Malta Short Let: Cozy Stay in Gzira
Sliema Area Modern Designer Finished 2 Bedrooms + Games Room. First floor with Maltese Balcony Large back Terrace with swinging sofa Fully Airconditioned + Full Kitchen 3 TVs, including 65” with backlight.
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KNIGHTS AND CROSSES

I have watched countless lovers meet in secret. Their whispers carried on limestone-scented air, their promises as fragile as wildflowers.

The young couple beneath the carob tree was no different.

And yet.

There was something about them that made me linger.

Perhaps it was because they would matter.

FORBIDDEN LOVE

The carob tree stood alone on the hillside outside Mdina, its twisted branches offering shelter from both sun and prying eyes. It was there that Ġużepp Cumbo waited, his fingers nervously tracing patterns in the dirt.

At seventeen, he was caught between boyhood and manhood. The son of Salvatore Cumbo, Malta’s most notorious corsair, Ġużepp had inherited his father’s sharp features but not his ruthless ambition.

When Rozina appeared, silhouetted against the setting sun, he rose quickly to his feet.

“I feared you wouldn’t come,” he said, his voice breaking.

She was sixteen, with dark eyes that missed nothing and hands that already knew how to heal. The daughter of Mdina’s hospital overseer, she carried the scent of herbs and clean linen.

“My father was watching,” she said, reaching for his hands. “He says I should forget you. That your family brings only trouble to Malta.”

“And what do you say?” Ġużepp asked.

“I say that you are not your father.” She smiled then, the kind of smile that changes a person. “And I say that I love you.”

This is how it begins. With words. With promises. With hope.

It always amazes me, this human capacity for hope in the face of all evidence.

They sat beneath the carob tree as the stars emerged, planning a future neither could see clearly. He spoke of languages—Greek and Arabic, Latin and the emerging Maltese—that might win him position. She spoke of medicine, of healing, of the knowledge her father had begun to share.

“One day,” Ġużepp promised, “we will not need to meet in secret.”

I have heard such promises before. Made by emperors and slaves, by conquerors and the conquered.

Sometimes they are even kept.

As darkness deepened, they reluctantly parted with a kiss that carried the weight of their forbidden love. She returned to Mdina, to a father who feared the shadow of Salvatore Cumbo. He descended to the harbor, where his father’s ships brought wealth and whispers.

Neither knew that soon, men with crosses on their chests would arrive to change everything.

Kisses under stars
Promises easily made
Change sails toward them

THE KNIGHTS ARRIVE

Five years passed quickly, as years often do in the lifetime of an island.

Ġużepp was twenty-two now, tall and composed. Against his father’s explicit wishes, he had joined the Knights’ Maltese militia from the moment they arrived, seeing it as his path to protect Malta and rise through the ranks. He and Rozina still loved each other deeply, but her father had grown even more vigilant in preventing their meetings as rumors of Ġużepp’s defiance against Salvatore spread through Mdina. Though kept apart, their devotion had only strengthened with the obstacle.

On a clear morning in 1530, sails appeared on the horizon. Ships bearing the eight-pointed cross of the Knights Hospitaller of St. John approached Malta’s Grand Harbor.

I had seen the cross before, carried by Crusaders passing through on their way to the Holy Land. But this was different.

These Knights were not passing through. They were arriving.

Salvatore Cumbo stood on the harbor wall, watching through narrowed eyes. At fifty, he was a powerfully built man with a beard streaked with gray and a reputation that extended throughout the Mediterranean.

“What do you see, my son?” he asked as Ġużepp joined him.

“The future, perhaps,” Ġużepp replied.

Salvatore spat into the harbor water. “I see competition. These Knights are corsairs with better pedigrees, nothing more. They’ll want control of our waters.”

“They lost Rhodes to the Ottomans,” Ġużepp said. “Emperor Charles has given them Malta as their new home.”

“Given them our home,” Salvatore corrected. “Without asking us.”

He wasn’t wrong. My islands had been handed over like a gift, from one powerful man to other powerful men. The Maltese themselves were merely part of the package.

An afterthought in their own history.

The Knights disembarked in somber procession. Led by Grand Master Philippe Villiers de L’Isle-Adam, they looked more like mourners than conquerors. Many were injured. All appeared weary.

Ġużepp watched closely, his mind already calculating how his skills might be useful to these newcomers. Unlike his father, he saw opportunity rather than threat.

That evening, as Rozina tended to a patient in her father’s hospital, news of the Knights’ arrival spread through Mdina.

“They say they’re bringing wealth and protection,” an old woman whispered as Rozina changed her bandages.

“They say they’re bringing war with the Turks,” countered another.

Rozina thought of Ġużepp and wondered what these newcomers would mean for their future. She had waited five years already. How much longer before they could be together openly?

