Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

“Our apologies on our dress, Uncle Marco,” Antonio said, as he took his first sip of a delicious broth filled with fresh vegetables and a hint of sausage. After weeks of rough meals in taverns, the hearty flavor seemed like ambrosia, and he had to restrain himself from eating too quickly. Spices he couldn’t identify added to the taste, unlike anything he’d ever savored in England. “Tomorrow we’ll find a tailor and buy some presentable clothing.”

  “Travelers, especially those from the ends of Europe, need not apologize,” Marco said, as he took a handful of bread and dipped it in the soup, setting the example for his guests. “I’m sure I speak for your father when I say that we’re grateful you completed your journey in safety. You’ve already traveled farther than most men in their lives.”

  “Martin and Will took good care of me,” Antonio said, glancing at his two friends. Will, he noticed, watched Antonio’s every move, making sure not to embarrass himself with his table manners. “Now I await your instructions, Uncle Marco.”

  With the soup out of the way, the main course arrived. Bruno and his wife each carried in a platter containing a roasted chicken. The aroma of oregano filled the room, and Antonio saw that each bird had been stuffed with a mix of bread and vegetables. Sliced tomatoes provided a dash of color to the table. Antonio had never seen tomatoes before, but had heard that the Spanish had brought them back from someplace in the New World called Peru. Uncle Marco carved the chickens, distributing the first slice to Gianetta, and then serving Antonio.

  “Tomorrow should be a day of leisure for you,” Marco said. “See our beautiful city and explore its wonders. There is no other like it on earth. On Friday I’ve arranged for you to meet with two master gunners at the Arsenal who’ve expressed interest in Nicolo’s drilling techniques.”

  Antonio heard the hint of dubiousness in his uncle’s voice. “With the proper tools, a gun with a true barrel can be drilled in a few days.”

  Marco shrugged. “Perhaps. But the Arsenal has been casting guns for many years and our galley owners see little need for such accuracy, especially if it comes at a higher price. Their captains are lucky if they can fire a single shot before they grapple with their enemy, and that from close range. Victories in the Mediterranean are won by ramming and boarding.”

  “I assume the city must need accurate guns to defend itself.”

  “The guns have not been used since the Genoans came almost two hundred years ago. Venice’s galleys are her main defense.”

  In his battle with the French pirates, Antonio had seen for himself the need for guns that were both sturdy and accurate, but conditions in the Mediterranean might be different. At any rate, he did not intend to argue naval strategy with his uncle, who obviously knew more about such matters. Instead, he launched into a discussion about the benefits of accurate weapons that continued until the last of the delicious chicken had vanished.

  “Your companions say little,” Marco said, leaning back and turning to Martin and Will for the first time. “You are not familiar with the casting of guns?”

  “Only from the wrong end of the barrel, Master Silvestri,” Martin said. “We are simple soldiers who fight England’s enemies.”

  “Where have you fought, if I may ask?”

  “In Ireland, mostly. Unlike Antonio, we have never fought in a sea battle.”

  Marco peered at Antonio with new interest. “You fought at sea?”

  “A single encounter against French pirates, Uncle Marco.”

  That simple answer led to a dozen more questions, and Antonio was forced to relate the entire battle, though he left out the part that he had stowed away. He didn’t want to appear foolish in his uncle’s eyes, so he merely said that he’d been delivering guns to the ship when it put to sea.

  “Venice has need of people who’ve seen action at sea,” said Marco. “Soon the Arsenal will be launching many more ships. We’ll need men to build them, crews to row them, and men to fight them.”

  “Is Venice threatened, Uncle?”

  “You are unfamiliar with the political situation in the Mediterranean?”

  “Only that the Turks grow stronger,” Antonio said, “but we’ve heard little news during our journey. ”

  “Sultan Sulieman the Magnificent has grown tired of the endless raids on his shipping. You may not know it, but the captured wealth of Africa and the western lands is sent across the Mediterranean to swell his treasure rooms. Gold, gems, slaves, all flow from west to east on the Sultan’s galleys. Many Christians see it as their duty to raid these ships. Galleys from Spain, Genoa, Malta, and a dozen other lands roam the Mediterranean, hoping to capture a Turkish merchantman full of plundered gold. Any captain lucky enough to take such a prize can retire for the rest of his life. With that temptation, every pirate who can fund a vessel joins the hunt for the Turkish gold.”

