Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  Nicolo gripped his friend’s shoulder. “Still, I think you’d better hire extra guards. We may need them.”

  ***

  Twelve days later, Nicolo Pesaro halted his horse at the crest of a hill. An inn and farmhouse had once stood atop this small plateau, welcoming pilgrims and refugees who traveled the old road that wended its way down to the sea. “Mary, Mother of God,” Nicolo said, crossing himself.

  Nothing remained of the traveler’s way station but blackened embers, ruined walls, and the unburied bodies of the victims. He’d heard rumors back in Parma that desperate men roamed the upper valleys, but it would be an evil band of villains who would wreak such destruction on a few helpless innkeepers and farmers.

  “Looks more like the work of soldiers than bandits,” Maffeo said, stopping his horse beside his master. He, too, crossed himself to ward off the spirits of the dead. “Bandits don’t bother knocking down walls. Nothing left here but ashes.”

  The destruction’s thoroughness seemed designed to send a message. They were well within the borders of the Duchy of Milan, and perhaps the Duke’s men had done this. It wouldn’t be the first time a ruler killed his own subjects. Maybe the owner had insulted some local official, or worse, attempted to avoid paying the onerous taxes that beggared the inhabitants.

  “Soldiers . . . bandits . . . no one cares what happens to a few peasants in these hills,” Nicolo said. “We’ll get no rest here.”

  Travelers in this rugged country took their chances. Those foolish enough to venture through these lands without sufficient guards had only themselves to blame if they ended up robbed, beaten, and left for dead.

  Nicolo cursed the corrupt rulers who wouldn’t spare a few coins to maintain and keep safe the roads left behind by the Romans a thousand years ago, let alone build new ones. Though each petty noble that controlled any part of these roads collected a toll from every traveler who used them.

  With two women and a babe in his care, Nicolo would have preferred to go by sea, but pirates and the Ottoman Sultan’s ships traversed the Adriatic at this time of year, making the voyage too risky. So Nicolo’s party traveled overland, through the Apennines, their pace dictated by whatever speed they could coax out of the balky wagon.

  Five days after leaving Venice, the little caravan had crossed the border into Mantua, and in three more days they reached the Duchy of Milan. When they arrived in Parma, Milan’s capital, Nicolo started to relax. In Venice, Masina no doubt knew who’d taken mother and child and where they journeyed. Nicolo shook his head at Dom Pietro’s foolishness in giving the boy his name. But for that affront, Masina might not be too interested in a bastard baby destined for England. Nicolo still hoped that to be true. Otherwise her henchmen would have already caught up with them.

  With this way station in ashes, they’d have to sleep in the open tonight. Nightfall would be upon them long before they reached the next village. No one traveled after dark, not on these roads.

  Shielding his eyes against the setting sun, Nicolo searched the land ahead. He saw no hearth smoke curling into the air from a farmer’s hut, no other travelers on the road. His cavalcade of 11, counting the child, had struggled to reach this inn before dark, only to find desolation and ruin instead of a warm dwelling. More hills lay ahead, bad terrain that would slow their passage across the foothills of the Alps. Even so, from this point westward the land sloped downward, toward the sea, and their travel would become easier with each step.

  By noon tomorrow, they should reach the old Roman road that twisted its way through the Apennines until it reached the sea. Another four or five days would see them safely in Genoa. Assuming, of course, that the devious Genoese still honored the latest peace agreement between the two states. Genoa and the Venetian Republic had been fighting off and on for over 200 years, though the advantage had swung in favor of Venice decades ago. Overland travelers from the two city-states seldom encountered much trouble. However, ships at sea, caught out of sight of land, might still be plundered often enough, and by either side.

  Despite the fact that the hardest part of their journey across the Italian peninsula had ended, Nicolo felt no relief. Instead, he studied the trail behind him, unable to keep the apprehension from his face. The late afternoon sun shone back along the winding track they’d followed, illuminating the farthest stretch of the trail.

  “See anything?” Maffeo twisted in his saddle to examine the passage behind them. “I haven’t seen anything since this morning.”

  “No, nothing.” But twice this morning Nicolo had noticed horsemen a few miles in their rear. Each time they’d disappeared from sight. They reappeared a third time a little after noon, then vanished again. “Honest wayfarers should have caught up with us by now.”

