The Lost Throne

by Chris Kuzneski

  He had walked the trail so many times he knew the route by heart. Up ahead there was a slight dip in the path followed by a gradual climb. Nothing too steep or his lungs wouldn’t be able to handle it. That was one of the drawbacks of his pack-a-day habit. Stench was another. If he wasn’t careful, he would reek of smoke when he returned at the end of his shift.

  That’s why he liked smoking here. He had plenty of time to air out before he got back to Dáfni.

  With a cigarette pressed between his lips, he pulled his lighter from his uniform pocket and flicked it with his thumb. A quick flash followed by a steady flame lit up his immediate surroundings. He slowly brought it toward his face when he realized something was wrong. Although it hadn’t rained in days, the path and the nearby trees glistened in the firelight.

  “What in the world?” he mumbled in Greek.

  Intrigued, he moved a few steps closer and extended his lighter in front of him.

  Then, and only then, did he see the headless mule.

  The lights were out in his hotel room, but Dial was wide awake.

  He lay on his bed, furious, incensed over his investigation. He had wasted an entire day, and for what? To be jerked around by the community that he was trying to protect. In his line of work, he dealt with political bullshit all the time, but normally it involved two different countries fighting over evidence or the right to prosecute a case.

  But this? This was something new.

  Hell, it was so new he didn’t know how to work around it.

  Dial’s seething continued until he heard a knock on his door. Actually, it was more than a knock. It was more like an urgent pounding.

  “Open up,” said the voice in the hall. “It’s Petros.”

  Dial flipped on the light and opened the door. Petros was in civilian clothes. His hair was disheveled and his cheeks were flushed. His eyes were filled with passion.

  “What’s wrong?” Dial wondered.

  “Tell me about your case,” Petros demanded as he barged into the room.

  “My case? You know about my case. I’m investigating the deaths at Metéora.”

  “Yes, I know. But tell me how they died.”

  Earlier Dial had skipped the gruesome details, preferring not to show his cards until he was admitted to Mount Athos. Now that plan no longer seemed possible.

  “One monk was thrown over the cliff. The other seven were beheaded.”

  “Beheaded? By who?”

  Dial stared at him. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  “Men dressed as Spartans.”

  “Spartans?”

  “Armor, shields, swords. The whole ensemble.”

  “You are serious?”

  Dial nodded. “Do you think I would’ve stayed the night if I was joking?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Not only that,” he growled, “I got word today that they killed three cops. At least we think they did, because we still haven’t found them.”

  Petros pondered this information for several seconds before he spoke. “Get your assistant and come with me. We are going to the mountain.”

  Dial paused, surprised. “Wait. You’re letting us go inside?”

  “Yes. I am granting you emergency access.”

  “Why? What’s happened?”

  “Two monks have been killed with swords. And we just found their bodies.”

  Dial and Andropoulos pinned visitor badges to their shirts and followed Petros through the gate. A four-wheel-drive vehicle resembling a large golf cart was waiting for them. Dial sat up front next to Petros. Andropoulos climbed in the backseat, which faced the rear.

  “What do you know?” Dial asked.

  “Not much,” Petros explained as he drove. “I was sleeping at the barracks when I got the news. Two monks and a mule were slaughtered near Néa Skiti.”

  “They killed a mule?”

  “Cut its head clean off.”

  “Who found it?”

  “One of our guards.”

  Dial considered the information as their cart bumped up and down along the narrow path. The vehicle had one working headlight, which barely lit the way—especially at the speed they were traveling. By the time they saw something, they were already running it over.

  “How far is it?”

  “Far. It’s near the southwest corner of the peninsula.”

  “What else is down there?”

  “Two small sketes and a beach.”

  “Any treasures?”

  Petros shook his head. “The sketes are small communities of hermitic monks. They live away from the monasteries to get away from all the riches.”

  “And the closest monastery?”

  “Agíou Pávlou. It’s a few miles from the sketes.”

  “Have the monks been warned?”

  Petros nodded. “We are doing that right now. Unfortunately, Mount Athos is large and our numbers are small. Especially at night.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Most of the guards live elsewhere. At the end of their shift, they go home. I am one of the few employees who sleep here.”

  “Hold up. How many guards are we talking?”

  Petros shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe twenty.”

  “Twenty?” Dial blurted. “You have twenty guards for the entire peninsula? You have that many monasteries!”

  “This is true, but—”

  “Stop the cart!” Dial ordered. “Stop the cart right now!”

  Petros slammed on the brakes. “What is it? What is wrong?”

  “We need guns.”

  “Guns?” he stammered. “I can’t give you guns. It is not allowed.”

  “Fine. Then turn around and take us back to Dáfni.”

  “But—”

  “But what?” Dial growled. “These guys have killed ten monks, three cops, and a fucking mule. If you want our help, you need to give us guns. Otherwise, I’m going back to bed.”

  67

  To announce prayer and mealtimes on Mount Athos, a monk strikes a simandro, a carved wooden plank that echoes throughout the grounds of his monastery. In the event of an emergency, it can also be used as a warning device. One monk sounds the alarm, pounding on it rhythmically until a monk at the neighboring monastery follows his lead. In a matter of minutes, the sound sweeps around the peninsula like war drums on a battlefield.

