Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  Marco wondered what might be so important, but something in Martin’s tone kept his curiosity in check. Perhaps there were some things better left unasked.

  ***

  Martin and Will strolled through the streets of Venice. Like most large cities, it held an impressive number of taverns, inns, and alehouses, not to mention other even less reputable places where men could gather and pursue their vices. Nevertheless, the Arsenal workers tended to congregate near the military docks. While the number of places catering to their needs remained substantial, Martin hoped it wouldn’t take all night to find what they wanted.

  In each of the most likely places, the two Englishmen took turns entering and examining the customers. That usually required the purchase of a cup of ale, but neither man took more than a sip. In two or three places, they learned of other taverns favored by different classes of laborers.

  All this searching took time, and Martin guessed they had spent nearly three hours searching before they discovered the Lataverna, a reasonably decent tavern a few streets north of the Arsenal. Before Martin even reached the table where the owner and his girls dispensed the ale, he caught sight of Olivio seated at a large corner table in the back, with close to a dozen comrades surrounding him.

  Martin tossed a coin on the table and ordered an ale, then turned to face the door. After a few minutes, Will moved to the opening. Martin nodded, and turned his attention to his drink.

  Lifting his cup, Martin surveyed the room, studying the crowd which numbered about 40 men packed into Lataverna’s great room. He noted that many were apprentices, identified by the yellow sash each was required to wear. Most of the patrons appeared to be upper-class clerks. Fortunately, Martin saw no tables packed with soldiers or even common laborers, men who wouldn’t hesitate to join in any bar fight.

  With that settled, Martin turned his eyes to Olivio. The apprentice master presided at the head of the table, which provided him a good view of the room. From there, he held court over the younger apprentices whose lives he controlled each day. These would be the toadies who accompanied Olivio throughout the day, no doubt praising his every word and laughing loudly at each of his jests.

  More than a few of the apprentices and patrons carried knives. But Martin didn’t see any swords. That made things simpler. Will had wanted to bring their swords, but Martin preferred to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Wearing swords and going from tavern to tavern would surely had been noticed.

  Martin took another small sip from his ale, more to moisten his throat than to satisfy his thirst. Then he nodded to Will, put down his cup, and walked toward the rear. Martin reached the foot of the table before Olivio looked up and saw him. Olivio recognized the Englishman. He’d seen him in Antonio’s company often enough. His mouth gaped open in surprise for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure.

  “Hello, Olivio,” Martin said, his voice soft but somehow managing to cut through the usual tavern noise. Everyone turned toward the tall Englishman. “I’m glad to see you returned safely from Malta.”

  “What are you doing here, Englishman?” Olivio leaned back against the tavern wall. “This place is for free Venetians, not servants from a land ruled by a woman.”

  Martin ignored the smiles and whispers that ran around the table. “I wanted to ask you what happened to Antonio, why he didn’t return from Malta.”

  Olivio glanced at his companions and laughed. With so many of his friends beside him, he felt safe enough.

  “Antonio decided that he would help the Knights defeat the Turks. He bragged about how he’d fought in many sea battles. I’m sure the Knights felt grateful for his offer to stay and fight for them.”

  Laughter arose, and Martin smiled for a moment. “Did you tell your friends here about how you were caught stealing from the Knights, and how Sir Annet de Clermont had you whipped and ordered you to be hanged?”

  The table went silent. Martin kept his eyes on Olivio. “Did you tell them that Antonio pleaded with de Clermont to spare your life? Did you tell them that you cried like a baby when the whip kissed your back, and that you wet yourself?”

  Olivio flushed. “That’s a damn lie!” He started to rise, but Martin took a quick step forward and leaned across the table. Before Olivio or any of the others could react, Martin’s fist smashed into Olivio’s face, breaking his nose and sending a gout of blood over his face. Olivio’s head slammed back against the wall.

  Behind Martin a man rose up, a knife in his hands. Then the knife hand found itself in Will’s grip. A quick snap, and the man cried out as he realized his wrist was broken. Will’s fist pounded the man’s forehead, and he crashed to the floor. The knife landed on the table. The Lataverna went silent, as every eye fixed on the suddenly dangerous-looking Englishmen. No one else reached for a weapon.

