by Sam Barone
The wagons sent to transport the gunpowder were small, little more than large carts, but a pair of donkeys pulled each one. Antonio refused to allow anyone to carry the casks by hand through the darkened lanes. One misstep, one dropped keg, and an explosion could result. Better to get everything loaded on a cart, tied securely, and transported slowly to wherever they were going.
Olivio understood the problem and helped by packing the carts and immobilizing the kegs after they were loaded. Another cart arrived, and they loaded the last of the kegs.
“This man will guide you to the fort,” Sir Glavin said. He just finished his own count of the kegs and announced everything was in order.
Olivio had visited Malta before and knew the way to the magazine. He took the lead wagon, walking beside their guide, who carried a torch to help light the route. Antonio brought up the rear with another torchbearer, watching the kegs and searching for any leaks or signs of shifting as the carts creaked and wheezed along the rutted streets of Birgu.
They moved slowly up and away from the dock and climbed a gentle slope until they reached the entrance of the Fort of St. Angelo. Passing through its massive gates, the path twisted and turned back on itself, moving beneath the higher secondary walls. When Olivio shouted the order for the carts to stop, Antonio had no idea how deep within the fortress they’d traveled.
Olivio waited, his three apprentices beside him, until Antonio and Tozzo arrived. “We can unload the kegs here,” he said.
“Sir Glavin said to see them safely stored in the magazine,” Antonio said.
“What matter where we leave them,” Olivio snarled. “We need to get out of here before Bredani pushes off without us. He won’t wait a moment longer than he has to.”
Antonio agreed, but he didn’t want to face de Clermont without having fulfilled his orders. “No, we’ll help them carry the gunpowder inside. Then we leave.”
“Damn you, Englishman.” But Olivio barked an order and the unloading began.
It proceeded quickly. Gunners and powder specialists from the fort continued to arrive, men who knew how to handle the precious and dangerous cargo.
Antonio and Tozzo followed the last kegs deep into the fortress, far below ground and safe from any stray cannonball. On the way down, they passed the other apprentices running up. “Olivio said we were to return to the ship,” one shouted as they ran past.
As soon as Antonio entered the dimly lit magazine, he saw Olivio watching the crew of the magazine store the final kegs.
“Let’s get out of here,” Olivio said. He pushed past Antonio and Tozzo and climbed the steps leading to the surface. Antonio and Tozzo followed behind. Dusk had long ago given way to night, and Antonio wondered if Captain Bredani had enough light to guide his ships out through the passage and into the Mediterranean. No doubt he would use torches if need be.
The guards passed the three of them through the fort’s gate and they retraced their way down the hill and into the village of Birgu. Torches still burned at the docks, and they could see shimmering reflections on the water of Dockyard Creek. The streets were deserted, with everyone inside with their dinners or out at the dock. Olivio’s long legs led the way, and just before they reached the docks, he turned into a narrow alley.
Antonio took a few steps into the darkness before he stopped. “This isn’t how we came.”
“It’s a shortcut to the dock,” Olivio said, turning to face him. “Hurry, unless you want to stay behind.”
Antonio shifted his eyes toward Tozzo. At that instant, Olivio swung around, his arm lashing out. Something smashed into the side of Antonio’s head, and a flash of light flooded his eyes. His legs went weak and he stumbled to his knees as the ground whirled beneath him. He heard a voice cry out, perhaps his own. Then Antonio’s face struck the hard ground and blackness engulfed him.
Chapter 25
May 18
His head throbbed with each beat of his heart, pushing the pain through his body. Antonio forced his eyes open. A dim blur of light came through an opening high in the wall. He tried to speak, but his parched throat managed only a croak. Choking thirst possessed him. “Water.”
A shadow passed in front of the light, and a moment later a hand lifted his head. Antonio felt a cup against his lips and he swallowed again and again, ignoring the stream that dribbled down his chin. Nothing mattered except the cool, soothing liquid in his mouth. The effort exhausted him, and his eyes closed of their own volition.
