Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  Bleeding in three places, the Venetian pursued his opponent, determined to drive his dagger into Antonio no matter what the cost. Once again Antonio shifted to his right, and once again Olivio matched his movement.

  With a smooth motion, Antonio reversed his grip on the knife. Olivio’s eyes widened in surprise at his opponent’s foolishness. Without taking time to think, Olivio stepped forward and lunged at his opponent’s chest. Antonio struck down with the blade, pushing the weapon to Olivio’s right long enough for Antonio to step inside the man’s arm. At the same time, Antonio’s left hand seized Olivio’s right wrist, and Antonio had only to move his knife a few inches as he drove his blade with a downward thrust into Olivio’s belly.

  Ten inches of steel penetrated Olivio’s flesh. The two men collided chest to chest, and Antonio felt Olivio’s hot breath in his face. The sudden pain widened Olivio’s eyes. But only for a moment. Antonio kept a tight grip on Olivio’s knife arm as he shoved the man backward, twisted his blade, and ripped the knife free, leaving a gaping wound just below Olivio’s ribs, a finger of torn flesh reaching almost to his belt.

  Blood gushed from Olivio’s belly. In a few heartbeats, his once-white shirt was saturated in blood. He looked down at his stomach, surprise and horror on his face. He raised his knife and took a step forward, but then the weakness swept over him.

  Antonio had seen it before. A strong man might not even realize he’d been stabbed, but within seconds, his muscles would fail him. Olivio, mouth open in shock, swayed on his feet, stumbled forward, then collapsed to his knees. The knife fell from his hand.

  Antonio stepped closer and lashed out with his foot, smashing Olivio’s mouth and nose. Without a sound, the dying man fell onto his back, one leg twisted beneath him.

  “That was for me, Olivio.” Antonio picked up Olivio’s knife with his left hand. “This is for Tozzo.” He stared down at the dying man’s face as he raised the knife high, held it there so Olivio could see death hovering over him, then drove it down into Olivio’s right eye all the way to the hilt.

  With a grunt of satisfaction, Antonio stood upright. He stared down at the corpse, then leaned forward and spat on Olivio’s face. That gesture would remind everyone that this was a personal affair.

  No one said anything. Antonio reached down and wiped both sides of his blade on Olivio’s trouser leg, stepped to the owner’s table, picked up his cloak, and headed for the door. None of the patrons moved and not a word was said. Vincenzo swung the bolt back, and within seconds, Antonio and his companions had left the tavern. He led the way up the lane. It was time to see his uncle.

  Chapter 57

  In the aftermath, something in Antonio’s soul had changed. Olivio’s death forever banished the last of the youth from England. Only the man and the soldier who had fought at Malta remained.

  Without remembering the journey, he reached the house of his uncle, Marco Silvestri. By now night had spread its cloak over the streets and lanes of Venice. Soon torches would be burning in the city, and its citizens celebrating the breaking of the siege. Antonio stepped to the door, raised his hand, but then hesitated, just stood there, unsure of how he would be received. Suddenly he realized his hand was shaking.

  “Antonio, are you all right?” Martin spoke softly and he remained a few steps away, aware that it would not be wise to get too close. He understood Antonio’s feelings, having gone through much the same initiation himself. Rage and the urge for revenge had departed, but left something perhaps even more unsettling to the soul in its place.

  Antonio turned toward his companion. “Martin, I want to thank you for all you’ve done for me, and for your friendship. And you, too, Will. Both of you mean so much to me. You risked your lives to reach me in Malta. I owe so much to you both.”

  “We understand, Antonio. It has been our privilege to know you and to fight at your side.”

  That, Antonio knew, meant a great deal. “Someday I will try to repay your friendship.” Resolved now, he stepped to the door and knocked three times with the heel of his fist. A few moments, later the peep hole twisted open and he saw the face of Bruno, Marco’s housekeeper.

  Perhaps because of the darkness, perhaps because the young man had changed into a hardened soldier, the housekeeper didn’t recognize his visitor. “Who are you?”

  “It’s Antonio Pesaro, Bruno. I’ve returned from Malta and I need to see my uncle.”

