Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  De Clermont’s squire, Marcel Moret, was a formidable fighting man who had served de Clermont for more than 12 years. He had twice been honored for bravery during the siege. The other veteran, Chiappi, taller and broader than Will, looked even more intimidating and was almost as dangerous.

  “Yes, that should be sufficient,” De Bracy agreed. “If Antonio knows as much about cannons and gunpowder as he does about fighting, he will be a most valuable asset to the Order. We must do everything in our power to make sure a Knight of St. John is not killed by some Venetian dog.”

  “Yes, that would be unfortunate.” De Clermont rubbed his chin, wondering what else he could to protect Antonio. “Yes, most unfortunate.”

  Chapter 56

  September 19

  Four days later and just after sunset, the San Giovanni entered Venice’s outer harbor, escorted by one of the Republic’s patrol galleys. That escort saved Captain de Bracy the delay and challenge from the defense force that still manned the outer walls. With the Turks out in force in the Mediterranean, the city remained on high alert. At any time the always formidable Turkish fleet might decide to raid Venice.

  The galley glided into the Arsenal anchorage. Antonio saw soldiers forming up on the quay, just in case the San Giovanni turned out to be full of Turkish raiders. But when de Bracy stepped onto the wharf, wearing his armor and surplice, the commander of the soldiers told his men to stand down.

  As de Bracy informed the commander of Malta’s victory, the first cheers went up into the air. By then, Antonio had disembarked, wearing a cloak borrowed from one of the men-at-arms. Martin and Will followed, with de Clermont’s squire, Sergeant Marcel Moret, right behind. Two others, Vincenzo and a brawny Italian from Verona named Jacopo Chiappi brought up the rear. All were armed with swords, and Will had his crossbow slung over his back.

  Antonio spoke with the commander of the Arsenal guard, explained who he was, and declared that he had urgent business to resolve. He mentioned that he and these men would be staying at the residence of his uncle, Marco Silvestri, Master of the Arsenal. The news banished all doubts from the soldier’s mind and he waved Antonio and his party through.

  Nodding his thanks, Antonio led the way. He knew the best route out of the Arsenal’s walls, and he soon led the little troop through the gate and into the lanes. As he’d instructed, the men broke up into two and threes, staying about 20 yards apart. Darkness had fallen, but the tavern he sought was only a few streets north of the main entrance. The Lataverna, according to Martin, was the likeliest place to find Olivio at this hour.

  After a brief walk, just enough to stretch their legs, they reached the street. Martin pointed out the tavern, though anyone could have found it simply by following the raucous noise emanating from within. “Will and I will enter through the back door.” Martin paused for a moment, but all he could say was, “Good hunting, Antonio. Remember what you’ve learned, and don’t do anything foolish.”

  Antonio watched his companions stroll down the street, going past the tavern to the next corner, to reach the back door through an alley. As soon as they disappeared from sight, Antonio started forward, Sergeant Moret and his two men following. When Antonio reached the door, he raised the hood of his cloak, then stepped inside.

  No one paid any attention to the new arrival. Martin had described the interior, so Antonio didn’t draw any attention to himself by looking around. He moved toward the serving counter, a long, narrow table where the tavern owner dispensed his spirits. Antonio nodded to the serving girl and ordered wine. While she fetched a cup and filled it, he glanced around. He saw Olivio at once, seated at the largest table in the rear of the tavern, with his back to the wall.

  The owner of the establishment noticed Antonio, his face still concealed by the hood. He intercepted the girl, took the wine cup from her hand, and set it down before Antonio. But the innkeeper kept his hand on the cup.

  “Strangers are not welcome here, especially those with swords. Can any of my patrons vouch for you?”

  Antonio tossed a golden ducat, more than enough to pay for a few drinks, on the table. “Yes, these three men.” He motioned toward Marcel, Jacopo, and Vincenzo, who had entered quietly. “I have business with Olivio that shouldn’t take long. I’d advise you not to interfere. It would be bad for your business.”

  The owner took in Marcel’s grim face, and noticed that they, too, had swords. Whatever else the innkeeper intended to say remained unspoken.