When Antonio next awakened, the pain in his head returned. This time his eyes focused, and he saw a white ceiling overhead. With a start he realized he was in a bed. His head still throbbed, but at least the pain had lessened. When he lifted his fingers to his temple, he found a thick bandage wrapped around his forehead.
His lips were sore and swollen, and something had happened to his chest, because it hurt when he breathed. Turning his head, he saw a row of beds, all empty. Sunlight shone through a thick opening carved into the wall, but he couldn’t see anything.
“What happened? Where’s Tozzo?” His voice sounded thick in his ears.
“Ah, I see you’re awake. Come back from the dead, you have.”
At first the words made no sense until he realized the words were Spanish. Antonio tried to sit up, but the effort made his head swim again. He sagged back against the mattress.
“I have to get to the galley,” he muttered, but no one answered. He closed his eyes again, and must have lapsed back into sleep, because when he woke up, two men were standing beside the bed. One, an old man in his sixties at least, wore a patched white robe. He held the water cup to Antonio’s lips. A Knight of Malta stood beside him, the eight-pointed cross blazoned across his chest. Well past his middle age, his long hair had silvered. He smiled at Antonio.
“I’m glad to see you made it through the night, young man,” the Knight said. “God answered our prayers for your recovery.”
The Knight spoke English, which took Antonio by surprise. Nothing mattered, only that he get to God’s Falcon before it sailed, before it . . . he must have been unconscious all night. The galley was gone. It would have departed long ago.
“What happened? Where’s Tozzo? Why did the galley leave without us?”
The Knight took the cup from the attendant’s hand. “Leave us,” he said, then turned to Antonio. “I’m afraid I must ask you some questions before I can answer yours. First, what is your name? And what is the last thing you remember from last night?”
“My name is Antonio Pesaro. We had left the fort, Saint Angelo, I think it’s called, and were going back to the galley. We were passing through the village when Olivio . . .”
The memory of something hard crashing into his head flashed into his mind, and Antonio automatically lifted his hand to the bandage. “Olivio, he must have struck me with something. One moment the three of us were walking along, then . . . I remember falling to the ground . . . maybe someone crying out. What happened to Tozzo?”
Antonio pushed himself upright in the bed, despite a wave of dizziness that swept over him. “Olivio, that treacherous bastard . . . he left me there?”
“You don’t recall what happened to your companion?”
“Tozzo? No, where is he?” Antonio glanced around, though he already knew the room was empty.
“Your friend is dead,” the Knight said. “His neck was snapped. You were both found in a deserted lane a few hours after the Venetian galleys departed.”
Understanding washed through Antonio. He’d let himself be led down the alley like a willing sheep going to slaughter. Olivio must have burned with hatred over his embarrassment, and he seized the chance to pay Antonio back. He probably thought he’d killed both of them. Even if they survived, they’d be trapped on Malta, and Olivio could make up any story he wanted.
“Olivio must have killed Tozzo. First he struck me, then poor Tozzo.” Anger blotted out the pain in his head, and he clenched his fists. “I’ll kill him for this. As soon as I get back to Venic
e . . .”
“I’m afraid you won’t be able to return to Venice, or anywhere else for that matter. The Sultan’s fleet is outside Grand Harbour, and no galleys will be entering or leaving for some time.”
“The Turks are here?”
“Yes, they arrived at dawn and 20 of their galleys blockaded the harbor entrance. The rest of their ships swung round the island and sailed up the coast. They’ve been disembarking men and horses at Mgarr since mid-morning.”
“Mgarr?”
“It’s a little village about four miles up the coast.”
Antonio fell back against the bed. What did it matter where they landed? Tears welled up in his eyes, as much for Tozzo’s death as for his own situation. He should never had stepped aboard Bredani’s ship. Martin and Will, even Marco would be furious when God’s Falcon returned without him.
“Forgive me, Antonio,” the Knight said. “I haven’t introduced myself. I am Sir Oliver Starkey, Grand Master Valette’s Latin Secretary. When the hospital attendants heard you speaking English in your delirium, the Grand Master asked me to speak to you.”
