Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  The horror of St. Elmo had changed him, hardened him. No longer a young man, Antonio had turned into a soldier and a leader of fighters. Turks had died from his cannons and by his own hand, and he intended to kill many more. He fingered the sword that hung just below his left hip.

  Yesterday, Antonio had walked unaided to the closest armory, only two lanes away from the remains of Ruvo’s house. In one of the fights at St. Elmo, Antonio had watched as a Knight was slain, despite his armor. Three Turks had scrambled over the wall and a Knight had killed the first two before the third thrust his sword into the Knight’s lower body, where no armor protected the soft flesh. The Turk had died, struck down by the Knight even as the enemy soldier delivered the killing blow that left the Knight writhing on the ground.

  Later, after the Turks were repulsed, Antonio had picked up the Turk’s weapon. The blade was short, a thrusting sword with a thick blade, and Antonio had used the weapon in the next assault and found it a very effective one. Twice the curved blades of his adversaries had shattered against it, leaving the opponents an easy kill. It had been left behind in St. Elmo. But as soon as Antonio recovered his sight, he visited the armory and asked for such a weapon.

  The armorer, a grizzled Spaniard with only one arm, nodded in satisfaction at Antonio’s description. He rummaged in the back of the armory before returning, a wide smile on his sweat-beaded face as he waved the blade in the air. “Not many of these made anymore,” he said. “It’s an old-fashioned sword, really a Roman gladius. We Spaniards were the first to make them for the Romans, you know, for Julius Caesar’s men, the famous Tenth Legion. Roman soldiers slaughtered whole armies with them. Best for thrusting low, or in a man’s face. Rapid thrusts, that’s the best way. If you have to raise it higher, you’re probably going to die. Saves your muscles, too. This one is 28 inches long from end to end, and stronger than many a broadsword or scimitar.”

  The hilt was small but thick, just wide enough to offer some protection for the hand. An iron ball formed the counterweight, and seemed almost designed for crushing a man’s skull.

  Antonio took a few practice swings, getting the feel of the weapon. “Thank you. This one feels even better than the one I took from a dead Turk on St. Elmo.”

  The Spaniard looked at Antonio with respect. “You survived St. Elmo? Whatever you need, you come see me and I’ll get it for you. My best friend died there.”

  “I’m sorry. But everyone there fought to the last,” Antonio said. “Good luck to us all.”

  When Martin returned to Ruvo’s house, Antonio showed him the gladius and explained how useful it had proved in defending the walls. Martin suggested new practice moves, and Antonio exercised until he tired. He slept that night with the sword by his side.

  In the morning, Antonio had just finished pulling on his boots when Martin joined him.

  “This is for you, from Gianetta.” Martin handed Antonio the sealed envelope. “She asked me to give it to you when we joined you on Malta. I didn’t want to give it to you until you could read it yourself.”

  Antonio broke the seal, and unfolded the letter. Enough light filtered into the room so that he could read the delicate script.

  My dearest Antonio,

  I write this letter in Italian, so that my words can match my thoughts. Time is short, as Martin and Will are leaving soon, and I have only a few moments.

  My hope and prayers are that this letter finds you alive and well. I know that you will face great danger in Malta, but something assures me that you will return home safely. You are young and strong, and Martin says that you have the skills and knowledge to survive. I hope for this because I love you. Since the first day I saw you in the garden, I have felt deep in my heart that you are the one man in the world for me, and that we are destined to be together in this life. Since then, that feeling has only grown stronger.

  I know you think of me as a child, and in years that may be true. But I will be a woman soon, so I will write to you as a woman should. Come back to Venice. Come back to me. It matters not if you are injured or wounded. Just return.

  All my prayers and love,

  Gianetta

  Antonio had thought of Gianetta many times he left Venice, and after his injury her memory gave him solace. Now her words touched him, and he felt homesick. When he’d closed his eyes at night, he saw her clearly, bright and cheerful, always acting as the mistress of the house. He remembered their long talks in the garden and wished he could return to those happier times.

