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“In what way?”
The man chuckled. “Do you really want to know? Just accept that I’m here, at your service, Eminence.”
He felt another rush of anger at the patronizing tone. But the past few years, if nothing else, had taught him some measure of patience.
“And the woman?” he asked.
“I’m working on that, too.”
“Are you Hindu?”
“I’m an atheist.”
He needed to calm himself and expunge the growing rancor simmering inside him. This conversation was going nowhere. But he needed to know, “What are your qualifications to deal with my current needs?”
Chatterjee stared him down. “I can fight, shoot, and don’t mind killing someone if the need arises.”
“Are we going to war?”
“You tell me, Eminence. As you pointed out, people have been searching for the Nostra Trinità a long time.”
“And what do you know about it?”
“Quite a bit. I hold a doctorate in medieval history from the University of York. My dissertation was on Jerusalem between the times of the Jews, Muslims, and Christians, from the 1st to 5th centuries, with an emphasis on European brotherhoods and their effect on intersect occupation. The Sovereign Military Hospitallers Order of St. John of Jerusalem, of Rhodes, and of Malta being one of those. I’m also quite good at scouring and stealing from archives, libraries, and newspaper morgues. I have few to no morals, and will do whatever is necessary to get the job done. I wrote a book on the Hospitallers. Didn’t sell all that well, but it did draw the attention of certain people likewise interested in the knights.”
“Can you name a few names?”
Chatterjee chuckled. “Never kiss and tell. First rule of my business.”
He could see that this man masked a tough and sinewy intelligence beneath an overabundance of carefully cultivated rudeness. Ordinarily, he would not waste time with such arrogance. But nothing about this situation was ordinary.
He bought a few moments to think by watching the swift passage of a gull, its wings set, as it rode the thermals and glided out to sea. What it must feel like to be that unencumbered. Finally he turned toward Chatterjee and said, “You realize that the conclave begins in a little over twenty-four hours. There is no time for nonsense.”
“How about I whet your appetite with something I’m sure you don’t know. A good-faith offering, if you will.”
He’d been told to come here and all would be explained.
So he had to trust that this was not a waste of time.
“I’m listening.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
JUNE 1798
Napoleon Bonaparte ignored the screams that echoed through the long corridors and admired the palace. For the past 225 years grand masters had dwelled within these walls, roaming the broad marble passageways, admiring the picture galleries, feasting in the great banqueting hall. There was even an observatory in the tower above. The building stretched long, like the Louvre, spanning two floors, its walls double-layered and filled with rubble like a fortress, a full one hundred meters of its elegant façade facing the Piazza dei Cavalieri, the Square of the Knights.
Sacred ground, he’d been told.
No Maltese had ever been allowed in the square, or the palace, without a permit. He’d already decided to curry favor with the locals by abolishing that law and renaming the plaza the Square of Liberty.
A good move.
The conqueror’s prerogative.
He was thrilled. Everything had gone perfectly.
He’d sailed from France a month ago with hundreds of ships and 7,000 troops, all headed for the taking of Egypt. On the way he’d decided to seize Malta, arriving at Valletta three days ago. Standing on the deck of his flagship in the harbor he’d been impressed with the embattlements, the town itself sweeping down by terraces from the summit, the honey-colored buildings stacked one above the other, appearing as if chiseled from a single stone. He’d been informed that the numerous domes and towers would cast an exotic effect, and he’d seen for himself the truth of that observation.
What had the knights called it?
Civitates Humillima.
Most humble city.
Not since the Turks in 1565 had so many sails appeared off the Maltese coast. Back then the knights had been ready to defend to the death what they considered to be their island. This time the invader had caught them unprepared. Thankfully, his spies had proven their worth, identifying only 332 knights, 50 of whom were too old to fight, all undersupplied and poorly led. The fortress cannon had not been fired in a century, the powder rotten, the shot defective. Then, when the French knights, numbering nearly 200 of the 332, refused to fight, it all ended after two days with a total surrender, the grand master signing away the island and every vestige of sovereignty.
He stared again at the palace walls.
