by Sam Barone
Antonio didn’t notice the sword in Martin’s hand until he handed it to him.
“Will, you be the target,” Martin said. “Antonio, take a ready position. When Will makes a circle with his thumb and forefinger, you put the blade through the hole.”
Antonio had never seen this exercise before, and curiosity kept his protest silent. Will stood a good ten feet away, facing him, then held his hand out to the side, the circle formed by his gloved fingers less than two inches across. Even with the cul-de-mort in place, a mis-aimed lunge would likely sting quite a bit. So Antonio took care, extending his right foot and arm, lunging across the empty space, and making sure the sword passed through Will’s fingers.
“A half-step back, Will,” Martin called out. “I want Antonio fully extended. And faster, Antonio. Your opponent won’t wait all day for you to strike.”
Will moved his hand to a different position. Intrigued, Antonio lunged. The distance made him stretch his body to the utmost, the rapier’s point just penetrating the circled fingers. Will alternated hands, forcing Antonio to pick his target and shift slightly with each lunge. High, low, wide, close to the body, arm and hand fully extended, the drill continued, until his arm began to shake once again.
After he missed twice in a row, Martin called a halt. But the workout hadn’t ended. Now he had Antonio sit across the table from Will, and the two arm-wrestled. Will could have easily pinned Antonio’s hand, but instead he just held his arm upright, forcing Antonio to strain against the bowman’s arm. When Antonio’s right arm felt ready to snap off, Will offered his left, and the struggle began again.
At last Martin called an end. “Tomorrow we’ll start after breakfast, Antonio. We’ll begin with the broadsword. You need to know how to use a soldier’s sword in case you’re in a real battle. The rapier’s a fine weapon, but it’s no use against a Spanish breastplate. We’ll practice with the knife as well, since Maffeo claims every Italian carries at least one. Then the rapier again. In the afternoon Will can teach you how to use the crossbow. The more you know about that weapon, the better you’ll be able to use one or avoid them. We’ve got less than two weeks before we depart. Once we’re on the road, we won’t be able to train as much, but every time we stop we’ll work in some practice.”
The prospect of a fortnight of instruction and labor made Antonio wince. “Martin, I don’t need to learn all . . .”
“Bernardo told me to keep you alive, and I mean to do that as best I can. That means teaching you until you can take care of yourself. If you care for your brother and respect your father, you’ll listen to us and work as hard as you can. It’s your life that we’re trying to save here.”
Antonio bit off the protest. Martin wouldn’t be swayed by anything Antonio said anyway. He’d become an apprentice once again, facing long hours and hard work, and without even the comfort of complaining. Nonetheless, Antonio had fought in a sea battle. The days of childish protests had passed.
“I understand, Martin.”
“You said you wanted to be a soldier. We’ll know soon enough if you’ve got what it takes.”
Chapter 9
Two weeks of training began the next day. Antonio still accompanied Nicolo to the Gunner’s Glen each morning, but at midday, he left the meadow and returned home. With 14 days remaining before his departure, Antonio found himself busy from dawn to well after dusk. Each afternoon started with a long walk. Accompanied either by Martin or Will, they strode out of London and into the countryside, where they could stretch their legs on the open roads and outlying fields without having to jostle carts and people in London’s lanes.
“You need to learn how to walk,” Martin said, as they waded through the deeper grass that he favored for the extra effort. “It’s one of a soldier’s most important skills. The stronger your legs are, the better your swordplay. And there will be times when you won’t have a horse handy. And walking deepens your lungs, so you can fight longer.”
Antonio found himself unable to draw either man into any discussion of their past. Will talked freely enough, mostly about his dream of owning a tavern someday, but never about his past, or even his service in Ireland. Martin kept his thoughts of both past and future to himself, preferring to talk about London and its people.
