CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

 

 

 

Marissa glanced around the table to make sure she had everyone’s attention before she continued her lecture about the Order of Saint John.

“When the Knights first arrived in Malta in 1530 AD, they continued their actions against the Barbary pirates, who were Ottoman corsairs operating off the Barbary Coast in Northwest Africa. Since Tripoli was part of the Knights’ fiefdom, the Order did whatever they could to protect their assets and control the sea. Unfortunately, this drew the ire of Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent, who had allowed the Knights safe passage to Sicily upon their defeat in Rhodes. Wanting to wipe out the Order once and for all, the sultan sent an invasion force of over forty thousand men to besiege the five hundred knights that were stationed in Birgu in 1565 AD. The ensuing battle was known as the Great Siege of Malta.”

Jones smiled. “Our driver was telling us about the siege earlier today. He insinuated that it was one of the biggest military upsets of all time.”

She nodded in agreement. “At the time of the siege, the Ottomans were considered an unstoppable force that would slowly but surely seize control of the Mediterranean before taking over Europe. In order to conquer Malta, the Ottomans assembled one of the largest armadas since antiquity. The fleet consisted of nearly two hundred vessels, most of which were galleys filled with weapons and professional soldiers. Meanwhile, the home team had approximately six thousand men, more than half of which were slaves, servants, and Maltese citizens. So yeah, I’d say it was a remarkable upset—one that got pretty nasty at times.”

“In what way?” Payne wondered.

“After capturing Fort Saint Elmo at the entrance of the harbor and positioning cannons on Mount Sciberras—which is the modern-day location of Valletta—the Turks decided to taunt the Order by nailing the bodies of the fallen knights on mock crucifixes and floating them across the bay. In response, Grand Master Jean Parisot de Valette beheaded all of his Turkish prisoners, loaded their heads into his cannons, and fired them back at the Turks.”

Jarkko grinned. “First time in history when getting head is bad thing.”

The group laughed at the absurdity—and accuracy—of the comment.

“Anyway,” Marissa said with a grin, “once the Ottomans established the higher ground on Mount Sciberras, they started their bombardment of Birgu across the harbor.”

“We were up there,” Payne said. “Before we visited the library, we stopped by to see the saluting battery in the Upper Barrakka Gardens.”

She smiled, glad that they had witnessed a Maltese tradition prior to the chaos at the library. “Then you know it’s a direct shot to Fort Saint Angelo, which is where the seventy-year-old de Valette and his forces were headquartered. Despite facing far superior numbers, the Knights held on for another three months in the hot Maltese summer until a relief force led by the Viceroy of Sicily finally arrived. All told, the Ottomans had fired an estimated one hundred and thirty thousand cannonballs at the Order, and yet the Knights of Malta still managed to win the war.”

Payne whistled. “I don’t know what’s more impressive: the one hundred and thirty thousand cannonballs or the fact that the Knights were led by a seventy-year-old man during the sixteenth century. Based on life expectancy, that has to be the equivalent of a ninety-year-old man today.”

“You’re probably right,” she said. “And he didn’t just rule from a throne at Fort Saint Angelo. He actually led the charge into battle on multiple occasions, even fighting against the Turks in hand-to-hand combat. For his remarkable valor, the Church offered him a position as a cardinal, but he declined in order to maintain his independence from the papacy and to start the rebuilding process on Malta. That included the commissioning of a fortified city on Mount Sciberras that would eventually take his name.”

“Valletta,” Payne said to the group.

“Duh,” cracked Jones from across the table. “The dude’s name was Valette.”

Payne started to defend himself but thought better of it. “Go on.”

