by Sam Barone
He paused for a moment. “If you choose to defy my wishes, at least you will make your choice knowing everything. Now it is up to you to decide what your future is, and whether you will visit the grave of your father.” Nicolo turned to Maffeo. “Tell him the rest.”
Maffeo had not lifted his eyes from the table while his friend and patron spoke. Now he looked at Antonio. “Four years ago, you remember I returned to Venice. You may not recall that I went there once before, almost 10 years ago. Throughout all this time, we’ve been very careful to make sure none of our enemies know of your existence. One of my comrades died that night on the trail, and I had my own plans for revenge on the assassins. But Vincenzo Garzoni, the villain who led the bandits, had died, murdered by his own whore. She stabbed him in the eye in a drunken fight. I learned he lived two days in great pain before he passed on to the fires of Hell, which pleased me much. At least my friend was avenged, though not by my hand.
“But I also learned the story that was told about your death, why neither Garzoni nor anyone else bothered to pursue us. We’d killed five of his men and wounded others, and he didn’t want to chance losing any more. Your mother was the main target and he already had her head. As for baby Antonio . . . on the way back to Venice, Garzoni found a woman with a newborn. He killed her, and cut off the child’s head. He delivered both heads to Lady Masina and collected the blood money she’d promised him. And Masina, a few months after your father’s death, remarried to one of the leaders of the Signoria, a nobleman named Francesco Falieri. With your father’s money and her new husband’s position, Masina achieved finally the status and wealth that she wanted.”
“What you do now,” Nicolo said, picking up the story, “is for you to decide. Masina spent most of your father’s fortune and whatever remains is lost, mixed in with that of her husband. Even if you were to claim your father’s name, there might not be any inheritance. Falieri would be under no obligation to return any of it.
“Not to mention that if you pressed a claim, it would take months, perhaps years. Besides, Falieri is a member of the Signoria, and they have plenty of bastards of their own to worry about. There would be little chance that you could win back your name in the courts of Venice. And that’s if Masina didn’t find some way to have your throat slit before any court ever convened to hear your case.”
Antonio tightened his lips at the casual use of the word bastard. That indeed was his inheritance, an ignoble birth. The illegitimate son of a rich nobleman.
Nicolo paused, giving Antonio time to comprehend his words.
“I tell you these things about your family, not to incite you to vengeance, but to warn you about what might happen if you leave England. My own desire would be that you forgo any thoughts of revenge. And I no longer insist that you go to Venice, if you choose not to. As Bernardo reminded me, you are no longer a mere youth. Yesterday’s fight at sea changed that. Anyone who has fought in a battle cannot be treated as anything other than a man. So from this moment, you must choose your own course.”
For a moment Nicolo’s emotions overcame him. His voice failed and he had to stop. Antonio had to look away. He couldn’t bear the sight of his father suffering.
“I went with Father last night,” Bernardo said, “when he met with Captain Stukeley. He told us that that you fought well, that you stood to your gun and fired as fast as any of his gunners, and that it was your shot that dismasted the Frenchman. He also asked me to give you a message. Stukeley said, ‘Tell the boy to stick with his trade. He’ll do more good for England turning out fine cannons than he’ll ever do using them.’”
Antonio blinked back the tears. “I didn’t. . . I didn’t know.”
“You must make your choice soon,” Nicolo said. “You can stay here and continue to learn your trade. You can go to Venice, help your cousin Marco, and learn the Arsenal’s secrets. Or you can go back to your Captain Stukeley and rejoin his crew. You have less than a fortnight to make up your mind. Then the travelers’ group for Venice departs.”
Nicolo stood up. “There is one more thing I must say. In my youth, I fought in two campaigns for the Republic, and found no glory in them. But as your father, I am proud that you fought well, that you used the training we’ve given you and knowledge of my cannons to earn the respect of a man like Captain Stukeley. For that, Dom Pietro would be honored, for there are times in a man’s life when he must fight, just as there are times when he must give up his arms and tend to his family. Whatever course you choose, you will have my blessing.”
