“I need a ship,” I said to Othello. We stood atop the fortress overlooking the harbor, I the vision of the perfect windblown sister of St. Crispin in my nun suit, he in the flowing white robes of his homeland, the waves of white fabric flowing off him as if he’d caught a catapult loaded with fresh laundry full in the face.

“You can’t have a ship,” said the Moor.

From the wall of the Citadel we could see Othello’s galleys, out past the breakwater, practicing attacks on a large raft they had towed into the sea. Each of the smaller, faster galleys had a catapult on a rambata, a firing platform at the bow. Each ship would row in at top speed, a great drum beating rhythm for the oarsmen, then just as it came into range, fire would be applied to the missile, often a tightly woven ball of willow, saturated in oil and pitch, and the catapult would fire. The oarsmen on either side would stand and lean on their oars to bring the ship around, then a line of archers along the length of the ship would let loose a volley of arrows at the target while the ship ran back and reloaded the catapult. One after another, like dancers in some great marine waltz, they charged, fired, turned, and retreated just at the edge of the catapult’s range. In battle, the archers would duck beneath shields until the missile had exploded on the deck, scattering the enemy crew, then they would stand and skewer any man who rose from cover to fight the fire or shoot back. This was the tactic that had allowed Othello to turn forces larger than his own. When most naval battle was simply lashing your ship to another and hacking away at each other until you were the only one left standing on a blood-soaked deck, Othello had perfected the thrust and feint, nearly destroying an enemy’s ship and putting its men in the water before ever getting close enough for melee combat. Today they were coming in by oar and sail, then dropping the sail as they made the turn.

“Like poking a bear with a stick and running, really, innit?” said I.

“When I was a pirate, we used less fire,” said the Moor. “The catapults were loaded with stones. To save the cargo.”

“What do you do when there’s a whole flock of ships?”

“Fleet, not flock.”

“What then? Some give chase, I reckon . . .”

“I have four tall merchantmen, like you came here in, only fitted for war. We tow them just out of range. They are too tall to easily board and too slow to attack, but the wide decks hold many archers and many catapults. If the enemy ships pursue, death is rained down upon them from above. If they attack the merchantmen, our galleys return to defend them.”

“So your secret is that you practice?”