Malta's Guns

by Sam Barone

  A street urchin, in exchange for a coin, led them to the Arsenal. Antonio thought he could have found it himself based on the maps and sketches his father had shown him, but their guide wove his way over canals with an ease that forced Antonio and his companions to lengthen their stride to keep pace.

  The great Arsenal, a vast complex of structures defended by a thick wall, appeared almost as imposing as the city itself. Situated on the southern coast of the island, its walls enclosed not only buildings, but docks and shipyards. Every entrance had alert guards. Uniformed soldiers at the main entrance blocked their way and demanded to know Antonio’s business, their seriousness far different from the easy-going guards on the mainland. Apparently the Arsenal stood off limits even to most Venetians.

  “I’ve come to see my Uncle Marco . . . Master Marco Silvestri,” Antonio said. “I’m Antonio Pesaro and my uncle Marco is the master gunner . . .”

  “I know who he is,” the guard said, “and you’d better not be wasting his time or mine.” But he dispatched a young soldier to deliver the message, then ordered Antonio to stand clear of the entrance.

  The three waited, feeling out of place as men came and went through the gate. Most looked like workers, and Antonio saw many shipwrights, carpenters, and iron smiths. All looked prosperous enough, and he saw none of the gloom and weariness that marked most laborers. The Arsenal, he decided, must pay its workers well.

  As the minutes passed, the three found a place against the high wall and sat. At last the messenger returned, muttered to the soldier in charge who shrugged, then called out to Antonio. “Master Silvestri will send someone for you soon.”

  “Are all of Venice’s cannons made here?” Martin studied the fortifications. “The place looks more like a castle than a factory.”

  “It is a fortress,” Antonio said, “especially on the seaward side. According to my father, this is the main foundry. There are a few small forges and armories on the other islands, but nearly all Venetian cannons are cast here. Ships are built and stored here, too, as well as stores and munitions. Everything comes in by sea.”

  Nearly an hour passed before a young apprentice arrived, took in the strangers at a glance, and approached. “Master Silvestri will see you now,” he said, with a disparaging look at their shabby clothing. His eyes picked out Antonio as the likely nephew. “Follow me.”

  With Will and Martin following, Antonio stepped through the gates and into a world unlike anything he’d ever seen.

  “Mother of God.” Martin’s eyes scanned the thick walls as they walked. “How big is this place?”

  “The Arsenal covers more than 60 acres,” their guide said, without bothering to glance back, “not including the docks, of course. More than 15,000 men work here.” His bored voice conveyed his disdain for their ignorance.

  Buildings of every size crowded against one another, a city within the City of Venice. Workers thronged the narrow lanes, all moving with dispatch. The Mediterranean leisure Antonio had seen in southern France and Italy did not exist in the Arsenal. They wended their way through the twisting passages until they reached one of the larger structures and stepped inside. No workers with dirt or soot on their tunics here, Antonio noted, but at least 10 clerks of varying ages, all too busy with their ledgers to give the newcomers more than a glance.

  Their guide led them up a wide flight of well-worn stairs, then down a long hall. “Stay here,” he commanded, before opening a thick door and entering.

  Again Antonio waited, this time at least a dozen minutes before the door opened and their guide stuck his head out the doorway. “Antonio Pesaro.”

  “We’ll wait here,” Martin said.

  Taking a deep breath, Antonio stepped inside, and the clerk closed the door before taking his seat on a small stool beside the door. A tall, spare man with gnarled hands sat behind a wide desk covered with more documents and papers than Antonio had ever seen in his life. Silver hair worn long framed the lined face, and bushy eyebrows nearly as white as his beard gave Silvestri a magisterial look. With something of a shock, Antonio recognized the resemblance to his father, what Nicolo would look like in another five or ten years.

  Three other desks, their surfaces as hidden as Master Silvestri’s, stood against one wall. A senior clerk worked at each desk, and none bothered to look up at Antonio’s arrival. He crossed the room and stood before his uncle. Master Silvestri finished reading a document, signed his name with a flourish, and lifted his eyes.