Nicolo left the table and a moment later Bernardo and Maffeo departed as well, leaving the boy who’d become a man alone with his thoughts.
***
When Antonio got up from the table, he found the house empty. Bernardo and Maffeo had gone out, perhaps with Uncle Nicolo to the foundry, though he hadn’t heard the sounds of anyone leaving. Something felt out of place and it took Antonio a moment to realize that, for the first time in his life, he had no instructions, no duties, not even any assigned studies. Until he decided on his future, his father expected him to plan his own day.
The thought sobered Antonio. He went out into the tiny walled garden at the rear of the house and sat on the bench that rested against the outer wall, as far away as possible from the two privies, one reserved for the family and the other for the servants.
All these years he’d thought of Nicolo as his father. Now he had to accept his true heritage, the bastard son of Dom Pietro Contarini. Antonio knew nothing about this man, his real father, except that as he lay dying, he’d tried to save his son from certain death. And that Nicolo had enough respect for Dom Pietro to risk his own life carrying out his patron’s final wish.
Men and women had died to save Antonio’s life, and more had been killed trying to take it. Antonio thought about his mother, Filippa, striving with her last breath to preserve the life of her son. She seemed distant, almost unreal, but Filippa had helped save his life. He’d been raised by many women over the years, matronly souls who had cared for him as best they could. But somehow, he’d never felt closeness to any of them.
The more Antonio thought, the more confused he felt. Yesterday, God in heaven, it was only two days ago, he’d wanted nothing more than to join Captain Stukeley’s crew, to sail the seas and fight England’s enemies. He could still take that course, return to Stukeley, and ask for a place aboard his ship. Despite what the captain said, Antonio knew that Stukeley would take him. Though, he reminded himself, Captain Stukeley had traded him fast enough for a single bronze cannon and cut-rate prices on a baker’s dozen more.
Nevertheless the sea had called to him, and Antonio felt the lure of its excitement. He remembered the wind and waves, the spray breaking across the ship’s bow as she forced herself against the current, challenging the very powers of water and air. But now he understood how that choice would affect his father. Antonio had never seen such pain in Nicolo’s eyes. He’d treated Antonio as his own son, and in many ways Antonio was closer to Nicolo than Bernardo.
Going to sea would break his father’s heart. His lifelong work would come to naught, as his line would end with no one to pass on either his trade or his enterprise.
Unlike Bernardo, who wanted no part of the family business, Antonio felt torn between two callings. Part of him enjoyed working with the molten metal, watching the guns take shape and creating powerful weapons from bronze, iron, oak, and gunpowder. But another part of him wanted to visit faraway places, to see the world from the deck of a ship.
The one choice Antonio didn’t want was to go to Venice. Now that he knew the truth about his birth, he wouldn’t even have any distant family or kin there to turn to. He’d be accepted there only as a courtesy to Uncle Nicolo. And despite his uncle’s recommendations, he’d have to prove himself as a master gunner all over again. And to what end, he wondered?
Whatever skills the Venetians could teach him, he could learn almost as much working right here, given time. Part of him felt proud about
his knowledge of cannon making. He’d worked building the very guns that had helped win Captain Stukeley’s victory. The crew had trusted those guns because they trusted his knowledge and willingness to work with them alongside those powerful weapons. Nicolo did build the best cannons in England, and except for his father, no one at the foundry knew more about how to cast a bronze cannon than Antonio.
So he really had only two choices. Sail with Stukeley, or stay with his father. In his heart he wanted to go to sea, though he knew that decision would break Nicolo’s heart.
“Troubled thoughts, Antonio?”
He hadn’t heard Maffeo approach, but now the old man took a seat beside him, sighing as he settled himself comfortably. Antonio remembered the many times as a child he’d rushed into Maffeo’s strong arms and been lifted high above the ground and swung around, before returning safely to the earth. Now arthritis had stiffened Maffeo’s back and weakened his knees. With a shock, Antonio realized that his friend, older even than Nicolo, approached his sixtieth year.
“Maffeo, it’s all so… complicated. I’m not sure what to do.”
