Sofia by Ann Chamberlin Page B

thoughts, I was much too busy feeling sorry for myself, captive and without a friend in the world, and feeling the chafe of iron about my ankles and wrists with every lurch of the vessel to feel sorry for anybody else.
    Though I did not know how many days had passed, I knew we had left the Adriatic, turned around the heel of Italy and were now on the open sea. I could tell by the size and sound of the swells even when the calm returned. So we were not to go to Corfu after all.
    Piero brought me confirming word: “The Knights have decided not to risk it.”
    “Yes. The heroism they profess might too easily be discovered to be the piracy it really is on Corfu.”
    “The young signorina—”
    “I’ll wager she had something to do with this decision.”
    I couldn’t see Piero’s dark head there in the hold but I knew he was nodding.
    “If she can’t return to Venice, Malta will do—for a while at least. It is certainly better than Corfu and the match her father has in mind.”
    “The young signorina is”—Piero tried to break it gently—”the center of the Knights’ attention.”
    “No need to be gentle with me, Piero.”
    I did feel my punishment to be harsher—though no less deserved—than the many times that same dutiful slave had been told to take me out and thrash me with a birch cane for some youthful indiscretion. I remembered fondly how I’d plead for mercy, and Piero always gave it. He was incapable of giving it now.
    I sighed. “Yes, I’m certain the blushing, lanky captain cannot do enough to show his dotage. More than once I’ve heard the strains of a dance played on the panpipes above. I’ve heard a lady’s light step match paces with the pirate’s boots.”
    “And I have heard the Knights’ captain curse heaven,” Piero said slyly, “that he took his holy vows before he met this daughter of Baffo.”
    “And so it is to Malta, the Knights’ lair, that we are headed. Malta is their great beachhead against the heathen threat of North Africa.”
    Did I mean to comfort Piero with this resort to the plain, hard facts of the case? It certainly didn’t comfort me.
    ***
    After perhaps a week at sea, when we were just recovering the distance lost in the storm, the usual deck activity above suddenly became more animated. “Ship ho! Off the port side!” The lookout’s report was repeated to all corners. In a moment, I heard the oarsmen pushed to double time, and then even faster. We were making a rapid retreat toward the starboard.
    “Good God! Three of them!” I heard a Knight overhead exclaim. “We’re done for now.”
    “Pirates! Turks! Pirates!” The cry rang out. “Man the gun for Christ and for Saint John!”
    I struggled with my chains and tried to get some view of what was going on, but it was in vain. As far as I could gather, our three pursuers were such small craft that they could not be seen for perhaps ten knots after they had sighted much larger ships such as ours. This characteristic allowed them to slip in and among the islands like serpents, swoop down upon their prey and get away almost before it was known what had struck. Their small size also allowed them to overtake heavier ships in a very short time. So, though our rowers bent to with all their might, standing up on the footrails Venetian fashion for the sprint, the Turks were very soon within firing range.
    The Knights sent off the first volley, but for such small ships, the Turks certainly had plenty of guns. By sound alone I distinguished five cannon to our one. Our single gun, too, was only able to defend to the forward, of no use as long as we were fleeing. With three ships able to scud across the water like the wind, the Turks very soon had us surrounded.
    The Knights fought long and bravely in spite of such odds, and their fabled courage suffered our galley to take many heavy blows. As each charge made the timbers of our hold quiver like autumn leaves in the wind, I was convinced it was the last we could