LA MORTE E FIN D UNA PRIGIONE OSCURA.
Death is the end of a dark prison.
Coincidence?
Hardly.
* * *
Kastor had always loved the cathedral floor. Nothing like it existed anywhere else in the world. And the tombs were not cenotaphs. Instead they were actual graves with bones beneath them—the more important the knight, the closer to the altar. All burials stopped, though, in 1798 when the French invaded. Important knights after that were buried beyond the city in far less elegant locations. Not until the British took the island in 1815 had they resumed, but then they ended forever in 1869. He knew all about them thanks to the nuns. The kids from the orphanage had routinely worked in the cathedral, himself and Pollux no exception. He’d explored every part of the building, finding the floor particularly intriguing. A mosaic of memory, ripe with words of consolation, instruction, and praise. Some exaggerations for sure, but memories needed “things” to prolong themselves, otherwise they never lasted.
The Roman Catholic Church was a perfect example.
As was his life.
His own parents died with nothing more than a simple funeral attended by a few friends. There was not even a stone marker over their graves. Nothing tangible remained of their existence, save for twin boys.
One of whom might soon be pope.
So far, two lines of the message had been deciphered.
One thing seemed clear.
They were in the right place.
* * *
Cotton tried to think like that cathedral prior who, knowing the harbor was filled with French warships and an army was about to invade, still managed to get his job done.
Talk about pressure.
He said, “I’m assuming that since the Secreti existed in 1798, and all of the knights were housed here on Malta, any hiding places the Secreti may have used before the French came were on the island?”
Pollux nodded. “That is a reasonable assumption. The knights tried to confine things to this island. Their domain.”
“So Malta falls,” he said. “Knights start to flee, even the grand master leaves. To be safe, before the French take the island, the cathedral prior gathers up the Nostra Trinità from wherever it had been hidden and stashes it in a new place, one only he knows about. Then he creates a way to find it with clues the grand master can decipher, and instructs that the message be delivered to him. It never makes it that far, though, and ends up somewhere that Mussolini was able to locate it. Maybe the prior’s grave? Who knows?”
He could see Pollux did not disagree with his logic.
He pointed down. “It has to be these mosaics. He specifically used an epitaph from this memorial, preceded by the words where oil meets stone.” He motioned to the ceiling. “Where oil meets stone, death is the end of a dark prison. That’s right here. There was no time for being ingenious. The prior was the caretaker of this building, so he adapted what he knew best.”
“Pride crowned, another shielded. Three blushes bloomed to ranks and file,” Laura Price said. “Those words relate to this floor?”
He nodded, looking around at the many different images depicted on the memorials. “Yep. They’re here. Somewhere.”
“Any clues as to what pride crowned means?” Cardinal Gallo asked.
His mind was working on just that.
“Before we get too deep into this, I’m concerned about outside,” Laura said. “We have no idea what’s happening out there.”
She was right.
Cotton faced Luke. “How about you two take a look. Make sure we don’t have any unwanted visitors. We are a bit exposed here.”
Luke nodded. “We’ll take care of it.”
He watched as they hustled back toward the entrance. He felt better knowing his flank was being guarded by Luke. He recalled Gallo’s warning from the plane that the Secreti would know of the cathedral’s possible importance and of the lieutenant ad interim’s presence on the island. Solving this puzzle could take a little time, and whoever was out there might be waiting for that to happen before making their move.
Or the threat could already be here.
Inside the cathedral.
Watching right now.
* * *
The knight was back on Malta.
It had been a while since his last visit.
Thanks to James Grant, he’d kept pace with the Americans. First at the obelisk, now here inside the co-cathedral. Right place, right time, and he was able to listen to everything Cotton Malone said.
He agreed.
The answer was in the floor.
And fitting, as each tomb told a story of men who gave their fortunes, lives, and reputations to God and Church. Men who fought at the Siege of Ascalon, the Battle of Arsuf, the Invasion of Gozo, the storming of Tripoli, and the Great Siege of Malta itself. Their graves stood side by side, linked together in a continuous smooth surface, a proper metaphor for the knights themselves. Too bad the remains of that brave prior who’d defied Napoleon never made it here. He would have earned a place of prominence near the altar. Instead his remains had been consigned to a run-down churchyard, his grave violated by a vile dictator. Sacrilege. Nothing less.
That wrong would have to be righted.
Mussolini had been shot like an animal, then his corpse hung upside down on a meat hook and pelted with vegetables, spat on, peed on, shot, and kicked. All fitting. Finally, he was buried in a Milan cemetery. Years later, to placate the conservative far right, his body was moved to the family crypt in Predappio, placed in a stone sarcophagus decorated with fascist symbols, and adorned by a marble bust. Flowers and wreaths remained a constant adornment. A hundred thousand people came each year on pilgrimage. April 28, the day he died, was still celebrated with neo-fascist rallies and a march through the town to the cemetery.
He’d even gone once himself.
To spit on the grave.
That abomination would end.
He’d personally see to that.
Nobody remembered the three knights Mussolini tortured and killed to get what he wanted. Nobody knew a thing about the cathedral prior who kept his oath and died at the hands of Napoleon.
Men with honor trying to protect—
What may now finally be revealed.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Cotton played the prior’s message over and over through his mind, focusing on the last two lines. Pride crowned, another shielded. Three blushes bloomed to ranks and file. He walked the floor, eyes down, taking in the collage of images.
“There are over four hundred tombs,” the curator said. “Even I’m not familiar with aspects of them all.”
He noticed something toward the front of the nave, just before the steps up to the main altar. “There are two here identical. One to the left of the steps, the other there, to the right.”
“Two knights,” the curator said, “both named Francesco Carafa, both from Naples. One died in 1632, the other in 1679. For some reason, which remains unknown, the latter Carafa chose to have his tomb identical to the former.”
A curiosity, for sure, but not relevant to the present dilemma.
He ambled away from the twin tombs and continued to study the memorials. The others did the same. Each trying to find some connection between the words and the floor. Something caught his attention.