stand up for you. And remember, war is coming to the Mediterranean, and the Turks are the finest fighters on earth. No Christian army has ever defeated them, Antonio. Not as far back as anyone can remember. Everyone says they’re invincible. If Martin and Will watch your back, maybe you’ll live long enough to return to England.”
A shiver went through Antonio, as much from Bernardo’s intensity as worries about his own death. During the fight aboard Captain Stukeley’s ship, the thought that he might get killed had never occurred to him. Antonio understood he’d been too busy to be afraid. Now he realized just how alone he would be.
“I’ll heed what they say, Bernardo. I give you my word.”
“Then I’ll be well satisfied, brother.” He put his arms around Antonio and hugged him tight for a moment. “Our father wants you back alive, but with your honor intact. Don’t disappoint him. In many ways, you’re more of a son to him than I’ve been, and I know he loves you even more. That’s why he was so hurt when you ran off.”
Bernardo’s words made Antonio uncomfortable. Raised in England, he’d learned not to show his emotions. But his father and Bernardo had grown up in Italy, and there a man spoke about family and honor with more openness.
“I won’t disappoint Nicolo again, Bernardo, I promise you.”
“Then I can depart in peace.” He smiled. “You go back to Italy and show those snotty Venetians how we make guns in England. And how we use them. Now change your clothes. Martin is waiting for you. There’s plenty of daylight left and it’s time to start your training. Maffeo is going with me to say goodbye to Father, and then he’ll accompany me to the docks. I can’t miss my ship, or I might find a price on my own head.”
***
Back in the garden, Antonio found Martin and Will waiting for him. Martin had a rapier in his hand. The blade looked new and well made.
“Will, give Antonio your sword,” Martin said. “Now let’s see what you know.”
Antonio took the weapon and checked the cul-de-mort, the ball cap that fitted over the sword’s tip, and made sure it fit snuggly. If it came loose, as they frequently did, the sparring had to stop. Otherwise the results could be deadly.
“The rapier is what young gentlemen in Venice are using to kill each other these days, Antonio.” Martin checked his own cul-de-mort as he spoke. “So we’ll start with that. En garde.”
Antonio assumed the proper stance, turning sideways to Martin and bringing up his sword’s tip level with Martin’s eyes.
Martin crossed blades with him. “Let’s see how strong you are. Push my sword aside.”
Antonio twisted his wrist, trying to turn Martin’s sword, but the point only jiggled, then remained steady. Antonio pushed with all his strength, gritting his teeth, but he couldn’t do more than make his opponent’s blade flex.
“Not much arm strength, Antonio. We’ll need to work on that. Now you try and hold your blade steady.”
To Antonio’s dismay, Martin easily pushed his sword aside, and no matter how hard Antonio tried, he couldn’t return to the en garde position. The man’s arm rippled with powerful muscles. Martin’s blade felt like an iron rod embedded in stone, and just as immovable.
“Your arm and wrist need strengthening. Tomorrow we’ll start on that. Now we’ll just see how you handle your sword.”
Antonio tried to ignore the weakness in his arm as Martin withdrew his blade and gave instructions. Thrust, lunge, forward, retreat, thrust high, move forward, lunge, lunge, thrust low. Antonio tried to execute each movement as he’d been taught, but he knew he looked clumsy, slow, almost as if he were handling a sword for the first time.
The commands went on and on, with Martin countering each movement, despite Antonio’s best efforts to reach his tutor with the tip of his blade. Without a letup, the movements continued, and Antonio felt his arm growing heavy and stiffness building in his legs. By now he couldn’t keep the sword steady and knew that Martin could feel the weakness in his wrist. Antonio considered himself strong for someone his size. Working with bronze and pushing heavy cannons around, he’d developed more muscles that most of his companions. But compared to Martin, Antonio felt as weak as a mouse and just as awkward.
His new instructor kept on, even casually knocking his pupil’s sword up to the level position when it drifted too far downward. The sweat dripped from Antonio’s face before Martin called a rest.
“Now that you’ve loosened up, Antonio, let’s have a real practice.” Martin stepped back and checked the cul-de-mort once again. “Now let’s see if you can score a point. Will, you’ll judge the hits.”