  Antonio saw shock and surprise cross the man’s face. His mouth opened, but it took another moment before Silvestri spoke. “You are Antonio Pesaro?”

  “Yes, Uncle,” Antonio answered with a bow. “My father sends his greetings.”

  “Ah, yes. It’s good to finally meet my nephew.” Silvestri’s flat voice denied his words. “Does Nicolo’s limp still bother him?”

  “Yes, the pain troubles him and he stumbles often.” Antonio spoke the code words exactly as his father had instructed. Nicolo had never limped in his life. Documents could be forged or stolen, men could claim to be anyone, but the secret phrase known only to the two brothers and Antonio guaranteed his identity.

  Silvestri managed a small smile. “I hope he recovers soon. You’ll tell me all about him at dinner tonight. Your father speaks well of you, and says you are a master gun maker.”

  Antonio bristled at the doubt he detected in his uncle’s words. “It’s been more than two years, Master Silvestri, since I was fully accepted into the London Guild. My father has shared all his knowledge with me, and together we have made many improvements in the casting process.”

  “Here at the Arsenal we have strict standards.” Silvestri’s haughty tone dismissed the London Guild as a second-rate organization. “The finest gun makers in the world work their craft within these walls. But we’ll talk more of these things at dinner tonight. You’ll stay at my house,” he added, without the least enthusiasm. “I live on San Gustina, not far from here. Franco,” he gestured to the clerk who had led them into the Arsenal, “will escort you there.”

  “I have two traveling companions,” Antonio said, concealing his annoyance at the brusque dismissal after the long wait. “I’ll need a place for them to stay as well.”

  Silvestri frowned at the thought of hosting more strangers. “They can spend tonight at my house. I trust you’ll make other arrangements for them soon.”

  “Yes, Uncle,” Antonio said, his voice neutral. “Until tonight, then.” He bowed again and left the room.

  Martin and Will, lounging against the wall, expressed surprise at his reappearance after so short an interval.

  “No, everything is fine,” Antonio said, a smile on his face, determined to show no emotion. “We’re staying at my uncle’s house tonight.”

  The journey did not take long. Franco led them at a brisk walk through the lanes. Though his uncle’s house was only a few streets from the Arsenal, they had to cross two canals to reach it.

  Silvestri’s house appeared prosperous. Though not quite big enough to be the mansion of some noble or wealthy merchant, the residence announced that its owner was a man of some importance in Venice. Antonio noticed no windows on the street level, only a set of double doors, one side of which held a barred peep hole and a large iron knocker. The clerk banged the knocker three times. His feet shifted impatiently until the peep hole opened, and a pair of frowning brown eyes stared out through the bars.

  “Ah, Franco. What brings you here?”

  “This is Master Silvestri’s nephew,” the clerk said. “He and his companions are to wait here for your master. You are to accommodate them.” The clerk didn’t wait for a reply or bother to give a farewell, but simply turned away and hurried back up the street to return to his duties.

  The peep hole closed. A moment later, the door swung open.

  “My name is Bruno,” the man said, giving a slight bow, “and I am Master Silvestri’s steward.” Short, with thinning black hair drawn straight back, his broad sh
oulders and long arms would have made him at home in the legions of Julius Caesar.

  Antonio returned the acknowledgement. “I’m Antonio Pesaro. Master Silvestri is my uncle. My companions and I would like to refresh ourselves. We’ve traveled all the way from England.”

  “Of course,” the steward said, his eyes showing the first signs of interest. He led them inside and guided them up two flights of stairs, to what appeared to be a guest room. He opened one of the two windows to freshen the air in the chamber. “I’ll send a servant with water, or you can wash up at the well in the garden.”

  “The well will be fine,” Antonio said. “If you could bring some towels . . .” The steward departed. Antonio dropped his pack on the bed, and rummaged through its contents until he found his other shirt, wrinkled, but clean. “We’ll need to buy some new clothes.”

  “Yes, I don’t like being stared at by the locals,” Martin said. He, too, sorted through his pack. “First thing in the morning, we find a tailor.”