  Martin picked up the knife by the hilt, hefted it for a moment, then flung it across the room. The blade’s tip buried itself in the middle of the wall.

  “Damn you!” Olivio, enraged by the blow, shoved himself upright. Blood covered his nose and chin, two red streams running across his mouth and dripping onto his shirt. The blow and the insults had overcome his usual caution. His knife flashed into his hand, but Martin moved even faster. Another half-step, and he smashed the heel of his right hand into Olivio’s bloody nose. At the same time, he caught Olivio’s knife hand in his left and forced it down to the table.

  Olivio screamed in pain, the agony of the broken nose doubled by the second blow. The dagger fell from his helpless fingers. Despite the man’s bulk, Martin grabbed Olivio by the front of his shirt and yanked him upright, then dragged him onto the table, pulling him down its length until Olivio’s feet were off the ground. Red wine spattered everywhere, and cups and plates tumbled to the floor unnoticed. Using Olivio’s knife, Martin cut into the apprentice master’s shirt and slit it from neck to belt. A quick rip tore the garment in two.

  “So, it seems I didn’t lie about the whipping.” Martin glanced around the table. The scabs on Olivio’s back had mostly healed, but the marks of the lash were plain to see. The Knight’s imprint would remain for the rest of Olivio’s life, and no one could mistake the scars for anything else.

  “I was sure your friends wanted to see for themselves the punishment the Knights of St. John gave you.”

  Everyone stared at Olivio’s naked back, the man’s dishonor revealed. Only slaves and deserters were whipped. Or criminals. No boasts or threats would ever restore his reputation.

  Martin glanced around the tavern, but no one seemed eager to take Olivio’s side. Will remained two steps away, his hand on his knife, still ready for the slightest trouble. No one said anything, not even the tavern owner, who seemed as fascinated as his patrons at the drama playing itself out.

  Martin rolled Olivio onto his back. “Now that your friends know what a coward and a liar you are, you will tell me what happened to Antonio. Why didn’t he come back to the ship?”

  Blood streamed across Olivio’s face. He raised his hand to his broken nose and winced at the pain. “I don’t know. He didn’t . . . he just said he wanted to stay.” The words were slurred, almost unintelligible. His jaw trembled, and blood dribbled down his chin with every word, to mix with the wine and food scattered across the table.

  Martin gripped Olivio’s shoulder and squeezed. “What else did you do? Did you send him away on some fool’s errand, while you ran back to the ship? You were the last one to board, and the galley pushed off the moment you returned.”

  “Nothing . . . I swear on the Virgin . . . he said he wanted to stay.”

  “I think you’re a liar, Olivio. And the moment I find out for sure that you’ve lied, I’m coming back for you. I’ll cut off your balls and make you eat them. Then I’ll slit your throat and watch you bleed to death. Think about that when you’re drinking with your friends.”

  With a sudden burst of strength Martin dragged Olivio off the table. With a crash, the apprentice master rolled between the bench and the
wall, and slipped down into the filth that covered the floor. Martin whirled and stalked away from the table. No one in the tavern had said a word, all of them fascinated at Olivio’s humiliation. In a moment Martin passed through the door. Will followed, but he backed his way out, his eyes still moving. Many Venetians, he knew, were adept at throwing a knife.

  As soon as he disappeared through the door, a babble of noise erupted behind them. Will had to run to catch up with his friend. They walked swiftly away from the Lataverna. “I still think we should have killed him.”

  “There’s just a chance he’s telling part of the truth. At any rate, we’ve paid him back for his insults to Antonio.”

  “The sooner we get to Malta, the better. I’ll feel safer there. Sooner or later, these Venetian pigs will shove knives in our backs. And I’m sure the constables will be knocking on Marco’s door before noon, looking for us.”

  Martin laughed, a grim sound that held no mirth. “If the galley departs on time, we’ll be long gone by then. At least when we get to Malta, our enemies will be coming straight at us.”