The first few days Antonio had to struggle to keep up, especially with Martin’s long shanks, but by the end of the first week, Antonio could keep pace over the five or six miles they covered each day. Home by midafternoon, they returned to the courtyard to practice swordsmanship for an hour or two. This was more to Antonio’s liking, and he diligently listened to Martin’s every word. The rapiers flicked back and forth, and Antonio’s arm strength grew.
They put down the swords only to take up other weapons. Martin insisted Antonio master a broadsword as well, and the sound of the heavy blades clashing echoed off the house walls surrounding them. Whenever Antonio committed some particularly serious gaffe, Martin made him hold the heavy sword out straight until Antonio’s arm and shoulder burned with the strain.
“Don’t complain,” Martin said. “This will toughen your muscles faster than anything.”
Antonio would grit his teeth and carry on, determined to show these soldiers he could take whatever punishment they gave.
When it came to knife fighting, Antonio had felt confident enough to challenge Martin. Maffeo had taught Antonio how to shift and thrust a dagger, and he expected to impress Martin with his skill. But the moment Antonio was ready, the soldier flashed his wooden knife at Antonio’s face, caught his knife hand by the wrist, and shoved him to the ground. Martin pinned Antonio’s chest with a knee, and thrust the practice knife against his throat.
“When you use a knife, Antonio, it’s not always about quickness. It’s about the unexpected. A man willing to die might move toward you, throw something in your face, shout, spit, anything to distract you for a single moment. At such close quarters, often enough both men end up dead, which won’t help you. Use anything you can find to give yourself an advantage. With knives, you’ll rarely get a second chance.”
Embarrassed at being taken down so easily, Antonio abandoned any remaining pride about his own skills. By the end of the first week, even his anger dissipated. At the same time, he noticed the change in everyone’s attitude toward him. Maffeo, Martin, Will, even Nicolo, all deferred to Antonio. Not really deferred, but treated him like an equal, the same way they would treat any soldier who had proven himself in battle. Antonio decided to accept everyone’s advice and their help. He’d always been a good pupil. If these men had offered to teach him their skills, he would do his best to prove worthy.
With the last of his pride set aside, Antonio determined to master every lesson. The days rushed by. The afternoon walks lengthened and the pace quickened. Will had almost as much knowledge to impart as Martin. Will taught Antonio not only how to shoot the crossbow, but how to reload the weapon quickly. Another set of muscles groaned under the strain of lifting and holding steady the heavy wooden frame, fighting his muscles until Will gave the order to shoot. It was, Antonio learned, a lot harder to hit your mark when both your arms trembled with exhaustion. Will arrived one day with a soldier’s longbow, another weapon that Antonio needed to familiarize himself with. That, Will declared, would take years to fully master.
Martin worked with Antonio to master the broadsword, the rapier, and the heavy knives such as soldiers carried. Maffeo helped with those lessons. Though too old to match skills with those younger, he had mastered the weapon as a boy in Venice and still knew the proper stance and movements.
“Close quarters, that’s when you need a knife,” Maffeo said. “Remember, Venice may be a small city compared to London, but it’s a crowded city. The Venetians, at least the men, favor attacking their enemies as they walk. Hold the blade down low, and stab you in the groin as they walk by. No one even notices, and you bleed to death in two minutes. People have been killed in the streets that way since before the days of Julius Caesar. So watch o
ut for strangers coming toward you, especially if you can’t see their hands. Keep both your hands free at all times. If you have to carry something, put it in a sack and sling it over your shoulder.”
“And what do the women favor when they want to kill you?” Martin asked the question in all seriousness.
“Poison, of course,” Maffeo answered. “Try not to offend any. If you do, watch what you eat and drink. If anything tastes odd or smells different, stop eating. For the last 10 years I lived in Venice, I never ate a mushroom. They all look alike. Too dangerous.”
“You must have upset plenty of women,” Will said. “Perhaps you should have been a better lover.”
“I slept with more women than you will ever find in your bed.” Maffeo laughed. “Their husbands weren’t too happy, either.”