  “Good.” Antonio pushed back the hood and shrugged the cloak from his shoulders, leaving it on the table. “Sergeant, make sure no one enters or leaves.”

  But it was Vincenzo who glided to the tavern’s entrance. A large wooden bolt affixed to the door would keep it closed to outsiders. Vincenzo slid the bolt closed with a casual motion that went unnoticed by the patrons, then set his back against the door.

  Taking his time, Antonio moved to the end of Olivio’s table. Apprentices from the Arsenal filled every seat. He counted nine of them, sitting shoulder to shoulder. At the head of the table, Olivio and another young man sat side by side, wine cups in hand, both laughing at some joke or story.

  Olivio’s companion, about the same age as Antonio, wore an expensive linen shirt with a white lace border. A rapier with a gleaming silver hilt leaned up against the wall beside him. Definitely not an apprentice.

  As Antonio reached the foot of the table, Olivio glanced up. His brow furled, and a few seconds passed before recognition crossed his face.

  “Good to see you again, Olivio.” Antonio’s hard voice cut through the table’s banter and every eye went to him. “You do remember me, don’t you?”

  Antonio glanced down at the two apprentices sitting in front of him, at the foot of the table. “Move. Now.”

  The one to Antonio’s left looked up. “Who do you . . .”

  That was as far as he got. Marcel reached down, grasped him by the shirt, and threw him off the bench and onto the floor. He landed with a crash that drew every eye in the tavern. Marcel glanced at the other apprentice, who fumbled his way off the bench and shrank aside.

  Every conversation in the tavern had ceased. The only movement was Martin’s slow step, as he and Will entered from the back door. “Hello, Olivio,” Martin said. “I told you I’d be back if you were lying. How’s your nose?”

  While Martin spoke, Will drew back the cord on the crossbow, fitted a shaft into the groove, and hefted the weapon. “Anyone who tries to interfere or leave gets a shaft in his back.”

  “Martin wants to kill you,” Antonio said. “But I told him I had first claim on your death. You murdered Tozzo, you tried to kill me, and left us both for dead in Malta. You lied to Captain Bredani and the Knights, told them we wanted to stay in Malta. Now it’s time for you to pay for your sins.”

  Olivio had finally recovered. His face flushed with anger. “You lie! You did say you wanted to stay in Malta. You murdered Tozzo.”

  “So you know that he is dead. You should learn to watch your tongue. First you stole from the Knights. Then you killed Tozzo like the coward you are, striking him from behind. So you’re a thief, a liar, and a murderer.” Antonio extended his left hand toward Marcel.

  The sergeant untied a small sack from his belt, reached in, and drew out a set of red-stained leg shackles. Antonio couldn’t tell if it were blood or rust on the iron. He took the chains and tossed them on the table. They landed with a clank amid the cups and dishes, within easy reach of Olivio.

  “The Knights of St. John don’t like anyone who murders people on Malta, especially one who has stolen from them. So I’ve returned to Venice to bring you back to Malta. The Knights will try you for murder and theft. Do you know what the punishment is for that?”

  “I swear, it’s not true!” Olivio glanced left and right, searching the faces of his companions for support. But the apprentices wanted nothing to do with the tough-looking armed men accompanying Antonio. “They did say they wanted to stay . . .”

  “
Do you remember me, Olivio?” Marcel’s voice cut through the Venetian’s words. Despite his heavy accent, he spoke slowly enough so that everyone understood him. “I’m the one who whipped you on the galley. I gave you 20 strokes, and I’m sure we can count that number on your back. Are you calling me a liar, or my master Sir Annet de Clermont, a most honorable Knight of St. John, a liar?”

  Olivio’s mouth opened but nothing came out. Marcel’s grim face would terrify anyone.

  Antonio went on, almost as if he welcomed the interruption. “You’ll be tried by the Knights. I’ll be there to testify against you. It will be your word against mine. But I am now a Knight of Grace in the Order of St. John. So I think they will believe me. And they did find Tozzo’s body, with me unconscious beside him, our blood soaking the ground.”

  No one made a sound, and every patron strained to hear each word. Whatever friends Olivio might have had now sought to distance themselves from him.

