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 thanks 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