Little remained of its great heritage. It was more a melancholy air of desertion that emanated from its echoing walls and empty vestibules. What had happened to all those grand masters? Those select few who’d once teetered on the verge of absolutism. They lived as kings, wearing crowns, receiving ambassadors, and sending envoys to foreign courts. They kept a covey of chaplains and physicians, scores of servants, gamekeepers, falconers, drummers, trumpeters, valets, grooms, pages, wigmakers, clock winders, even rat catchers. Unlimited funds had been at their disposal. Popes and emperors catered to their wishes.
But no more.
Once the threat from Eastern infidels waned, the knights lost their purpose. They resorted to drinking and dueling among themselves, their former discipline disintegrating into chaos. The German and Italian langues were gone. Most of the others were near collapse. A once grand institution had become little more than a place to support, in idleness, the younger men of certain privileged families. Even worse, revolutions across Europe, especially the one in France, led to their lands being seized, enough that, by one count he’d seen, the knights’ revenues had been depleted by nearly two-thirds.
Now all they had belonged to France.
He heard footsteps and turned. One of his aides-de-camp marched down the wide corridor, the click of his boots resonating off the marble walls. Napoleon knew what the man wanted.
They were ready for him in the Hall of the Supreme Council.
He nodded and led the way through the maze, the towering walls bare, all of the tapestries and paintings commandeered by his soldiers now stored on his flagship along with the other booty. His men had ravaged both Valletta and the rest of the island collecting armor, silver surgical instruments, ivory chess sets, furniture, chests of coin, and bars of gold. Even the treasured Sword and Dagger of de Valette, presented to that long-dead grand master by the king of Spain for his valor during the Great Siege, had been taken.
He had it all.
The L’ Orient packed with spoils.
But he’d not found what he’d really come for.
The one thing that might prove more valuable than all of that gold and silver.
He entered the grand hall. At its far end, nearly thirty meters away, on a raised dais, surmounted by a crimson velvet canopy ringed with gold fringe, stood the throne of the grand master. This was where the supreme council and chapter general had gathered for centuries, the center of the knights’ power. On the surrounding walls were twelve magnificent friezes that depicted the Great Siege. A memorial to a noble and hallowed time. A way to ensure the memory of that greatest moment never faded.
He could appreciate such propaganda.
The hall was empty save for a single trestle table at its center. One man sat before it, tied to a wooden chair, hands flat out in front of him, palms down, a nail piercing the center of each keeping them in place. The pitiful soul wore bedclothes, obviously seized by his soldiers while sleeping. The prisoner moaned, his head flopping down on the table, spittle dripping off his chin, blood oozing from the wounds. Napoleon stepped close and found it hard to take a satisfying breath t
hanks to the stench from bowels and bladder having relieved themselves.
“You are causing yourself so much pain, and for nothing,” he said. “Your leader has abandoned you.”
All true.
Ferdinand von Hompesch, the grand master, had handed over Malta without a fight, freely opening Valletta’s gates. It helped that the knights swore an obligation not to take up arms against fellow Christians.
“Your grand master took the Arm and Hand of St. John and the icon of Our Lady of Philermo and sailed away.”
He saw terror grow in the man’s eyes as he realized his dire predicament.
“Before Hompesch left, though, I removed the ring from the hand of St. John.” He displayed it on his finger. “A lovely jewel, which I will keep.” He shrugged. “What good is it to a dead saint?”
No reply. But he didn’t expect one.
“Your grand master left you here to face me. Alone.”
“I … have told you … nothing. I will tell … you … nothing.”
He motioned and his aide brought over a ceramic bowl, setting it on the table. The tortured Hospitaller looked up and seemed to recognize the bunches of plants that lay within.
“From the Rock of the General,” he said. “I was told about its healing properties, so I had some of it retrieved for you.”
Just off the coast of Gozo, north of Malta, rose a small limestone islet. Breakers had for eons chafed foam onto its gray, barren sides. Atop that rock grew a scrubby plant, unknown anywhere else in the world. He’d heard the tales of its styptic qualities, how it could stanch bleeding when packed on a wound. Fifty years ago a grand master had declared the islet off limits, posting guards, keeping the plant solely for the knights. Three years’ confinement as an oarsman on a galley was the penalty for any violation. He planned to end that self-serving prohibition, after hoarding an ample amount.