The Knight’s title meant nothing to Antonio, and he had no idea what a Latin Secretary did.
Sir Oliver took no offense at Antonio’s lack of response. “When the Grand Master heard you were brought here, he wondered if you might be a spy, and even if you had murdered your companion.”
“A spy? For who? Who would think I was a spy?”
“I spoke to Sir Glavin, and he assured me that you were an honorable man. In fact, he blames himself for letting the galleys depart without you, not that he could have restrained your Captain Bredani any longer.”
Sir Oliver shook his head. “Sir Glavin said that this Olivio you spoke of claimed you and your friend had decided to remain on Malta and fight. That was why you hadn’t returned to the ship. Sir Glavin, much like yourself, did not expect such treachery from the Venetian. Sir Glavin is still young, less than 30 years, I believe, and still has much to learn.”
“De Clermont had Olivio whipped for stealing guns,” Antonio said, a bitter taste in his mouth. He should have let de Clermont throw Olivio overboard. “And I was given Olivio’s place and authority.”
“You must put all that behind you, my son,” Sir Oliver said. “God has sent you on a different path. You’re on Malta, and likely to stay here for some time, at least until the Turks are driven off.”
Antonio shook his head, the quick movement creating another wave of pain through him. “Everyone in Venice says Malta will fall, that nothing can stop the Sultan’s men or his fleet.”
Sir Oliver smiled. “Perhaps. God’s will on that matter hasn’t been announced yet. But I’m glad to meet a fellow Englishman, even one with an Italian name. Sir Glavin says you consider yourself a master gunner in England.”
“I am a master gunner.” Antonio couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. “The London Guild accepted me two years ago. I’m tired of everyone asking the same question.”
“Forgive me, Antonio, I meant no disrespect,” Sir Oliver said. “Actually, it is a pleasure to speak with you. Do you know that you and I are the only two Englishmen on Malta? Except for a few convict slaves on the galleys. When Sir Glavin told me you were English, I had my doubts, but they are now put to rest. So I hope you don’t mind if we speak often. I’d very much like to know how a Venetian named Antonio Pesaro became an Englishman.”
“Yes, milord,” Antonio said, though he felt no desire to speak with anyone.
“You should remain in the hospital until you’re recovered. Then we can put you and your skills to good use. Malta’s defenses will need all the master gunners it can find.”
“I’m fine,” Antonio said, though his head still hurt. He tried to get up, but the effort made his head swim, and he fell back onto the bed.
“Sleep a little more,” Sir Oliver suggested, this time with the hint of a command in his tone. “The infidels are busy landing their forces, and I doubt there will be any bombardment today or even tomorrow.”
Antonio closed his eyes. He didn’t care about anything. Nothing mattered. He was trapped on Malta, and he’d probably be killed or captured here. Instead of returning to Venice and England with his duty fulfilled, he’d failed his father and his friends. Olivio would tell the same tale in Venice.
Everyone would think Antonio a childish fool who wanted to cover himself with glory by fighting the Turks alongside these mad knights.
At least there were no more decisions to be made. The Turks held Antonio’s fate in their hands, and there was nothing he could do about it. He never heard Sir Oliver leave the chamber.
Antonio’s thoughts fixed on the perfidious Olivio, a thief, murderer, and a coward. Filled with rage, Antonio wanted to watch Olivio die, to wipe that pouting smile off his thick lips, to snap his neck the same way Olivio killed Tozzo. The young apprentice dead, simply because Tozzo had chosen Antonio for a friend. Revenge, the curse of all Italians, filled Antonio’s heart and mind, and permeated his dreams as he drifted back to sleep.
The dreams turned into a nightmare, with Olivio’s powerful hands around Antonio’s neck, twisting, tightening, an endless agony of impending death. The dream went on for a long time, repeating itself, but always with the same ending, Olivio strangling him, but Antonio somehow staring down at his own broken body lying in the dirt. Nevertheless, if his own death was the price to be paid for killing Olivio, Antonio would pay it.
