Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  They passed under the Rialto Bridge, then landed at the great Piazza San Marco. For the next hour, they strolled about, impressed by the beauty of the square and the many fine shops and stalls that lined the walls. They stared in wonder at the Doge’s Palace, before returning to the gondola and resuming their explorations. At each stop, Stefano waited while they went ashore and walked around, though he urged them to hurry, since there was always more to see.

  In the end, it didn’t matter. As the sun dipped in the west, Antonio knew they’d scarcely glimpsed the city’s wonders. London and Paris seemed like drab villages in comparison. It would take several more excursions to even begin to comprehend Venice. The city’s architectural delights alone would take weeks.

  Stefano dropped them off one street over from the tailor, and they retrieved their new clothes. By the time they returned to Marco Silvestri’s house, darkness had fallen, though the city glimmered under hundreds of candles and torches that sent sparkles and streamers of light across the canals and out to sea.

  Antonio now understood the look that came into Nicolo’s eyes when he spoke about Venice. The city truly was unlike any other on earth. Antonio, perhaps because of his heritage, felt at home in its lanes and on its canals. He murmured a prayer that no invader would bring chaos and destruction to its beauty.

  ***

  In the morning, after a hurried breakfast, Antonio accompanied Marco to the Arsenal. As they walked, Marco identified the homes where Venice’s notables lived. When they approached the entrance to the Arsenal, Marco took Antonio by the arm and pulled him aside. They stood face to face ignoring the passersby.

  “Antonio, before we enter the Arsenal, I want to say something. You gave me quite a shock yesterday when I first saw you in my office. I thought young Pietro Contarini was standing before me. You are the image of your real father when he was a young man.”

  Antonio had never seen a painting of his father, young or old.

  “My father . . . Nicolo never mentioned any resemblance to me.”

  Marco lifted his hands. “Perhaps he didn’t notice. Remember he is more than 10 years younger than I, and Pietro was well over 30 when he took an interest in Nicolo.”

  “What does it matter?”

  Marco lifted his hands, then let them drop. “Perhaps it doesn’t. I don’t think it likely anyone else will notice the resemblance. But I would stay clear of Lady Masina. She remains powerful and might well remember what her Pietro looked like in his youth. He was a famous member of the Signoria, and there were many portraits of him.”

  “Uncle, I have no desire to confront Lady Masina. I only want to learn what my father requires and return to England as soon as possible.”

  “If it were up to me, after seeing you, I would have you on the next ferry back to the mainland.” He tightened his lips. “A few months after Nicolo left Venice, I encountered Lady Masina at a gathering. She gave me a look that sent a chill through my body. I swear she was deciding whether or not to kill me. I still take pains to avoid her as much as I can.”

  “I’m not likely to meet such a great lady,” Antonio said. “Unless she visits the Arsenal.”

  “No, you’ll be safe from her there,” Marco said. “But you should leave Venice as soon as possible. Unfortunately, you won’t be given access to the Arsenal’s secrets until you prove your credentials as a master gunner. Until then, you’ll have to work as an apprentice.”

  Antonio hid his surprise. He had expected a routine test of his skills, an interview perhaps from the master gunners, but not to return to working as an apprentice.

  “Is that really necessary, Uncle? Can’t you explain that I will only be here a short time, and that I have information to share?”

  “Unfortunately, the rules of the Guild are very strict about when and what can be shared. But as you say, it should only be for a short time.”

  Marco turned and continued walking toward the entrance to the Arsenal. He moved toward the guard house rather than the gate. “This is my nephew, Antonio Pesaro,” Silvestri told the senior of the three guards on duty. “Add his name to your register as one of my primary apprentices. He is to have full access to the Arsenal.”

  “Antonio Pesaro. I’ll add his name to the list,” the man said, and bowed to them both.

  The idea of being forced back into apprenticeship, even for a few days or weeks, rankled Antonio’s pride. He waited until they’d passed through the gate and were inside the walls. “Apprentice? I haven’t been an apprentice for more than two years.”