  In a way, the very reasons why the Knights had determined to fight the Turks was to save Gianetta and others like her from slavery and worse. Untold thousands of Christian women and girls had been carried off from all over the Mediterranean, to be sold naked in the Turkish slave markets. He prayed that would never be Gianetta’s fate.

  Now her letter touched him. He took comfort knowing that someone cared if he lived or died. If he survived the siege, Antonio indeed intended to return to Venice and it would be pleasant to see Gianetta and Marco again. But only after Antonio had finished his business with Olivio. Yet, by the time he returned, Gianetta might have forgotten all about him. Antonio folded the letter and shoved it inside his shirt. He would read it again later.

  He stepped out of the house and found Martin and Will waiting for him, both of them supporting Sergeant Ruvo. Antonio nodded to his companions and led the way toward the magazine. Another day in Malta had begun.

  By now, Antonio knew all about the Turks’ activity. Since the fall of St. Elmo, they hadn’t wasted any time. First they had sent an old Greek slave as an emissary to Grand Master Valette, with an offer to allow the Knights to leave Malta with their arms and men in return for the surrender of the island. Essentially, the Turks were extending the same offer to the Knights as they’d done 60 years ago. The Knights had accepted it that time.

  But Valette had dismissed the offer at once. He told the slave that the only land Mustapha, the Pasha of the Turkish forces, could have was the ditch that surrounded the walls, still filled with the rotting corpses of the Turks who had died in the first attack.

  Antonio could only imagine the rage that must have filled Mustapha’s heart when he received that message. He had offered an honorable resolution, and the Grand Master’s reply was nothing more than a coarse insult.

  “Since then, they’ve been moving every one of the guns that leveled St. Elmo to the heights of the Marsa,” Ruvo said, “where they could be trained on the forts of St. Angelo and St. Michael. They will hammer us from all directions, even across the harbor. And with St. Elmo gone, they are unloading guns from their galleys as well, and emplacing them in the ruins.”

  Cannons already ringed Birgu and Senglea on land, and the Knights were under bombardment from all sides. All the same, Antonio had grown so inured to cannon fire that he scarcely noticed. Unlike the small fort of St. Elmo, the Turks now needed to attack the two villages and their attached forts. The cannons that had demolished St. Elmo would be up against much larger and stronger targets. However, the Turks seemed ready for a prolonged siege, and for this effort they would have even more cannons pointed at the forts.

  Inside the St. Angelo magazine, Antonio found that some of the workers had become lax in following the stringent safety rules he had established. Because of his injury, Ruvo had not been able to inspect all the inner chambers of the magazine. But when Martin and Will began to work, Ruvo dismissed the two most careless soldiers and sent them back to the wall. Now Antonio took charge of the men, and soldiers many years older deferred to his leadership.

  Antonio noticed the deference in their eyes. Anyone who had fought in and survived St. Elmo had to be respected, especially one mentioned in Broglia’s dispatches.

  By the time night had fallen, Antonio felt more than satisfied with a good day’s work. As they carried Sergeant Ruvo up the steps and out into the lane, a messenger arrived. Antonio recognized the red armband that signified the Grand Master’s staff.

  “Sergeant Ru
vo, you are to report to the Command Post at once.”

  Grand Master Valette’s command post was only two lanes over from where Ruvo lived. Martin and Will assisted Ruvo, while Antonio walked behind them. It didn’t take long before they stood before the large table where Valette sat, surrounded by a handful of senior Knights of the Order. Seated beside the Grand Master was Sir Oliver Starkey. Antonio had not seen the English Knight since he left for St. Elmo.

  “Sergeant Ruvo, we require your assistance,” La Valette began. “As you know the Turks are dragging boats from Marsamuscetto Bay over Mount Sciberras. Soon they will have a good number of galleys in Grand Harbor. Once back in the water, they will be sheltered behind the hill, and none of our guns will be able to reach them. We need to shift cannons to cover the harbor approach to the forts. It may be that they are planning to launch a seaborne attack.”

