Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

Antonio listened while Martin told the story of the last few weeks, interrupting only to ask for more water.

  “Do you need to rest, Antonio? I know about your journey to Malta, but can I ask you how you came to stay here?”

  Memory of Olivio’s treachery flooded into Antonio’s thoughts, and the blood pounded in his head. His fingers clenched on the blanket. “Olivio! The bastard murdered poor Tozzo, a boy who had never offended him, and nearly killed me. He left me for dead.”

  Martin feared he had gone too far. “We’ll talk more about this after you’ve slept. You’ll feel better then. Now get some sleep.”

  “I’m blind, Martin. I’ll never see . . .”

  “The Knights say you may regain your sight in a few days, or even a few weeks. They are very skilled in such things, so you must not give up hope. But you must rest and give yourself time to heal. You suffered much at St. Elmo’s and you need to regain your strength.”

  “I’ll try, Martin. I’m . . . I’m glad you’re here. I needed your strength.” Antonio let his eyes close, and soon he drifted back into sleep.

  ***

  As soon as Martin heard the rhythmic breathing that indicated sleep, he rose to find Will and Sergeant Ruvo standing behind him, listening to every word. The three men left the chamber and returned to the main room. Overhead, the stars shone through the remains of the roof.

  Sergeant Ruvo broke the silence. “Sir Oliver read us part of the final dispatches from St. Elmo. Commandant Broglia, a cold, hard man if there ever was one, reported that Antonio fought besides the Knights many times defending the rampart, and that his use of his cannons helped hold off the Turks.”

  “It must have been hell on earth,” Will said.

  “It was. We could see the fort being pounded by the guns day after day, but there was little we could do. At the end, the Turks had placed cannons all around the fort, and even fired at it from their galleys in the harbor. Thousands of cannon balls, fired day and night, so that the defenders had no chance to rest. The din never ceased, and each day we watched St. Elmo shrink in size, surrounded always by a haze of yellow dust, like a ghostly pyre.” Ruvo crossed himself at the memory. “At the end, the remains of the wall were scarcely eight feet high.”

  “If he survived that, Antonio will recover,” declared Will.

  “I prayed each day for his soul,” Ruvo said. “It should have been me on St. Elmo. Now the Turks will turn all those guns on St. Angelo.”

  “The fates of war,” Martin said. “But the Knights are strong, and there is some hope from Sicily.” He sighed. “I only regret one thing. That I didn’t listen to Will, and kill that bastard Olivio when I had the chance.”

  ***

  June 25

  When Antonio awakened, he found himself alone. His calls for water, for Martin, even Sergeant Ruvo, went unanswered. He forced himself to sit up, cursing the blackness that surrounded him. Sweeping his left hand about, he encountered the rough stones of a wall. He tried his right, and almost knocked over a clay pitcher. But he heard the sound of water sloshing about inside and managed to lift the container to his lips and drink. Water splashed over his chin and chest, but he ignored that, gulping the tepid water until he could hold no more.

  He must have fallen back asleep. In his dreams someone called his name, over and over, and finally he woke with a start, sitting up. Antonio didn’t recognize the voice, and suddenly didn’t care. His bladder felt like it was ready to burst. His hands fumbled beneath the blanket, and he turned on his side to relieve himself. A bowl rattled into place just in time to catch the first stream.

  When the long piss finally ended, Antonio sighed with relief. Only then did he notice that the person helping him was a woman, her soft voice encouraging him.

  When he sagged back against his blanket, he heard the scrape of the piss bowl, followed by light footsteps that faded into silence. No, not silence. The background sound now came clearly, the sound of men talking in the street below, the occasional passage of a cannonball through the air, and the boom and shaking of the earth when one landed nearby.

  “The Turks!” The siege of St. Elmo might be over, but St. Angelo’s must have already begun.

  The first he knew that the woman had returned was when she spoke his name. “Antonio, it is Rusana. You are safe, safe in my father’s house.”

  With a rush, all the memories returned. Sergeant Ruvo, his wife, Darmenia, and their daughter, Rusana. Antonio couldn’t recall the name of Rusana’s husband or her baby, but at least he recognized her voice.

