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.”
He was glad to hear that.
Pollux always took care of things. He’d been so glad to hear his brother’s voice on the call earlier in the car with Chatterjee, assuring him that all was going well in Italy. He’d been able to stay brave in that cavern when Chatterjee died knowing that Pollux had his back.
He reached into his pocket and found the flash drive. “This is a gold mine. I’ve looked it over. There’s more than enough here to extort the key cardinals. I can make them do whatever I want. Spagna did a good job. It was almost like he knew what we had planned.”
“Spagna was an opportunist. I realized that from the first moment he and I spoke. But he told me nothing of any secret investigation. I suspect he was planning on shutting me out and making a deal only with you, thinking us enemies.”
He motioned with the drive. “It’s protected. The bastard used KASTOR I as the password.”
“Nobody ever said Spagna was stupid. He had good instincts.”
But not good enough. They’d done an excellent job faking a sibling rivalry. The entire internal attack on the knights and the forcing of the grand master from office had simply been part of that ruse.
“Was it the Secreti who killed Chatterjee and Spagna?” he asked.
Pollux nodded. “No doubt. But there’s nothing to indicate that they knew anything about that flash drive. The ones we have in custody have been questioned but, so far, they’ve admitted nothing.”
Which made sense. No attempt to retrieve the drive had happened in that grotto. They’d simply shot Chatterjee and left.
“Why didn’t they shoot me?”
“You’re their patron. A cardinal of the church. They abided by their oath to not harm a Christian. Chatterjee was a different matter. I’m not entirely sure of their plan at this point, but I’ll find out while the conclave happens.” Pollux stepped closer to the reliquary. “It’s time.”
“Open it.”
Pollux found a knife in his pocket and worked the wax at one end of the glass cylinder, freeing the end cap and allowing the first exposure of fresh air to rush across the parchments. He then reached inside and slowly extracted the three rolls, laying them gently on the altar.
Kastor reached for one and slowly unrolled it. The parchment crackled, but the fibers held strong. The Pie Postulatio Voluntatis. The Most Pious Request. The papal bull from 1113 that recognized the Hospitallers’ independence and sovereignty. He’d seen the other original housed in the Vatican archives.
Pollux unraveled a second parchment.
The Ad Providam. From 1312, when Pope Clement V handed over all of the Templars’ property to the Hospitallers. He’d seen that other original, too.
They both stared at the final parchment, which was a little longer than the others, and thicker.
“It has to be,” he said.
“It’s two sheets rolled together,” Pollux said, lifting the parchment and unrolling.
Faded black ink in tight lines, with narrow margins, filled the top sheet, which measured about forty-five centimeters long and a little less than that wide.
“It’s Latin,” Pollux said.
He’d already noticed. Latin had been Constantine’s main language, so much that he’d required Greek translators in order to communicate with many parts of his empire. This document being drafted in Latin was a good sign toward authenticity, as were the parchment and ink, which would surely survive scientific scrutiny and be dated to the 4th century. But it was the signatures at the bottom of the second sheet that would prove the point. He counted the names, signed one after the other.
Seventy-three.
Some he recognized from historical reading.
Eustathius of Antioch. Paphnutius of Thebes. Potamon of Heraclea. Paul of Neocaesarea. Nicholas of Myra. Macarius of Jerusalem. Aristaces of Armenia. Leontius of Caesarea. Jacob of Nisibis. Hypatius of Gangra. Protogenes of Sardica. Melitius of Sebastopolis. Achillius of Larissa. Spyridon of Trimythous. John, bishop of Persia and India. Marcus of Calabria. Caecilian of Carthage. Hosius of Córdoba. Nicasius from Gaul. Domnus from the province of the Danube.
Then there was Eusebius of Caesarea, the purported first church historian, who provided the only written account of what happened at Nicaea.
But the mark at the bottom cinched the deal.
Five rows. Five words.
The letters in the Latin alphabet.
A palindrome.
The sign of Constantine.
“The emperor and the bishops all signed it,” he said. “It’s exactly as it should be.”
“Yes, it is, brother.”
And at the top of the first sheet were the two most important words.
Constitutum Constantini.