  “You’ll be found guilty of theft and murder. Let me tell you what will happen. First you’ll receive a hundred lashes. After that, they throw a few buckets of seawater on your back, to slow the bleeding. The saltwater in the open cuts will make you scream loud enough to be heard across the harbor. Then they toss you in the back of a cart. They don’t want you to bleed to death before you reach Gallows Point. That’s where they hang you. They tie your hands behind you and put a rope around your neck. The hangman doesn’t pull the noose tight. He doesn’t want your neck to break when he pushes you off the edge of the cliff. That would be too quick. You’ll swing out from the cliff and choke to death, but slowly, while you dangle a hundred feet above the water, where everyone can see you. Some men last three or four minutes before they choke to death.”

  Olivio found his voice. “It can’t be true. Malta was captured by the Turks. We heard the news a week ago. There is no Malta!”

  All of Antonio’s companions laughed.

  “The siege was broken on September the 8,” Antonio said, “when Mustapha sailed his galleys away and the Viceroy of Sicily landed his troops. Malta stands free, and now it is reinforced with over 6,000 Spanish infantry. Malta will never fall.”

  His voice conveyed the truth as much as his words. “At this moment, Ambassador Sir Annet de Clermont, the emissary of Grand Master Valette, is meeting with the Doge to give him the news. Chevalier de Clermont has documents signed by the Viceroy of Sicily and Grand Master Valette of Malta.”

  “Is it true?” For the first time one of the patrons sitting two tables away spoke. “My cousin is one of Malta’s soldiers.”

  Antonio never took his eyes from Olivio. “Yes, it’s true, though many fell defending the island. A list of those who died is one of the documents the ambassador has with him.”

  The man stood. “I must go. I have to see . . .”

  “In a moment,” Antonio said. “But first I need to put Olivio in shackles. Then we will take him to the galley, where he will be stripped and chained to an oar. When the slave master sees the mark of the lash on your back, I’m sure he will give you the attention you deserve. ”

  “I’m not going!” Olivio shouted the words, spittle flying, and struck the table with his fist.

  The young man sitting next to Olivio lifted his chin. “This man is a Venetian citizen, and subject to the Republic’s laws. I am Duilio Falieri. My father is a member of the Signoria, and I say you cannot take him away.”

  Marcel, closest to Duilio, moved beside him. With his gloved hand, Marcel seized Duilio by the mouth, his thumb squeezing against one cheek, while his fingers dug into the other.

  Duilio screamed in pain, as the sergeant’s powerful fist threatened to crush his jaw. “The Knights of St. John recognize only God’s law and the orders of the Grand Master. If you open your mouth again . . . I’ll break your jaw.”

  Marcel tightened his grip and Duilio flailed about, gasping from the increasing agony that numbed his face, hands clutching at Marcel’s wrists but unable to break the man’s grasp.

  The sergeant shoved Duilio’s head against the wall with enough force to stun him, then released his grip.

  Antonio recognized the name Falieri, but paid him no attention. He kept his eyes fixed on Olivio. “If you don’t want to go to Malta in chains, I will give you an alternative. You can challenge me here. All you’ll have to do is kill me. My men won’t touch you, if you win. You can go free, go back to your ale.”

  Olivio glanced around, still seeking support, but no one would meet his pleading eyes. After Antonio’s words, no one wanted to defend him. Finally Olivio’s anger overcame his fear. “How do I know they’ll do as you say?”

  “My word as a Knight of St. John. If that’s not good enough for you . . .”

  Olivio rose. “I’ll fight you, with fists. If you’re not afraid to face me.”

  Antonio shook his head. “Not fists. Your dishonorable flesh might touch mine. You can choose sword or knife. Your friend has a sword. Borrow his if you like. Those are the only choices you have. Those, or the chains.”

  “So you are afraid! Antonio, who claims to be a master gunner, is afraid to stand before me.”

  “So foolish words are your choice.” Antonio glanced at Marcel. “Shackle him and take him to the galley. Break his arm if he resists. Smash his jaw if he complains.”