Martin and Will listened attentively to Maffeo, especially when he told stories about Venice. Antonio realized they wanted to prepare themselves as much as possible. He put the question to Martin.
“Are you worried about what we might encounter in Venice?”
“Oh, yes. We’ll be strangers, and worse, foreigners. It’s easy to kill those with no kith or kin to avenge them. Notwithstanding, I’d prefer not to get myself killed the first day there.”
Antonio’s daily training continued after darkness fell. Torches lit the small courtyard and the work continued. The only time he got to rest was the evening hour or so he spent with Nicolo. Dispatches had to be prepared, letters of credit arranged, and passwords learned to prove his identity. Antonio’s first task was to copy those parts of his journal that he would take with him. The rest of the formulas and ideas would remain with Nicolo.
In addition to his own journal, Antonio would be transporting a thick sheaf of papers detailing many of the techniques Nicolo had mastered. These documents were more valuable than the gold coins the three travelers would be carrying. The secrets of cannon making were closely kept by every master gunner and the senior apprentices.
Not everything was put to paper, and most of the important formulations, when they had to be written down, were deliberately false. Antonio had to memorize key information reserved for cousin Marco’s ears alone. One of his first tasks upon reaching Venice would be to correct the misinformation in the written documents.
Nicolo’s duties at the foundry kept him busy during the day, but he and Maffeo found the time to prepare specific instructions for Antonio’s travel. Way stations were listed, inns where they could stay in safety, and contacts in many of the cities and villages. All had to be written down or committed to memory. Travel throughout Europe, even in time of peace, could be fraught with danger. Robbers, pickpockets, and thieves of all kinds always remained on the hunt, especially for gullible pilgrims and guileless foreign travelers.
The day before departure, Nicolo returned early from the foundry. He interrupted Antonio’s sword practice, summoned him into the dining room, and closed the heavy door. Nicolo took his seat across the table.
As Antonio sat, he marked the change that had come over his father – Antonio had no other word to describe what Nicolo had done for him. He had loved and raised Antonio as his own son, and wanted him to carry on Nicolo’s work. No one but a father would have done so much. Today, his father’s face showed every one of his 50-odd years. Worry about Antonio’s journey to Venice had added to his father’s burden.
“I’ve prepared everything as well as I could for your journey,” Nicolo began. “A coded dispatch has been sent to my brother Marco, to prepare him for your arrival. A few weeks ago I would have told you to be respectful of his position, but now I realize such advice is not necessary. You’ve grown into manhood before my eyes, and I know you will carry yourself with honor. Martin and Will are trustworthy companions. Bernardo did well to find such men to accompany you. When in doubt, heed their words.”
“Thank you, Father. I will.” Antonio didn’t know what else to say.
“When you reach Venice, I want you to be cautious, especially of Lady Masina. Do not let anyone know your true name. Stay as far from her as possible. You resemble your father, and she or someone close to her might remember Dom Pietro in his youth. If someday you wish to avenge yourself on her, it must not be on this trip. You have a responsibility to England, to Queen Elizabeth, and to our foundry to return with the Arsenal’s latest secrets. In a way, England is like Venice, a small island surrounded by enemies, and our Queen will need the knowledge you will obtain.”
“Don’t worry, Father. I have no thoughts of vengeance. Masina will not even know I’m in Venice.”
“Where Lady Masina is concerned, anything can happen. She is more cunning and dangerous than you can imagine. Do not let yourself get caught in her web.”
Nicolo grunted, as if some dark thought had crossed his mind. “When you return – and I hope it will be soon – you may choose whatever path in life you wish. It is my earnest hope that you will carry on my work – our work at the foundry – but if that is not to be, I will not stand in your way.”
Antonio started to speak, but Nicolo held up his hand. “No, that is not what I meant to say. Whatever path you take, I will help you as much as I can, as much as any father can. And I will take pride in whatever course you choose. When the good God summons me to the hereafter, you and Bernardo will share my estate equally. That is why I want you to take care, to make sure you return safely to England. It concerns me that both my sons will be in danger.”
