Piazza della Santa Carità
Naples, Italy
THE greatest secret of ancient Greece was silenced by a death in Italy.
Not a shooting or a stabbing or a murder of any kind-although dozens of those would occur later-but a good old-fashioned death. One minute the man was strolling across the Piazza della Santa Carità, pondering the significance of his discovery; the next, he was sprawled on his stomach in the middle of the cold square. People rushed to his side, hoping to help him to his feet, but one look at his gaunt face told them that he needed medical attention.
Two policemen on horseback were flagged down, and they rushed him to the closest hospital, where he slipped in and out of consciousness for the next hour. They asked him his name, but he couldn’t answer. His condition had stolen his ability to speak.
The man wore a fancy suit and overcoat, both of which revealed his status. His hair was thin and gray, suggesting a man in his sixties. A bushy mustache covered his upper lip.
Doctors probed his clothes, searching for identification, but found nothing of value. No papers. No wallet. No money. If they had only looked closer, they might have noticed the secret pocket sewn into the lining of his coat, and the mystery would have ended there. But as hospital policy dictated, no identification meant no treatment. Not even on Christmas morning.
With few options, the police took him to the local station house, an ancient building made of brick and stone that would shelter him from the bitter winds of the Tyrrhenian Sea. They fed him broth and let him rest on a cot in an open cell, hoping he would regain his voice.
In time, he regained several.
Starting with a whisper that barely rose above the level of his breath, the sound slowly increased, building to a crescendo that could be heard by the two officers in the next room. They hurried down the corridor, expecting to find the stranger fully awake and willing to answer their questions. Instead they saw a man in a semicatatonic state who was babbling in his sleep.
His eyes were closed and his body was rigid, yet his lips were forming words.
One of the officers made the sign of the cross and said a short prayer while the other ran for a pencil and paper. When he returned, he pulled a chair up to the cot and tried to take notes in a small journal. Maybe they’d get an address. Or if they were really lucky, maybe even a name. But they got none of those things. In fact, all they got was more confused.
The first words spoken were German. Then French. Then Portuguese. Before long he was mixing several languages in the same sentence. Dutch followed by Spanish and Latin. English layered with Greek and Russian. Every once in a while he said something in Italian, but the words were so random and his accent so thick that they made little sense. Still, the officer transcribed everything he could and before long he noticed some repetition. One word seemed to be repeated over and over. Not only in Italian but in other languages as well.
Il trono. Le trône. El trono.
The throne.
This went on for several minutes. Language after language from one man’s mouth. Like the devil speaking in tongues. Then, just as quickly as it started, it stopped.
No more words. No more clues.
The man would never speak again.
Two days later, after he had been identified, newspapers around the globe reported his death. Yet there was no mention of his strange behavior. Nothing about his ramblings or the throne he kept describing. Instead, reporters focused on the colorful details of his life-his wealth, his accomplishments, his discoveries. All the things that made him famous.
Of course, if they had known the truth about his final days, what he had finally found after years of searching, they would have written a much different story.
One of fire, deception, and ancient gold.
One that wouldn’t have an ending for two more centuries.
CHAPTER 1
Present day
Saturday, May 17th
Metéora, Greece
THE monk felt the wind on his face as he plummeted to his death, a journey that started with a scream and ended with a thud.
Moments before, he had been standing near the railing of the Moni Agia Triada, the Monastery of the Holy Trinity. It was one of six monasteries perched on natural rock pillars near the Pindus Mountains in central Greece. Known for their breathtaking architecture, the monasteries had been built two thousand feet in the air with one purpose in mind: protection.
But on this night, their sanctity was breached.
The intruders had crossed the valley and climbed the hillside with silent precision. They carried no guns or artillery, preferring the weapons of their ancestors. Swords stored in scabbards were strapped to their backs. Daggers in leather sheaths hung from their hips. Bronze helmets covered their entire heads except for their eyes and mouths.
Centuries ago the final leg of their mission would have been far more treacherous, requiring chisels and ropes to scale the rock face. But that was no longer the case-not since 140 steps had been carved into the sandstone, leading to the entrance of Holy Trinity. Its front gate was ten feet high and made of thick wood, yet they breached it easily and slipped inside, spreading through the compound like a deadly plague.
The first to die was the lookout who, instead of doing his job, had been staring at the twinkling lights of Kalampáka, the small city that rested at the base of the plateau. Sadly, it was the last mistake he ever made. No questions were asked, no quarter was given. One minute he was pondering the meaning of life, the next his life was over.
No bullets. No blades. Just gravity and the rocks below.
One of the monks inside the church heard his scream and tried to warn the others, but before he could, the intruders burst through both doors. Brandishing their swords, they forced all the monks into the center of the room, where the holy men were frisked and their hands were tied.
Seven monks in total. A mixture of young and old.
Just as the intruders had expected.
For the next few minutes, the monks sat in silence on the hard wooden pews. Some of them closed their eyes and prayed to God for divine intervention. Others seemed reconciled to their fate. They knew the risks when they accepted this duty, what their brotherhood had endured and protected for centuries.
They were the keepers of the book. The chosen ones.
And soon they would be forced to die.
With the coldness of an executioner, the leader of the soldiers strode into the church. At first glance he looked like a moving work of art: muscle stacked upon muscle in statuesque perfection, a gleaming blade in his grasp. Unlike the others who had entered before him, his helmet was topped with a plume of red horsehair, a crest that signified his rank.
To the monks, he was the face of death.
Without saying a word, he nodded to his men. They sprang into action, grabbing one of the monks and dragging him toward the stone altar. Orthodox tradition prevented the brethren from trimming their facial hair after receiving tonsure-a symbolic shaving of their heads-so his beard was long and gray, draping the front of his black cassock like a hairy bib.
“What do you want from us?” cried the monk as he was shoved to his knees. “We have done nothing wrong!”
The leader stepped forward. “You know why I’m here. I want the book.”
“What book? I know nothing about a book!”
“Then you are no use to me.”
He punctuated his statement with a flick of his sword, separating the monk’s head from his body. For a split second the monk’s body didn’t move, somehow remaining upright as if no violence had occurred. Then suddenly it slumped forward, spilling its contents onto the floor.