Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  “He wants to stay close to shore,” Tozzo said, “if he has to run for it, but not too close, in case the wind drives us toward the land.”

  “Why would he run?” Antonio asked. “Is he afraid to fight?”

  “Bredani’s brave enough,” Tozzo said. “He’s been fighting off pirates for 20 years. If we see two or three ships, he’ll fight, but if there are more, he’d rather lose the ship than end up dead or a galley slave.”

  Antonio thought about that. Unlike navigation on the Atlantic, these galleys hugged the coastline. In an emergency, the nearby shoreline offered many hospitable places to beach a boat.

  “What made Bredani agree to sail to Malta?”

  Tozzo shrugged. “Ducats, and plenty of them. The Knights are rich from all the loot taken from the Sultan’s ships. For enough gold, the Noble Rambaldo would order his ships to sail through the gates of Hell, as long as he wasn’t aboard them.”

  They went to sleep, huddled against the bulwark. Those not on duty did the same, snatching a few hours of rest wherever they could. But to Antonio, it seemed only moments had passed before Enrico grasped them by the shoulders and shook them awake.

  “Get on the oars.” Enrico dragged them to their feet, then guided them to empty places on the benches. “Make sure you keep time or you’ll feel the lash.”

  Still half asleep, Antonio sat on the hard bench and grasped the oar in front of him.

  “Watch the man in front of you. Pull when he does,” the rower seated behind said. “Don’t let the oar get too deep in the water, or you’ll throw the rhythm off. It’s better to start with a light stroke, until you learn how to row.”

  The fact that one might have to learn to use an oar had never occurred to Antonio. The oar was heavier than he’d expected, and the handle’s raw wood, despite being sanded, rasped on his palms. He tried to match the man beside him, to row in rhythm But his first effort drew curses from his bench mate, and they nearly fouled the oars of the row behind them. The second stroke was worse, as Antonio’s effort dipped the oar too deep.

  The man behind him laughed. “You’ll get the hang of it soon enough. And better to learn at night, when the overseer can’t see as well. No sense getting the rope on your tender back.”

  The watch sailors moving up and down the gangway were responsible for keeping the rowers in rhythm, matching the slow but steady beat of the drum. Antonio noticed the overseers carried a short length of rope looped around their wrists. He ignored them. It took all his concentration to keep the stroke in time with the others. Fortunately the Falcon’s pace was slow, just enough to keep headway south, and he realized that only half the crew was rowing.

  Two hours later, fresh rowers relieved them. By then Antonio’s arms and legs trembled with exhaustion, and he could hardly get up from the bench. He stumbled aft to the bulwark, unbuttoned his breeches, and pissed over the side, sighing in relief. His palms were numb as well, and felt as thick as mittens. Blisters had already started forming. He returned to where he and Tozzo had slept. They found it occupied by two snoring oarsmen, and had to squeeze between them, too exhausted to think about the closeness or the stink. Tozzo settled beside him and they leaned against each other for warmth.

  “Bredani will row all night, or until a wind comes up from astern,” Tozzo said. “My arms are like pudding.” He rubbed his shoulder. The young apprentice stood several inches shorter than Antonio and had to move more with every stroke.

  “How long before we reach Malta?”

  “A week, maybe less, if we sail night and day,” Tozzo said. “It’s around 900 miles.”

  Nine hundred miles in seven or eight days! An incredible distance, and carrying a heavy cargo of iron and explosives. “My arms won’t last that long,” Antonio muttered, before falling back asleep.

  Chapter 21

  Nearly an hour had passed since the Arsenal’s bell tolled, signaling the end of the work day. As the great shipyard’s laborers streamed out of the gate, Martin’s stoic countenance turned into a frown. Antonio had not emerged, and it wasn’t like him to keep his companions waiting.

  “He should have come out by now,” Martin said. “Or sent word.”

  “Give him time,” Will said, leaning against the side of the gate. “He knows we’re here.”

  Martin didn’t believe it. Antonio was no fool to forget the hour. Even if he were occupied with something important, he would send a messenger to the gate. Twice before, when his duties required he remain, Antonio had done just that.

