Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  “Don’t see any damage,” Will remarked, as the galleys drew closer. “Doesn’t look like they’ve been in a fight.”

  “They’re pulling very slowly, even though the galleys are riding high,” Martin said. “Usually these captains like to rush up to the harbor, to make some kind of entrance.”

  Others noticed the same thing, and the crowd quieted.

  “Maybe they’re exhausted,” Will said. “We’ll hear the story soon enough. Let’s go down to the main docks. The ships will unload there first.”

  Bredani’s galleys had departed from the Arsenal’s anchorage because the cargo of weapons and gunpowder originated there. But ships carrying non-military cargoes proceeded to the main wharf, unless special cargoes or matters of secrecy directed them to the military storehouse. Obviously these three galleys brought nothing urgent back to Venice.

  Martin led the way. Others crowding the ramparts had the same thought, and soon a mass of people flowed through the lanes and over the bridges until they reached the dockside quays. Will found a place to stand where they weren’t likely to be swept into the harbor. Fortunately both Englishmen were taller than the average Venetian, so they could see just as well.

  Some women had tears streaking their faces, either in anticipation of being reunited with their loved ones or relief from the dread of what might have happened. Since these were Italians, everyone spoke at the same time, and no one could understand much of anything. A shout rose up as the first galley breasted the entrance and moved ponderously toward the dock.

  “They’re exhausted,” Will said. “They can’t even hold the stroke.”

  The chatter subsided as the crowed noticed the ragged oars. Then Captain Bredani appeared, resplendent in his cape and wearing his sword, and moved to the side of the ship. The moment the hull touched the quay, Bredani leapt ashore. “The Turks have blockaded Malta!” With that announcement, he disappeared into the crowd.

  “Hurrying to demand his bonus,” Martin said. “No doubt he’s heading toward the Rialto to meet with his employer.”

  “At least we know the infidels aren’t coming,” Martin said. “Keep your eyes out for Antonio.”

  Weary crewmen stumbled onto the wharf, exhausted from their labor. Most clutched only a handful of possessions. Friends and loved ones rushed forward, taking their arms and leading them away, everyone struggling against bodies already pushing in every direction. The other two ships docked as well, adding to the confusion. In moments, it became impossible to see anything or anyone clearly.

  “This is no good,” Martin shouted over the din. “Let’s get back to the house.”

  They shouldered their way through the happy reunions. The lanes held even more idlers, as many Venetians had ceased their labors and rushed toward the docks, impatient to get the latest news.

  When the two Englishmen returned to Marco Silvestri’s house, Martin had intended to enter their own place, but a cry from Marco’s doorway halted them.

  Gianetta stood in her family’s front entrance, with Bruno hovering behind her. Her face was flushed and her eyes wide with excitement. The news of Captain Bredani’s return had blanketed Venice. “Did you see Antonio?”

  Martin and Will ducked inside the house. “No, there were too many people. It looks like everyone made it back safe and sound, so he’ll be here any moment. But Captain Bredani did say the Turks had blockaded Malta.”

  “I prayed for Antonio’s safe return,” Gianetta said, with a bright smile. She showed no concern about the fate of Malta. “I’m so glad he’s back.”

  They waited together, watching the happy faces of those rushing past the house. Gradually the crowd thinned, as more and more people disappeared into their homes or the local taverns to celebrate the heroes’ return. A half hour passed, then another. Martin was ready to return to his house, but Gianetta refused to budge, determined to wait where she stood for Antonio’s return. Martin didn’t have the heart to leave her.

  Then Marco Silvestri strode down the lane, his head down and his hands clasped behind his back. When he lifted his eyes, he seemed surprised to find the little group waiting at his door.

  “Where’s Antonio?” Gianetta stepped into the lane and took her uncle’s arm. “Where is he?”

  Martin saw the bad news on Marco’s face even before the girl did. Something had gone wrong. Antonio wasn’t coming.

  “Come inside, child.” Marco glanced at Martin. “All of you.”