The girl was right to wonder. The Knights would reshape Malta in ways none could yet imagine.

And they would reshape her life, too.

THE RELUCTANT WELCOME

The formal ceremony transferring Malta to the Knights took place one month later, after they had established temporary quarters and assessed their new home. Many looked distinctly unimpressed by the barren landscape and modest fortifications.

Grand Master L’Isle-Adam stood before the assembled Maltese nobles in the old Roman governor’s palace, now serving as the administrative center. Emperor Charles V’s proclamation was read in Latin, then translated into the local Maltese dialect.

I watched from the shadows as always, the unseen guardian. The proclamation contained many fine words about protection and Christian duty.

It said nothing about asking the Maltese what they wanted.

Salvatore Cumbo sat stiffly in the gathering, his expression darkening as the terms were explained. The Knights would rule Malta as a sovereign military order, answerable only to the Pope and nominally to the Emperor. The local nobility would retain certain rights, but ultimate authority would rest with the Grand Master.

“This is theft dressed as ceremony,” Salvatore muttered to the nobleman beside him.

Ġużepp, standing along the wall as one of the translators, caught his father’s eye and shook his head slightly in warning. This was no time for rash words.

Near the back of the hall stood a young fisherman named Toni Bajada. Though barely twenty, he carried himself with unusual confidence. His reputation for swimming abilities was already known throughout Malta’s coastal villages—it was said he could outswim any man on the island and knew every cove and hidden inlet along the coast.

Toni watched the proceedings with intense curiosity, particularly noting the Knights’ military bearing. Unlike many Maltese who viewed the newcomers with suspicion, he saw them through different eyes—as potential allies against the Ottoman threat that loomed over the entire Mediterranean.

After the ceremony, as the nobles filed out, Ġużepp approached the young fisherman.

“You seemed interested in the Knights’ military talk,” he observed.

Toni nodded. “The Turks have been raiding our villages for years. My own sister was taken three summers ago. If these Knights truly mean to defend Malta, perhaps they’re the allies we need.”

“My father sees them as competitors,” Ġużepp admitted.

“With respect to Salvatore Cumbo,” Toni replied, “there’s a difference between raiding for profit and defending a homeland.”

Ġużepp studied the younger man thoughtfully. “You speak plainly, Toni Bajada.”

“The sea teaches plain speaking. There’s no use for fancy words when the storm comes.”

The Bajada family was known throughout the coastal villages for their seafaring skills and unmatched knowledge of Malta’s shores. For generations, they had been pilots guiding trading vessels safely into harbor, fishermen feeding the island’s population, and occasionally smugglers when necessity demanded.

I liked this young fisherman. There was something solid about him, like the limestone that forms my islands’ bones.

He would prove important in the years to come.

Crosses and swords arrive
Reluctant island bows its head
New masters, old home

THE YOUNG KNIGHT

As the Knights settled into Malta, they began the enormous task of transforming the island into a fortress worthy of their military order. Fort St. Angelo, guarding the entrance to Grand Harbor, became their first priority for reinforcement.

Among the Knights assigned to this task was François de Brienne, a young Frenchman of noble birth who had joined the Order more from family expectation than personal vocation. At twenty-five, he was one of the younger Knights, still trying to reconcile the Order’s spiritual mission with its military function.

Ġużepp, already distinguishing himself in the Maltese militia through his courage and intelligence, was assigned to assist François with coordinating the local defense forces. His gift for languages proved valuable, though it was his strategic mind that truly impressed the Knights. They made an unlikely pair—the determined Maltese militia captain and the thoughtful French Knight—but a genuine friendship began to form between them.

“Your Maltese is improving,” Ġużepp noted one evening as they reviewed construction plans.

François laughed. “Barely. It’s the most peculiar mixture of tongues I’ve ever encountered. Arabic with Italian and who knows what else thrown in.”

“It’s the language of survivors,” Ġużepp replied. “We take what works and make it our own.”

This is true of more than just their language. My people have always been adaptable. They bend rather than break. They absorb rather than reject.

It is how small islands survive the storms of history.

Over several weeks, François began to notice Ġużepp’s distracted manner on certain evenings. The translator would check the position of the sun, grow increasingly restless, and find reasons to conclude their work early.

After this happened several times, François confronted him directly.

“You have a lover waiting,” he stated rather than asked, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Who is the fortunate girl who captures your attention so completely?”

Ġużepp hesitated, then admitted the truth about Rozina and the opposition from both families—hers because of his father’s reputation, his because of her family’s lack of status.

François listened thoughtfully. “The Order has taught me that true nobility lies in character, not bloodlines. Your Rozina sounds like a woman of exceptional character.”

“She is,” Ġużepp confirmed. “But our meetings grow more difficult to arrange. Her father watches her closely, and my father pushes me to follow him into corsairing.”