  Bringing up the rear, Jones was the first from his group to hear it. He called ahead to Payne and Allison, who stopped on the wooded hillside to listen.

  “Is that because of us?” Allison wondered.

  Payne shook his head. “No way. If they spotted us, they would have stopped us.”

  “Maybe they saw Jarkko.”

  “Doing what?” Jones teased. “Peeing off the side of his yacht? Right now he’s anchored a mile offshore.”

  “It’s not us and it’s not Jarkko,” Payne assured them. “Something else is going on.”

  Jones listened as the pounding continued. “Do we have company?”

  Payne nodded as he took the pack from his shoulders. He reached inside and pulled out his gun. “Someone hired Kozlov to kill Richard. We hoped he’d surface sometime.”

  “And he was spotted?” Allison asked.

  “Maybe,” Payne said. “Or maybe he hired reinforcements to find the treasure.”

  A pollo heard the sound and knew exactly what it meant. He had grown up in the Taygetos Mountains where simandros were common. A few seconds of clanging told the workers in the fields what time it was. But a few minutes of pounding was an alarm.

  Now that the element of surprise was gone, it was time for phase two.

  In Ancient Sparta, hoplites fought together in a phalanx. They stood side by side, their shields locked together to protect one another, while a second row of soldiers thrust their spears over the front wall of shields. The Spartans were so adept at this technique that they could conquer vastly larger forces while suffering minimal losses.


  Unfortunately, that style of warfare would not help them here.

  They weren’t looking for a fight. They were looking for the book.

  And they wanted to find it as quickly as possible.

  In Apollo’s mind, the best way to accomplish that goal was to split up. Ten soldiers marching together could be spotted from the air. But ten men spread across the mountain would be hard to stop—especially if they were strategically placed to intercept anyone in pursuit.

  The monks had stopped their pounding by the time Dial arrived at the crime scene. A duty holster carried his gun and extra ammo. Andropoulos and Petros were armed as well.

  The guard who found the bodies reeked of tobacco. He had smoked half a pack while waiting for his boss to arrive. A few guards worked in the background, searching the nearby woods for clues and other victims. But the smoking guard stayed on the path, still frazzled from his gruesome discovery. Petros spoke to him in Greek while Dial walked the scene.

  “Marcus,” Dial said to Andropoulos, “these guys came ashore for a reason. We need to figure out what they’re looking for.”

  “How can I help?”

  “Go and talk to the guards. Ask them if there’s anything over here besides the sketes.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said as he ran off.

  Meanwhile, Dial took a moment to study the trail. Normally, he would have focused on the blood and the bodies, trying to figure out what had happened. But that wasn’t necessary in this case. He knew enough about the Spartans to recognize their handiwork, so his immediate goal was capture, not conviction. He wanted to stop his opponents before they could strike again.

  Shining his flashlight along the edge of the path, Dial searched for footprints and found several in the loose soil. As far as he could tell, all of them were heading north—away from the water below toward the mountain above. That meant they weren’t marching along the path toward one of the monasteries. Instead, they had been crossing the path when they came across the monks.

  “Did you find something?” Petros wondered.

  Dial countered the question with one of his own. “How far are we from the beach?”

  “Just over half a mile. Why?”

  “Did anyone check for boats?”

  “Harbor patrol was called. They will tell us if they find something.”

  “If they do, tell them to lock it down. We don’t want these guys escaping.”

  “I will tell them.” Petros pulled out his radio and walked away.

  “Sir,” Andropoulos called from behind. “The guards assured me there is nothing over here but some caves. Centuries ago, hermits lived in them for months at a time, but that practice stopped when the sketes were built.”

  “Where are the caves located?”

  “All over the place. The mountain is full of them.”

  “And they’ve been here for centuries?”

  “They’re caves, sir. They’ve been around since the dinosaurs.”

  Jarkko sat on his yacht more than a mile away from the shore. Even from way out there, he had heard the monks pounding on their simandros. The sound rolled across the water like thunder.

  Curious about all the commotion, he decided to move closer.

  At this time of night, he had the biggest boat in the Singitic Gulf. Sixty-five feet long, accommodations for six, and a master bath complete with a small hot tub. If he got too close to Mount Athos, the harbor patrol would notice him for sure. Normally, he wouldn’t care. He would have a drink in one hand, and he would flip them off with the other.

  But tonight, he couldn’t afford the extra attention.

  His goal was to get close enough to assist his friends in case they needed help, but far enough away that he looked like a fisherman trolling for fish.

  To complete his façade, he got out a rod and reel, lit a cigar, and put up his feet.

  Staring at Mount Athos, Dial asked, “Are the monks safe?”

  “All of the monasteries are fortified,” Petros explained. “Sturdy gates, heavy doors, elevated architecture. They should be fine.”

  “What about the guards? What are they doing?”

  “Protecting the monasteries.”

  Dial grimaced. “Twenty guards are protecting twenty monasteries? No, wait. Make that sixteen guards because some of your men are over here. I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but that seems like an inefficient use of manpower.”