Chapter 26
When Antonio awakened, the long shadows outside the window told him dusk would soon be upon Malta. He dragged himself off the bed, but had to hold onto it until he made certain of his footing. He fought the dizziness that made his head swim. The stone or whatever blunt object Olivio used had certainly done its work. The hospital room – Antonio realized it was indeed that – remained empty.
Unlike the usual places for the sick and wounded, this chamber was clean from floor to high ceiling. The Knights of St. John, Antonio remembered, were Hospitallers, and caring for the sick and injured remained a part of their order’s calling. Outside of the palaces of the European nobles, and possibly not even there, no such compassionate and expert care could be found.
Antonio stepped through the open door and found himself inside a walled tunnel. Steep stairs led upward, down a hall, and outside into the fading sunlight. His dizziness lessened with each step.
To his surprise, he found himself inside the fortress. A flock of black birds wheeled overhead, chattering among themselves and oblivious to the frenetic activity beneath them. Except for a quick glance at the thick bandage on his head, the people inside the fort paid as little attention to Antonio as the feathered creatures above. Everyone had too many other things on their minds to waste a thought on a stranger.
What appeared to be the eastern wall of the fort stood nearby, and he started climbing. The hospital had been established at the base of the wall, where the greater thickness of the stone would protect any patients. Antonio had a long way to go before he reached the outer walls. Twice the steps turned back on themselves, but always led upward to another level. The fresh air helped revive him, and the rough-hewn steps required his concentration.
At last he reached the top rampart of the fort and felt the ocean’s breeze. No one questioned him, though several stared at the bandage. Gunners and arquebusiers moved about, readying their weapons and stockpiling cannon balls next to the guns. Antonio leaned over the parapet to catch his breath.
Looking out over Grand Harbour he saw not two, but three fortresses flying the flag of the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem. To the southwest and across the harbor, he saw the outer fort the galleys passed yesterday when they sailed into the harbor. St. Elmo, Sir Glavin had called it, stood atop a cliff that looked out to the sea. As Antonio watched, a small boat pushed off from the rocky base of St. Elmo and headed toward a small wharf below.
To his right, Antonio saw the village of Birgu, and realized he must be inside Fort St. Angelo. The vi
llage stood adjacent to the fort, enclosed by a wall of its own. Together they occupied a sliver of land that projected into the harbor like a finger. A third fort, St. Michael, lay across a narrow inlet. It, too, included an attached village, Senglea, as part of its defense.
Between St. Angelo and Senglea lay the docks where the Venetian galleys had landed yesterday afternoon, on what Antonio would soon learn was Dockyard Creek. Extending inland from Senglea was Fort St. Michael. Together they occupied the length of another finger that jutted into the island, but not quite as long as the one upon which Antonio stood.
Nestled against the innermost shore, at the base of the fingers, he counted four galleys pulled up onto the land, all showing the Knights of Malta’s flag. Three flew only the flag of the Knights of St. John, while the fourth, larger than the others, displayed the banner of the Ottoman Empire beneath that of the eight-pointed cross of the Knights. A captured prize, Antonio decided, no doubt filled with wealth destined for the Sultan.
Gazing toward the harbor’s mouth once again, he saw the open sea and the Sultan’s fleet. At least 20 galleys flying red or green pennants were on station, blocking the entrance to the harbor. Farther out, he saw more ships of every kind, carracks, and larger, no doubt transporting men and supplies. A siege was a massive operation, and even one expected to last only a few days or weeks required enormous numbers of men and mountains of equipment and supplies. He ran his hand over the massive wall of St. Angelo. This fortress would take quite a pounding before the walls gave way.
On the hills across the harbor he saw a few turbaned men on horseback, riding back and forth and studying the defenses of St. Elmo and St. Angelo. Turkish cavalry would have disembarked first, Antonio decided. The longer that horses remained on a ship, the more likely they were to get injured or sick. The soldiers would come next. They would need time to steady themselves after a long sea voyage.