  Thirty minutes later, scrubbed and in clean clothing, they sat in the garden. Bruno, no doubt appreciating the fact of their long journey, brought a pitcher of red wine mixed with water, a bowl of olive oil, and a loaf of brown bread along with the towels. Now each sat basking the late afternoon sunshine, enjoying their wine and celebrating the end of their journey.

  “You didn’t spend much time with your uncle.” Martin spoke in English.

  “He didn’t look happy to see me,” Antonio said. “Almost as if I was an unpleasant interruption. He looked at me as though he were expecting someone else.”

  “Well, a few months in Venice, and we can head back home,” Will said, stretching out his legs. “Meanwhile, we can take in the sights.”

  “I thought the Venetians were desperate for master gunners,” Martin said.

  “That’s what my father said. But if they’re not willing to share their secrets, we can head home even sooner. Maybe rest a few weeks in Provence this time.” The southern coast of France had a good reputation for catering to tourists. Many of the travelers Antonio had conversed with on the long journey spoke well of the area, its pleasant climate, beautiful women, and many attractions.

  Nicolo had given them enough gold for the return journey, in the event that they reached Venice but had to turn back. They had spent less than expected, so traveling money would be no problem. Antonio recalled his evening with Sylvianne and lifted his cup at the memory. As he did so, he caught sight of a pair of eyes and a patch of brown hair peering at him from behind a shrub. A child hid behind the low bush, staring at them.

  “Hello,” Antonio said, switching to Italian. “You can join us if you like.”

  The eyes remained where they were. Martin twisted in his chair to get a better view. “Greetings, young lady, you’re more than welcome to some bread and wine.”

  Antonio smiled at the young girl, thinking her too shy to approach strangers.

  But the girl proved him wrong. She straightened up, dropped a small trowel, and walked to the table. Dirt from the garden ringed the hem of her dress, with more traces on her hands and arms. Another spot of dirt on her cheek showed that she didn’t shun maintaining her garden. Her blue dress, bordered with blue lace and its sleeves rolled up to her elbows, wasn’t something a servant’s child would wear. As thin as a post, she stood before the three of them as unafraid as any queen before her subjects.

  “I’m Gianetta,” she said, stopping in front of Antonio. “You must be my cousin Antonio.”

  He recalled what he knew of Uncle Silvestri’s family, but couldn’t remember anyone named Gianetta. Of course Nicolo might not have bothered to mention a child.

  “Yes, I’m your cousin Antonio Pesaro, from England. Do you know where that is?” He smiled at her reassuringly.

  The child nodded. “Of course. I know all the countries. Is it true that England is ruled by a heretic Queen?”

  “Queen Elizabeth,” Antonio answered, as surprised at the girl’s knowledge as her quick response. She might appear young, but definitely no child. “She doesn’t consider herself a heretic. She just doesn’t believe the Pope should rule over her subjects. She’s the ruler of the Church of England as well as our Queen.”

  “All heretics will burn in hell,” Gianetta said. “At least, that’s what the priests say at mass.”

  Will couldn’t stifle a laugh, and even Martin’s face held a smile.

  “You know a lot about religion and politics for a young lady,” Antonio said. “But priests can be wrong sometimes, even the Pope.”

  “We Venetians don’t pay much attention to what the Pope says.” Gianetta kept her eyes fixed on Antonio. Will and Martin might not have existed for all the attention she paid them. “The Signoria rules the priests and their churches, Uncle Marco says.”

  Silvestri was her uncle, then. “Do you live here with Uncle Marco?”

  “Of course.” She tilted her head at such a foolish question and frowned at him. “I’m the mistress of the house and you are my guests.”

  While Antonio sat there, not knowing what to say, Martin rose and bowed to the girl. “We thank you for your courtesy,” he said. Will stood and bowed as well. Feeling foolish, Antonio did the same. Yet proper etiquette required every guest to acknowledge the mistress of the house.

  “Your pardon, milady,” Antonio said, slipping into English in his confusion.

  “You’re welcome in . . . the home,” Gianetta replied in the same language, and gave him a curtsey that would have drawn approval at any court in Europe. “Please sit.”