  “Rusana, thank you for helping me. But where is your father, and Martin and Will?”

  Antonio felt a damp cloth wiping the sweat from his brow. “Your friends carried my father to the magazine this morning, so he can resume his duties. He will ask the Knights if your companions can remain to assist him. Oh, you may not remember. My father’s leg was broken when the cannonball hit our house, and he is still unable to stand for more than a few moments. Everyone has to work, you know.”

  He didn’t recall hearing anything about Ruvo’s injury. Then Rusana’s words sank in. “A cannonball hit the house? Is everyone all right?”

  Rusana patted his brow with the rag, and a silence grew. “No. My husband, Leo . . . and the baby . . . were . . . they died when the roof collapsed.”

  Her voice choked on the last few words. Antonio reached out, found her hand, and held it tight. “I’m so sorry, Rusana.” He wanted to say more, but couldn’t think of anything that would give her comfort. Since his arrival on Malta, Antonio had seen nothing but death and sorrow. “I’ll pray for their souls. I’m sure God has already accepted them.”

  Antonio heard the rustle of her dress as she stood. “You should rest. You need to heal. My father will need your help to fight the Turks.”

  The Turks. Still out there and still trying to kill him. Yet he had killed many of them himself, with his cannons and by his own hand. Antonio had no idea of how many he’d slain on St. Elmo. But there were always more of them, eager to storm the walls, eager to die and reach paradise. St. Angelo would soon feel their wrath, and he, blind and helpless, would be unable to do anything to stop them.

  With that gloomy thought he closed his eyes and again slipped into a restless sleep.

  When Antonio woke, he heard Martin and Will conversing nearby. Opening his eyes, he saw nothing but the now familiar blackness. Rolling onto his side, he pushed his back against the rough stones and sat up.

  “Antonio, you’re awake.” Martin’s voice sounded reassuring. “We were about to wake you, so you could eat something.”

  Suddenly Antonio’s only thought was his bladder. The urge swept through him. “Piss. Need to piss.” His hand reached beneath the rough blanket that covered his hips, and discovered he was wearing only a shirt.

  “Here, Antonio. Use this.” Will’s gentle voice was accompanied by the scraping of a bowl.

  Feeling the piss pot against his thigh, Antonio shoved his penis into the opening and relieved himself. No one spoke until he finished, falling back against the wall with a sigh of relief.

  “How are you feeling? Any pain in your head?”

  He heard the concern in Martin’s voice. Antonio lifted his hand, and very slowly touched the back of his head. The bump remained, but it did feel smaller. The last time he’d touched the spot, pain had lanced through his skull. “Seems better. Head still hurts.”

  “That’s good. Rusana is here, with some bread and soup. Eat first, then we’ll talk.”

  Antonio dragged the blanket up to his waist to cover himself. He hated being helpless. He felt a pressure against his thigh, and realized that Rusana knelt beside him. She offered to feed him, but he took the bowl and a wooden spoon from her hands. “I might as well learn to feed myself.”

  When he finished eating, he leaned back with a sigh. “Martin, can you tell me what’s happening? What are the Turks doing?”

  “Moving the guns, Antonio. That first day, after St. Elmo fell, they didn’t
do much, too busy celebrating. But now they are working again, shifting all the guns across the island that had targeted the fort. Soon they’ll be in place and the real bombardment will begin.”

  “When they first landed, they shelled Birgu and St. Angelo,” Antonio said, “before they decided to concentrate their firepower on St. Elmo.” He thought for a moment. “St. Elmo fell three days ago, so by tomorrow, the shells will be falling here again. But even now, they still fire a shot or two into Birgu.”

  “It looks like they want to move their galleys, too,” Martin said. “Apparently the Turks are trying to drag some overland from the other anchorage . . .”

  “Marsamuscetto,” Antonio finished, the surprise evident in his voice. “That’s bad news. The Knights thought that even if St. Elmo fell, they could cover the harbor with the guns from St. Angelo. But if the Turks can drag their ships overland and into Grand Harbor, they’ll be able to launch attacks from their galleys.”

  “That’s what Sergeant Ruvo said,” Martin agreed. “Apparently it’s another threat no one anticipated. Those are the ones that cause soldiers the most worry.”