  “Let’s just hope we don’t have to fight the entire Turkish army.”

  Martin didn’t answer. Both men knew it just might come to that.

  They hurried back to their rooms, and packed their gear. Martin saw no need to speak with Marco. The precious documents were already safely in their packs. They would sleep on the galley tonight, in case any friends of Olivio sent men to the house. The ship would leave at first light in any case, and they might as well spend the next few hours there.

  At last they were ready. Martin took one last look around the room, to make sure they had forgotten nothing. “Time to go,” he said.

  As they went down the stairs, Martin saw a shadow waiting for them in the darkness.

  “Gianetta! What are you doing here?”

  “I . . . I thought you might leave without saying goodbye to my uncle. I know you are going to search for Antonio. I would like you to carry a letter to him . . . from me.” She held out a square of white paper, wrapped with red thread and sealed with wax.

  Martin took the missive. “Of course, Gianetta. We’ll give it to him.”

  “May God help you and Will find him safe and sound. Tell him . . . tell him to take care.”

  Her voice broke, and Martin knew the tears had started. But Gianetta turned and ran through the connecting doorway, her slight figure making almost no sound as she disappeared.

  Martin led the way out into the lane, and they started for the city’s main dock. “She’s in love with him.”

  “She’s only a child,” Will said. “In a few weeks, she’ll likely have forgotten all about him.”

  “Perhaps.” Martin lengthened his stride. “But she’s no ordinary girl, filled with foolish ideas about men and love. She has . . . something rare.”

  “Let’s hope that we can get to Malta, find him alive, and get him back to Venice. And without getting ourselves killed in the process.”

  “Amen to that, Will. Amen to that.”

  Chapter 34

  Malta, May 28

  The days passed, one after another. Each morning Antonio began his day by mounting to the top of the English battlement. From there, he could see the Grand Harbor, and across the water the smoking rock that was St. Elmo. Each day, the Turks mounted more guns which they used to hammer the little fort. The Turks, as Sergeant Ruvo had declared, were masters of the art of siege warfare. Antonio could watch the guns, fascinated by the devastation they were wreaking on St. Elmo. But somehow the valiant defenders of St. Elmo survived each day, though everyone knew it was only a matter of time.

  On May 28, Malta’s defenders saw the arrival of the famed corsair Dragut Rais, with 15 heavily laden galleys from the coast of North Africa. Antonio counted the ships as they crossed the mouth of the harbor, to the cheers of the Turkish soldiers, and salutes from the Sultan’s fleet.

  “Who is he?” Antonio had never heard the name Dragut before, but he saw the resignation on the faces of many of the defenders.

  “He’s the spawn of the devil,” Ruvo said, spitting over the wall in disgust. “He’s raided Malta at least half a dozen times. On his last raid, he carried off practically every inhabitant of Gozo.”

  By now Antonio knew that Gozo was an island, inhabited mostly by herders, just north of Malta. “Will a few more ships make that much difference?”

  “You don’t know what he’s done, Antonio. The Sultan gave him the title of ‘The Drawn Sword of Islam,’ and he’s carried on the work of the pirate Barbarossa, killing and enslaving Christians throughout the inner sea. Dragut has ruled Algiers and Tripoli for years while looting and raping across the Mediterranean. I hoped he was dead by now. God’s blood, he must be at least 80 years old, and he still rules Tripoli with an iron hand. No pirate galley sets out on a foray without his permission, and all their spoils come back to him for distribution.”

  The sound of voices made them turn their heads, and they saw the Grand Master and his senior Knights approaching. Ruvo and Antonio moved away, to give the best vantage to the leaders of Malta.

  Antonio saw the concern on both Sir Oliver and Valette’s faces, and decided that Ruvo wasn’t exaggerating this new threat.

  “Will this Dragut take charge of the siege?”

  “No, but you can bet your hope for salvation that both Mustapha Pasha and Admiral Piali will do whatever he suggests. They both know the Sultan has heaped favors on Dragut for years. And the old brigand knows the sea better than anyone in the Mediterranean.”

