Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  “Yes, Sir Annet,” Antonio replied. The Knight would have been embarrassed if Olivio had killed him. Now Antonio’s part of the bargain had to be kept.

  “Then I will see that you both are served a good breakfast,” Gianetta said. “Let me escort you to your chamber, Sir Annet. There is a connecting passage between both houses.”

  After the Knight and Gianetta disappeared through the connecting hall, Marco turned to Antonio. “How many are there in Sir Annet’s entourage?”

  “If he keeps all of his followers in Venice, he will have 10 men-at-arms, and possibly another Knight.”

  “Merciful God! Where will they all sleep?”

  Antonio laughed. “Sir Annet will sleep alone in the big bedroom. The rest will sleep wherever they can. Don’t concern yourself. After Malta, even sleeping on a hard floor will be luxury for them. And not all of them will sleep at night. There will be several guards awake at all times. Perhaps you should tell Bruno and the other servants to stay out of the house, unless escorted.”

  “Then I am glad you are staying with us, Antonio. Perhaps I can make room for Martin and Will in the kitchen.”

  “No need, Uncle Marco. They can sleep with me. We are used to sharing the same room.”

  Thoughts of sleep swept over him. He yawned, suddenly very much exhausted after a long day that culminated in Olivio’s death. “I think I would very much like to lie down, if you could show me the way?”

  Chapter 58

  The residence of Francesco Falieri and Lady Masina

  At the same moment that Antonio took his leave from Marco, Lady Masina Falieri sat down on a red plush settee next to her son, Duilio. She took hold of his hand in both of hers, then patted it reassuringly. “You must start at the beginning, Duilio. You’re too excited to make any sense.”

  Lady Masina knew more than excitement had agitated her son. The smell of cheap wine emanated from his breath as well as his clothes, and she suspected he’d been cavorting in some vulgar tavern, probably with one of his more unsavory cousins. Two red wine stains had ruined his white linen shirt, and another spillage had discolored one of the cuffs.

  Her fastidious son rarely spilled anything on his fine garments. Something had indeed disconcerted Duilio. Unlike most Venetians, he rarely drank to excess.

  “I tell you, Mother, it was frightening. The men came into the Lataverna, six of them, led by this Antonio who claimed to be from Malta. He threatened to take Olivio away in chains unless he agreed to fight him. When I tried to stop them, one of Antonio’s men grabbed me by the face. I thought he broke my jaw. It still hurts to swallow. Are you sure it’s not damaged?”

  She had already examined his face. Dark bruises on each cheek stood in stark contrast to his pale features. “Let me look again, my brave little warrior.”

  “Don’t call me that, Mother. You know I hate it.”

  Her pet name for him was a play on his name, Duilio, which meant “war” in Latin. She smiled as she examined his head, taking his chin in both her hands, probing the jaw delicately and examining his face. “No, my son, I think you are merely bruised. The marks will fade in a few days.” She kissed him on the mouth, enjoying the feel of his lips. “Now tell me what happened and who did this to you.”

  “This Antonio . . . he’s English, and was an apprentice at the Arsenal under Olivio. He gave himself airs, because of his uncle, Marco Silvestri, who is a master gunner.”

  “I know who he is, Duilio.” The name Silvestri stirred her annoyance. The man was a distant cousin of her first husband. Marco’s brother, whose name she did not recall, had fled Venice with her husband’s slut and bastard son. She smiled at that memory, remembering the heads of mother and child, her final revenge on Dom Pietro Contarini.

  “This Antonio accused Olivio of murdering someone on Malta. I don’t remember his name.” Duilio’s turmoil increased as he told the story. “When I told Antonio who I was, and that he could not take Olivio, that’s when one of them grabbed me, and pushed my head against the wall. He said he would kill me if I spoke again. Then Olivio and Antonio fought with knives. Olivio was taller and stronger . . . I felt certain he would win. But Antonio killed him, toyed with him. Olivio lay on the floor, covered in blood, dying, and Antonio stabbed him in the eye, then spit on his face.”