François considered this for a moment, then offered, “Perhaps I can help. I have reason to visit the hospital in Mdina regularly for Order business. If your lady works there, messages could be exchanged.”

Ġużepp stared at him in surprise. “You would do this? Why?”

The Knight shrugged. “Perhaps because I’ve taken vows that prevent me from pursuing such emotions myself. Or perhaps because even Knights enjoy a good love story.” His expression grew more serious. “But also because I value your friendship, Ġużepp Cumbo.”

And so began an unexpected alliance. The Knight of St. John, sworn to celibacy, became the messenger for forbidden love.

Human connections form in the strangest places, across the unlikeliest divides.

BUILDING THE FORTRESS

The years that followed saw Malta transformed. Under the Knights’ direction, fortifications rose along the harbors. New churches were built. The Order’s influence extended into every aspect of island life.

Ġużepp was already proving himself within the Maltese militia, rising through the ranks due to his exceptional tactical acumen and leadership abilities. The Knights, particularly La Valette, began to recognize his military knowledge and strategic thinking. While other Maltese served for necessity, Ġużepp showed a genuine talent for defense planning, earning him increased responsibilities and command over larger contingents of men. This growing prominence in Malta’s defense only deepened the rift with his father, who continued to see privateering as the true path to power and wealth

Toni Bajada became his right-hand man, utilizing his intimate knowledge of the coastline, the sea, the weather and his network of fishermen contacts to establish an early warning system against raiding parties.

I watched Toni swim once, cutting through the water with powerful strokes, seemingly as comfortable in the sea as on land. He moved with the currents rather than against them, understanding my waters in a way few ever have.

Meanwhile, Rozina had taken on greater responsibilities at her father’s hospital. Her natural talent for healing had blossomed into genuine expertise, catching the attention of the Knights’ own physicians. The Order of St. John was renowned throughout Europe for their hospital care, and François arranged for Rozina to study their advanced techniques. Through his discreet assistance, she and Ġużepp maintained their connection, exchanging letters and precious occasional meetings. The Knights’ medical knowledge and Rozina’s natural gifts formed a powerful combination that would later save countless lives.

By 1540, Malta had been transformed into a naval base and military fortress. The Knights’ galleys patrolled the sea lanes, engaging Ottoman ships and North African corsairs. Salvatore Cumbo maintained his own profitable raids but increasingly found his operations limited by the Knights’ oversight.

The conflict between father and son deepened. While Salvatore saw corsairing as a legitimate business, Ġużepp had come to embrace the Knights’ more principled approach to warfare—focused on defending Christendom rather than simply accumulating wealth.

“You’ve become their creature,” Salvatore accused during one particularly heated argument. “These foreign nobles have no love for Malta. They use our island for their glory and our people for their wars.”

“And what do you use Malta for, Father?” Ġużepp countered. “At least they prepare defenses. They build. You only take.”

Salvatore’s face darkened. “I built everything we have! This home, your education, our family’s position—all from what you dismiss as ‘taking.’ And still you prefer that hospital girl to the connections I could make for you with proper families.”

The divide between them was about more than corsairing or even Rozina. It was about two visions of Malta’s future—one looking outward toward profit, the other inward toward protection.

Neither was entirely right. Neither entirely wrong.

Fortress walls rising
Stone by stone, the island changes
Knights remake their home

THE STORM GATHERS

Twenty-four years passed. Malta in 1564 was nearly unrecognizable from the island the Knights had reluctantly accepted in 1530. Massive fortifications now dominated the harbors. The Knights’ naval power had become a formidable presence in the Mediterranean.

Jean Parisot de La Valette had become Grand Master, a stern but visionary leader who understood that a decisive confrontation with the Ottoman Empire was inevitable. Under his direction, preparations for defense accelerated.

Ġużepp Cumbo, now forty-six, had become captain of the Maltese militia, with Toni Bajada serving as his lieutenant. His father Salvatore was believed to be dead, never returning from one of his corsair raids five years earlier.

Ġużepp and Rozina had finally married in 1545, after her father’s death removed the last major obstacle. She now ran an infirmary in Birgu, the fortified city across the harbor from Fort St. Angelo where many of the Knights had their quarters.

François de Brienne had risen through the Order’s ranks, his friendship with Ġużepp continuing despite the increasing demands on both men’s time.

I had watched them all grow older, these players in Malta’s unfolding story. Lines had appeared around eyes that once were smooth. Hair had grayed or thinned. But their purpose had only strengthened with time.

Time is a curious thing. It wears down stone but hardens resolve.

On a warm evening in April 1564, Ġużepp returned home to find Rozina training a group of local women in basic wound treatment. Their small house near the infirmary had become an extension of her work, especially as rumors of the coming Ottoman invasion intensified.