  Maffeo spat on the ground. “Pilgrims on their knees would have passed us by now, let alone anyone on horseback. If that damn cart breaks down one more time, I swear to the Virgin I’ll use it for firewood.”

  “You chose it, not I.”

  “Yes, to carry a woman and child, not Queen Cleopatra and her household goods.”

  He understood Maffeo’s exasperation, though the three small trunks hadn’t seemed unreasonable to either man back in Venice. “Just a few days longer.” The overland trip from Venice to Genoa on Italy’s western coast, less than 250 miles on the map, was closer to 400 miles following the rugged terrain. A strenuous enough venture for mounted men. Dragging women along only made the journey more arduous.

  “This is no place to camp,” Maffeo said. “A fire would be seen for miles.”

  Not to mention that no one would sleep well anywhere near this ill-omened place. “We can make another hour before it gets too dark.”

  It would be one more hardship for Filippa and her slave, but she’d have to bear it. Without the women and babe, Nicolo would have reached Genoa by now. They’d left Venice 12 days ago, more than enough time for a half-dozen men on decent horses to cross the convoluted mountain roads to Italy’s western coast. The cart had slowed them to just over 20 miles a day.

  “I’ll post extra guards when we camp tonight.” Maffeo had survived a dozen campaigns on land and sea. He knew better than to take any chances in a countryside full of robbers and cutthroats, not all of them in Masina’s pay. “We’re still not far enough from that bitch’s reach.”

  “I’ll tell Filippa,” Nicolo said, glancing behind him at the approaching cart.

  Despite Maffeo’s complaints, the girl endured the difficult traveling well enough, Nicolo thought, better than he’d expected. He’d anticipated more trouble persuading Pietro’s mistress to accompany him, but the fact that the frightened girl had already received one threat on her life made the decision easier for her. More concerned for her son’s safety than her own, she and her slave, a final gift from Dom Pietro, needed little persuading to flee Venice. Filippa took less than an hour gathering what clothes she and the baby would need.

  The rest of the caravan reached the top of the hill. Nicolo’s son Bernardo rode beside one of the guards, the wagon just behind. Three more mounted guards brought up the rear.

  “Do you think we’re being followed, father?”

  The boy’s high-pitched voice made Nicolo smile, but he wasn’t about to worry his 13-year-old son. “No, Bernardo. Just being cautious.”

  “I’ll keep watch for you,” Bernardo offered. “I’ve got good eyes.”

  The boy did have keen eyesight. And good instincts to guess the truth about their situation. Patting Bernardo’s shoulder, Nicolo nodded approvingly. “Then no one will approach us unseen.”

  He’d entrusted Bernardo with his leather pouch containing their precious gold and, even more valuable, King Edward’s commission, the document that would proclaim them servants of the Crown once they crossed the English Channel. Another letter, equally valuable, provided safe passage through France, where constant raids on shipping between both France and England could shatter the uneasy peace at any time. That document had cost a sizable bribe t
o the Parisian court, but the fickle French were capable of seizing a master cannon maker on his way to England for any reason, or no reason at all.

  Bernardo had not disappointed his father, keeping the letters and the pouch with him at all times, concealed beneath his doublet. The gold was safer with him. Few would suspect a boy of carrying something of such value.

  “Nicolo!” Filippa’s voice carried from the cart as it lumbered to a halt, the weary horses snorting their relief after the climb. “Are we stopping here for the night?”

  He ignored the entreaty in her voice. “A little further, Filippa. We must keep traveling as long as we can see the road.”

  Her eyes widened as she took in the ruins of the inn. “Blessed Mother of God,” Filippa said, crossing herself. Her thick dark tresses peeking from under her white scarf framed a petite face that would have commanded attention anywhere, save for the sprinkling of scars from a childhood attack of smallpox. A full bosom contrasted with her small figure. She saw Maffeo watching the road behind them, and any further protests she might have voiced died unspoken.

  “Keep moving,” Nicolo called out to the cart’s driver.

  The wagon lurched into motion, cutting short more questions and saving Nicolo from explaining his concerns.