She smiled and nodded. “Thanks to the Order’s miraculous victory, money flowed in from royal families across Europe, all of them looking to win the Knights’ favor. Even the Vatican contributed to their cause. Pope Pius the Fifth sent his military architect—an assistant of Michelangelo’s named Francesco Laparelli—to design the city. It officially became the capital of Malta in 1571 AD when the leader of the Order moved his seat at Fort St. Angelo to the Grandmaster’s Palace in Valletta. Sadly, the grand master who made the move was Pierre de Monte, and not Jean Parisot de Valette, who had passed away before his city was complete. In the years that followed, seven auberges were built for the Order’s seven langues, and the Knights settled in for the long haul until Napoleon came knocking in 1798 AD.”

Jones groaned. “As a student of history, I know that was rarely a good thing.”

“And it certainly wasn’t for the Knights of Malta. Napoleon was leading a force of thirty thousand men on his way to Egypt, and the Order was a shell of its former self, filled with undisciplined knights with split loyalties. On top of that, many of the local citizens were tired of the Order’s presence in Malta, so their support couldn’t be counted on in a time of crisis.”

“That’s a bad combination,” Payne said.

“But it gets worse,” she assured them. “Although Grand Master Ferdinand von Hompesch was warned of the approaching armada, he did nothing to fortify the island’s defenses. Then when the French fleet arrived, Hompesch openly provoked Napoleon by denying his request to get water provisions for his men, allowing only two French ships in the harbor at one time. Until that moment, Napoleon hadn’t declared war on the Maltese islands, but he viewed Hompesch’s denial as a provocation and ordered the invasion.”

“How long did it last?” Payne wondered.

She held up her index finger. “One day.”

“Damn!” Jones said. “Napoleon didn’t mess around.”

“He certainly didn’t,” she said with a shake of her head. “And yet, Maltese scholars still wonder why Hompesch didn’t take the French threat more seriously. I mean, when Grand Master de Valette learned about the approaching Turks, he took a number of steps to prepare for the upcoming siege. He poisoned wells with bitter herbs and dead animals to ruin the enemy’s water supply. He also harvested all crops, including unripened grain, to deprive the enemy of local food supplies. But Hompesch did no such things. Instead, he sat on his ass in Valletta and did nothing until it was time to negotiate the Order’s surrender, which handed over sovereignty of the islands of Malta to the government of France.”

As a student of war, Payne could think of a number of reasons behind the grand master’s lack of action, but none of them were good. “Out of curiosity, what nationality was Hompesch?”

Marissa looked at him, confused. “Hompesch was German. In fact, he was the first German ever to hold office as grand master. Why do you ask?”

Payne smiled. “Because if he was French, I’d say he threw the fight.”

She laughed. “It’s funny you should say that, because nearly two-thirds of his Knights were of French descent, so Hompesch really couldn’t be sure where their loyalties were until he saw them in battle. Furthermore, the rules of the Order explicitly stated that the Knights couldn’t fight against fellow Christians, which complicated things further. Then, when you factor in what I told you about the locals, it’s pretty darn obvious that he wasn’t going to win that war.”

“Did he even try?” Jones wondered.

“There was some fighting in western Malta before it eventually fell to the French, but it was token resistance at best. During the entire battle, the French only lost three men. After that, it was all over except for the paperwork. Hompesch surrendered on June the eleventh, signed the treaty on June the twelfth, and a week later, he was on a ship to Trieste, Italy, where he established a temporary new headquarters for the Order.”

Jones grunted. “Was Hompesch involved in the fighting like de Valette?”

She shook her head. “Heck no. He remained in Valletta the entire time.”

Jones rubbed his chin in thought. “Interesting. Very interesting.”

Payne knew that look quite well. Anytime his friend was close to a breakthrough, he would temporarily leave the real world and disappear into that computer brain of his, the one that produced the highest score in the history of the Air Force Academy’s MSAE (Military Strategy Acumen Examination) and had organized hundreds of operations with the MANIACs. He had a way of seeing things several steps ahead, like a chess master.

“What are you thinking?” Payne wondered.

Jones grinned at his best friend. “I’m thinking you should have figured this one out before I did, given your proclivity for magic.”

