by Sam Barone
“So what do we do now?”
Martin smiled. “Why, we follow the Knight, of course. If there’s one of them, there are probably more. And I don’t think they’ll be patiently waiting for Don Garcia to assemble his army. They’ll want to get to Malta as soon as they can, to join their brethren.”
Will let out a long breath. “These Knights, I tell you, they’re nothing but trouble.”
“Oh, yes, they are,” Martin agreed. “That’s why we need them. If anyone can get us to Malta, it’s the Knights of St. John.”
They followed the Knight through the lanes. As they walked, Martin noticed the reaction of the inhabitants. Most shrank aside as the Knight strode along, his way cleared as if by magic. Even here, surrounded by the might of Spain, the Knights of St. John Hospitaller were a rarity and a reminder of the past. In those days, armored knights ruled all the kingdoms of Europe and common folk stepped aside when they passed.
The Knight turned in at what Martin guessed to be one of the finest inns in Messina. A sign sketched above the entrance proclaimed it the Taverna di Mercanti.
“Looks like the Knights have plenty of gold to spend,” Will said.
They reached the door, and realized that a guard stood there, blocking their path.
“No rooms here,” he growled.
“I have business with the Knight that just entered,” Martin said.
The guard stared at him. “Tell me his name.”
“I don’t know his name, but I have business with him all the same. We wish to join the Knights in Malta.”
“English, aren’t you? No matter. The Knights don’t need any English heretics. Move along.”
No one, it seemed, cared much for the Protestant English. “Give him the message,” Martin insisted. “We’re not leaving until we speak with him.”
The guard opened his mouth, but Will chose that moment to move alongside his companion. If it came to blows, it would be two against one.
The guard decided to compromise. Without turning his head, he called out. “Enrico! Come here.”
Another man at arms appeared, one of the two who had accompanied the Knight on his walk. He glanced at the two tall strangers facing the door. “Who are they?”
The first man explained, Martin repeated his requests, and Enrico told them to get out of the doorway. Martin refused. “I need to speak with the Knight of St. John.” This time he raised his voice loud enough to be heard inside.
A handful of Messina’s inhabitants passing by noticed the little confrontation and stopped to see what would happen next.
Suddenly a Knight, the same one they’d followed, appeared in the doorway. “Who are these men? Get rid of them.”
The man spoke French with a melodious accent, which Martin recognized as Norman. Many of the French nobles from Normandy understood English.
Martin decided to take a chance before the pushing and shoving started. He switched to his native language. “Sir, we are English fighting men who wish to join the fight at Malta. We are in search of our companion, who is a friend of Sir Annet de Clermont. We beg only a few moments of your time.”
The Knight stared at them. “English. What do you know of de Clermont?”
Moving with care, Martin reached inside his shirt and produced the same paper he had given to Captain Mendoza earlier. “Please, sir, this may help explain who we are and what we want.” He extended the letter.
If the Knight decided to tear it up and throw back in Martin’s face, a valuable letter of introduction would be lost. The Knight didn’t touch it, but he glanced at the gathering crowd of idlers and made up his mind. He turned to his men. “Let them in.”
Inside the common room, Martin found himself in the presence of three Knights, and half a dozen retainers. All the knights wore their armor, which seemed even more out of place inside a dwelling.
The French Knight who had brought them in escorted them to a table. Another Knight sat there, with a clerk on either side. Papers covered the surface of the table, much the same as Captain Mendoza’s desk. The seated Knight frowned at the interruption.
“Your Excellency,” Martin began, “I beg you for a moment of your time. May it please you to glance at this letter.”
The Knight, older than his companions, shook his head, not in dismissal, but in resignation. “Why not? One letter more or less.” He nodded at the clerk standing as his side. The man accepted the paper from Martin’s outstretched hand, unfolded it, sat down at the desk where a candle burned and began reading it aloud.
“To All Loyal Members of the Republic of Venice, Their Allies, His Most Gracious Excellency Don Garcia de Toledo, Viceroy of the Duchy of Sicily . . .”