  They followed the trail down the hill and into another of the endless valleys tucked between the Apennines. Before it grew too dark to travel, Nicolo moved the little band well away from the trail. They set up camp at the edge of a thick stand of gnarled oak trees.

  Maffeo ordered a fire built, and men searched the ground for enough wood to burn through the night. They ate their day-old bread and sausages, purchased from the last village they’d passed through, and washed the meager meal down with what little remained of their wine. Maffeo gathered the five guards around him, out of range of the women’s ears, and warned them to keep a close watch throughout the night. An hour later, the travelers bedded down. The three men taking the first shift remained awake to guard the campsite and the horses.

  Spreading his blanket beside that of his son, Nicolo eased his body to the ground, only a few paces from the wagon. Emptied of its contents, the cart served as a cramped bed for the two women and the child. The infant stayed quiet. He’d nursed at his mother’s breast earlier and fallen asleep with scarcely a murmur, probably as tired as any of the travelers from the long day. The women crawled under the blanket and settled down for the night. After one last look around the camp, Nicolo did the same, grateful for the thick mantle that sheltered both him and Bernardo. In these foothills, the night air turned sharp and cold.

  Nicolo awoke at midnight when Maffeo changed the guards. Two stood watch near the horses, the third close to the wagon. Maffeo had stationed himself on the other side of the cart between the camp and the road. Nicolo heard nothing, except the occasional crackling of the small fire that gave off more smoke than light. Satisfied that all was well, he adjusted the blanket and touched the sword lying beside him. Sleep returned slowly, but he finally drifted off to ominous dreams.

  The scream of a horse wrenched Nicolo awake. His hand fumbled for his sword. Maffeo’s voice bellowed the alarm, followed by the clash of steel on steel, the shouts of men, and shrieks from the women. Nicolo reached his feet just as two men rushed toward him from the darkness, naked blades in their hands glinting from the campfire. He ducked under the first man’s cut, but his attacker collided with him, sending both to the earth. Nicolo clutched the man’s wrist, keeping the sword at bay. The assassin clutched Nicolo’s sword arm, and each struggled to break free from the other’s grasp.

  Grunting with the effort, Nicolo fought with all his strength, knowing the second assailant would be at his back. Before Nicolo could break free, Bernardo rose and brought down a rock upon the head of his father’s assailant, stunning the man long enough for Nicolo to lurch to his feet and run his sword through the man’s stomach. When Nicolo whirled around, sword at the ready, he saw that the second bandit hadn’t paused to help his comrade. Instead, he’d headed straight for the wagon, less than a dozen paces away.

  Shouts and curses echoed throughout the camp as men fought and grappled. The frightened horses broke loose and bolted past the wagon, knocking one bandit down and scattering everyone before them. Nicolo grabbed his son’s shoulder and pushed him away.

  “Run, Bernardo! Hide!”

  A woman screamed, this time not in fright, but in torment. Nicolo lifted his eyes to the wagon. A bandit had driven his sword into the maid’s body, and another shadowy figure had its arms wrapped around Filippa, her white shift already covered in blood.

  Nicolo flung himself toward the cart. He darted behind the man who’d killed the maid and who now dragged her still-twitching body by the hair from the wagon. To his horror, the man hacked at her neck and managed to sever the head from the girl’s shoulders, lifting it high with a shout of triumph as Nicolo’s sword crashed down upon the killer’s neck. The stroke, powered by Nicolo’s rage, nearly severed the man’s head from his shoulders amid a spray of blood.

  Filippa cried out again, and Nicolo watched helplessly as her assailant thrust his sword deep into her belly.

  “Damn you!” Nicolo shouted, and raised his sword. Ignoring Filippa’s shriek of agony, her attacker wrenched his blade from her body and turned to face Nicolo. Their bloody blades clashed, stroke on stroke, but Nicolo had to give ground, unable to match the bandit’s frenzied assault. Filippa cried out, something about the baby, and Nicolo caught a glimpse of her thrusting the child over the side of the wagon.

  He fought on, but his ruthless attacker knew his business. Twice Nicolo just missed being skewered, and the bandit’s savage attack drove Nicolo past the edge of the wagon. His heel caught on something, and he fell backward, landing hard, stunned by the impact with the ground.