  The flow of departing workers dwindled to a trickle. Martin peered through the gate, saw no more men approaching, and shook his head. “No, something’s wrong.”

  He strode over to the guard, who was keeping a bored watch. The gatekeeper concerned himself with people trying to get in, not those leaving. He paid little attention to those departing the Arsenal, most hurrying along, not wanting to be late for their dinners or friends at the taverns.

  “I need to get inside,” Martin said. “My master has not come out.”

  “Everyone’s been working late today,” the guard said, a trace of sympathy in his voice. After the last few weeks, he knew the two of them well enough. “Wait another quarter of an hour. If your master doesn’t come, you can send a message to Master Silvestri.”

  “No, please send someone now,” Martin said. “There must be a problem . . .”

  “Ah, Martin, are you still here?” Marco Silvestri approached the entrance to the gate, still in his formal gown and breathing hard after his walk from the Doge’s palace. “Where’s Antonio?”

  “He hasn’t come out yet,” Martin said, “or sent word. I thought he might be with you.”

  Marco shook his head. “Likely caught up in something. Today Venice and the Signoria have been busy indeed.” He smiled at the serious expression on Martin’s face. “Come inside and we’ll soon find him.” Silvestri nodded to the guard and led the way through the gate, Martin and Will following.

  Before they’d gone a dozen steps, an older man Martin didn’t recognize blocked their way, his hand upraised.

  “Marco, I’ve been trying to get word to you about Antonio,” Master Stefano said. “He asked me to make sure you knew what happened.”

  “Where is he?” Marco glanced around, as if expecting his nephew to appear.

  “He’s gone. I asked him to accompany a ship to Brindisi, to see to the powder and munitions. We were very short-handed and needed a master . . .”

  “Brindisi? Not Rambaldo’s galleys?”

  “Yes, Rambaldo was the owner and signed the bill of lading.” Master Stefano lifted both hands and let them drop. “Three galleys laden with military stores. Don’t worry. Antonio won’t be gone long, maybe eight or nine days.”

  “Mother of God,” Marco said. He took a step back and crossed himself.

  Martin had managed to follow the Italian conversation, and Marco’s words and gesture needed no translation.

  “What’s wrong?” Martin stepped between the two men. “Is Antonio going to Brindisi?”

  “Who are these men?” Master Stefano noticed Martin and Will for the first time.

  “They’re Antonio’s servants,” Marco said. “They were waiting for him at the gate.”

  “How long will Antonio be gone?” Martin’s words sounded calm enough, but his left hand rested on the hilt of his sword. Brindisi! That port was at the other end of Italy.

  Marco Silvestri shook his head. “That’s what I’m trying to explain. The galleys were destined for Brindisi, but Rambaldo appeared at the Palace and spoke with the Doge. Rambaldo sold his cargo to the Knights of St. John, on condition that the galleys take the cargo directly to Malta as fast as possible. The galleys won’t unload their cargo at Brindisi. They’ll pull straight for Malta.”

  “Malta!” This time Martin hadn’t kept up with Silvestri’s rapid exchange. But Malta’s name needed no explanation.

  Stefano, too, understood the danger. “St. Mark above! I saw the Knights. Fou
r of them and their retainers boarded the galleys at the last moment. Rambaldo was there, too, speaking with Captain Bredani. I didn’t know the galleys had received new orders, or I would never had asked Antonio to go. I’m sorry, Master Silvestri.”

  “You should not have allowed my nephew to take ship on any galley!” Marco Silvestri’s voice had risen to a shout. “The Turks could be in Malta by now, waiting to pick off anyone bringing in supplies.”

  Stefano flinched. “I swear to the Virgin, I thought I was asking Antonio to go to Brindisi. None of the men on board knew where the ships were going. They would have abandoned the galley rather than risk the sail to Malta.”

  Martin pushed in front of Stefano. “Antonio would not go willingly to Malta. He would ask to be put ashore as soon as possible.”

  “The Knights of St. John,” Stefano closed his eyes for a moment, “will not allow anyone to leave the galley once it’s under way, no matter what the reason.”

  “But the crew can refuse to go, can’t they?” Martin saw the despair on Stefano’s face. “How many retainers did these knights have?”