  “Antonio!” Bruno peered through the hole, reassuring himself that it was indeed Antonio. “And these men?”

  “You must remember Martin and Will. The others are my companions from Malta.”

  The presence of Will and Martin convinced Bruno that Silvestri’s guests had returned, not some gang of murderers or street thieves. He unbolted the heavy door. “Come in, Antonio. Thanks be to God! We thought we’d never see you again.”

  Antonio, Martin, and Will stepped inside, but Marcel and the others said they would remain in the lane for a few minutes, until they were certain no one had followed them.

  “Who is it, Bruno?” The hurried steps of Marco Silvestri echoed off the stairs. He halted when he saw Antonio and his companions.

  “Mother of God! You are alive? But Malta . . . we heard it had fallen?”

  “No, Malta withstood the Turks,” Antonio said. “They withdrew on September 8. The siege is ended.”

  His hand clutching the banister, Marco stumbled down the last few steps and threw his arms around Antonio. “My prayers . . . your father. I had to write him. I only got his reply a week ago.”

  Antonio caught the glint of tears in his uncle’s eyes. After a few moments, embarrassed by the affection, Antonio disengaged himself. “We will talk of that later. There is much to tell you.” He took a deep breath. “I just came from killing Olivio.”

  Marco’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You killed . . . Olivio? Mother of God, why? What have you done?”

  Antonio shrugged. “Nothing of consequence, Marco. He murdered Tozzo, one of his apprentices, on Malta and left me for dead. So tonight in the tavern I challenged him to a duel. The Knights would have hung him no matter what.”

  “But La Forsa will come for you!” Marco’s agitated voice reflected his fear. “You’re not an Venetian. You can’t kill someone, even in a duel. They will arrest you, put you on trial.”

  La Forsa de la Serenisima Republica was the local police force in Venice, akin to the Constabulary in England. “Not tonight, I think,” Antonio said. “Not for a Knight of St. John.”

  Antonio saw the surprise and disbelief in Marco’s eyes. “Later I will tell you everything, Marco. But first, have you rented your guest house next door?”

  “The house . . . no . . . I was hoping you would return. Gianetta would not . . .”

  “Good. Then I hope you will consider a suggestion. One of the most important Knights in the Order of St. John needs a residence in Venice. Sir Annet de Clermont. Three of his men are outside your door. If you have no objections, he and his companions would be glad to stay here. He’ll pay whatever you ask, a year’s rent in advance, if you like. From today on, I think it would be good for you to be associated with the Knights. Under their protection, in fact.”

  “I . . . I don’t know. The Knights are not popular in Venice.”

  “After tonight, that will no longer be true. Even now de Clermont is at the Palace speaking with the Doge, informing him of Malta’s great victory over the Turks. Starting tomorrow, Sir Annet de Clermont, Ambassador de Clermont, will be pouring money into the Rialto faster than even the greedy merchant princes can imagine. Malta needs to replenish its arms.”

  Marco’s eyes widened. “I suppose . . . yes, if you think this is good, I will rent it to him.”

  “I do. I’ll send a messenger to bring him here when he is finished with the Doge. Martin, will you . . .”

  Movement on the stairs caught Antonio’s eye and he lifted his gaze. A beautiful young woman had descended halfway down the steps and halted. A moment passed before
he recognized Gianetta.

  ***

  The instant Gianetta heard the commotion below, she rushed from her room and ran to the top of the stairs. When she heard Antonio’s name, her heart jumped. He’s alive! She darted back into her chamber, pulled off her house dress and tossed it on the bed. Snatching a more formal gown from her wardrobe, Gianetta slipped it on, ran a comb through her hair, and headed for the stairs.

  Heart beating rapidly, she started down the stairway, her soft steps unheard by the men below. She halted just before the landing. For a few minutes, she listened to the conversation. Her eyes fixed on Antonio. Indeed, he had returned, but even with her first glance, Gianetta knew that he had changed. He appeared older, harder, more like a professional soldier. His voice, too, sounded deeper, powerful. Then she took another step. He lifted his eyes and, after a moment, recognition crossed his face, and he spoke her name.

