“Hang on,” Payne insisted. “You’ll really like this one. We saved the best for last.”
Then, with his typical flash of showmanship, Payne threw the door aside to reveal the most attractive woman Blount had ever seen.
Dark brown hair. Dark brown eyes. Unbelievable figure. Simply dazzling.
She stood there for several seconds, speechless, unsure of what to do next. Finally, with her composure regained, she grabbed Payne’s arm and glided across the room to meet the family member she’d never even known she had.
“Bennie,” Payne said with a lump in his throat, “I’d like to introduce you to someone who’s very special to me. This is your cousin Ariane.”
Author’s Note
While conducting my research for this novel, I read hundreds of journal entries that detailed the ungodly horrors that occurred on many nineteenth-century plantations. And
not
just the accounts of ex-slaves. In order to keep my research as balanced as possible, I studied just as many narratives from slave owners as I did from the slaves themselves. And do you know what? I’m glad I did, because it wasn’t until I read the firsthand accounts of these brutal men that I started to understand how malicious and sadistic some of them really were.
Sure, it was unsettling to read about the sting of a bullwhip from a slave’s point of view, but not nearly as disturbing as the words of one overseer who described the process of whipping his workers in near-orgasmic terms. “The delicious crack of leather on flesh fills my hand with delight and sends my body a shiver.”
Chilling, indeed.
It was those types of quotes that convinced me to include the graphic sequences that I did, scenes that are so full of carnage and torture (the Devil’s Box, the Listening Post, etc.) that some readers have complained to me about nightmares. Well, I’m sorry for your loss of sleep. But if I didn’t stress the gore and bloodshed of plantation life, then I would have been the one losing sleep. Because my story would have been less than accurate.
And now a special excerpt
from Chris Kuzneski’s
THE LOST THRONE
Coming soon in hardcover from
G. P. Putnam’s Sons!
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 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.