  “You speak English very well.” Antonio decided the best approach was to treat her as if she were twice her age.

  Gianetta switched back to Italian. “Only a few words. My tutor says my Greek is very good. And my Spanish. I only know a few words in French, German, and English.”

  The steward chose that moment to reenter the garden. “Ah, Gianetta, you should be at your studies. Master Giacomo is searching the house for you.”

  “I have to leave now,” she said, her eyes still fixed on Antonio. “You’ll dine with us tonight.”

  It was a command, not a question. “Yes, milady,” Antonio said. “In fact, I’ll be staying here, at least for a few days.”

  She nodded, then stepped away, her head held high, ignoring Bruno, who moved out of her path.

  Antonio sat down and took another sip of wine. “She’s quite a child. How old is she?”

  “Gianetta is almost 13 years old,” Bruno said, “though my wife claims the girl is twice that.” He sighed. “I came to inform you Master Silvestri has arrived. He asks if it will be convenient for you to join him at dinner in about two hours.” He glanced briefly at Will and Martin. “Will your companions be dining with you?”

  It was a polite way to ask their status. Servants would not be welcome at the main table for dinner. “Yes. Please tell my uncle we will be honored.”

  Bruno accepted the distinction, bowed to all of them, and left.

  “We could eat in the kitchen,” Will said. “Probably meet more girls there than at your uncle’s stuffy table. And practice our Italian.”

  “No, not tonight,” Antonio said, switching to English. “Not after today’s rudeness. I’d prefer you dine with me. Maybe tomorrow we’ll find a place of our own.”

  “You’d better not get thrown out of your uncle’s house,” Martin said, “now that you’ve found a girl of your own.”

  Antonio looked at him blankly.

  “Lady Gianetta,” Martin explained. “I’ve seen love’s look before. The mistress of the house has taken a fancy to you, Antonio.”

  “Oh, yes, I agree,” Will said. “You’d best not offend her.”

  Antonio flushed. “She’s just a child.”

  Martin laughed. “They say Cleopatra was only 14 when she met Caesar. And remember what happened to him.”

  Chapter 13

  Antonio paced back and forth, waiting for the evening gathering. He didn’t know what to expect.
At the Arsenal, his uncle had treated him courteously, but without any warmth. Now they would meet over dinner. Antonio half-regretted inviting Martin and Will. Antonio knew of the Venetian propensity to serve up a small feast at any and all opportunities, and he dreaded talking with his Uncle Marco over a table full of food.

  Fortunately, when Bruno came by to announce that the time for dining had arrived, the master steward mentioned that the meal would not be served in the main hall, but in a small chamber on the second floor. That meant an informal setting, with less chance of anyone saying or doing anything to offend.

  Entering the room with his companions, Antonio found a black oblong table bordered with a wide stripe of red onyx. Beautifully crafted, the table was large enough to seat six comfortably. Master Silvestri settled into his carved chair at one end, with his back to an open set of double doors that looked out over the shrubs and plants of the garden. Despite dwelling on the water, or maybe because of it, Venetians preferred to have growing plants about them wherever possible.

  Antonio glanced into the garden and saw a pair of thick candles mounted on the garden wall, their flickering light illuminating the shrubs and flowers. An extravagance unheard of in Antonio’s circle in London. Burning candles in a garden, and without anyone’s presence.

  Gianetta, in a white dress bordered with tiny pearls and gathered about her waist by a wide blue sash, faced her guardian across the length of the table. With her hair combed and arranged in a knot atop her head and her face spotless, she appeared quite the proper young lady. As soon as everyone took their seats, Gianetta bowed her head and led the table in saying a simple grace, thanking God for their food and for ensuring Antonio’s safe arrival. That formality dispensed with, she told Bruno to serve dinner.

  Antonio sat at Uncle Marco’s right hand, facing his two companions. The meal was simple enough. As steward of the house, Bruno assisted his wife as she ladled aromatic soup from a green tureen to each of the diners. Fresh bread rested on the table. Wine glasses set before each of them held a dark red vintage.