  That gesture, she knew, told everyone the killing was personal, that some particular blood feud existed between the two men. Not that she cared about Olivio. She had scarcely known him. Family gatherings always found him present, and each time Olivio sought an opportunity to speak with her, to flatter her. Most of her relatives did the same, but without being so fawning. Nevertheless, Olivio might have been nobody, but he remained part of her family.

  His death required payment in kind. It would not do for people in Venice to think that anyone, let alone some foreigner, could murder one of her relations with impunity. Or that they could lay hands on her son, even threaten him. That crossed another, more serious line. This Antonio must be punished for that, if for nothing else.

  “I tell you, Mother, it was murder. This Antonio claimed he was from Malta, that the Knights of St. John had driven off the Turks. The fools in the tavern believed him.”

  “Yes, I heard the same rumor, and it may be true. Venetians are celebrating the Knights’ victory even now.” Despite the thick walls of her palazzo, Masina could hear the noise from the streets. Until tonight, everyone in Venice had written off the Knights and Malta weeks ago. All the same, the good news meant nothing to her. “Is this Antonio staying with his uncle?”

  “I don’t know, mother. After the men left the tavern, everyone drank as much wine as they could, to drive the evil sight of Olivio’s body from our eyes. Many rushed off to St. Mark’s, to see if Antonio lied about Malta.”

  She knew it would be simple enough to find this Antonio. “You say this Antonio is English?”

  “Yes, that is what Olivio said, though he speaks Italian without an accent. Two of the men with him in the tavern were English. The one who squeezed my face sounded French.”

  The Knights of Malta recruited every piece of scum from the four corners of Europe. Thieves and murderers often fled to the Knights’ protection to avoid punishment for their crimes. Always short-handed, the Knights asked no questions about a man’s past, just that he swear allegiance to their Order. All the same, the Republic had laws against such killings, and not even the Knights of St. John were immune. Yes, that would be the best way to handle the situation.

  “Don’t worry about this Antonio. If he killed a Venetian, then he is subject to our laws. He will be punished.”

  “It won’t be easy,” Duilio said, “not as long as he has those men around him.”

  She smiled. “I will make sure La Forsa has enough men to deal with them.”

  Masina rose and left her boudoir. A servant, always on call, waited at the far end of the hallway. “Send a messenger for Sabino Gismondi. I want to see him at once. Let me know when he arrives. And make sure I am not disturbed by anyone except Sabino for the rest of the night.”

  This evening she didn’t have to concern herself with her husband, Francesco. Three or four times each week, he spent the night at the house of his mistress, grunting over a common slut from one of his lower-class retainers. Not that her husband visited her chambers often, or that she wished to receive such visits. Their marriage had long ago abandoned any attempts at intimacy. But he often sought her advice and listened to her suggestions. To survive in the Republic of Venice’s ruling circle, political intrigue, keen intellects, and strong allies were critical.

  Masina returned to her bedroom, and this time she locked the door. She paused as she passed her mirror, making sure that her blond hair was properly arranged. Though in her middle thirties, she remained one of the most beautiful women in Venice. At church, the theater, or her occasional walks through the Piazza, men’s eyes followed her every movement.

  When she felt the urge, she still had her choice of lovers from among the
Signoria or the muscular young guards in the Doge’s Palace. Francesco knew all about her appetites, but as long as Masina remained discreet, he was satisfied to pursue his private pleasures and leave his wife to hers.

  Some jealous Venetians whispered that Masina was the demon Messalina reborn. Masina always smiled at that, knowing the infamous Roman Empress who lived 1,500 years ago had proven as politically devious and powerful as any of the Caesars.

  And at the same time Messalina proved to be a sexually insatiable ruler who left no delight untasted, no matter how shocking, including members of her family. Her excesses had achieved such infamy that her very name had fallen into disfavor.

  Laws, customs, even the Catholic Church’s commandments and teachings, Masina knew, were for the common folk. As one of the rulers of Venice, nothing and no one constrained her desires. Many men and women had died at her hands, and she had enjoyed their demise, sometimes watching as her victims struggled under torture or writhed in agony from a dose of poison. Their deaths ensured a restraining influence on anyone who might dare to oppose her or her husband.