The clerk read every word, speaking with care, and as far as Martin could tell, translating the flowery Italian into fluent French with the ease of long practice. While the clerk read, the Knight’s eyes remained fixed on Martin, as if judging the worth and character of the man standing before him.
When the clerk finished, he held the letter close to the candle light and examined it closely from top to bottom, then did the same on the reverse. The clerk glanced at the Knight, and nodded approval. Then he folded the letter and handed it back to Martin.
The clerk, Martin decided, had been searching the document for any signs of invisible ink. Such secret messages were often written in lemon juice, and could only be read when the paper was heated.
“I am Chevalier Goncales de Medran de Robles, leader of this group of Holy Knights. What does this letter have to do with de Clermont?”
So the Knight had heard Martin’s use of the name. “Sir, my friend, the one we seek to join, was able to provide some assistance to Sir Annet de Clermont.”
Martin proceeded to tell Chevalier de Robles the whole story – the trip on the galleys, the theft of the arms, Antonio’s intercession, Olivio’s whipping, and Antonio’s being placed in charge by de Clermont. Martin finished up with the confrontation in the tavern, his promise to discover what evil had befallen Antonio and extract payment from the Venetian coward and thief.
When he finished, Martin realized that everyone in the common room had stopped whatever task had occupied them to listen to his story. At least the Knight hadn’t cut him off. Martin moved quickly to plead his case.
“So, Chevalier, we wish only to get to Malta as soon as possible, to learn the fate of our friend, and join the fight against the Turks. Both Will and I are experienced fighters who know the rigors of war. We tried to join Don Garcia’s relief force, but realized it may be months or longer before the Viceroy is ready to move against the Turks. So we came into Messina to search out any Knights of St. John, to seek their help. We ask for no pay, only the chance to join our friend.”
De Robles had listened impassively during the reading of the letter and through Martin’s request. Now he relaxed and leaned back in his chair. “So neither you nor your missing friend have any claim on de Clermont’s friendship.”
“No, my lord, other than what I’ve told you.” Martin knew better than to try and stretch the truth. “But Antonio is a master gunner, and it is clear that he performed a duty above what he was expected to provide. Sir Annet de Clermont must have trusted him, to request he personally deliver the gunpowder to the fort’s magazines. Remember, Sir, they were aboard the same galley for more than a week, and Antonio acted as a translator for the Knight.”
De Robles considered that for a moment. “Perhaps he might have taken some notice of your friend. But if I take you to Malta, and find out that you have lied about any of this, you know what will happen to you.”
Not a question, just a statement. “Yes, my lord.”
“Very well. We can always use more men. I will allow you to join our camp. We will see how well you can fight.”
“Thank you, my lord. But if I may ask, how long will it be before you leave for Malta? Are you planning to sail with Don Garcia’s relief force?”
Martin glimpsed the ripple of movement throughout the room. The
blunt question must have been on the minds of others in the room.
De Robles frowned at the impertinence. “The Viceroy has his schedule and I have mine. All I will say is that I intend to get to Malta as soon as possible, with as many men as possible. If that is not sufficient for you, then you may leave.”
Martin bowed. “It is more than sufficient, my lord. We place ourselves at your service and await your instructions.”
Chapter 40
June 20
For Martin and Will, the days passed at an interminably slow pace. Rumors swept the dirty lanes of Messina even faster than they did in Venice. Almost every day a report arrived announcing the fall of Malta. Each proved false. Chevalier de Robles ignored them all, and Martin soon learned that the Knights of St. John had their own sources for information.
Nevertheless, Martin saw the fear on the faces of the townspeople. With the enormous Turkish fleet less than two days away by sea, an invasion of Sicily seemed imminent. While the guns in the harbor of Messina might hold off the galleys, the Turks could disembark their forces anywhere on the island and attack the city by land. Stories about the invincibility of the Turks were repeated so often that even Martin started to believe them.
