Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  The three passed unchallenged through the city’s gates. No doubt the gatekeepers who gave them only a casual eye assumed anyone who could afford a horse must be a person of substance. The strong smell of the sea now permeated the air. Just inside the walls they located the inn Nicolo had recommended, and after turning over the horses to the establishment’s owner, they strolled along the crooked streets, staring in wonder at the Palace of the Doge. The imposing church of San Donato received only a quick visit. By now the trio had seen enough churches and cathedrals to last a lifetime, every one filled with priests begging for alms.

  When they reached the sea wall, Antonio stared in wonderment at the lighthouse across the harbor that dominated the port. Built hundreds of years ago, the maritime city and its shipmasters still relied on the glowing beacon to safeguard approaching vessels.

  “The Romans were building fine villas here when we English were still living in mud huts and painting ourselves blue,” Martin said. The three continued along the waterfront, ignoring the vendors clamoring for attention and insistently offering their wares.

  “What’s that stink?” Will pinched his nose. “Smells like cow dung.”

  “A war galley,” Antonio said, as they approached one of a dozen jetties protruding into the harbor. The low-slung vessel moored to the jetty was enormous, almost twice the length of the Pinnace. The galley possessed two masts, though neither came close to the height of the Pinnace’s mainmast. In the still air the flag of Spain hung limp from the stern. Gilt letters spelt out her name – Capitana.

  The stench of the galley slaves and their benches grew stronger with every step, a heavy odor powerful enough to overcome the smell of the sea. Antonio suddenly found it hard to swallow. He felt embarrassed at his weakness, until he saw Martin and Will covering their mouths as well.

  A street vendor pushed his way into their path. “Perfumes for the travelers! The finest fragrances to ward off the evil vapors. And cloths of every size.” The man lowered his voice. “I see you have none, honorable visitors.” He pushed his basket towards them. “Lavender, cedar, rose, juniper, even laurel. If you’re taking a voyage on the galley, or just visiting, you’ll need a cloth and a bottle of perfume.”

  Despite his clenched teeth, Antonio felt himself gagging. Up close, the man reeked of his own merchandise, but the odors of his wares at least managed to block out the smell from the ship beside them on the quay.

  “Look on board,” Martin said.

  On the galley’s deck, three men acted as guards, and each carrying a cloth of some kind or a handkerchief in his hand. As Antonio watched, one raised the cloth to his nose and took a deep breath.

  “God’s blood,” Will said. “Let’s get away from here.”

  “Not yet,” Antonio said. “I want to see the ship.”

  He pushed past the vendor and strode down the quay, looking into the vessel. The ship had a high prow made from massive timbers decorated with a mermaid with flowing hair. Massive oak beams showed the prow to be a ram, one capable of smashing another ship’s hull just above the waterline.

  Antonio’s eyes went to what had first drawn his attention. Mounted over the centerline was an enormous cannon, at least a 50- pounder. It rested between rails that ran from the bow almost to the center of the vessel. On either side, a pair of smaller guns faced forward. Demi-culverins, each capable of launching a 12 pound shot. Their barrels protruded through the extra-wide gun ports, and Antonio realized these smaller weapons, unlike the main cannon, could be shifted to fire on targets over a wide angle. The five forward mounted guns would provide a mighty punch to anything in the Capitana’s path.

  As he moved closer to the ship, the stench grew even more repellent. Men, if you could call galley slaves that, sat dejectedly on the rowers’ benches, resting or sleeping, Antonio couldn’t tell. The oars that powered the galley had been drawn in, and rested in the muck at the slaves feet. Thick chains bolted to the benches secured every man to his station, unable to move more than a few inches. Most sat naked in their own filth. Only a few had remnants of clothing.

  Every single galley slave showed marks of the lash on their backs, and open sores festered on many. Guards with swords at their waists and whips in their hands marched up and down the centerboard, their watchful eyes on the slaves. Once imprisoned at the oars, the rowers would remain there until they died. Unless they managed to break free and murder their masters.