“You’ll make the right choice. Your father and I raised you up well enough. Though he’d probably say I shouldn’t be talking to you now.”
“I don’t want to go to Venice, Maffeo. I’ll stay here with Father before I go there.”
Maffeo grunted, but said nothing. That surprised Antonio. The old soldier always had an opinion and never hesitated voicing it.
“What do you think I should do? I really want to go to sea, to fight with Captain Stukeley, but I know that will break father’s heart.”
“Yesterday you ran off and fought a sea fight. Not many young men do that on their first day. Now you’ve come back a man. It’s time you started thinking like one.”
Shocked, Antonio turned to face Maffeo. “But I . . .”
“Why do you think Nicolo wants you to go to Venice? His guns are already good enough, better than any others in England. Certainly better than the clumsy brutes the Spanish build. He could hire apprentices from the Germans or Dutch, even journeymen gun makers from anywhere on the continent. Cousin Marco might feel slighted, but he would understand. So why should your father send you there?”
Antonio opened his mouth, then closed it again, surprised at the obvious question. Maffeo was right. Why would he send his son on such a dangerous journey, just to learn a bit more about how to cast a cannon? Unless he wanted him to visit his birthplace, to see for himself the places where his mother and father lived, and died.
How would a man decide? Yesterday Antonio ran away like any headstrong and foolish boy eager for glory and adventure. But men like Bernardo or Maffeo, or even his father, thought differently. Were they just older, or truly wiser? Bernardo had waited until his seventeenth year before joining the soldiers. Antonio knew Maffeo respected Bernardo, loved him as if he were his own son. A true man would honor his parents’ wishes, and wait for approval before running off to battle.
“He wants me to go to Venice, to take vengeance on those who killed my parents.”
“No, Antonio. You heard him. He’s advising you to forget about seeking revenge. You know what we Italians say about vengeance – before you go to seek revenge on your enemy, dig two graves. Nicolo knows nothing good can come from that path. Your parents are long dead and nothing can bring them back.”
“Then why . . .” Antonio struggled to see the truth. “He wants me to make that choice for myself. I have to choose not to seek revenge, is that it? Is that what he wants me to do?”
Maffeo put his hand on Antonio’s shoulder. “At least you’re starting to think like an Italian. Yes, maybe that’s part of what Nicolo would want you to do. He also wants you to give honor to your true parents, and maybe say a prayer over their graves. A son has that much duty to the man that fathered him and the woman who bore him.”
“What would you choose, Maffeo, if it were you?”
“Ah, now, that’s not for me to say. Though I would dearly love to run a blade through that whoring Masina’s stomach. She took one of my friends that night as well.” He sighed. “Be that as it may, she’s only a woman, and not worth stirring up a stew of bad blood. You’d be nothing to her, dirt under her feet, if she noticed you at all.”
“I wouldn’t know anyone in Venice. What would I do?”
“Do? Hmm, you say you want to fight, to sail the seas? Trust me, lad, you’ll find more fighting in Venice than anywhere else. When was the last time Stukeley fought a sea battle? Six months ago? Last year? He might not fight another ship for years. But war is coming to the Mediterranean. The Turks are pushing their way into Europe, and to do that, sooner or later they have to face off against Venice.”
Like most other Englishmen, Antonio knew little about Italian politics, a complicated witches’ brew of petty states, foreign intrigues, and papal influence. Even the Turks were just a name to him, an empire of the distant east with little relevance to life in England.
“But if I were apprenticed to cousin Marco, how would I get to sea, let alone get a chance to fight?”
“Master Marco Silvestri has a dozen applications for every apprenticeship. He’ll make room for a distant cousin like yourself because he knows what he’s getting. But I doubt he has many apprentices who’ve fought a sea battle. Fighting men in England don’t want to know about cannons, and here cannon-makers don’t go to sea. In Venice, an armourer travels with his guns, sometimes right into the battle. So perhaps Marco would find both your skills and experience useful. It’s something to think about.”