  Duilio did not look up until she sat beside him. This time she took him in her arms, and held him close, letting him feel her bosom against his chest.

  “You are safe now, Duilio. And tomorrow this Antonio will be arrested. I do not think he will survive long after that. Now you must calm down, my son. Let me help you.” She moved closer and let her lips brush his mouth once again. This time the kiss lingered and soon grew more passionate.

  Duilio, as excitable as any 17 year-old, responded soon enough, his hands reaching up to fondle her breasts. Her left hand moved to his lap, and she could feel his erection growing. Yes, this would be the simplest way to make him forget all about the night’s events.

  Taking her time, she undid the fastening on his trousers and soon had his penis in her hand. His hands left her breasts. He groaned from her touch and slumped back on the chair. Masina kept stroking his manhood. Despite Duilio’s previous agitation, he soon relaxed under her ministrations.

  He was so pretty, so sexy, like one of Michelangelo’s angels, and he belonged to her. Months had passed since the last time she enjoyed him. His long sigh of happiness pleased her. When she could restrain herself no longer, she tightened her grip.

  Masina soon had him trembling with lust. With a gasp of pleasure, he cried out and shot his seed. Gradually she slowed her movements, easing him from his passion. After a few more moments, she rose, removed a lace-bordered pink handkerchief from her bosom, and wiped her hand.

  “It’s time for you to retire, my brave warrior. I must meet with someone who will take care of this Antonio.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Duilio stood and fumbled with his trousers, still in the afterglow of his release.

  Masina wrapped her arm around his waist, and guided him to the door of her boudoir. “Good night, my son.” She kissed his cheek, and watched him as he headed for his own bedchamber, on the upper floor of the house.

  Even as a child, Duilio had always responded to her intimate touch. He understood that such moments were rare and secret treats, saved for special occasions. Yes, she felt quite a glow herself. Men were so easy to manipulate and control. And to kill, as Antonio would soon discover.

  Chapter 59

  The next morning, the bells of St. Mark’s Basilica sounded the hour of eight o’clock when Marcel opened the door to Sir Annet’s new residence. Marcel stepped outside and moved into the lane. His eyes searched in both directions, making sure that the way was safe. Satisfied, he glanced back toward the house and nodded his head.

  Sir Annet de Clermont emerged, resplendent in his gleaming armor and freshly-cleaned white surplice, emblazoned with the red eight-pointed cross of the Knights of St. John. Instead of his helmet, today he wore a soft wool hat with a green plume. His leather boots, though well battered in the siege, shone with fresh polish. Behind him followed Antonio and his two English companions.

  Vincenzo and Domenico Naggia completed the party. All were armed. Meanwhile, six guards under the command of Sir Guiscard remained in the residence. Their duty was to safeguard the chests containing the gold.

  The first night’s sleep on land had refreshed everyone. To his surprise, Antonio had slept straight through the night, untroubled by any dreams of Olivio. Martin woke Antonio at dawn, and he had enjoyed an early and pleasant breakfast with Marco and Gianetta before attending to Sir Annet. Her presence had nearly compensated for last night’s unpleasantness.

  But now had come the time for him to fulfill his part of the bargain arranged back on Malta, with de Clermont, Sir Oliver, and the Grand Master. Afterward, he promised himself that he would spend the evening with Gianetta in the garden.

  “Lead the way, Antonio.”

  “Yes, Sir Annet.” Antonio moved beside Marcel and started walking toward the Palace. But before they had taken a dozen steps, a troop of armed men appeared from the next lane. Their gaily colored uniforms identified them as La Forsa – a detachment of 10, commanded by a sergeant. All of the soldiers wore swords and five carried pole weapons, halberds. A plump man, the only one unarmed and with the sallow features that proclaimed he rarely saw the sun, walked beside the sergeant.

  La Forsa had obviously been watching the residence, waiting for the Knight and his party to depart. Antonio halted, and the others stopped as well.

  “I am from the High Court of the Republic,” the man said with a loud voice that carried the length of the lane. A few people on their way to their work paused to watch. “We have come to arrest Antonio Pesaro, the murderer of Olivio Moretti.”