  Marco paused to take another sip of wine. “So the Sultan has decided to blame the Venetian Republic for his latest ills. He’s decreed that we must be punished and our possessions taken from us by force. With his victories in Hungary and the eastern provinces, Sulieman is ready for more conquest. His shipyards have been building galleys for over a year. It is rumored that this spring he will begin his latest campaign against Venice by first attacking and destroying the Knights of Malta.”

  Antonio knew little of the island of Malta, only that the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem ruled the small island in the center of the Mediterranean. After the Turks drove the Knights out of Rhodes, in 1530 the King of Spain gave Malta to the Knights of St. John.

  “I thought the Knights of St. John were dedicated to helping the sick and protecting travelers on the way to the Holy Land.”

  Marco smiled and reached for the wine bottle. He refilled his guests’ cups before pouring his own. “The Hospitallers, as they call themselves, have taken a more direct approach to doing God’s work. They seek to liberate the Christian slaves held prisoner on the Sultan’s galleys. At least that is the excuse they use to attack Sulieman’s shipping at every opportunity. And since Malta sits astride the channels between Sicily and North Africa, even the Sultan’s ships are vulnerable to attack by the Hospitallers.

  “Since the Knights arrived on Malta, they’ve become the most ruthless sea fighters in the Mediterranean, perhaps even more dangerous than our Venetian captains. From their island stronghold, the Knights’ galleys range the sea, searching for the Sultan’s ships. Despite having only half a dozen galleys, they fight with an intensity matched only by the Sultan’s Janissaries, who march into every battle eager to die and ascend to heaven’s rewards.”

  Antonio had heard about the Turk’s fanatic warriors who hoped to die in their god’s service. Unlike good Christians, Protestant or Catholic, who prayed to survive each battle. “And the Turks are preparing to invade Malta?” He glanced at Gianetta, wondering if the conversation had turned to matters too serious for a young girl’s ears. Her eyes met his, but her face showed no concern.

  “We first heard the rumors last year,” Marco said, “when the Turks began to gather a large fleet. Soon they will be ready, and when they are, they will land on Malta and crush the Knights once and for all. Sulieman himself has called it a cursed rock that must be taken or destroyed.”

  He sighed and took another sip from his cup. “When the island is in the Sultan’s hands, his galleys will be able to interdict the sea lanes that Venice needs to survive. Venice will be his next target. If he is successful here, then Rome and all of Italy will fall into his hands.”

  “If I may, Master Marco,” Martin said, “I’ve heard that the Knights of St. John are valiant soldiers. Perhaps they will drive the infidels off.”

  “They are valiant indeed, and the last of the true knights, willing to fight to the death against the infidels. Their galleys hold many arquebusiers and knights, and few vessels can stand against them. But their numbers are small, and nothing can save them this time. Their emissaries, as well as our own, have gone to Spain, France, Germany, the Papal states, seeking alli
es against the Turks.” Marco sighed. “But our Venetian Republic is not respected by the kings of those countries. They say it is our problem to deal with. In the past, we have made many treaties with the Turks, paying them tribute to avoid conflict. But this time . . . the Sultan is almost as angry at the Republic as he is at Malta. Unfortunately, Venice cannot fight the Sultan alone. They have too many ships, too many men.”

  “I thought Venice had a great fleet of its own,” Antonio said. “How else can you rule your empire?” The idea that the Republic of Venice could fall to the Turks seemed impossible. Yet Uncle Marco related these facts at his dinner table, and in front of his niece. Antonio glanced at Martin, whose face showed no emotion. Will, however, couldn’t keep the surprise from his face. None of them had heard any such dire news in England, and Antonio’s father would surely have mentioned such an imminent threat were he aware of it.