“You’ll need to recognize infection immediately,” she was explaining to a young widow named Katerina. “The smell is distinctive—sweet but putrid.”

Seeing Ġużepp in the doorway, Rozina dismissed her students and greeted her husband with a tired smile.

“More reports from the east?” she asked, noting the tension in his face.

He nodded, taking her hands in his. “La Valette believes they’ll come by spring next year. The Ottoman fleet is already gathering in Constantinople.”

Rozina squeezed his hands. “Then we have winter to prepare.”

“Always practical,” he said with a fond smile. “Is that why you’re training women as surgeons?”

“Who else will treat the wounded when the men are fighting? The Knights have their own physicians, but our people will need care too.”

Ġużepp pulled her close. Despite twenty years of marriage, his love for her had only deepened with time. “I should have learned by now not to underestimate you.”

She rested her head against his chest. “As I never underestimate your ability to protect Malta.”

Their partnership had grown into something remarkable. Each supporting the other’s purpose. Each filling the gaps in the other’s abilities.

They would need this strength in the months ahead.

THE FIRST SPARK

August 1564 brought an unexpected storm to Malta’s waters. Though summer storms were not uncommon, this one descended with unusual fury, catching several vessels unprepared.

Toni Bajada was at the helm of what appeared to be a simple fishing boat but was in fact a scouting vessel patrolling the coast. Ġużepp had joined him for the day, taking a rare break from his demanding schedule organizing Malta’s defenses against the looming Turkish threat.

“Even the Grand Master insisted I take one day,” Ġużepp had told Rozina that morning. “The men need their captain rested.”

Now, as the storm engulfed them with shocking speed, that brief respite had turned dangerous. Their small craft was tossed mercilessly, driven further from shore with each massive wave. They could still see Malta, but the distance was growing as thunder crashed around them and lightning split the darkening sky.

“We should have stayed in the harbor!” Toni Bajada shouted over the wind, his powerful hands gripping the tiller.

I sensed the storm’s unusual power as it approached. Something electric in the air tried to force me in the caves where I typically hide during such tempests. Today I stayed with the boat, in the storm, in my waters but away from my land.

Thunderstorms had always disturbed me in ways I couldn’t explain—as though the lightning sought me out, recognizing something kindred in my ancient consciousness.

The storm’s fury increased as their small boat was tossed among waves growing taller by the minute. Lightning flashed continuously across the blackened sky, each bolt closer than the last.

“We need to lower the mast!” Toni shouted over the howling wind, already moving to secure the sail that threatened to tear away.

A blinding fork of lightning split the darkness, striking the water terrifyingly close to their vessel. Another bolt followed almost immediately, hitting their mast directly. The wooden pole shattered, sending burning splinters in all directions.

Ġużepp was thrown backward as electricity coursed through the boat’s wet timbers. Another massive bolt arced toward them, drawn to the metal fittings of their craft. Death seemed certain.

In that moment, I made a choice I had rarely made in thousands of years of watching. I moved toward the danger rather than away. Toward Ġużepp, whose life seemed suddenly precious beyond measure.

I cannot explain why his fate mattered more than countless others I had watched die. Perhaps because of what he represented—the bridge between my ancient people and these newcomers, between Malta’s past and future.

As the lightning sought the small vessel, I placed myself—my consciousness, my essence—between it and the two men who seemed suddenly precious beyond measure. The electrical energy seemed to hesitate, then pour into me like water into a vessel.

It was pain and pleasure and power at once.

The lightning’s energy surged through my non-physical form, more than I could contain. Some discharged outward, striking the water around them. Ġużepp and Toni were knocked flat in their boat but remained largely unharmed. As they struggled to regain their senses, Toni grabbed Ġużepp’s arm.

“Look!” he shouted over the storm’s roar, pointing to the air above them.

For the briefest moment, both men saw a shimmering outline—a figure of light and energy hovering protectively over their vessel. It was translucent, barely visible through the rain, but unmistakably present.

“Il-Ħares,” Toni whispered, making the sign of the cross.

The apparition flickered and vanished, leaving only the howling storm and the memory of something ancient and powerful that had intervened on their behalf.

When they finally struggled back to shore hours later, Rozina was waiting, her healer’s instincts already having prepared treatments for hypothermia and injuries.

As for me, the experience left me drained in ways I had never known. For weeks afterward, I drifted in a state between consciousness and oblivion, unable to observe or interact.

When I finally regained myself, something had changed. I could influence small objects—move a pebble, stir a candle flame, create a whisper that almost reached human ears.

The lightning had awakened something dormant within me. A capability I had not known I possessed.

And more significant still—I had been seen. For the second time in thousands of years of watching, human eyes had perceived me, however briefly. The knowledge both thrilled and frightened me.

Lightning seeks ground
Guardian steps between worlds
Energy transforms