  “That is not my job. I am in charge of customs. I am not in charge of the guards.”

  “Who is?”

  Petros explained that the leader of the guards was currently on vacation. And the acting leader of the guards was in Karyes, trying to coordinate his men from the capital city.

  “Do you have any pull with him?” Dial asked.

  Petros nodded. “I hope so. I helped him get hired.”

  Dial smiled. That would make things easier. “I don’t want to overstep my bounds here, but I have a lot of experience with manhunts. Since the monks are safe, our main goal is to find the assailants as quickly as possible.”

  “Yes. That would be best.”

  Dial pointed to several footprints near the trail. “The Spartans killed the monks and then continued up the mountain. I don’t know where they’re headed, but our best chance to find them is with as many guards as possible.”

  Petros nodded in agreement. “I will make the suggestion.”

  Dial shined his flashlight on the nearby trees. Many of the branches had been disturbed. Some had been cut with swords. From the physical evidence, he guessed roughly a dozen Spartans had made the journey north.

  “One more thing,” Dial added. “Make sure they’re armed as well.”

  68

  The Spartans moved swiftly and silently in pairs. Some of them continued up the mountain, searching for the ancient book. Others sprinted across the slope, striving to kill the guards before their search gained momentum. Without modern weapons, the Spartans realized they had to choose their battles carefully. They couldn’t wage war in an open field, so they positioned themselves for a sneak attack, using the rocks and branches as camouflage.

  The first confrontation was remarkably one-sided. Two young guards, who were used to patrolling the eastern side of the peninsula, trudged up the mountain, their flashlights leading their way. The Spartans saw the beams from their position in the trees a full minute before the guards were underneath them. In unison, they leapt on top of the guards, using their weight and gravity to drive their blades through the guards’ shoulders all the way to their hearts. Blood sprayed in all directions, coating the Spartans’ hands and faces. And both of them loved it.

  In their world, the only thing that quenched their thirst was the blood of the enemy.

  And since they rarely got to taste it, they planned to drink all night.

  The next pair of Spartans weren’t as lucky. They had been asked to defend the southeastern slope of Mount Athos. Since their boat had landed on the southwest corner of the peninsula, they had been forced to run across the breadth of the mountain in order to get into position.

  Shortly after getting there, they spotted a single beam of light. Despite the rocks and fallen tree branches that clogged the slope, it moved up the gradient at a steady rate. The Spartans grinned in anticipation. One of them took his position in the trees above. The other ducked down behind a large boulder that was partially embedded into the turf.

  Their ambush would begin a minute later.

  Fifty yards away, Payne was oblivious to their presence. There was no way for him to know the Spartans were waiting for him. They hadn’t scaled the hill that Payne was climbing, so no footprints marred the ground. And the Spartans had moved without light, their years of training preparing them for moments like this, when they were asked to hunt in darkness.

  In fact, if not for a lucky break, Payne probably would have been filleted by one of the Spartans’ blades before he even knew what hit him. But the best-trained soldiers are able to take advantage of oppor
tunities, letting them live another day. Many heroes could recall the land mine that didn’t go off when they stepped on it, or the dropped canteen that caused them to bend over just as the bullet whizzed overhead.

  In this case, it was the simple crack of a branch as the Spartan shifted his weight that alerted Payne to the danger in the trees. He glanced up just as the Spartan leapt, his sword held above him ready to strike. In one fluid motion, Payne fell backward onto his pack and extended his arms forward. With two rapid pulls of his trigger, he sent two rounds into the night. The first caught the Spartan just below his trachea. It ripped through the cartilage of his neck and tore through the center of his spine before it dug itself into a nearby branch.

  Bullet number two struck the man six inches higher and slightly to the left, missing the metal flap of his helmet by a fraction of an inch. His cheekbone exploded from the impact, as did the back of his skull. By the time he landed on Payne, the Spartan was already dead. His blade clanged harmlessly to the ground, followed by Allison’s screams of terror.

  Jones saw the attack from his position in the rear. He charged forward, more concerned about Payne than Allison’s screaming, just as the second assault began. When Payne fired his gun, he had dropped his light, which gave the hidden Spartan a window of opportunity. Using the darkness as his ally, he crept out from behind the boulder and inched down the hill.

  “What the hell was that?” Payne demanded as Jones pulled the dead Spartan off him. Blood covered the front of Payne’s clothes as he struggled to make sense of what had happened.

  Jones flipped the body onto its back and stared at half a face. The rest was either torn asunder from Payne’s bullet or covered by the metal helmet.

  “Seriously,” Payne repeated. “What the hell was that?”

  Jones was about to answer when he noticed the second Spartan. “Behind you!”

  Payne, who was sitting on the ground and facing downhill, arched his body backward as he lifted his gun over his head. At the same time, Jones pointed his gun at the creeping shadow. Bullets sprang from both weapons as the Spartan charged forward. The first shot pinged off his shield, but his luck stopped there. From his position on the ground, Payne fired low, splintering the Spartan’s legs with multiple shots. Meanwhile, Jones aimed high, squeezing his trigger in rapid succession until he hit brain.