his arm. “Better hold on to something,” he says.
I don’t take it, and he bellows an order. Suddenly the sails snap, and the ship’s prow jerks to one side. I’m thrown into Faustina, and we both stagger across deck. As I climb to my feet and help my old nurse, I see we’re floating parallel with the first Venetian ship. Halim shouts again and men angle the cannon barrels towards my countrymen.
“Please!” I hear myself shout. “Don’t do this!”
In turn, Venetian seamen line the side of their vessel, staring over the barrels of muskets or crouched beside their cannons.
“I don’t believe it,” Halim murmurs.
His face is white with shock. Faruk is backing away, towards some steps leading down into the pit of the ship, terror writ large over his face.
Then I spot what they’ve already seen. Beneath the crest of Vincenzo’s ship, on the deck of Il Castigo, a man strides towards the stern of the vessel. He moves confidently, with youth and strength. Where are Vincenzo’s stooped shoulders and limp? The stranger climbs up to hold on to the forward-facing mast of the ship and waves a sword in the air, his legs braced.
“That’s not Vincenzo,” Faustina says, her voice cracking.
“No, it’s not,” I say.
It’s Roberto!
48
Cannons bristle from the side of Vincenzo’s ships as they steer round, trained on the Ottoman fleet. On us. Halim’s men look to their leader. “What are you waiting for?” he shouts. “Attack positions!”
A faint shout of command from Roberto carries on the air. Instantly, his ship lurches in the water to bring itself side-on, and the first cannon muzzle flares from Il Castigo. A second later, a boom cracks through the air, and the water beside our ship explodes, showering us all in spray. Faustina and I fall to our knees. Low clouds of smoke billow upwards, making us cough and our eyes water. Immediately, there’s another forceful boom and our ship heaves dangerously to one side. For a moment, our deck slopes as steeply as a cliff face and I grasp the railings with one hand, my other fist holding on to Faustina’s collar to stop her from sliding down. She’s sobbing with terror.
“Save me, Laura. Save me!”
The ship levels out, water spilling over the deck. Halim has run to the other side, and is braced behind the second mast. He shouts back what can only be an order for his own men to fire. The ship shakes and roars as a volley of cannonballs replies. I can barely look as the rounds howl away, smashing into the water just short of Il Castigo.
Gunfire fills the air as more cannonballs fly towards us. Halim’s men are struggling to return fire—one of their guns goes careening across the deck as if it weighs nothing. Young men race down below deck and come up hauling fresh supplies of powder as the crew hastily wipes down the cannon.
Halim shouts more orders, and the ship steers tightly in the water. The sails lull and snap tight once more, but we’re heading away from the fight. Away from Venice.
I grab hold of Faustina and drag her back under the canvas awning, poking our heads out to watch.
Faruk emerges from belowdecks, keeping his body low as he scuttles across to his master. There’s a thin whistling sound and another iron ball crashes into the deck. Planks of wood splinter and explode. Faruk’s body is there one moment, whipped away the next. My eyes find him on the other side of the ship, lying still. One side of his skull is dented and a trickle of blood emerges from the corner of his mouth. His legs are twisted beneath him, and he groans with pain as a shard of white bone breaks through the fabric of his tunic, blood blossoming around it. His eyes seem to fix on mine, then narrow, until they roll back and he stills.
Low groans emerge from other injured men like a terrible choir of pain. Blood circles out around the body of a sailor lying prone on the deck, reaching out pathetically, calling a word over and over. It might be for water, it might be for his mother—I can’t tell. At a short distance from him, another crew member clutches his head in his hands, where the powder from his gun has exploded in his face. Others are still trying to load the guns. They suddenly look hopeless; nothing like the battle-hungry men sending out war cries only a few moments ago. The