  “Antonio!” She descended the rest of the stairs and moved toward him, reaching out with her hand. “Are you well?” She saw at least a half-dozen nicks gouged into his face, fresh scars. Yes, he’d been in battle and turned into a soldier.

  He clasped her hand. More than five months had passed since he’d last seen her. “Yes, well enough. But you’ve . . . changed. You were just a young girl when I left.”

  She blushed. “Only a few months older.” But Gianetta did not relinquish his hand.

  Marco stared at his ward, surprise on his face. “Gianetta, perhaps you should retire for a few moments. Antonio has much to tell me.”

  “Of course, Uncle. But first we must make our guest comfortable. He looks tired.” Still holding his hand, she led the way into the small reception room where Marco usually entertained his clients. “Come and sit with us. You’re trembling, Antonio. Are you well?”

  “Yes, Gianetta. Just a little . . . tired.”

  She guided him to a chair. “Bruno, please bring food and drink for Antonio and his companions. Don’t forget the ones outside. And you’ll have to prepare the guest house for the Knight’s arrival.”

  Gianetta sat in the chair closest to Antonio. “Now you must tell us about Malta. Why did you stay? Were you injured? How did Martin and Will find you?”

  Marco had followed them and took a seat facing Antonio. “Yes, forgive me. Bruno will see to your needs and to your companions. But please tell us what happened.”

  Antonio sank back in the chair. The strain of the duel had sapped his strength as much as any battle on Malta. “Martin, will you take Marcel and bring de Clermont here when he is finished?”

  “Yes, of course.” Martin glanced at Will. “You stay with him until I return. Don’t leave his side. I’ll tell the others to watch the door.” He slipped away.

  Antonio directed his words to Marco, but kept his eyes on Gianetta. “When Sir Annet arrives, he will have seven or eight guards with him.”

  Marco frowned. “The house is small, and with you and your companions there . . .”

  Antonio faced Marco. “It is more than large enough. These men have been living in close quarters for months, so this will be a luxury for them.”

  “And of course, Uncle Marco, Antonio will stay in our house this time,” Gianetta said. “After what he has been through, it will be no hardship for him to stay here as our guest.”

  Marco opened his mouth, then closed it. Gianetta obviously had feelings for Antonio, and now was not the time to challenge them. Antonio’s arrival would cause many changes. “Yes, that will be fine.”

  “Now, Antonio,” Gianetta said, “tell us what happened tonight, with Olivio. Uncle Marco must know all the details, if we are to protect you. ”

  Antonio smiled at the we. “There will be no need for protection. After today, no one in Venice will challenge the Knights, no matter what they do. As for Olivio . . .”

  Gianetta hadn’t heard all of the prior conversation. “What about Olivio? Is he telling more evil stories about you?”

  “No. Olivio is dead. I challenged him to a duel and killed him, right before we came here.” He lifted his hands, making sure no blood stained them. “When we arrived in Malta, he murdered Tozzo, attacked me, and left me for dead. No matter what happens now, he deserved to die.”

  Gianetta received the news calmly enough. “Then you have done well, Antonio. But are you sure you will not need protection? His family is related to Lady Masina.”

  “Perhaps you had better tell us everything,” Marco said.

  Antonio took a deep breath. He started at the beginning, with the galleys leaving Venice and pulling straight for Brindisi and Malta. Antonio described his duties as a translator for Chevalier de Clermont, Olivio’s attempted theft, his punishment, and his hatred for Antonio. The unloading of the gunpowder and arms in Malta, and how the three of them rushed back toward Bredani’s galley.

  The attack in the alley that murdered Tozzo, and Antonio’s awakening in St. Angelo’s hospital. He tried to explain the horror of the siege, the destruction of St. Elmo, and the ferocious hatred that infected the Knights and the Turks, both merciless in the waging of war.

  A stunned Marco heard the description of the siege. Several times he gasped in horror at the scope of the fighting. Marco knew his history, and knew a battle such as Malta had not been fought in over a thousand years.

  By the end of the story, Antonio had drunk a full cup of watered wine. Gianetta observed him slowly relaxing. He appeared exhausted, and his hands still trembled. That, she realized, must come from the tension of the duel. She wondered what it would be like to kill someone like that. At least Antonio wasn’t boasting about it.

