The sign of Constantine.
He pointed. “It has to be there.”
They approached the altar.
“Constantine’s sign was carved there when the church was built,” Pollux said. “It’s always been here.”
Cotton set the shovels on the floor and knelt down to inspect the altar. The letters sprang from a recessed panel at the altar’s center, right where a priest would have stood while saying mass. Four fluted columns carved from the limestone flanked left and right. With his finger he traced a mortar joint in the recessed panel—dry, brittle, and gray, like everything else.
“I say we bust this open.”
He gave Pollux a moment to consider the ramifications. This wasn’t a broken clock. It was a piece of something that had survived five hundred years. Something men had dedicated their lives to preserve. Thousands of knights and Maltese had died fighting to keep all of this inviolate.
And they’d succeeded.
Only to have it destroyed now by an outsider, with permission from one of their own.
Pollux handed over the sledgehammer, signaling his assent. Cotton gripped the wooden handle and decided there was no delicate way to do it, so he gave the center of the panel, right above the word TENET, a hard rap with the business end. The stone held, but there was a noticeable give, as at the obelisk.
“It’s hollow behind it,” he said.
He swung again.
Two more times and the stone broke into pieces, exposing a cavity beyond.
The two brothers watched as he cleared away the fragments, holding in his hand bits and pieces of the palindrome. He removed enough to see an object inside the chamber beyond. A horizontal glass cylinder resting on golden legs with animal paws as feet. About twenty-four inches long and eight inches high. Both ends were enclosed by gold mounts sealed with wax. Through the thick glass he could see the out-of-focus images of three scrolls, each loosely rolled.
Pollux made the sign of the cross and whispered, “Our Trinity.”
Cotton reached in and lifted out the reliquary.
Heavy.
The three parchments appeared intact and in reasonably good shape. He laid the container on the altar where they could examine every aspect of it.
“This is where I must insist we part ways,” Pollux said. “We’ve located the Nostra Trinità. It belongs to the Knights of Malta—”
“Or the Roman Catholic Church,” the cardinal said.
“Precisely,” Pollux finished. “This is a dispute we have to resolve among ourselves. It does not involve the American government in any way. We apologize for all that you’ve endured and appreciate your efforts. But the mystery is now solved and we have to deal with what happens next.” Pollux paused. “Kastor and I. We have much to discuss.”
Of that Cotton had no doubt.
“A lot of damage has occurred over the past day,” Pollux said. “People have been hurt and killed. My brother and I have to deal with that. Patron of the Holy See to lieutenant ad interim. It’s our problem. Not yours.”
He was used to the rough-and-tumble of the intelligence business, willing to be banged up. God knows he’d had his share of injuries.
But the brush-off?
That kind of hurt.
But he’d done all Stephanie had asked of him. And though he would love to know what was inside the reliquary, Pollux Gallo was right. It really was none of his, or Washington’s, business.
“All right,” he said. “I’m out of here. But you feel this is a safe place for you to linger?”
“We’re perfectly fine here,” Pollux said, extending a hand to shake.
He accepted the offer.
“Thank you, Mr. Malone, for all your assistance. I never asked, but are you Catholic?”
“I was baptized that way, but religion is not my thing.”
“A shame. You would have made a good knight.”
Cardinal Gallo offered no hand to shake and his dour expression never changed. He shook his head and glanced back toward Pollux.
“Good luck.”
And he left.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
The knight watched as Cotton Malone left the Church of St. Magyar’s. Finally, the last problem eliminated. The Americans were gone. Fitting that it would all end here at this sacred place, where the special ones formerly gathered. Their numbers had been small and closely held, each bound by a common purpose, their fate sealed by a secret French decree issued April 12, 1798. How ironic, he’d often thought. After centuries of fighting it wasn’t the Turks, nor any corsair or Muslim enemy, but the French who defeated them. And not by violence nor invasion. Simply through the stroke of a pen. An edict issued to Napoleon, as the general in command of the army of the East, that he was to take possession of the island of Malta for which purpose he will immediately proceed against it with all the naval and military forces under his command.
And it had been easy.
Barely a fight.
Napoleon dispatched his orders and claimed the island for France. And though only a general at the time, he had his sights set on bigger things. Eighteen months after taking Malta he would be proclaimed first consul of France, in total command of the nation. Twelve years of nearly constant war followed. Napoleon wanted an empire. Like Alexander, Genghis Khan, Charlemagne, and Constantine before him. He also wanted control over that empire and knew that one tool could be used with absolute effectiveness.
Religion.
How better to keep the masses in line than through a fear for their immortal soul. It was self-working, self-regulating, and required little more than consistency to maintain itself. Occasionally, some displays of force were required—the Crusades and Inquisition two notable examples—but, by and large, religion sustained itself. In fact, if dished out correctly, the people would crave its effects like a drug. Demanding more and more.
Napoleon came to Malta to find the Nostra Trinità, thinking it might supply him the means to either control or eliminate the Roman Catholic Church. At the time it was the largest, most organized, most entrenched religion in the world. He’d learned how the Knights of Malta had always been shown great deference and privilege. How they skillfully escaped persecution and elimination, surviving for centuries.
They had to have had some help.
But ultimately Napoleon was defeated and banished to St. Helena. Mussolini tried the same bullying tactics, and died a violent death. Now, finally, after over two hundred years, the Trinity had been found.
He stared at the reliquary.
Then turned to his brother and said, “We did it.”
* * *
Kastor smiled. “Yes, we did.”
And he embraced Pollux for the first time in a long while.
A feeling of triumph hovered between them.
They stood inside the inner chapel, safe within a thick layer of rock, protected by time and the ages. The knight who’d brought the tools stood guard outside, but he’d just informed them that Malone had driven away and that they were now alone.
“You’re to be pope,” Pollux said, smiling. “We now have everything to make that happen.”
Kastor stared at the reliquary, still perched on the altar. They’d not opened it, as yet.
“And the Secreti?” he asked Pollux.
“I said nothing with Malone here, but we have them under control. I told you I could deal with them. I’ve been told that their leaders have been identified and are now in our custody back in Italy. We were fairly sure of the traitors within our ranks. They’re being held at the palazzi in Rome, on the knights’ sovereign territory, subject to our jurisdiction. I’ll deal with them. They are no longer a concern for you.”