  “Mother of God,” Martin said, “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “They could at least give them something to cover themselves,” Will said. “Sitting on those benches day and night, hot or cold . . .”

  The rowing platforms were blackened, not from paint, Antonio realized, but from blood and human waste.

  “Clothing would get in the way, if they needed to relieve themselves,” Martin answered. “I doubt the guards let them take their hands from the oars.”

  “No free man would labor in such filth,” Antonio said. “They must all be criminals, sentenced to the oars for their crimes.”

  “Most look like Turks,” Martin said, “probably captured during a raid.”

  “Christian and heathen sit side by side, all working together for the greater glory of God,” Will commented, gesturing at the Spanish cross drooping from the mainmast.

  “It’s a wonder they row at all,” Antonio said. “Death must be a better fate than this.”

  “That’s what the whips are for,” Martin said. “Besides, they can always hope to be captured by another ship, and perhaps win their freedom.”

  “That gun, it must be at least a 40-pounder,” Martin said, amazement in his voice.

  “It’s a basilisk,” Antonio said, “and it likely fires a 50 pound ball. Enough to smash through any ship’s timbers.”

  “What are those rails for?”

  Antonio had wondered about that odd feature, but it took him only a moment to figure out their purpose. “That basilisk weighs more than two tons, not counting powder and shot. When the ship is underway, they must roll it back, away from the prow, so that the galley isn’t bow heavy.”

  “You learned much in your two days at sea.” Martin’s words held a trace of respect. “Have you seen enough?”

  “No. These ships rule the Mediterranean. I want to take a closer look.”

  Antonio strolled the length of the dock, staring down into the galley. The Capitana had three banks of oars, set one above the other and each slightly offset. Each rowing bench was angled forward, and Antonio realized that enabled every oarsman to pull his stroke without fouling the oars of his neighbor on the bench. The oars varied in length, with the inboard oarsmen pulling the longest and the outboard the shortest. The oars themselves were mounted not on the gunwale as he’d expected, but on an outrigger that ran the length of the ship.

  An ingenious solution to the problem, Antonio thought, as he reached the stern of the ship. More cannons were mounted on the poop deck, which canted upward, so that the ship’s captain and steersmen could see better. There was only a rudimentary rudder, and Antonio decided the ship changed direction by the efforts of its oarsmen.

  He stopped and faced forward again. Martin was at his side, but Will was walking rapidly toward them, a white cloth held to his nose with one hand and a bottle of perfume in the other.

  “Don’t either of you laugh,” he growled as he reached them.

  “Wouldn’t think of it,” Martin said. “I hope I can make it back to the inn without vomiting.”

  Antonio had seen enough, and the three started walking back along the quay, headed toward the city. “How big do you think the ship is?”

  “She’s 54 paces from bow to stern,” Martin answered. “I stepped it off.”

  This time it was Antonio’s turn to look impressed. Over a 160 feet, almost twice the length of the Pinnace.

  They quickened their pace, eager to get off the quay and away from the smell. But as they reached the bow, a man blocked Antonio’s path. With a start, h
e saw four more men moving in behind the first one, all of them armed with swords and carrying truncheons. Before Antonio could react, Martin and Will had pushed their way in front of him, hands on their swords.

  “What is your business here?” the leader demanded in Spanish, his hand also on the hilt of his sword.

  Neither Martin nor Will spoke Spanish. “We have no business, sir,” Antonio answered. His Spanish was just good enough to understand the man’s words. “We’re English travelers on the way to Rome. I’ve never seen a galley before. A most impressive ship.”

  “My captain doesn’t like strangers snooping about the Capitana,” the man said, switching to reasonably good English. “I am the . . . second mate of the Capitana.” He had to pause for a moment to come up with the English words for his rank. “What is your business in Genoa?” He directed the question to Martin, perhaps because he looked the oldest.

  “None, my lord,” Martin said with a small bow. “We journey to Rome to fulfill an oath sworn by my master,” he gestured to Antonio, “on his father’s deathbed, to pray at Saint Peter’s Basilica.”