  Marcel grunted with satisfaction. “Yes, Sir Antonio.” He pushed two more apprentices out of his way as if they were children, then reached out and grasped Olivio’s arm. Olivio tried to shake loose, but Marcel’s iron grip was among the strongest on Malta. With a heave, he dragged Olivio from behind the table, and threw him on the floor. Martin leaned over, picked up the shackles, and extended them toward Sergeant Moret.

  “Wait!” Olivio gasped the word, his wide eyes fixed on the chains. “I’ll fight you with a knife.” He got to his knees. “Just make sure your friends honor your word.”

  Antonio shrugged. “They will. But are you sure you want to die here, in this tavern? Wouldn’t you rather face a trial in Malta?”

  Olivio grasped the table and climbed to his feet. “You’re the one who will die, you filthy little English pig. Your uncle can’t save you now.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Stepping away from the table, Antonio waved his arm. “Make room. Clear the floor.”

  Men and apprentices scrambled out of the way, some dragging benches and tables with them as they bunched together along the walls. In moments, the patrons had cleared a space in the center of the tavern large enough for two men to fight.

  Antonio unbuckled his sword and tossed it to Martin. “It’s time, Olivio. Time for you to repay your debt to Tozzo.” He drew his knife.

  Olivio reached down and grasped his own knife. He drew it from his belt and waved it toward Antonio.

  Antonio studied his opponent’s weapon. Olivio’s was slender, the highly-polished blade about 10 or 11 inches long, with an engraved hilt. Antonio’s plain weapon was a bit shorter, but with a thicker blade. Both edges had been honed to razor sharpness only this afternoon aboard the galley.

  Olivio moved toward him, knife held for thrusting, with the point aimed at Antonio’s stomach. Olivio’s long arms were slightly extended, his left hand held higher, fingers spread. “Get ready to die, pig.”

  A wrist grabber, Antonio decided. Olivio would try to seize Antonio’s knife arm, then hold it while he thrust.

  Antonio moved to his left a half step, and when Olivio turned with him, Antonio darted to the right and slashed at Olivio’s left arm. The tip of the sharp blade sliced through the white linen and left a blood trail on his forearm. Before Olivio could react, Antonio glided away, angling to his right.

  “Come, Olivio, don’t let a little scratch slow you down.”

  Olivio had probably never seen his own blood flow, and the cut on his arm would be painful. But the quick strike wouldn’t hinder his movements. “You’ll pay for that, you little bastard.”

  Antonio knew better than to keep talking. As Vincenzo
advised, get your opponent talking and he won’t see what you’re doing.

  Olivio took a half step forward, trying to force Antonio up against the benches and the patrons. Antonio moved back, until he was practically up against the crowd. With a grunt of satisfaction, Olivio followed, hunched over and leaning forward, the fingers on his left hand spread wide.

  But Antonio never stopped moving. He used his backward motion to launch himself forward, pushing off his right foot, this time going low and to the left, again slashing with his blade. The sharp edge ripped into Olivio’s flesh along the outside of his right leg, and once again Antonio darted away, avoiding Olivio’s grasp and his clumsy counter thrust. The Venetian needed help from the onlookers to regain his balance.

  The cut in the leg would be painful and now Olivio should have realized he faced a serious opponent. But his rage had taken control. Antonio shifted rapidly from side to side, then attacked, a lightning thrust aimed at Olivio’s face. He jerked away from the blade, but Olivio’s counter-thrust was too slow. Antonio moved back a step, then moved right again, closing in. He extended his left hand, offering it almost as bait for the enraged Italian.

  Olivio’s left arm shot out and grabbed Antonio’s left wrist. He yanked hard, expecting to pull his smaller opponent off balance, leaving Olivio the killing thrust. But Antonio was ready for the grab and he resisted Olivio’s pull with all his strength even as he twisted to his right, moving his body away from Olivio’s knife hand. The movement slowed Olivio down long enough for Antonio to hack at the man’s left wrist.

  With a cry of pain, Olivio loosened his grip enough for Antonio break free, moving back and to the right as much as the crowd allowed. That last strike drew more than blood. Olivio wouldn’t be using that hand any more.