But the faces of the grim veterans of the Spanish Infantry told another story. They had faced the Turks before and defeated them in North Africa. What had happened once could happen again.
The Knights of St. John put Martin to work. Since he could read and write French, and spoke a passable Spanish and Italian, Chevalier de Robles employed him as a translator and clerk. Not for the Order’s private business, of course, but for the less important tasks such as dealing with the local population.
Any man who could read and write possessed a weapon that often proved more important than any skill with musket or sword. Will stood guard duty at the tavern, freeing up one of the Knight’s men at arms for more urgent tasks, such as guarding the Knights’ two galleys, beached on a little used strand of coast adjacent to the harbor.
Soon Martin had a good grasp of the local politics. The Viceroy’s first duty was to defend Sicily for the King of Spain. Aside from Malta not being part of the Spanish Empire, the Viceroy lacked the galleys and transports to move an army to the beleaguered island. Nor would he consider sending troops to fight the Turks unless his soldiers stood a good chance of victory.
All the same, the Knights of St. John kept up the pressure on the Viceroy. They urged him every day to send a small relief force to the island. Chevalier de Robles offered to provide the ships and supplies, and pay the troops.
“Why don’t the Knights just set sail for Malta? They’ve got two ships and crews and extra fighting men.” Will posed the question one night as they strolled through Messina’s crowded lanes. With so many spies on the island, for the Viceroy, the Knights, and possibly even the Turks, the only really private place to talk was to take a walk and keep your voice down.
“The Chevalier is sure Malta can hold out for some time, no matter how eager he and his men are to get to the island. So de Robles wants to bring as many men as he can. Malta will need every soldier it can muster to defend the place.”
Martin glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention to them. He lowered his voice even more than usual. “Today I overheard one of the clerks. It seems that the Viceroy is receiving a large payment from de Robles tomorrow, in exchange for another two galleys and allowing the Knights to ask for volunteers from the Spanish Infantry.”
“A bribe? Men are dying and the Viceroy is demanding payment?”
Martin shrugged. “This is Sicily, and that’s always been the way officials do business. The Knights may care nothing about money, but every Spaniard and Italian thinks of himself and his purse first.”
Will thought about that for a moment. “Then you think we’ll be leaving soon?”
“Probably as soon as the gold is handed over,” Martin said. “No more than two or three days. The Chevalier will need that much time to recruit whatever volunteers he can.”
“There are plenty of Spanish soldiers looking for a fight,” Will said. “As long as the Knights pay them enough, they’ll fight anyone.”
“A Spaniard’s desire for gold is far stronger than anything we’ve seen at home or in Ireland,” Martin agreed. “Just stay close to the tavern, make sure you’re ready at a moment’s notice.”
“I hope Antonio is safe.”
“Let’s hope he is,” Martin said. “It will be bad enough on Malta if he’s still alive. If he’s dead, we’ll be in the fight of our lives for nothing.”
“If he’s dead, I will gut Olivio if it’s the last thing I ever do.”
The next morning Martin learned that the Chevalier de Robles was meeting with the Viceroy and his senior officers, to ask for volunteers.
“They’ll have to leave at once,” Martin explained to Will as they stood outside the tavern. “If they wait too long, the Turkish spies will get the information to the fleet, and the Turks will be watching for the Knights.”
“Then I’m not leaving your side,” Will said. “We’d best not get separated.”
In the confusion of war, both men knew how easily that could happen.
Within hours, the Knights had settled their bill and deserted the tavern. Their men at arms also abandoned their camp and moved to the docks. They readied the four galleys, stocking each with weapons, gunpowder, and the other supplies needed for warfare, but only a few days’ supply of food and water.
Martin had never seen men mustered and turned out so fast. Chevalier de Robles and his Knights must have prepared everything in advance. Probably the last few days were spent waiting for the gold needed for the Viceroy’s bribe to arrive. Galleys were indeed expensive, especially now when the winds of war wafted over the Mediterranean.