“Father, I will be careful. With Martin and Will beside me, I’ll be safe.”
“Then that is all I can ask. Go with God, my son. I will keep you in my prayers.”
***
The next morning brought with it a chilly rain, a bad omen for the start of any trip. But bad weather often shrouded London, and ships put to sea despite any downpour. Antonio put on his traveling clothes: thick and sturdy boots, leather trousers and jacket, topped off with a short cloak and a felt hat. Half the gold and all the dispatches were snug inside his thick linen shirt, with its special pockets sewn on the inside. The rest of his goods fit within a single sack that he slung over his shoulder. It was time to go.
Nicolo said his goodbyes first, clasped Antonio’s arms, then hurried off, already late to the foundry. Business still had to be done. Maffeo escorted the three travelers down to London’s docks. The night’s fog still lingered, so they were mere shadows in the mist. They found a small galleon, the Blackpool, bound for Calais, waiting for its last group of passengers to arrive. The ship would depart as soon as the tide turned.
Maffeo cried openly as he said goodbye, the tears mixing with the raindrops on his worn cheeks. Once Antonio would have been embarrassed at such a display, but this morning he felt tears in his own eyes. After a powerful hug, Maffeo turned and departed without looking back.
Antonio led the way up the gangplank. A small group of excited travelers stood near the starboard rail, gesturing out over the water and generally annoying the sailors still rushing about the deck.
He felt no urge to join his fellow passengers. The bad weather would force them all below soon enough. Instead Antonio found an empty space along the portside rail and watched the dock crew preparing the ship for departure, alone in his thoughts. A journey undreamed of a month ago had begun. He wondered how long it would be before he returned.
The tide began to flow, and the last cargo net was hauled aboard. A few voices cheered as the Blackpool eased away from the quay. In moments it had reached the middle of the Thames. Another ship slipped past them, moving faster through the gray water. For an instant Antonio thought it was the Pinnace, but a closer look revealed it to be the Queen’s Bounty. The swift craft rushed ahead of the plodding merchantman. Still, Antonio knew that before nightfall, he would be in Calais, in another country.
That thought took his mind away from his own problems. He would be in France, one of England’s longtime foes. He had studied the French language, since every educated Englishman needed to master some fluency in that tongue.
Notwithstanding, he’d never actually thought he would one day use it in earnest, much like the Latin he’d learned as a child, already a nearly dead language, except in the writings of the ancients and the clergymen of the Church.
Suddenly all the schooling he’d received in Gunner’s Glen seemed more important. Antonio wished he’d studied even harder, though all his tutors professed satisfaction with his progress. Whether they’d told the truth remained to be seen. Perhaps they were like his fencing master, who had flattered Antonio with praise, but who wouldn’t have survived more than a few moments against Martin’s expertise.
Time, Antonio decided, to put all doubts behind him. Whatever his future would bring, he would face it as best he could. He determined to get to work. There were several Frenchmen onboard, conversing in their native language. He might as well start speaking French now.
Chapter 10
The three of them spent the night in Calais, at a dirty and cramped inn not far from the docks. Many of those who crossed the channel in the Blackpool chose the same dreary lodgings. It catered to pilgrims and tourists, and possessed the reputation of being a safe haven. They shared a large bedstead that took up almost all of a tiny room. Martin and Will shifted the bed to block the door, so they could get a good night’s sleep. Robbers would have to shove the bed aside.
Though Antonio had done nothing all day but wander the boat’s deck talking to anyone who would let him, he felt exhausted. After finishing a greasy stew, Antonio told Martin he wanted to get some sleep. His companions looked surprised, perhaps expecting that he would want to visit a few taverns in the port city. Instead, the three of them went to bed, knowing they would be up and about before the dawn.