  “Ah, that is what the Arsenal is for, Antonio. Most of the time, Venice has only thirty or so galleys in the water. But we can build and arm another seventy or eighty such ships in a few weeks. Finding men who know how to sail them, and rowers to fill their benches, that is the problem. It is the threat of the Arsenal that has kept the Sultan’s fleet away from our city.”

  “What will Venice do, Uncle? Will your galleys aid the Knights?”

  “Without the support of Spain, Rome, and the other kingdoms, we dare not send our galleys to help Malta. That would bring the Turks’ wrath down upon us even sooner. We are doing what we can, selling all manner of guns and powder to the Knights, and we continue to seek allies. The Doge has appealed to the Pope, and he in turn has pleaded for help from Spain and France. But we recently learned that the French have signed a secret treaty with the Turks, promising not to fight in return for protection of their ships from the Turkish pirates. As usual, there will be no help from France.” Marco shook his head in disgust. “They not only sell Christians as slaves to the Turks, but now they deal in secret with those who plan to overrun Europe.”

  Antonio didn’t know what to say. He glanced at Gianetta but she remained unperturbed. Instead, she gave him an encouraging smile.

  “How soon before Malta is attacked?” Martin leaned forward, clasping his wine cup.

  “A month, perhaps two. No more than that. Spring and summer are the seasons for war in the Mediterranean. In fall and winter, terrible storms make the risk of putting to sea too dangerous for the galleys.”

  “Will the Knights resist?”

  “Oh, yes, they will fight,” Marco said. “That is what they do. The Knights hunger for battle almost as eagerly as the Sultan’s Janissaries. And once the Turks have taken Malta, they will turn their eyes to Venice and Sicily.” He turned to Antonio. “That is why it is best that you complete your business and return to England as soon as possible. I’m sure neither you nor your father want to see you caught up in our conflict. Venice will have to fight this time, unless we can make some accommodation with the Sultan.”

  “I am not afraid, Uncle,” Gianetta said. “Venice has stood for 400 years. St. Mark will protect her from the infidels.”

  “Ah, St. Mark! Venice’s protector,” Marco said, smiling at his niece. “We may need all his help soon.”

  “Perhaps we should not speak of such things over dinner,” Antonio said. “I fear we may frighten Gianetta.”

  “The Turkish threat has been discussed at every table in Venice for months,” Marco said. “Gianetta understands the danger our Republic faces. My niece is more like the Roman women of old, trained to run their households and even Rome itself while their men were away at war. But these affairs do not concern you, Antonio.”

  “My uncle thinks I’m still a child,” Gianetta said. “But Venice will not fall to the Turks, not while her men and ships can defend her. The infidels are all slaves, serving their master, the Sultan. Such men cannot prevail against free men.”

  Antonio looked at Gianetta with more respect. She’d changed from a precocious young girl to the woman of the house despite her years.

  A servant arrived to gather up the empty plates, and Marco used the interruption to change the topic to Venice’s trading ventures, always close to every Venetian’s heart. Suddenly a strange and wonderful aroma filled the room. The steward returned carrying a larger pitcher and five cups. He wore gloves, so Antonio assumed the pitcher was hot. Now the powerful aroma that he recognized as coffee filled the room, a delicacy still rare in England. He had tasted it only twice before, when Nicolo had received a single bag of the precious beans as a gift from a grateful sea captain.

  “We Venetians have become addicted to coffee, Antonio,” Marco said, after the steward had poured the black beverage. “Come, tell me of my younger brother. Is he happy in England?”

  The conversation turned from war to family, as everyone lingered over the coffee, delighting in its unique taste. Antonio described Nicolo’s foundry in detail, as well as its operation. But whenever Antonio glanced toward Gianetta, he found her gaze fixed on him, her eyes studying his face. No one else seemed to notice. When the last of the coffee was gone, she excused herself, kissed her uncle goodnight, and went off to bed, like any dutiful child.

  “Gianetta is quite an unusual young lady,” Antonio said.

  “Yes, she gives me much comfort. Her parents are dead, and my own daughter is busy with her family. She lives on the mainland, and seldom visits. Gianetta has brought the joy of a child’s voice to my house once again. I love her as much as I love my own grandchildren.”