  “Only four,” Stefano said, his eyes darting to Marco for assistance. “But the Knights of St. John . . . only a fool would dare to argue with them.”

  “You mean three galleys full of armed seamen won’t challenge eight men? What kind of cowards are you?”

  “Please, Martin, I understand your rage,” Marco said. “But Stefano is right, the Knights are not ordinary men. They look forward to dying in God’s service. They actively seek such an end. To step into their path is to align yourself against God’s warriors, to doom yourself not only to death, but to the fires of hell.”

  “And Captain Bredani’s orders were lawful ones,” Stefano added, “from the owner of the boats. Rambaldo agreed to the passage, and even though Bredani protested, he had to submit in the end. He’ll see the boats to Malta.”

  “Suppose the Turks catch them on the sea? Or trap them in Malta?”

  “Martin, I just came from the Signoria,” Marco said. “The council learned that the Turkish fleet has sailed, it’s true, but that they are proceeding at a very slow pace through the Ionian passage. They probably won’t reach Malta for a fortnight. Bredani will be halfway back to Venice before then.”

  “How long ago did the ships depart?” Martin asked.

  “Nearly four hours ago,” Stefano said.

  “Can we catch up with the vessels somewhere along the way?”

  Stefano shook his head. “I know Bredani. He’ll row day and night to reach Brindisi in four days. It’s only 450 miles or so. It would take you a week or more to ride there. They’ll be in and out of Malta by then.”

  Marco sighed. “It’s done, and can’t be undone.” He saw the embarrassed look on the dock master’s face. “It’s not your fault, Stefano. Come,” he said, turning to Martin. “Let’s go home.”

  Marco led the two Englishmen back to his house. No one spoke, and when they reached the front door, Martin kept moving. He and Will entered their own apartment. Ignoring the cheerful hellos from the servants, Martin climbed the stairs and went to the room Will and he shared. Inside, Martin closed the door, unbuckled his sword and threw it on the bed, then sat on the edge staring out the window.

  Will took the room’s only chair and stretched out his legs. “What do we do now?”

  “Marco is right. We’d never catch up to Antonio on horseback. Two foreigners? We’d be stopped sooner or later. We’ll have to wait here until he gets back.”

  “Perhaps it’s not so bad,” Will said. “The ships wouldn’t sail if they thought they might fall into the hands of these Turks. Even Venetians aren’t that stupid, or brave.”

  “These Knights of St. John . . . they think they’re living in the 13th century, with their honor codes, blood oaths, and sworn vows to fight to the death. A bunch of fools, yet the Venetians are afraid to face even a handful of them.”

  “So, as I said, what do we do now?”

  “We’ll wait. One or two of the ships might be back in nine or ten days. If not, we’ll know where we stand. If the ship is lost with all hands, that’s one thing. If they’re taken by the Turks, we’ll have to try and ransom Antonio back.”

  “That could take six months, even a year,” Will said. “You have to exchange messages, find out who has Antonio, identify him, prove you can pay. Even then they might not set him free.”

  “They’re like everybody else. They’d rather have a fat ransom than a galley slave.”

  “Antonio is not a simple soldier. They’ll figure out he’s a gunner and put him to work in their armories. If they’re fighting a war, they might not want to ransom him. Or they’ll want a lot more gold.”

  “We’ll worry about the size of the ransom later. I’m sure I can convince Marco to pay if it comes to that. He’s the one who lost his brother’s son.”

  “Not really his son, though. Marco will remember that, when it comes time to part with his ducats.”

  “Damn these Venetians!” Martin smacked his fist into his palm. “I swore to Bernardo that I’d bring his brother back from Venice. And now we’ve lost him.”

  “We won’t know that for 10 days, maybe longer. How far is it from Brindisi to Malta?”

  Martin grunted. “I’m not sure, but at least another 400 miles.”

  “So it’s almost 900 miles to Malta.”

  “All right, we’ll wait for 15 days,” Martin said. “If Antonio and the galleys aren’t back by then, we’ll know something happened. Meanwhile, I want to learn more about these Knights of St. John. They’re like ghosts in the night. All we really know is that every Venetian is terrified of them.”