  Antonio glanced at Ruvo as they heard the grim news. St. Elmo had stood at the very end of Mount Sciberras, and its guns had controlled the entrance to Grand Harbor. But even though St. Elmo had fallen, the interior of the harbor remained under the guns of St. Angelo and Senglea. All except for a narrow inlet behind a hill, the one place on the far side of Grand Harbor that the cannons of the forts could not reach.

  Antonio grasped the implications far faster than did Ruvo. With Turkish boats in the harbor, the galleys could add their guns to any attack against the forts. Worse, they could dash across the harbor and land troops right at the very base of the harbor-side walls of Senglea.

  Ruvo, hanging onto Martin and Will, seemed unsure of what was being asked of him. “Grand Master, how can we move cannons from the walls? We have no way to . . .”

  “First thing tomorrow, you will inspect the walls and see what can be done,” Valette went on, ignoring Ruvo’s confusion. “Chevalier de Guiral is responsible for the harbor defenses of Senglea. He will accompany you, and you will place yourself at his disposal.”

  “Yes, Grand Master, of course.” Ruvo bowed his head. No one refused or argued with the Grand Master.

  As Ruvo turned away, Sir Oliver rose from the table and moved to Antonio’s side.

  “I am glad to see you recovered from your injuries, Antonio. I did not know that you had resumed your duties in the magazine.”

  Antonio nearly said that luck had saved his life, but he caught those words in time. “Sir Oliver, it’s good to see you again. And yes, God stood between me and the Turks.”

  Sir Oliver smiled. “You were in my prayers since you departed for St. Elmo. And even more after you returned.”

  Antonio would have preferred a few more working cannons, but like all the others on the doomed fort, he had prayed to God for deliverance or at least a quick death. “Thank you, Sir Oliver.”

  “It is my duty, Antonio. But I am wondering if you might be willing to take Sergeant Ruvo’s place tomorrow. With his injury, he may better serve in the magazine. If you are willing and able, I am sure the Grand Master will accept you.”

  It wasn’t quite a request to volunteer – Antonio had become enough of a soldier to know better than that – but the English Knight’s request could just as easily turn into a command. Antonio scarcely hesitated. In truth, he had spent enough time laboring in magazines. “Of course, Sir Oliver, I would be honored.”

  “Good. I will explain the situation to the Grand Master. You will meet Chevalier de Guiral at dawn tomorrow, on the harbor wall of Senglea.” Now it was Sir Oliver’s turn to hesitate. “The Chevalier has much to worry about and he can be somewhat . . . difficult.”

  Another hard-headed Knight, Antonio decided. No matter, he didn’t intend to crawl on his belly for anyone. His days of cowering before such men had passed. “I understand. Thank you, Sir Oliver.”

  He turned away and found his companions waiting for him. Antonio explained the situation, and Sergeant Ruvo could not prevent a sigh of relief.

  “Thank God that I will not have to walk across to Senglea and up to the battlements to meet with this Chevalier. Once again, Antonio, I am in your debt.”

  Martin saw the expression on Ruvo’s face. “I know this Chevalier de Guiral,” Martin said. “He is one of the Knights that arrived with the Little Relief Force. I never spoke with him, but he’s very young.”

  Ruvo had not heard of the Knight, and Antonio merely shrugged. “Just another soldier. I’ll deal with him.”

  “We’re coming with you,” Martin said. “We can take Sergeant Ruvo to the magazine and then go . . .”

  “No. You two must stay in the magazine. If you are away from your post, you can be hanged. Besides, there’s probably nothing that can be done. I’m sure I’ll only be away a few hours.”

  Chapter 44

  July 8

  Antonio slept straight through the night, something he’d rarely done lately. But the soldier in him awakened him well before the dawn. He dressed and slipped out of the house without waking the others, and headed for the harbor. Weeks ago, the Grand Master had ordered that a bridge of boats be constructed across the peninsula, linking the two villages.

  Ruvo said the bridge was meant to carry reinforcements from one side to the other, in the event the Turks concentrated their assault on either St. Angelo or St. Michael. Today the wobbly bridge served to shorten Antonio’s journey.