  “Is it forbidden to walk the quay?” Antonio asked, staying with English. The man no doubt wanted to make sure they were English, and not French or Swiss spies. “If so, we ask your forgiveness. We were already on our way to our inn.”

  The man grunted, apparently satisfied. “No, not forbidden. But spies lurk everywhere, and with rumors of war coming, we take no chances.” He glanced around, as if checking for those very spies. Suddenly he smiled, and took his hand off the hilt of his sword. “Perhaps you would like to come on board and see the ship close up?”

  Antonio opened his mouth to accept, but Martin was even faster.

  “Many thanks for the kind offer, Officer, but we must return to our inn. Our companion,” Martin gestured towards Will, “is not feeling well. Perhaps another time.”

  The man looked disappointed, but he nodded politely. “Perhaps tomorrow, then. Good day to you.” He turned and strode away, climbing up a gangplank that had been lowered from the bow, the four armed men following.

  Martin started moving, stretching his legs and making as much haste as he could without seeming to hurry.

  “Why didn’t you want to go aboard?” Antonio asked as soon as they were off the quay and on their way to the inn.

  “You need to be more wary, Antonio. On the dock, we were safe enough. But once aboard, we might have ended up chained to the benches. I’ll wager these ships are always desperate for more slaves.”

  Antonio shivered at the thought of ending up chained to an oar. A Spanish galley seemed no better than a Turkish one. Death would indeed be a better fate.

  Chapter 12

  April 16

  They rode out of Genoa the next morning, following a trail that twisted eastward through the Apennines. Whenever possible, they traveled with others moving in the same direction, a needful caution as everyone spoke about the numerous bandits that inhabited the mountains and preyed on the weak. The traffic on the road surprised Antonio, until he learned that in the spring and summer pirate galleys roamed the Mediterranean. Even for vessels hugging the coastlines of the Italian peninsula, sea travel was dangerous.

  A few days out of Genoa, Antonio started searching for landmarks, trying to find the site where the bandits had slain his mother. But Nicolo and Maffeo’s description of the 16 year old attack lacked any detail that would have identified the killing grove. All the hills and valleys looked much the same, and Antonio contented himself with a silent prayer for his mother’s soul at each likely place.

  They spent two nights in Parma, a dreary place full of beaten- down peasants and suspicious guards curious about the travelers, before joining a large caravan on its way to Venice. Martin deemed this the most prudent way to travel, given the suspicion and hostility often directed at the three armed men. Even their traveling companions looked askance at first, thinking the three Englishmen might be rogues pretending to be travelers. By now Antonio appeared as hard and fit as Martin and Will, and just as dangerous.

  A few hours’ ride out of Parma, they encountered the first soldiers of the Venetian Republic, guarding the road and questioning everyone. To Antonio’s surprise, these hard-eyed men were a mix of all the principalities of Europe. Swiss, Spanish, French, Dutch, even the German duchies stood side by side with a few Italians, most from Sicily and the southern part of Italy. Mercenaries – foreigners in the pay of Venice – condittori.

  “I’m surprised to see so many foreigners,” Martin said. “I thought, so close to Venice, they’d all be Venetians.”

  “The Republic saves its own citizens for the sea,” Antonio said. “They view the lands surrounding them almost with contempt, needed only as a base of supplies and to keep the trade routes open. They rule their empire from the sea, not the land.”

  “Like the Athenians of old,” Martin said. “And remember what happened to them.”

  “One campaign too many,” Antonio agreed, impressed once again at Martin’s knowledge. “The Athenians risked all they had to capture Sicily. They won the gamble, but lost their empire.”

  Two days later, more than 10 weeks after departing England, they passed through the little town of Campalto. Antonio sat on his horse at the crest of a low hill and looked down at the Adriatic coastline. The Republic of Venice lay below, a series of tiny islands that filled the enormous natural harbor.