  “Maybe that’s because all they do is train for battle,” Will said, “train every day of their lives. They fight ruthlessly and kill their enemies or anyone who gets in their way. What else is there to know?”

  Someone knocked on the door. “Signor Martin. Signor Will.” The bird-like voice of Maria came through the panel. “Signorina Gianetta wants to speak to you. Can you come downstairs? And dinner is nearly ready.”

  Martin didn’t feel like eating, but there was no reason to upset the household. “We’ll come.” He got up. “Poor Gianetta. She must be heartbroken.”

  Martin found Gianetta waiting at the foot of the stairs, her hands clutched together. Heartbroken didn’t begin to cover what she was experiencing. The girl really had fallen in love with Antonio.

  “My uncle says Antonio is on his way to Malta, and won’t be back for at least 10 or 12 days. Is it true?”

  He nodded. “It was something unexpected. I’m sure he’ll be back soon enough.”

  “It’s dangerous, though, isn’t it? Uncle Marco wouldn’t look at me when I asked him.”

  Martin saw tears in her eyes. “Yes, milady. These are dangerous times, but Antonio is well-trained. He’ll take care of himself.” He smiled at her. “We can wait for him together.”

  Her lip trembled. “Thank you.” She turned and ran back through the passage.

  She would have a good cry, Martin decided. Nevertheless in a fortnight, she might have forgotten all about Antonio. Young girls were like that, he knew.

  Will’s heavy footsteps descended the stairs. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Whatever it is, don’t eat too much of it,” Martin said. “We start training tonight, and we keep training for the next 15 days. Just in case.”

  “In case what?” Will asked.

  “In case we have to deal with these Knights of St. John.”

  “Then I think I’ll eat a big meal and drink plenty of wine,” Will said. “It might be my last night of pleasure.”

  Chapter 22

  They woke Antonio twice more during the night, and dawn was breaking when he staggered off the bench for the third time. But with the morning sun came a freshening breeze, and the sails flapped their way up the masts. The rowers slumped at the benches, resting and talking quietly among themselves. Some occupied their time by whittl
ing, and several were knitting.

  It seemed incomprehensible to Antonio that men laboring at the oars would choose knitting as a way to relax. However, at least a third of the rowers continued to move the sweeps, helping the galley speed through the water.

  “They sell what they make,” Tozzo explained. “That’s why there are so many scarves and mittens for sale in Venice.”

  The cook passed out food, bench by bench. Since Antonio wasn’t a proper rower, he and Tozzo had to wait until the other rowers were fed. Breakfast consisted of a hunk of bread soaked in olive oil, and a bit of cheese. Each man got a cup of water with his food, and as Antonio had learned last night, a cup of water every hour. Rowing was not only hard work, but it dried out a man. Oarsmen needed plenty of water to keep working all day in the hot sun.

  “Englishman! Come here.” Bredani’s voice cut through the moment of rest.

  Antonio looked up at the stern. Bredani stood there with de Clermont beside him. The knight wore the same surcoat and armor he’d worn yesterday, and carried the same weapons. Perhaps the Frenchman expected trouble from the Venetian crew.

  Antonio climbed the steps and stood on the stern for the first time.

  “Have you finished inspecting the guns?”

  The captain was aware there hadn’t been enough time, but Antonio knew better than to point that out. “No, Captain. Only the bow guns before darkness fell. And my name is Antonio.”

  “Finish up as fast as you can, Englishman,” Bredani said. “Then report to him.” The captain jerked his head toward de Clermont.

  “Yes, Captain.” Bredani had already turned away, so Antonio trotted down the steps. Tozzo waited there and the two went back to the bow.

  God’s Falcon carried four swivel guns mounted on posts sunk into the forward deck, two on each side. These were about 12 feet apart, and far enough behind the main cannons so that the gun crews wouldn’t get in each other’s way. Musket balls would be the preferred projectile for these guns, but there were a few two-pound round shot hanging in nets beneath them. He went over the first gun with Tozzo, to make sure the apprentice knew what to do, while explaining everything to the gun crews, a mixed lot of seamen and soldiers.