Payne did, in fact, enjoy the art of prestidigitation and had been collecting magic tricks ever since he was a boy. His grandfather had started the collection for him, buying him a deck of magic playing cards when Payne was only five, and the gift had turned out to be habit-forming. For many years, it had been a way to spend time with his grandfather as they learned and practiced tricks together. Then, when Payne’s parents were killed by a drunk driver, he had used magic as a diversion, his way to escape the real world and focus on the miraculous instead.

But unlike most skilled magicians, who seemed to love sequins and crave the spotlight, Payne was more of a closet magician, half-embarrassed of his abilities and unwilling to showcase his talents to anyone but his closest friends. Occasionally, he would use sleight of hand to baffle total strangers in public in order to amuse Jones, but other than that, he preferred to keep his magical skills and knowledge to himself.

Of course, that wasn’t possible now that Jones had blown his cover.

Thinking as a magician, Payne replayed what he had just learned about Hompesch and his curious, if not baffling, strategy in 1798 AD and realized that Jones might be onto something. “Holy shit. He didn’t throw the battle. The battle was a misdirect.”

Jones nodded. “I mean, it makes sen—”

Payne interrupted him. “You’re right. But man, it would take some serious balls. How do you send men to risk their lives while—”

Jones cut him off. “But were they risking their lives? Given what we know about—”

Payne grinned. “You’re right! How much danger were they actually—”

Jones laughed. “Man, if this is true—”

Payne nodded. “Then it’s one of the ballsiest escapes of all time!”

Jarkko glanced across the table at Marissa, who glanced back at Jarkko, and both of them were dumbfounded. For the past few seconds, they had witnessed Payne and Jones having a conversation without needing to fully voice their thoughts, almost as if the two of them were sharing a brain. Sometimes couples had the ability to finish each other’s sentences, but this was beyond that since Payne and Jones didn’t even need to utter their thoughts out loud.

They simply knew what the other was going to say.

Jarkko spoke first. “Tell Jarkko truth. Were you involved in comic-book science experiment? That would explain fighting skills and ability to speak without words.”

Marissa agreed. “I’m with Jarkko. That was pretty freaky.”

Payne looked at her. “Was it?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jarkko said. “Important thing is Marissa’s desire to be with Jarkko. So question has finally been answered. Marissa now has boyfriend.”

“Wait!” she said, not wanting to be misunderstood.

Jarkko dropped his head. “And now she is single.”

Payne ignored Jarkko and focused on Marissa. “What was freaky?”

Before she answered, Marissa glanced at Jarkko to make sure he was okay. He gave her a quick wink to let her know that he was just messing around. She breathed a sigh of relief before she focused on Payne’s question. “Your conversation with DJ. Or should I say your non-conversation with DJ?”

Payne laughed. “Yeah, sorry about that. When we were in the military, we were in so many tough spots together where words needed to be kept to a minimum that we developed this weird vocal shorthand that allowed us to communicate without saying much.”

Jones grinned. “We used to drive the guys in our unit crazy.”

Payne nodded. “Even though it saved their lives—”

“—on multiple occasions,” they said in unison.

Jarkko frowned. “Jarkko can’t tell which is ventriloquist and which is dummy.”

“No dummies here,” Jones bragged, “since we figured out what happened.”

“Actually,” Payne said to soften his boast, “it’s just a theory.”

“A really good theory. It fits everything we know.”

“Maybe so, but—”

“Guys,” Marissa said, “stop talking to each other and talk to us. What’s the theory you’re bragging about? I’m assuming it deals with Hompesch. At least that’s what I gathered from your freaky half-statements and insane ramblings.”

Jones glanced at his best friend. “Go on. The floor’s all yours.”

Now it was Payne’s turn to tip his imaginary hat.

Jones grinned and tipped his in return.

Then Payne explained one of the greatest tricks of all time.