  “At the Arsenal, everyone is an apprentice until the Guild approves your qualifications. That requires a review of your work, and you must pass examination by the senior members. There are no exceptions. I cannot even take part when they vote on your qualifications. Otherwise every gunner’s fool of a son would be a master gunner.”

  “My father said nothing about such a process,” Antonio said. “Is this something new?”

  “Yes. For the last five years, too many throughout Italy have called themselves master gunners, so the Guild changed its rules. With the threat of war increasing the demand for gunners, we cannot allow just anyone to call himself a master. The Guild meets next in five weeks, and you can present yourself to them. Before they vote, I will speak on your behalf, you will demonstrate your knowledge, and if they approve, you will be considered to have fulfilled your apprenticeship. Only then can you be given access to the secrets of the Arsenal.”

  “And if they do not approve . . .”

  “Then you will have to try again. The apprentice review council meets every three months. You are fortunate to be here now, with the next meeting scheduled so soon.”

  It didn’t seem very fortunate to Antonio. “I had hoped, Uncle Marco, to be on my way to England in six weeks. It will only take a week or two at most to show your gunners what my father has accomplished. I had hoped to be learning your practices during the same time.”

  They reached the building where Marco had his office and passed inside.

  “You must be patient, Antonio,” Marco said, as they climbed the stairs. “There is much you can learn working with the other apprentices, and it will give everyone a chance to judge your experience.”

  Antonio felt his temper rising. In England, if a stranger claimed to be a master, one of the master gunners would review his skills and sponsor his entrance into the society. The whole process could be done in a few days. Nevertheless, if his uncle could not influence the process here, or chose not to do so, there would be little use complaining.

  “I have made one decision, however,” Marco said, as the silence between them lengthened. “As Gianetta reminded me, I own the house adjacent to mine. It’s unoccupied now, and if you prefer, I can rent it to you for a nominal amount. You and your companions can stay there, and you will be close to the Arsenal. Or you can stay with me, and let your friends find another, more humble lodging.”

  “I would be most grateful to make use of your empty house.” Antonio didn’t try to explain the special role of his friends. “I’ll write to my father this evening to inform him of my arrival and your kindness.” And apprise him of this foolish delay.

  Marco entered his office and greeted his assistants with a nod. “Send for Apprentice Master Olivio,” he ordered, and one of the clerks rose and hurried out of the office.

  “Olivio Moretti is in charge of the apprentices. Until the Guild approves your candidacy, you will be in his custody. There is much you can learn from him, though he is somewhat crude.”

  “Yes, Master Silvestri,” Antonio said, his mind already made up. Six weeks, no more than eight, he vowed to himself, and he’d be on his way back to England, with the secrets or without.

  “Come now, Antonio, don’t look so glum.”

  Before Antonio could reply, they were interrupted by the arrival of another. “Yes, Master Silvestri. You sent for me?”

  “Ah, yes, Olivio, this is my nephew I spoke to you about. He’s just arrived from England
, and will be undergoing preparations for the next examination for Master Gunner. Please see to his training.”

  “Yes, Master Silvestri. When shall I start?”

  “This afternoon, but first take Antonio to see Master Palino. He’s waiting for him.” Silvestri dismissed them both with a nod, then frowned at the papers on his desk.

  Antonio gave his attention to Olivio. Tall and broad-shouldered, he had thick arms and powerful hands. His clothes were finely cut and fitted, and he looked more like a nobleman’s son than a working master gunner.

  “Follow me, Antonio,” Olivio ordered.

  He led the way out of the building, down the lane, and into a foundry, with its familiar smell of heated iron warming the air. Antonio trailed behind as they walked toward a gray-bearded man examining a sack of iron ore. “Master Palino,” Olivio said, “Master Silvestri said I should bring this new apprentice to you. When you’re finished with him, please send him to me.”

  “Yes, Olivio,” Palino said. His youthful eyes belied his age, and he studied Antonio from under bushy white eyebrows while Olivio walked away. “You’re the new apprentice from England who claims he knows all about drilling barrels?”