  Marco led the way into the house, through the entryway, and out into the garden. “Bruno, please bring wine for me and our guests.”

  Gianetta didn’t intend to wait for the courtesies. “What happened to Antonio? Why didn’t you bring him?”

  Marco sat down, a sigh escaping his lips. “Antonio stayed behind in Malta. Apparently he decided to join the Knights in their fight against the infidels.”

  Martin caught the slight inflection on the word “apparently.”

  Gianetta either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “Why would he do that? He was planning to return to England.”

  Marco shook his head. “I don’t know. All I’ve learned so far is that the ships reached Malta the night before the Turks arrived. Antonio supervised the unloading of the gunpowder from the ships into Malta’s store rooms, but he and another apprentice didn’t come back from Fort St. Angelo. Captain Bredani left at once, using torches to get past the rocks and out of the harbor. And a good thing he did. The Turkish galleys were at the harbor’s mouth at dawn.”

  “And what happened to Antonio?” Gianetta got the question out before Martin could.

  “Master Olivio said that Antonio and another apprentice named Tozzo decided to stay behind and fight the Turks.”

  “Olivio!” Will’s voice sounded his surprise. “What was he doing there?”

  Bruno rushed into the garden carrying a tray that held a bottle of wine and four glasses. Marco used the interruption to collect his thoughts. “We . . . Master Stefano and I. . . didn’t get the whole story. There was some difficulty with the cargo, some kind of shortage, and the leader of the Knights, a man named de Clermont, had Olivio whipped and demanded Antonio take charge of all military stores. The Knights of St. John are violent and unpredictable. This de Clermont refused to let Bredani depart Malta until Antonio had personally supervised the unloading and delivery of the stores.”

  Will opened his mouth, but caught Martin’s eye and held his words. There would be time later to get the story straight, possibly after Gianetta went to bed.

  Martin took the glass Bruno offered him and drank half without tasting.

  “Can’t you send for him, order him to come back to Venice?” Her voice held the wistful hope of someone too young to understand the situation.

  Marco sighed. “My child, I would if I could, but the Turks have blockaded the island. No ships will be allowed to enter or depart. Until the Turks are driven off, nothing can be done. Antonio has cast his fate with the Knights of Malta, and we will have to see what that brings.”

  Gianetta’s lip trembled. She turned to Martin, as if to ask a question. But then she faced her uncle once again.

  “I understand, Uncle,” she said. “I’ll go to my room now and rest before dinner.” She turned quickly and went back into the house.

  Martin glimpsed the tears in her eyes, tears she didn’t want her uncle to see. For one so young, a broken heart wasn’t easy to endure.

  Martin took a seat without waiting for Marco’s invitation, then hitched it around to face Marco, their knees almost touching.

  “What else did you learn?”

  “Nothing more, not for certain.” Marco shook his head and emptied his glass. “Something happened, but I’m not sure what. Olivio told his story, but one of the mates on God’s Falcon told a different one, that Olivio had been caught stealing boxes of weapons. The mate said this de Clermont trusted Antonio, removed Olivio from his authority and gave his place to Antonio. Apparently Antonio had pleaded with the Knight to spare Olivio�
��s life. As for the rest, all the mate knew was that Olivio was the last to return to the ship from the fort’s magazine. He came alone. The other apprentices had already rushed back to their ships. If Bredani hadn’t been in such a hurry to escape, he might have inquired more about it or even asked to see Antonio before departing. But everyone was in a panic to leave. Once the galleys pushed off, it was too late.”

  “How many other crewmen decided to stay and fight with the Knights?”

  Martin’s question caught Marco by surprise. “Why, none, I suppose. Only a fool or . . .”

  “Antonio is no fool, so something else happened. Perhaps Olivio sent him off on some errand, knowing the ships were ready to leave.”

  “It was night, in a strange place, it would be easy to get lost.” Will’s English cut through the softer Italian, and his voice sounded as hard as the steel at his side. “Or Olivio could have slipped a few coins to some local thugs to hold Antonio long enough for the galleys to leave.”