  Mustapha Pasha commanded the Turkish soldiers besieging Malta, and Admiral Piali led the Sultan’s fleet of galleys and ships. Apparently they shared the command of the invasion. Born a Christian, Piali had been abandoned as a child near Belgrade and eventually adopted into the Sultan’s seraglio. From that humble beginning he had risen high in the Sultan’s service.

  The last of Dragut’s ships slipped past the harbor mouth and out of sight. But Ruvo had spoken truly about the wily corsair. Later that day, the Turks began shifting their guns and installing new ones. Within two days, they seized Gallows Point and erected a large battery there, pouring fire on St. Elmo from the seaward side for the first time.

  During the same period, another battery was established on Tigne Point to the north. Four huge cannons of the type Antonio called a cannon royal soon began pounding St. Elmo from a distance of less than 500 yards, firing 60 pound shot. For the first time in the siege, cannons raked the little fort from every side, and the defenders literally had no walls to take shelter that might not at any time be struck by a cannon ball.

  Whenever Antonio’s duties permitted, he ascended the English battlement and studied the Turks’ tactics. He’d always been able to visualize fields of fire, angles of flight, and estimate distances for cannon placement. Now he watched in awe as the Turks began demolishing the fort. Antonio had recognized the Turks’ skill with their siege weapons, but now they proved they could envision the positions best suited to level St. Elmo. Whatever additional men, guns, and supplies this Dragut had brought with him, his skill at directing the attack on the fort proved even more deadly to Malta’s defenders.

  Nevertheless, St. Elmo continued to hold. Not only did it resist the incessant bombardment, but its defenders threw back attack after attack of Turkish soldiers. The shelling continued without respite, and each morning when Antonio mounted the wall, he expected to see the Turkish flag flying over the remains of the fort.

  In truth, the fort would have fallen by now, except for the efforts of the Knights to keep it resupplied. Each night, small boats took to the water, bringing fresh men, food, gunpowder, cannon balls, and whatever else they could cram onboard. Hours later, the boats returned, carrying the most seriously wounded of St. Elmo’s defenders.

  By now Antonio understood the Knights’ rules of combat. They expected any man who could stand to continue fighting, and if need be, to die in the effort. The Knights of St. John set the example. N
one of them left St. Elmo willingly. This battle was their fate, to prove to themselves and their brethren that they could fight to the death for their faith and the Order.

  Part of Antonio realized the Knights were as fanatical as their opponents, both sides willing to die for their god. And both believing their place in heaven was assured by the number of enemy they killed before succumbing. Nevertheless, he felt a grudging admiration for the Order of St. John. It took more than simple courage to face death that way.

  Those fresh soldiers ferried each night across the water to St. Elmo knew they were going to their deaths, but each day, when the Grand Master or his commanders asked for volunteers, men stepped forward. Antonio shook his head in amazement.

  “How can they volunteer like that””

  Ruvo shrugged. “Perhaps they know that we’re all going to die or be enslaved by the Turks, so what does a few days matter either way? And they know that the longer St. Elmo can hold out, the safer their families in Birgu and Senglea will be. And maybe that fool of a Viceroy in Sicily will send help one of these days.”

  Antonio had little hope for such a rescue. By now he understood the use of sea power. With so many galleys at their disposal, the Turks ruled the seas around Malta. Any relief force would have to fight its way across the strip of water between Sicily and the little island. Even if Viceroy Don Garcia in Sicily had enough soldiers to force the issue, getting them to Malta would be the problem.

  No, Ruvo was right. They would all soon be dead or enslaved here in Malta.

  ***

  The next morning, when Antonio peered out over the battlement, he saw movement all along the Turkish lines. Even as he’d ascended the steep steps, the increased sound of the cannons could be noticed. Every gun was firing at St. Elmo. Such an opening salvo could only mean one thing – a full assault on the fort. For more than an hour the bombardment continued, a devastating rain of iron and stone that pounded what remained of the walls. Then the Turks surged forward, banners flying, screaming in their eagerness to close with their enemy.