For a long moment, Antonio sat there in silence. If Maffeo spoke the truth, if there would be more to learn in Venice than just canon making. “I’d be alone . . . could you come with me?”
“An old man leading you around?” Maffeo leaned back against the wall and laughed. “Not likely. Besides, I’ve got more enemies in Italy than you’ll ever have. But you wouldn’t go alone. I can promise you that.”
Something in Maffeo’s voice made Antonio look up, just in time to catch the smile on the old soldier’s face.
Maffeo stood and stretched. “Time for me to leave, before your father catches me out here talking to you. Whatever you decide, if you choose for the right reason, you’ll bring honor to yourself and your family.”
He clasped Antonio’s shoulder, then walked away, his firm step belying his years.
Antonio watched him go, knowing that Maffeo had pointed the way. They all wanted him to go to Venice. Even Bernardo hadn’t spoken against the idea, and he would have challenged his father if he thought Nicolo wrong. And while Antonio might disappoint his father, he couldn’t face Maffeo and Bernardo if he chose otherwise. He sighed, wishing once again he were back on the Pinnace. Instead, he’d have to travel halfway across the world, to a corrupt and wicked city built on an island, a tiny republic that didn’t have a single friend in the world.
Antonio knew Maffeo had maneuvered him into obeying his father’s wishes. Antonio would have to go to Venice.
Then he remembered Maffeo’s cryptic words. Who would be going with him?
Chapter 8
With nothing to do, Antonio returned to his room. To take his mind off his decision, he opened his wardrobe chest and removed his journal. For the last three years, he’d recorded all his notes from the foundry – formulas for mixing gunpowder, details of each batch of iron ore, quality estimates for every casting, and suggestions for improvements. No matter how careful and precise their effort, each pouring of the molten metal varied from one firing to the next, and the resulting bronze varied as well.
His latest notes encompassed the work he and his father had done drilling the bronze barrels for the smaller cannons. This differed from the usual process of casting cannons around a central core, or mandrel. Once the molten metal had cooled, the mandrel would be burned away, leaving a long hollow tube called the firing chamber.
The relatively new technique required drilling. The gun barrel was cast in one s
olid piece, and then the chamber was drilled out of the solid core, a process called reaming. Many cannon makers and some military minds favored this new process, claiming that a barrel manufactured in this manner did not contain the hairline fractures often present in hollow casting. Such fractures could, over time, cause the barrel to explode. Father and son agreed that the new drilling process created both a safer and more accurate weapon.
He and his father had spent the last few weeks casting the hardest iron to use as drill bits and building the braces needed to keep the bronze core rigid while the laborious drilling took place. The drill itself had to be kept perfectly straight as it worked its way deeper and deeper into the solid bronze. The entire process occupied a full crew of apprentices and skilled laborers – one moment’s carelessness could ruin a gun barrel.
Reading his notes for the last few days, Antonio considered some methods to insure the drilling remained true. He sketched some additions to the frame bracing the bronze. The possibility caught his interest, and Antonio jotted down new ideas, questions, and suggestions, more than enough to keep the senior men at the foundry busy for the next 10 days.
The sound of swords clashing made Antonio set down his journal and step to his bedroom window. Well over an hour had passed since Maffeo left the garden, but now he had returned, along with Bernardo and two strangers. One of them practiced against Bernardo, both using English broadswords. Maffeo stood next to the other stranger, and each called out occasional advice to the swordsmen. Advance and retreat, then advance again, each man wielding his sword with skill.
Antonio had never seen Bernardo practice like this, naked blades swung hard, each man relying on the skill of the other to protect himself.
“Antonio! Come down.”
Maffeo had spotted him at the window and Antonio needed no further encouragement. Closing the journal with care, he replaced it in his chest, along with his other books. Despite their expense, Nicolo always made sure Antonio had plenty to read, selecting some of the same works used by students at Oxford and Cambridge, but also manuscripts from several universities of Europe as well. All the same, Nicolo had no use for anyone who attended even those distinguished learning institutions in London, where, he said, young men had their heads filled with useless information.