  The first rays of the sun had just illuminated the eastern sky when Antonio reached the ramparts of Senglea. He had expected to have some time to himself, but he saw the surplices of two Knights on the promontory looking down into Grand Harbor – Sir Oliver Starkey and another. Antonio wondered if Sir Oliver ever slept.

  “Good morning, Sir Oliver,” he said, bowing his head.

  “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  The words came from the second Knight, spoken in French with the Provence accent Antonio had learned to recognize. He grimaced, glad that in the dim light no one could see his face. This must be the “difficult” Chevalier de Guiral.

  “I was told to be here at dawn.” Antonio kept his voice even, but the trace of insolence couldn’t be disguised.

  “Good morning, Antonio.” Sir Oliver spoke in English, but then switched to French. “We decided that we did not want to waste any time, and I must attend the Grand Master. This is Chevalier Géraud de Guiral, and he is responsible for the defense of Senglea’s harbor wall, just as I am responsible for that of St. Angelo. Perhaps it would be best to tell you what we know, while we wait for the sun to rise.”

  Chevalier de Guiral, tall and with long black hair, grunted with impatience but said nothing.

  “As you know, all the infidels’ galleys not on patrol outside the harbor are anchored in Marsamuscetto creek,” Sir Oliver said. “A few days ago, we saw the Turks dragging a galley down the slope of Mount Sciberras. Hundreds of men and slaves were involved in the effort. By the end of the day, they had transported two galleys down the slope, and put them in the water. We fired many cannons at them, and may have even scored a few hits, but the boats all reached the safety of a narrow inlet across the harbor. Now they have 10 galleys there, all hidden behind an outcrop of rock that rises high enough to protect them. At the same time, the Turks have moved the slaves, oars, guns – everything they need to launch the galleys. Chevalier de Guiral believes that the Turks will launch the boats in an assault on the southern side of Senglea and St. Michael.”

  Antonio moved closer to the rampart and looked out over Grand Harbor. The sun had lifted over the horizon and he could make out the water and slope of Mount Sciberras. “10 ships, or even 20, would not be enough to destroy the walls, and the cannons here would soon sink the galleys if they show themselves. And that number of boats couldn’t transport enough men to take Senglea.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” Sir Oliver said. “But we believe the Turks are preparing to attack us at several points. If there is a full-scale assault on Senglea and St. Michael, we might not have enough soldiers to defend the harbor side.”

  Antonio thought about that. The Turks had lost thousands of so
ldiers in the effort to capture St. Elmo. In his last dispatch, the careful Commander Broglia had estimated the Turkish losses between 6,000 to 8,000, a staggering figure to balance against the capture of single small fort.

  But for Mustapha Pasha, the worst of that battle had been the loss of time – almost a month to capture such a lesser prize. As Antonio understood the tactics of sea warfare in the Mediterranean, the enemy galleys had to return to their home waters by the end of September or risk being destroyed by the annual winter storms. If St. Angelo and St. Michael proved as difficult as St. Elmo, the Turks would be risking their fleet to remain.

  “A coordinated assault,” Antonio said, “that would be difficult to stop. How do you know that is their plan?”

  “A deserter came over to us last week. He said that a soldiers’ camp had been established next to the galleys. A camp full of Janissaries.”

  Chevalier de Guiral cleared his throat, obviously unhappy with Sir Oliver sharing such detailed information with Antonio.

  Janissaries! The most formidable of Mustapha’s soldiers. They believed killing Christians guaranteed an afterlife of ease and pleasure. Antonio had not personally fought any during his time in St. Elmo. Apparently Mustapha had not wanted to waste his skilled killers on so insignificant a fort.

  The implication of their presence wasn’t lost on Antonio. If a major attack on Senglea were planned, the Janissaries wouldn’t be held back. “10 boats, perhaps a 100 or more Janissaries aboard each one . . . yes, for such a short dash across the harbor, they wouldn’t need any food or other supplies.”

  “They would need ladders, of course,” Sir Oliver said, “and their own weapons, but little else. Chevalier de Guiral thinks each galley can easily carry 100 Janissaries.”