  “Yes, Master Palino, though in England I finished my training more than two years ago. I am a full member of the Guild.”

  “How old are you, Antonio?”

  “Seventeen, Master.”

  “Here in Venice, it is rare for anyone to earn the master gunner rank before the age of 19 or 20. It is understandable that perhaps your English Guild is not as stringent as ours.”

  Antonio forced a smile to his lips. Damn all these condescending Italians. “Perhaps. But whatever small knowledge I have is at your disposal.”

  “Yes. At least your Italian is good. I expected we might need a translator.” He smiled. “Come, I’ll introduce you to Master Donato. He, too, is interested in drilling.”

  They found Donato at the back of the foundry. Donato was much younger, in his early thirties, with the blond hair frequently found in the north of Italy. He led them to another part of the foundry, where surrounded by the noise of a dozen workers, he pointed to a drill where a three man crew was in the process of drilling a barrel. The cannon, cast as a solid piece, rested in a rigid support structure, the drill extending at least a foot into the core.

  “We’ve drilled several barrels, but the process is slow, too slow, and the resulting bore is not always true. This one,” Donato touched the barrel, “started out straight but appears to be drifting. It is a problem we’ve had before.”

  Antonio studied the drill in detail, examining the support structure, the turning screw, and the handles and ropes that forced the bit into the metal. He took his time, scrutinizing each part with care, and even working the drill back and forth a few times. The drill bit looked crude, not half as precise as the ones Nicolo’s staff at home produced. Taking his time, Antonio examined every component of the drilling assembly.

  “I can see why you might have difficulties, Master Donato,” Antonio said. “The drill platform seems too small and weak for such a barrel. It must be larger and heavier, and bolted to the floor.” He launched into a detailed explanation of each part of the support structure, the turning mechanism, and the guiding tracks. “And the bit needs to be cast from the finest steel. Otherwise, as it dulls, it will dig in, and begin to drift.”

  Donato glanced at Palino, both men obviously impressed with his knowledge. “And what else you would suggest, Antonio?”

  That started a discussion that lasted most of the day. Within the first hour, the two senior masters came to accept, at least unofficially, Antonio’s status as a master gunner. They didn’t even stop for the midday meal. Master Palino sent one of the junior apprentices out to bring food and wine, and they continued their talk while they ate, shoving the tools aside and using the drilling platform as a table.

  By the middle of the afternoon, Antonio had reviewed their bit- making process, the iron ore used for the casting, and almost every part of the reaming process. He agreed to help the carpenters construct a new drill platform, and to work with Master Donato in manufacturing a few dozen new drill bits.

  “The barrel must also be a high-quality cast,” Antonio said. The end of the day was drawing near, and he’d been talking for nearly nine hours. “My father and I have built nine-pounders that can throw a ball accurately more than a mile, and we’ve fired hundreds of shot through them.”

  “Such weapons might be useful in a siege,” Master Palino said. “But aboard ships, I think the cost would be more than the ship owners would be willing to pay.”

  “The expense would decrease as your gunners grew more proficient. My father believes that in the long run, the savings from wasted castings will lower the cost.” Antonio remembered Captain Stukeley. “And I’ve learned that ship captains like to boast about their cannons. Some would be willing to pay more, just for that privilege.”

  “Well then, Antonio,” Master Donato laughed, “you’ll find no vainer captains and strutting ship owners anywhere in the world than in Venice’s lagoon.”

  “True enough,” Palino said with a smile. “You’ve done well, Antonio. In the morning, you will work with Master Donato. Now we must return to our work, and I must return you to Olivio before the day ends.”

  Antonio bowed, and in a moment another junior apprentice was guiding him back through the foundry. They found Olivio in another building down the lane, surrounded by over a dozen apprentices, ranging in age from 10 or 11 to nearly 20. He was supervising the casting of what Antonio’s father called a robinet, a small cannon weighing under 200 pounds and firing a two-pound ball.