  While Marco didn’t understand Will’s words, he grasped his meaning.

  “All that doesn’t matter for the moment,” Martin said. “We’ll deal with Olivio later. Now, Master Marco, what do you suggest that we do?”

  “What can you do? The Sultan’s fleet is enormous, over 200 ships. By now he’s landed 30,000 or 40,000 thousand men on Malta. Either the fortress will fall, which is likely, or the Knights will withstand the siege. Either way, it may be a month or more before we learn what happens.”

  “I’ve learned something about these Knights,” Martin said. “They resisted the Turks at Rhodes for almost six months. They’re not likely to yield so quickly.”

  Marco shrugged and poured himself another glass of wine. “That was more than forty years ago. Besides, a month, six months, what difference does it make? Antonio won’t be able to get off the island. Whatever happened to make him stay, he’s trapped with the Knights. As soon as they learn of his skills, they’ll keep him there. Master gunners are not easy to find.”

  “So now you admit that he’s a master gunner. If you had done that sooner . . . no, I’m sorry for those words.” Martin took a deep breath. “Master Silvestri, I will need your help. Antonio was in my care, and I cannot return to England without him. So I must get to Malta, find Antonio and get him off the island. What would be the best way to do that?”

  “You would go to Malta and put yourself in the path of these Turks? They are brutal fighters, eager to die for their false god. If you survive, you’ll end up a slave in one of their galleys.”

  “Yes, I understand. But how can I get to Malta?”

  Marco opened his mouth, then closed it again. “The only way to get to Malta now will be from Sicily. It’s less than 175 miles from Messina to the island, and less than 70 miles from the closest part of Sicily. Maltese fishermen often go back and forth between the two. And the Signoria has learned that the Viceroy of Sicily, Don Garcia de Toledo, will be organizing a military force to relieve the Knights. If you join with them, you may be able to reach Malta.”

  Sicily belonged to the Spanish King, Philip II, and a viceroy ruled the island in his name.

  “A good plan,” Martin said, though he had no intention of joining any group of Spanish military. An experienced soldier himself, he knew how easy it was to join a force of fighting men, and how hard it was to go your separate ways. “How soon can you get us on a ship to Messina? We’ll need documents, assurances that we are men in good standing with the Republic, anything you can think of that might speed our journey.”

  “This is madness, but if you are determined, I suppose it must be so. I will provide you with what you need. It is the least I can do for my brother and his . . . son.” The decision made, Marco spoke with assurance. “A galley is leaving for Brindisi the day after tomorrow. I can get you a place onboard, though you will have to take a turn at the oars. From there you should be able to take passage to Messina. I will give you whatever you need, papers, gold, anything.”

  “I have enough gold . . . no, I will leave some here for Antonio, in case he finds his way back. I will take as much gold as you can spare. Antonio’s father will guarantee the repayment. If Antonio or we are captured by the Turks, you may be able to ransom us.”

  That much was true. Before the trio departed England, Nicolo had taken Martin aside and assured him that whatever he needed to spend to ensure Antonio’s safety would be provided. At the time, Nicolo had worried about bandits and possible ransom demands. Now those assurances added weight to Martin’s words.

  “God forbid such a fate,” Marco said. “Even if such an arrangement can be made, you’ll be slaves on a galley for many months, perhaps a year. But I will give you names of prominent Venetians that you can use if you’re captured.”

  “Maps of Sicily and Malta would be useful,” Martin said, his thoughts racing to the future.

  “Yes, we have those at the Arsenal. I will pray for your success,” Marco said.

  “I’m sure we’ll need all the prayers we can get.” Martin stood. “Come, Will, we’ve much to prepare.”

  ***

  High above their heads, Gianetta leaned back from the window. The room belonged to Bruno and his wife, but Gianetta had run up the stairs and into their chamber without bothering to knock. From her perch there, she could just hear the men’s words, and the seriousness of their discussion showed how grave the situation was. Halfway through Martin’s questions, Bruno had entered the room. He started to speak, but Gianetta whirled on him with her finger to her lips.

