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 almost 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 almost two more centuries.
1
PRESENT DAY
Saturday, May 17
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 2,000 feet in the air with one purpose in mind: protection.
But on this night, their sanctuary 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 had known 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, he wore a helmet 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