  Antonio remembered her intense eyes studying him during dinner. Not the eyes of a simple child. He knew little of children, having grown up as the only child in Nicolo’s household. Perhaps the steward’s wife was right. Perhaps Gianetta was older than her years.

  Chapter 14

  When the household sounds woke Antonio in the morning, the sun had already climbed into the sky. Too much wine, combined with the rich food, the late supper, and a wearying day of travel left the English travelers sluggish as they dressed and went down to the well to wash. No one had come to wake them, but when they entered the kitchen, they found Bruno’s wife, Maria, waiting for them. She cooked all the food for the household, in addition to helping serve the family’s meals.

  The heavy wooden table, its top gouged from years of chopping, had no chairs, only benches. Maria had already set out the bread, cheese, and anchovies. She offered to toast Antonio’s bread, but he shook his head, as did Martin and Will. Antonio could choose between ale and a rough red wine to sop his bread. They all filled their cups from the ale pitcher, as most did in England.

  “Gianetta said to let you sleep,” Maria said, bringing out another loaf of bread from the pantry.

  “And where is the mistress of the house?” Antonio asked.

  “Busy with her studies,” Maria said. “At least, that’s where she’s supposed to be, unless she’s slipped away from her tutor again. My husband spends half his day searching for her.”

  The English guests disappointed Maria by eating little for breakfast, except bread and cheese, ignoring the fruits and cold pasta she offered. Well-watered ale served to wash down the meal. After the feast last night, the three were still stuffed with food.

  They left the house and wandered out into the lanes to stroll the city. Bruno had recommended a tailor a few streets away, on Calle Cappello, and Antonio and his companions spent an hour there, being measured and fitted for new clothes. When the tailor learned of Antonio’s connection to Marco Silvestri, he insisted on fitting him with a second set of clothes, a more fashionable set suitable for his position.

  “You will look as if you’ve lived in Venice all your lives,” the tailor promised. “Come back just before sundown, and everything will be ready.”

  They took to the streets once again, and this time Antonio paid more attention to the people in the lanes and shops. The first thing he noticed was the riot of colorful clothing they wore, far different from the drab and sedate English tones. But he soon ignored
the fancy garments. “They’re worried. You can see it in their faces.”

  Martin nodded. “And hear it. Your uncle spoke the truth. The Sultan’s pirates raid Christian countries throughout the Mediterranean. Only the Spanish and these Knights of St. John have stood up to them. Rome is helpless, and the French look out only for themselves. For years, Venice has taken the coward’s way out and paid tribute. Now their own gold will be used to bring war to them.”

  “It will probably take the Turks a month or two to capture Malta,” Antonio said. “And then the Sultan will probably turn his eyes on Sicily, since it’s only sixty miles away. The King of Spain will never give up Sicily without a fight. So Venice should be safe for another year or so. We’ll be long gone by then.”

  They spent the day wandering the city, gawking at the magnificent houses that abounded everywhere. At first they walked but soon decided to hire a gondola for the day. Antonio selected a veteran gondolier named Stefano, who, with his striped shirt, black pants, and beribboned straw hat, looked as if he’d been sailing the canals since they were built. An extra ducat secured his services as a tour guide for the day. They took their seats on thick cushions, while the gondolier stood behind them on the rowing platform.

  Stefano certainly knew his way around the city, and he propelled his craft with skill through the crowded waterways. Since his clients, unlike many of the foreign tourists, spoke Italian, Stefano launched into a long dissertation on the city’s history and architecture.

  Almost every structure boasted carvings, statues, or frescoes, all exhibited in vivid colors designed to catch and please the eye. Many of the dramatic frescoes and wall art came from ancient Rome, Stefano informed them, pilfered from the days of the Caesars and sold to wealthy Venetians.

  Most houses were three stories tall, with colorful buntings and banners displayed on the canal side, where visitors usually approached. Kitchens, he explained, were usually on the top floor, to let the smells escape and reduce the dangers of fire.