  “Toward the end, when the guns in St. Elmo covering the sea approaches were dismounted, some Turkish galleys fired on St. Elmo.”

  “Well, Antonio, since you are now the expert of sieges, what do you think of our chances?”

  Antonio smiled at those words. He’d become an expert, all right, nearly dying in the process. “The village of Birgu and the citadel of St. Angelo form one fort, as St. Michael and the village of Senglea form another. As long as they both stand and can support each other, the Turks will not be able to overcome their defenses, at least not until they’ve shelled them both into rubble.”

  “Then you think the Knights can hold out for a time?” That question came from Will.

  “After what I saw on St. Elmo, yes. But what of the Spanish Viceroy? When will he send troops to relieve Malta?”

  Martin described the situation on Sicily, and Antonio’s face grew grim again.

  “If you think it will be at least three months before any help arrives . . . St. Elmo held out for almost a month,” he said, “and I’m sure that St. Angelo and St. Michael can stand for longer than that. Unlike St. Elmo, the walls here are made of harder stone, and it will take more cannonballs to destroy them. But the Turks have plenty of time.”

  “At least Malta received some reinforcements,” Martin said, describing the size of the Little Relief Force.

  “Yes, I suppose. Brave men, to risk coming here.”

  All the same, the gloom visible on Antonio’s face didn’t change, and Martin realized that the expert of siege warfare might just have foretold their own future.

  ***

  The next seven days passed with little change. Despite Antonio’s hope that Martin and Will could remain with him for a few days, Ruvo insisted that Antonio’s friends get to work at once. The rules on Malta were simple – everyone worked, and everyone fought. Anyone trying to avoid their assigned tasks could be hanged. So Ruvo took Martin and Will with him to the magazine. After a quick lesson on how to handle gunpowder, Ruvo put them to work.

  That arrangement left Antonio alone most of the day, which gave him plenty of time to agonize about his misfortune. But he did have some assistance. Ruvo’s daughter, Rusana, stopped by two or three times each day, to attend to Antonio. She brought him bread in the morning and served him what little they could spare of the rations allocated to Ruvo and his family. She fed him, kept him clean, and helped him relieve himself. Even those simple acts of kindness entertained some risk, as Rusana needed to slip away from her duties to return to the house.

  But the days remained mostly empty, with plenty of time for him to brood. Antonio had left St. Elmo on the night of June 22. More than a week had passed and he still couldn’t see. The swelling on the back of his head had nearly disappeared, though the spot remained tender. The cuts and bruises that covered his body had faded, or so Rusana assured him. At least they were no longer a source of pain. One good sign, the headaches had lessened each day. But now it was June 30, and Antonio accepted that his sight would never return.

  That day, Rusana surprised him by returning well before supper. As usual, she called his name as she entered. Her unexpected presence made him wonder if something had happened, if someone else had died or been wounded. “Rusana, is everything alright?”

  “Yes, Antonio.”

  He relaxed a little. Antonio was sitting on his blanket, with his back against the wall of the house. “Did your father send you?”

  “No, he thinks I am with my mother. I came on my own, to see if you needed anything . . . to talk to you.”

  “Thank you, Rusana. I appreciate all you’ve done for me.” Her hand touched his shoulder, and he realized she had settled down beside him.

  “Antonio, why don’t you lie down?” Her voice sounded different, softer.

  He felt her hand touch his cheek, and she ran her fingers over his face. After a few moments, she moved her hand to his shoulder, and then down the length of his shirt. Antonio wasn’t wearing anything under the garment, and his body jumped when she touched the bare skin of his thigh.

  “Rusana, what are you . . .”

  “Don’t speak, Antonio.” Her hand found his penis and closed around it. “Not a word, nothing. I need you to help me. Help me to forget . . . Leo . . . and my baby.”

  He surged in her grasp and in moments grew hard. Antonio hadn’t had an erection since well before he left for St. Elmo. Now her touch aroused him. But when he tried to push her hand away, she tightened her grip and his good intentions vanished as desire swept over him. He reached out to her, as she settled in beside him, her other hand slipping around his shoulder.