The Spanish volunteers arrived in small groups, carrying their weapons and personal supplies. They seemed unconcerned about what lay ahead.
“Tough-looking crew,” Will said. “I take back all the foolish words I’ve uttered about Spanish courage.”
“Tough, indeed,” agreed Martin. “I think we’d better get down to the dock. I want to make sure we get aboard. The Chevalier might rather have two more Spaniards than a couple of Englishmen.”
By three o’clock, the little relief force, already named the Piccolo Soccorso, pushed off from the harbor of Messina. The Little Relief Force consisted of four galleys, two belonging to the Knights and two provided by the Viceroy. The titular commander was the Spanish Admiral Don Juan de Cardona. His orders, direct from the Viceroy, were not to attempt a landing on Malta if the fort of St. Elmo had fallen. But Martin knew that Chevalier de Robles had no intention of remaining aboard ship and would pay scant heed to any such orders de Cardona might give.
On board were 42 Knights of St. John, 600 Spanish infantry, 20 volunteers from Italy, and three from Germany. As Martin had expected, Will and he were the only Englishmen, and they filled the last two positions on the smallest galley.
All in all, 723 men were risking their lives on an expedition to the doomed fortress of Malta. They left Messina on June 28.
Onboard, Martin and Will labored on the same oar. Fortunately for them, this was not their first time on the benches. The long journey from Venice to Messina had taught them how to work in union, keep time, and husband their strength. For many of the others, this was their first time at the back-breaking labor, a task even more arduous until the rower learned how to pace himself.
Everyone labored at the oars, even the Knights. For Chevalier de Robles, speed mattered more than anything, and not a man failed to take his turn. The faster the little relief force reached its destination, the better. And so every man strained against the oars, each collapsing with relief when the call to change the rowers sounded. But the rest periods appeared all too brief, and the four galleys sliced rapidly through the Mediterranean’s gentle waves.
On the night of the 29, the little relief force slipped unnoticed past the Turki
sh galleys patrolling the waters north of Malta. Just before midnight, the four galleys swept through the surf and beached themselves on the northwest corner of the island. The dangerous and difficult voyage had ended without their being spotted by the Turks.
Chevalier de Robles had chosen his landing site with care, the rocky coastline unpopulated, except for a few Maltese fishermen. The 700 soldiers came ashore without opposition or detection. They staggered on the soft sand, weighted down by their burden of supplies and arms. Even so, every man had received his orders before reaching the shore and no one spoke above a whisper.
As soon as the four galleys disgorged their men and supplies, the ships put back to sea. Don Juan de Cardona, the Spanish naval commander, was most anxious to put as many miles between his ships and the Turkish fleet surrounding Malta before dawn.
Without pausing, de Robles formed the troop into a column of twos and started marching around the western end of the island, keeping as much distance as possible from the large Turkish encampment, its campfires easily visible on the Marsa. He also sent two scouts on ahead. They would attempt to reach Fort St. Angelo, to warn the Knights that a large force was approaching.
Martin and Will had reached the Island of Malta, but much could still go wrong. The Little Relief Force might be discovered and overwhelmed by the invaders at any moment. Or they might reach St. Angelo’s walls and find the defenders thinking themselves under attack. Many were the prayers whispered into the night, asking God’s succor for their dangerous effort.
Bringing up the rear of the reinforcements trudged Martin and Will.
A wind sprang up, a damp breeze that blew over the island from the south. “Is that fog?” Will kept his voice to whisper, though they remained about 10 paces behind the rest of the column.
“I don’t think so,” Martin said. “It’s too warm for fog. It’s too early in the summer for it to be that sirocco wind.”
But soon enough, whispers came down the column, and the word sirocco was on everyone’s lips. In moments, every man felt the damp mist coating every inch of their clothing. Martin had trouble seeing the men ahead of him, and he lengthened his stride to close the gap. He did not want to get separated from the soldiers.