  With a grunt of victory, the bandit raised his weapon, but before he could strike, Maffeo appeared behind him and plunged his sword into the man’s back, the bloody tip bursting through the murderer’s chest.

  The man fell with a loud gasp, blood spurting from his wound and his thick body landing across Nicolo’s legs. Dazed, he struggled to rise, fighting the weakness in his arms that made them tremble. Maffeo dragged the dead man aside, gripped Nicolo’s shoulder and pulled him to his feet. They stumbled toward the trees. After a few paces, they disappeared into the darkness, leaving the remnants of the campfire behind them. Nicolo’s head bumped into a low-hanging tree limb, and he groaned in protest, but Maffeo ordered him to keep silent.

  The two of them were well into the woods before Nicolo cleared his thoughts. Dread for his son rushed over him.

  “Bernardo! I must go back!”

  “I’m here, father, right behind you. I’ve got . . .”

  “Keep silent, both of you!” Maffeo’s voice was a harsh whisper that silenced father and son. “Do you want to get us all killed?”

  What remained of the fire allowed just enough light for Nicolo to glimpse five or six men shouting in satanic glee as they searched the camp, looking for victims or loot. One man, his arms outstretched, danced around the campfire’s glowing embers, holding something in each hand as he whirled about. It took a few moments before Nicolo comprehended what he saw – the severed heads of Filippa and her maid dangling by their hair.

  “Bastards! They’ve killed the women and Antonio.”

  “No, Father,” Bernardo whispered. “I’ve got the baby. Filippa gave him to me before I ran for the forest.”

  Nicolo had to squint in the darkness to see that his son held a blanket-covered baby who whimpered softly.

  “And our gold? Did we lose that?”

  “I have that, too, Father,” the boy answered. “The pouch is always around my neck.”

  A wave of relief washed over Nicolo, and he clasped his hand on Bernardo’s shoulder. The boy had remembered his duties even in the midst of all the mayhem.

  “By all the saints, will you stop talking,” Maffeo hissed. He grabbed his patron and pul
led him away from the camp. “Follow me. The horses went this way. They may be nearby.”

  Still weak at the knees, Nicolo allowed himself to be pushed along, Maffeo’s powerful arm supporting his waist. Bernardo took the lead, cradling the baby. The fight had sapped Nicolo’s strength. It had been many years since he’d fought in the Republic’s army, and now he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. The vicious attack, the brush with death, unnerved him. Nevertheless, the camp soon faded from sight, becoming little more than a faint glow in the distance. A few more steps and darkness enveloped them, the empty forest silent again.

  At last Maffeo gave the order to halt. “Better to wait here until morning. Can you bandage my arm?”

  Nicolo hadn’t realized Maffeo was wounded. “Where . . . are you all right?”

  “A scratch,” Maffeo said, extending his arm. “Just stop the bleeding.”

  In the shadows, Nicolo couldn’t see much, but he ripped a strip from the baby’s blanket, and bound up his friend’s arm. Nicolo’s fingers moved clumsily in the faint moonlight, and it took several tries to fasten the makeshift bandage. “What happened? How did they get past the guards?”

  Maffeo grunted and let out a long breath as the bandage tightened. “They didn’t come from the road. Cunning bastards. They must have worked their way around, through the forest. They had at least two crossbows and took out the guards on watch before they attacked.”

  “Why aren’t they coming after us?” Bernardo asked.

  “And leave Filippa’s gold behind?” Maffeo said. “Not likely. Not after we killed three or four of them. They got everything they wanted, the gold and Filippa’s head.”

  Dom Pietro had given Filippa a 100 golden ducats, more than enough wealth to raise a child to manhood. Now it was all gone. The image of the women’s heads returned, and Nicolo shivered at the thought. He squatted down, resting his shoulders against a tree, his sword across his knees, and clenched his fists to keep his hands from shaking.

  The cunning bitch had outwitted him. He had never escaped Lady Masina’s reach. She’d waited, letting him think he was safe, letting him get far enough away to be killed by “bandits” on a lonely road, where no word of their fate would ever reach Venice. Once again, Lady Masina’s hands would be as clean as new-fallen snow.