Where the Light Falls(110)
When he revealed the contents of the pouch, an audible gasp rippled across the room, as all twelve knights and each of André’s companions reacted in the same way. It was a cross: a massive cross, but not simply gold, or silver, or even rubies. This was a cross of large, shimmering diamonds, bordered with sapphires that shone with the same brilliance as the Mediterranean Sea below.
André felt dizzy, knowing that he had held such a precious object in his hands, if only for a moment. He knew, instantly, from where it came: the Bourbon Court. This had been a treasure fit for the world’s wealthiest king. And now it was General Bonaparte’s treasure to give away.
Sensing the impression his gift had made on the room, the general paused a moment, smiling. “Now you see, Your Excellencies, that we come in good faith.” The knights nodded, their eyes still fixed on the dazzling cross that they now passed among themselves.
“Please accept this treasure as a token of our humble gratitude.” Bonaparte bowed again. His eyes darted quickly toward the aide. If André hadn’t been watching him—if he’d been distracted, as every other man in the room was, by the glimmering cross—then he wouldn’t have seen it. Wouldn’t have tensed. Wouldn’t have reached involuntarily for the pistol at his waist.
But then, before he or anyone else understood what was happening, the doors opened with a crash and in rushed scores of soldiers with muskets and fixed bayonets. André turned in their direction, his eyes widening in shock. But it was not a group of Maltese warriors who stormed this sacred chamber, filling it like a flood. They were soldiers dressed in blue coats, his countrymen. The two massive guards at the door looked on, their eyes filled with shock as they saw their threshold breached, and the swords held to their throats rendering them powerless to stop the advance.
Bonaparte was now disinterested in the cross of diamonds, his four noble visitors, or the twelve Knights of Malta. As armed men descended on the knights, the ancient-looking men reached for their swords but quickly realized that resistance was futile.
“Do not harm them!” Bonaparte yelled. Strutting through the parting crowd as he crossed the room, he stuffed the bicorn hat back onto his head. “My lords, allow me to offer my most humble apologies for this brief display of hostility. Know that the Republic and people of France hold you and your kingdom in the highest esteem. Consider this the hour of your liberation.”
With that, General Bonaparte turned to the French soldiers and officers now flooding the great hall. His hat fixed at a jaunty angle across his haughty brow, his right fist raised high in the air, he cried out: “In the name of liberty, equality, and fraternity, I claim this realm, and all of its treasure, as the property of the French Republic! The Kingdom of Malta is now ours!”
Spring 1798
Jean-Luc stretched his hands, straightening his cramped fingers before he drew more ink upward into his quill. The tedium of this day was, mercifully, nearly done.
“You haven’t looked up once all day, St. Clair.” Jean-Luc recognized the familiar voice of Gavreau as his supervisor approached his desk. “I could have paraded a line of large-breasted wenches in here and you wouldn’t even have seen ’em.”
Jean-Luc lowered his quill onto the top piece of parchment, his black cursive covering nearly every inch of the paper with names and figures.
“And have the good bishop’s silverware, silks, and gold plate been properly cataloged for our public records?”
“I’m nearly done,” Jean-Luc said, rubbing an ink stain from the side of his aching palm. His latest assignment had been an onerous one: a large and wealthy monastery to the northwest of the city had been ransacked by a band of starving farmers. Jean-Luc had spent the past two weeks buried in lists of the property’s riches. Mercifully, the bishop and his household had been spared, but it appeared that, even after the looting party had taken their share of the plunder, the Directory was now owner of quite a few new gold-plated communion dishes and silken robes.
“I hate to tell you this.” Gavreau leaned on Jean-Luc’s desk, eyeing the lists of inventory his employee had meticulously documented. “When you’ve finished with this, I’ve got something else to show you.”
“What is it?” Jean-Luc asked, certain that his features betrayed his fatigue.
“The Saint-Jacques church has been razed.”
Wordless, Jean-Luc let his expression convey his confusion. Razed?
“Torn completely to the ground.” Gavreau nodded, folding his arms in front of his broad belly. “All that remains is the bell tower. Seems the looters couldn’t quite figure out how to bring that one down.”