The lighthouse in Malta’s Grand Harbour worked like clockwork.
Twenty-five-year-old Count Giulio Litta, having taken command of the port guard that evening, sat down to dinner.
It was damp in the old customs building erected back in the days of Jean de La Valette.
“No, this is not a Christian island!” Robertino declared after the first Maltese night seven years earlier. He hated damp sheets almost as much as jealous husbands. “Quite the opposite, Your Excellency!”