  Antonio’s hand moved to her body, caressing her through the garment. But that lasted only a few moments before he pushed the dress from her shoulder, and felt the full weight of her bare breast in his hand.

  “Oh, god . . . Rusana . . .”

  “Don’t speak!” Her mouth found his and she kissed him, softly at first, then harder. But her hand never left him.

  When the long kiss ended, Antonio’s whole body tingled. He cried out when she released his member and pushed herself away from him. But he heard the rustle of her dress, and then she moved on top of him. His penis brushed against the softness of her inner thigh, but her hands were on him again, guiding him into her body.

  With a sigh of satisfaction, Rusana settled down on him. She remained motionless for a few seconds, then leaned forward so that his hands could fondle her breasts, as she began to rock against him.

  Antonio’s body responded to hers and he moved in rhythm with her. But only for a few moments. Unable to restrain himself, he burst inside her, his hands tightening on her breasts, her long hair brushing his arms and face. Rusana never ceased her movements. Ignoring his gasps of pleasure, she rode him until she reached her own release, calling out his name as her body shuddered against him. Finally she collapsed on his chest, letting him slip from her body.

  Antonio whispered her name. She kissed him again, another long kiss that sealed their bodies. But when the kiss ended, she pulled away from his hands. He heard the dress rustle as she pulled it on over her head.

  “Rusana . . .”

  “No speaking, Antonio. I come back tomorrow.”

  Then she was gone, and he knew she had left the chamber, and a minute later, the house. Antonio could scarcely move, but he felt the wetness from her body on his, and knew that it had not been a dream. With a sigh of satisfaction, he remembered the feel of her body against him. He might be blind, but at least his manhood remained. For the first time since his injury, he thought of something pleasant as he closed his eyes and tried to rest.

  When Antonio awakened, he heard the sound of voices in the outer room. Rusana and her mother were speaking in Maltese. Though his understanding of that language continued to improve, they spoke so quickly that he couldn’t understand a word. Then Marti
n’s voice sounded within Antonio’s room.

  “Are you planning to sleep the night away, Antonio? Is everything all right?”

  With a shock, Antonio realized he must have slept for four or five hours after Rusana left. From habit, Antonio turned toward Martin’s voice. “Yes, everything is . . .” A tiny sparkle of light glimmered in the darkness. It took him several moments before he realized what it must be – the flickering of a candle in Martin’s hand.

  The deep blackness that Antonio had grown accustomed to had changed to the darker grayness of shadows. His sight had not returned, but he could see a vague glow from the candle and the outline of Martin’s broad shoulders as he sat beside Antonio.

  “Antonio, are you well? You seem . . .”

  “Martin, I can see the candle! The darkness . . . I can make out shadows.”

  Suddenly Will and Ruvo and his wife and daughter were in the room, all of them talking at once, while Martin hugged Antonio.

  He closed his eyes. Whether it had been the long, peaceful sleep after Rusana left or their lovemaking, for the first time in almost two weeks Antonio felt alive. He could see. The blindness was fading, and hopefully tomorrow or the next day, he would recover his sight.

  Perhaps his life hadn’t ended. Perhaps he might yet contribute his efforts to the fight. Yes, at least he might be able to help his friends in the coming days. And if by some chance he and Malta should survive, there still remained his duty, his oath – to kill Olivio.

  Chapter 43

  Seven days later, on the morning of July 7, Antonio walked behind Martin and Will as they assisted Sergeant Ruvo to the magazine in Saint Angelo. He still could not walk unaided, and his injured leg would almost certainly leave him limping for the rest of his life.

  But once in the magazine and seated on a stool, he could direct the workers as they loaded the cartridges and manufactured the fire weapons. Even so, Ruvo needed all the experienced help he could find, and Antonio’s two companions had turned into a godsend, both intelligent and cautious men who could be depended upon.

  The days of rest in Ruvo’s home had allowed Antonio to fully recover his physical strength, and while the bright sunlight still bothered his eyes, he could see more than well enough to work in the magazine. In truth, he wanted to work, to help the Knights resist the siege. And even if Malta fell, Antonio wanted to fight beside his friends and kill as many Turks as possible.