  Before Antonio could reply, Sir Annet moved to his side. “And you are . . . who?”

  “I am Master Clerk Sabino Gismondi, a member of the High Court of the Republic.”

  “You will address me as ‘Sir.’” De Clermont tugged his gloves from his belt, and taking his time, pulled them on. “Do you have a warrant for Antonio’s arrest? Are you a judge? Perhaps a magistrate?”

  Sabino ignored the insult. “I am the chief clerk of the Court.” He took no notice of Sir Annet’s donning his battle gloves and likely had no idea what the gesture meant. “There was no time nor need to obtain a warrant, Sir Knight.”

  “Then on whose authority do you act?”

  Sabino glanced at the sergeant of the guards, who stood there stoically and clearly wanted no part of any trouble with a Knight of Malta. “Lady Masina, the wife of Francesco Falieri, a senior member of the Signoria. She reported Antonio’s crime.”

  “So the men of Venice jump to do the bidding of the wives of their leaders,” de Clermont said. “Stand aside. Deputy Ambassador Pesaro and these men are under my protection. We have an appointment with the Doge.”

  “Of course you are free to go, Sir Knight. But Antonio Pesaro must come with us.” Sabino turned to the sergeant, whose glum face had turned even grimmer. “Arrest him.”

  “If you do not get out of my way, I’ll have you killed.” The gloves were on and Sir Annet flexed his fingers to make sure they fit properly.

  Sabino, confident that the Knight was bluffing, stood his ground. La Forsa outnumbered the knight and his men. “All we want is Antonio . . .”

  The Knight rested his right hand on the hilt of his sword. “Kill him.”

  The words were scarcely out of de Clermont’s mouth when Marcel, expecting the command, sprang forward, two long steps and plunged his knife to the hilt into Sabino’s chest. The blow was so swift and unexpected, that Marcel had returned to his position beside Sir Annet before anyone had time to react, even before Sabino, dead on his feet, slumped to the ground, his head thumping on the cobblestones. Behind Sir Annet, everyone fanned out, hands on the hilts of their swords.

  “The Knights of St. John recognize no authority other than God’s law,” de Clermont spoke, raising his voice even louder than Sabino, “and the Grand Master of our Order. The Doge himself recognizes my authority. If you don’t get your men out of my way, Sergeant, we wil
l kill all of you. Or perhaps I’ll just report you to the Doge and have him hang you for daring to interfere with Malta’s ambassador.” Sir Annet’s calm voice showed no concern for whatever choice the man might take.

  The sergeant turned pale. His first sight of the Knight and his retainers, hardened fighters all, had sapped his courage. One of them had struck down a clerk of the Court with such speed and efficiency that the sergeant had not even thought about reacting.

  Now this Knight in battle armor, outnumbered by more than two to one, threatened to kill all of his men. The sergeant understood the one certain outcome of any clash of arms – no matter how many men stood behind him, no matter who might win such a fight, he would end up one of the first to die.

  Antonio risked de Clermont’s ire. “Sergeant, do as Sir Annet orders. If you wish to find me later, I will be at the Palace, in conference with the Doge.”

  The sergeant jumped at the chance to avoid challenging a Knight of Malta, one of the heroes who had driven off the Turks. Still, he had to swallow before he could speak. “Move aside, men. Clear the way.”

  In seconds the lane was open, and Sir Annet strode past the soldiers as unconcerned as if he were strolling through a private garden. They left behind the men of La Forsa and the dead clerk, his blood staining the paving stones, and a handful of Venetians, for once shocked into silence.

  When they reached the next street, de Clermont turned to Antonio. “I hope you’re worth all the trouble you’re causing. Or would you have preferred to go with the guards?”

  “I would have been dead within the hour, Sir Annet. My thanks to you for saving me yet again. But I will make her pay dearly for this affair, I promise you that.”

  “Who is this Lady Masina?”

  Antonio kept his voice low, so that only the Knight could hear his words. “The woman who killed my parents and almost killed me. She is the wife of Francesco Falieri, one of the senior members of the Signoria.”