Antonio saluted with his sword, then lunged as fast and hard as he could, straight at Martin’s chest, hoping to catch the man by surprise. With a movement of his wrist almost too small to notice, Martin deflected the thrust so that it slid by his shoulder harmlessly and counter-stroked in the same motion. Antonio felt the blunted sword punch against his chest hard enough to raise a bruise. He’d never had a chance to react.
“An excellent try, Master Antonio, but you must move faster than that, and without giving away your intentions. Let’s try that again.”
And again and again, until Antonio had to bite his lip to keep his arm firm. Much too tired now, his movements grew wilder. Only when he couldn’t hold the blade properly did Martin give the order to rest. Antonio, breathing hard, looked up to see some of the servants taking their ease, watching the exercise, their smiles adding to his embarrassment.
“Antonio, that was a good hour’s work. You have the feel for the sword, I can see that. Not all men do. By the time we get to Venice, you’ll hold a fair blade. Not that I’m any expert with a rapier.”
The sun shone directly overhead, and Antonio guessed much more than an hour had passed.
“You move better than my fencing instructor, Martin. I thought soldiers used a broadsword, not a rapier.”
Antonio had never tried his hand at the broadsword, but knew all about them. His father’s foundry had created thousands over the years. The typical English broadsword had a two-edged blade, two to three inches wide at the base, and tapering to a point. The weapon ranged in length from 30 to 45 inches, and weighed between three to five pounds. A close contact weapon, it was primarily used for cutting or slicing an opponent, and with a sharp edge, was capable of severing limbs or the head of an enemy with one stroke.
Antonio’s instructor had come twice a week. They spent a leisurely hour fencing using foils, and Antonio had basked in his instructor’s compliments. Now he realized just how poorly he’d been trained, and how much of Nicolo’s money had gone for naught.
“I’ve never fought with a rapier, Master Antonio. That’s a gentleman’s weapon. But when you’re on campaign, there’s plenty of time and not much to do between fighting. Some soldiers gamble and drink, and others, like myself and Will, like to practice our trade. Wait until you see him use the crossbow.”
Antonio looked toward Will, who stepped forward, a drying cloth in his hand. “Take this, Master Antonio. The servants are saying it’s time for our meal.”
By the time Antonio finished cleaning himself up, the garden had emptied. Nicolo and Maffeo hadn’t returned, so he dined alone at the big table. He took his time with his food, thinking about the morning’s fencing lesson.
Martin must be a great swordsman, Antonio decided, and more familiar than he claimed with a rapier. Even Bernardo had never shown any inclination to practice with the rapier, disparaging it as a toy for fops and gentlemen too finicky and too weak to hold a real blade. Bernardo could swing a broadsword with the best of them, but he stood a full hand
’s width taller than Antonio, and carried more bulk across his upper body. Martin, though slighter than Bernardo, apparently could wield either blade with ease.
Nevertheless, a rapier could be as deadly as a broadsword, and a sword thrust through the lungs killed a man almost as fast as if you hacked off his head. Antonio determined he would master both weapons,
When he left the dining room he heard laughter and singing coming from the servants’ quarters. He crossed the hallway and went towards the kitchen. Just outside, he stopped. He heard Will, in a soft tenor, leading the servants in a song, with Martin and the others singing the refrain. Clearly the two soldiers felt at home with the servants.
He wanted to join the cheerful group, but instead Antonio went back into the garden and sat on the bench. The events of the day still tumbled through his mind. His decision to go to Venice, the serious discourse with Bernardo, Martin’s training, everything had combined to make the day rush by.
The more he tried to think, the more confused he became. Sounds of good cheer kept coming from the house, but he knew that he didn’t belong there. In fact, he felt jealous that Martin could move so easily between middle and lower classes. Aside from Margaret the housekeeper, Antonio had never gotten close to the servants. He rose to his feet, determined to walk London’s streets for an hour before retiring, when he heard footsteps.
“Good evening, Master Antonio.” Martin said the words smoothly, as if he’d been speaking to his betters all his life. “Are you ready for the next lesson?”
“Not really, Martin. I’m tired and I think I’ve learned enough for one day.”
“Then you’re ready for the next lesson. Trouble doesn’t wait until you’ve had a good night’s sleep, Antonio. It comes when you’re tired, when you’re drunk or hung over, after dinner or before, or when you’re in bed with a woman. Whenever it comes, you need to be ready. But we’ll keep it simple for you this evening.”