  With the heat from the forge only a few steps away, Olivio had removed his jacket and sat on a stool near the fire, with the apprentices standing around him. Muscles bulged in his arms, and he carried a knife belted at his waist. He looked up and frowned when Antonio joined the group.

  “Ah, this is Antonio, our newest apprentice,” Olivio said, not bothering to conceal the sarcasm in his voice. “He claims to be a master gunner in England. I’m sure he’ll be teaching us how to make guns.”

  Everyone laughed dutifully.

  “I’ve come to Venice to learn,” Antonio said, keeping the dislike for the apprentice master from his voice. “Venetian gun makers are the most famous in the world.” That wasn’t quite true, Antonio thought. Aside from his father in England, the German duchies had some superb gun makers, as good as any in Europe. Several had visited Nicolo’s house in the last few years.

  “And learn you shall,” Olivio said. “You can start by cleaning up after these clumsy fools. They’ve made a mess of this robinet, and it will need to be melted down and recast in the morning. You’ll help with that, too. You do know what a robinet is, I suppose?”

  “I’m to report to Master Donato in the morning,” Antonio said.

  Olivio’s jaw clenched. He clearly didn’t like being contradicted, but Donato ranked far higher in the guild than the Senior Apprentice Master. “All apprentices are required to report to me each morning. After you’ve helped with the casting, Englishman, we’ll go and speak to Master Donato about your duties.”

  If being late offended Master Donato, it wouldn’t be Olivio’s fault. A petty tyrant, Antonio decided, put in charge of teaching the most junior of apprentices. He saw the smiles on some of the faces. They were enjoying the humiliation of the newest member of their group, the upstart foreigner who claimed special status. Whatever Olivio’s motivation, Antonio didn’t intend to waste his time groveling to anyone.

  “Master Olivio, I am not an untrained apprentice, and I have not come to Venice to clean floors or lift ingots. As Master Donato requested, I will meet with him in the morning. When he is finished with me, I will report to you.”

  Olivio came up off the stool, his face reddening. Two long steps brought him chest to chest with Antonio. Olivio stood at least six inches taller, and Antonio could feel the man’s hot breath on his face. “B
y order of the Guild,” Olivio put special emphasis on the word, “all apprentices are in my charge, Englishman. There are no exceptions, and I don’t care who your uncle is. Perhaps you need a good thrashing to teach you your place.”

  “An apprentice is someone who needs to be taught the basic tools of his trade,” Antonio said, holding his ground. “I’ve studied my craft all my life, and I’ve built some of the finest cannons in England, and I’ve used them in battle. My purpose in Venice is to exchange information with your master gunners, not sweep floors.”

  Olivio’s face had turned red with rage. His fists clenched and Antonio saw him struggling to restrain himself. If Antonio yielded the slightest, Olivio would sense the weakness. But by Antonio standing firm, something no apprentice had probably ever done before, the Apprentice Master hesitated. If he struck Antonio, and Master Silvestri responded, there might be trouble.

  They stood there, face to face, while Olivio struggled to contain his emotions. “The Guild recognizes no one as a master gunner until he has completed his apprenticeship. That means he must be approved by me.”

  “I would have been glad to help you train your apprentices,” Antonio said, his heart racing with anger from the insult. “But since you do not approve of me, there is no need for me to be here.” He turned and walked slowly from the building, leaving silence behind him.

  ***

  The walk back to Marco’s house did nothing to calm Antonio’s anger. In his pride, he’d caused a scene, probably embarrassed his uncle. Word would spread about how Antonio had challenged Olivio’s authority. The Guild might forbid him entry to the Arsenal. A foreigner as well as a stranger, he might even be told to leave Venice. Everything now depended on Master Silvestri.

  Nevertheless, Antonio didn’t regret his action. No member of England’s guild would stoop to such humiliation. All the Guilds throughout Europe were expected to extend the courtesies of their common skills to visiting members. Either Master Silvestri was in charge of the Arsenal’s gunners, or fools like Olivio were. If these vain and hard-headed Venetians couldn’t deal fairly with him, they deserved whatever fate the Turks had in store for them.