  Bruno stopped and stared at the girl, but then he understood. He nodded, and left, leaving her alone.

  When Martin and Will finished their conversation with her uncle, Gianetta gathered herself and went to her own room. Closing the door, she slid the bolt, something she seldom did. But tonight she needed to be alone, to let the tears come. She threw herself on the bed, her face pressed to the pillow until the weakness stopped. In her protected life, Gianetta had never felt emotions such as those that now surged through her body. Dread for the loss of Antonio, rage at the perfidy of Olivio, anger at her uncle for not doing all he might have, hatred for the Turks who threatened Venice and Christendom, all these struggled within her.

  She, too, suspected Olivio. Gianetta knew all about Antonio’s difficulties dealing with the apprentice master. And she felt certain Antonio would not have stayed behind willingly, not without sending a message to Martin at the very least. So some foul play or evil mischief had trapped Antonio on Malta. If Olivio had been dishonored and replaced by Antonio on the galley, a cunning Olivio might well have tricked Antonio into remaining.

  At last, her emotions spent, she wiped the tears from her eyes and went to her mirror. Without thinking, she picked up the comb and ran it through her hair. The tear-streaked face that stared back at her seemed different, older, even stronger. Gianetta knew she must be strong for Antonio. Despite her youth, there might still be something she could do to help. She needed to learn what she could about this Olivio, no matter how distasteful. The face in the mirror nodded in approval. The time, her reflection seemed to say, had come for her to become a young woman.

  Tomorrow she would ask Martin to carry a message to Antonio. Gianetta perceived the strength in Martin. He would not let anything stand in the way of his duty. Her uncle had dismissed him as little more than a mere servant, but in the last few weeks she had sensed the kindness and intelligence within Martin. She guessed that he had fallen from a higher station into his present role. His honor would ensure that he do everything he could to rescue Antonio before . . .

  The comb slipped from her fingers and clattered on the floor. She would not let herself think of what might happen at Malta. Everyone knew the terrible might of the Sultan’s army, an army as invincible and brutal as any that ever marched. Nevertheless, the Knights of St. John were strong. Now she would pray they were strong enough to withstand the Sultan’s army until Antonio could be rescued.

  For herself, she needed to grow
in strength and resolve every day, so that when the next crisis came, she could meet it without tears. If trapped on Malta, Antonio would need all the support he could find. And that might be a way to help him.

  Chapter 33

  May 27

  The next day, Martin and Will made their preparations. Packing their gear took little time, and the cook made up a kit that would feed them both for several days. Marco returned from the Arsenal at mid-afternoon, carrying a leather portfolio under his arm that contained their papers. These included letters of introduction to any of the several ship captains they would likely find in Brindisi, and even an official document with the seal of Venice’s Arsenal that requested any Spanish officials to provide assistance.

  “I’m sorry to take so long, but some of the arrangements were difficult with such short notice. But the captain of the galley St. Ann, which departs tomorrow at dawn, has been told to expect two more passengers. And I’ve brought you a hundred ducats, and a hundred Spanish doubloons. You should be able to bribe your way through Sicily and back with that much.”

  “That should be more than enough,” Martin said. “I thank you for your efforts, Master Silvestri. We’ll try and return as much as possible.”

  “In such troubled times, I hope it is sufficient.” He shrugged. “I was not sure of your names, so I left them blank. How should I fill them in?”

  Martin had not used his real name in many years, and even Martin Hedley, the name he had used in his English service, had collected too much attention. “Put my name down as John Smith,” he said. “One name is as good as another.”

  “Yes, of course,” Marco nodded. “And you, Will, what should I put down for your name?”

  Will shrugged. “Edward Stanley. As my friend says, one name is as good as another.”

  Marco sat down at his desk and carefully entered the two names half a dozen times on the various documents, explaining each one as he did. “Then, all is in readiness. You will dine with me tonight?”

  “Our apologies, but no. Will and I have some unfinished business to take care of. It may take some time. If it is not too late when we return, I will knock on your door.”