Publishing a book requires a collective effort, so I would like to thank a few of the people who helped The Lost Throne see the light of day.
As always, I’d like to start off by thanking my family. Without their love and support, I wouldn’t be the writer (or the person) that I am today.
Professionally, I want to thank Scott Miller, my remarkable agent. Before we teamed up, I couldn’t find a publisher. Now my books are available in several languages around the world. How you pulled off that miracle, I’ll never know. But keep up the great work! While I’m at it, I want to thank Claire Roberts, my main foreign agent, and everyone else at Trident Media who has helped my career during the past few years. Wow, what a great organization.
Actually, I can say the same thing about the Penguin Group. In particular, I’d like to single out my editor, Natalee Rosenstein, and her amazing assistant, Michelle Vega. Working with them has been wonderful. I’d also like to thank Ivan Held and the publishing and marketing wizards at Putnam. I hope this is the beginning of a long relationship.
Next up is my extraordinary friend Ian Harper. Through the magic of e-mail, he gets to read my work before anyone else, and his suggestions and advice are always invaluable. So if anyone’s looking for a freelance editor, let me know. I’d be happy to put you in touch with him.
Last but not least, a big thanks to all the readers, booksellers, critics, and librarians who have read my books and recommended them to others. At this stage of my career, I need all the help I can get, so I would appreciate your continued support.
Okay. Now that I’m done expressing my gratitude, it’s time for the good stuff.
Just sit back, relax, and let me tell you a story. . . .
PROLOGUE
CHRISTMAS DAY, 1890
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 more closely, 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 until it 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 semicata tonic 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