  She listened carefully as Antonio spoke to Marco, but much of the time Antonio’s eyes met hers. Even his gaze had changed. Now he looked at her the way a man looks at a woman, with respect, of course, but with something else as well. Gianetta wanted to hold him close, but she could not do that, not with Uncle Marco present.

  While Antonio spoke, Bruno brought trays of food, bread, cheese, olives, and some sausages. Antonio nibbled on these while he talked. Finally he reached the end of the siege, and the Turks withdrawal.

  “After the Turks departed, the Grand Master allowed me to return to Venice on the first galley, if I would agree to help Ambassador de Clermont deal with the Venetian merchants and the Arsenal. In fact, I am now the Deputy Ambassador to the Republic.” He laughed at the idea. “I’m not sure how that will work out. De Clermont will return to Malta as soon as possible.”

  “He can’t mean to go back?” Marco sounded aghast at the idea. “But the Turks may attack again. They may have left only to return with more men.”

  “No, the Turks are finished, for this year at least. By the Knights’ estimate, the Turks lost too many dead, between 20,000 and 25,000, perhaps more. Many of those still alive were sick with dysentery and other diseases. The survivors have lost the will to fight.”

  The huge number of dead took time to grasp. “How many did the Knights lose?” Gianetta asked.

  Antonio paused a moment to recall the numbers. “I was told the original garrison force numbered close to 6,000. Almost 5,000 soldiers, Knights, retainers, and Maltese died. At the end, there were only about 600 men still capable of fighting. If the Turks could have continued the siege a few days longer, or if the Spanish hadn’t arrived, Malta would have fallen.”

  Silence fell over the room. “I see there is much more to your story, Antonio,” Gianetta said. “But you must be prepared for trouble over Olivio’s death. He is related to Lady Masina Falieri, and she will be angry at the insult.”

  “There was a young man at the tavern with Olivio,” Antonio said, “he said his name was Falieri. He tried to help Olivio, but Marcel, de Clermont’s squire, shoved him against the wall and ordered him to keep silent.”

  “That would be Duilio Falieri,” Marco said, “the only son of Lady Masina and her husband, Francesco Falieri. He is a senior member of the Signoria, one of the reasons why Lady Masina has so much influence in Venice.”

  “
He means nothing to me,” Antonio said.

  “He’ll make trouble for you, mark my words.” Marco glanced at Gianetta, who nodded agreement. A knock sounded at the door. “Mother of God! It’s La Forsa!”

  But Bruno only glanced through the peephole before pulling the door wide. Antonio rose and stepped to the entryway. Martin, Marcel, and de Clermont entered the house. The Knight still wore his armor under his white surcoat, and his face looked as fatigued as Antonio’s.

  Antonio performed the introductions. De Clermont bowed to Marco and even more graciously to Gianetta.

  “Master Silvestri, you have the thanks of the Knights of St. John,” de Clermont said in reasonably good Italian, “as well as my own, for offering your house to me. I would not have disturbed you at this hour, but the door is locked.”

  “My apologies, Sir Annet,” Marco said. “I’ll have my housekeeper unlock the door and give you the key. It will be an honor to have you as a guest.”

  De Clermont bowed again. “As Antonio described your residence, it seems perfect for my needs. The Doge suggested I could stay at an apartment in the Palace, but I much preferred to stay elsewhere. I meet with him again tomorrow at nine o’clock in the Great Council Chamber. I understand all the members of the Signoria will be present, to hear the details of the siege. Antonio must attend as well. He will have a long day ahead of him, I’m afraid.”

  Staying at the Palace would have meant the eyes and ears of every one of the Doge’s men would have fastened on the Knight at all times, and no conversation would be safe from eavesdroppers. The Knights, Antonio knew, frowned on any attempts to spy on them. He decided that he’d better mention that fact to everyone in Marco’s household, including Gianetta.

  De Clermont turned to Antonio. “I gave your name to the Doge and mentioned that you will assist me in the negotiations. Martin said that your personal . . . business concluded satisfactorily. I suggest that we meet a little after sunrise to prepare ourselves. It will likely be a difficult and wearisome day.”