  “By the saints, I’ve never seen anything like that.” For once, Martin couldn’t keep the awe out of his voice.

  “It’s beautiful,” Antonio agreed, surprised at the warmth he felt at the first sight of his birthplace. The city, scattered across a dozen islands, seemed to float on the water, blue and red painted houses rising from the depths. The main island, filled with its network of canals, drew their eyes like a glistening jewel.

  “I always wondered how a small city could rule so many,” Martin mused. “But look at all those ships . . . there must be hundreds of them. I’ve never seen such a harbor.”

  “The water from the sea forms basins of shallow water, called lagunes,” Antonio said. “And those long, narrow islands form the barrier that keeps the sea at bay and protects the inner islands.”

  “They’re like ramparts,” Martin said, “the outer walls of a fortress.”

  “A seagoing fortress,” Antonio said. He took a deep breath and the strong sea smells assailed his nostrils. The port of London seemed shabby and insignificant compared to the bustling panorama below. Boats of every size and shape filled the harbor, most berthed but some underway.

  Propelled by sail or oars, all moved purposefully about their business, many riding low in the water as they carried their weighty cargoes from the mainland to the city of Venice. Out past the breakwater, more sails dotted the horizon, as trading ships departed or arrived from scattered destinations across the Mediterranean. Almost all were galleys, the sweep of their oars visible even at this distance.

  When the initial wonder subsided, Antonio took notice of the harbor’s fortifications. Cannons bristled everywhere, most with their barrels pointing out to sea, but some covering the entrances to the inner harbor itself. Their numbers staggered him. There might be more cannons under his view than existed in all of England.

  They rode down the hill, into the town itself. Six soldiers manned a guard post outside the walled village, and Antonio’s party had to wait their turn before the soldier in charge took one look at the three hard-eyed men standing before him and demanded to know their business. He seemed surprised when Antonio, in fluent Italian, told him they were not mercenaries looking for work but invited guests expected at The Arsenal. When Antonio mentioned his uncle Marco’s name, the soldier grunted and waved them through.

  “These guards,” Martin said, “seem alert enough.”

  “Perhaps the rumors of war coming are true,” Antonio said. “Let’s hope we can soon finish our business and be on our way back to England.”

  Inside the village they
drew little notice, as foreign fighting men from all over the world were drawn to Venice. Mercenaries who fought for gold made up the majority of the Republic’s land forces. After ten weeks of travel and training, Antonio appeared as hard as his companions, albeit a bit younger.

  “Let’s get rid of the horses,” Martin said. “I don’t think we’ll be needing them anymore.”

  “We’re about to become sailors,” Antonio agreed.

  “I hate the sea,” Will said, spitting to show his disgust. “The city will probably sink as soon as we set foot on it. Either that, or we’ll drown crossing the harbor.”

  To Antonio’s surprise, sale of the horses went quickly. Two traders jostled each other as they shouted bids for the animals. The demand for good mounts must be high, Antonio decided. They actually netted a few more ducats for the beasts than they’d paid in France.

  With the horses gone, they located a ferry preparing to set sail and loaded their packs and weapons onboard. Soon they were gliding over the inner bay, heading for the big island. Even within the harbor’s calm confines, Antonio enjoyed the mingled sounds from the sea, the ships, and the men sailing them.

  When they stepped off the ferry onto the Venetian island, Antonio paused, as a strange feeling came over him. He felt at home, as if he’d lived here all his life, and was only returning from some brief travel. His brother Bernardo had spoken the truth months ago – Antonio was a true son of Venice.

  “Are you all right, Antonio?” Martin ignored the crowd of haughty Venetians who stared condescendingly at these latest arrivals to their cosmopolitan city, if they bothered to glance at them all. “You look a bit odd.”

  “It’s nothing,” Antonio said. “Come, let’s find my uncle.”

  “We could find an inn to stay at, maybe get cleaned up,” Martin said. “Another day won’t matter.”

  “No, it’s still early. I want to see my uncle first. Then we can get settled in.”