The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation

by John Paul Davis

  She sat opposite her grandmother, her eyes still on the table. Steam rose from the head of a freshly made cup of coffee while a homemade chestnut soup was beginning to cool inside a small bowl.

  Elena glanced at the bowl. “I have made you your favourite. Eat. You must keep up your strength.”

  Though the familiar aroma was appealing, her stomach still felt queasy. She took a slice of homemade bread from a side plate, dipped it in the soup and ate until the slice was gone.

  She figured it would be enough to keep her grandmother happy.

  The purple stone was still to leave her grandmother’s hand; even from a distance its mystifying qualities were clear to see. She knew she didn’t dare study it on the plane.

  As far as the passengers were aware, she was just a holidaymaker heading to Hugh Town.

  She wiped her mouth and asked, “What is it? I take it you understand.”

  Elena picked up a large magnifying glass from the table and handed the glass and the stone to Valeria. “Here. The markings are only visible when magnified. Careful. The stone is fragile.”

  The warning wasn’t necessary. Valeria remembered from taking possession of the rose stone beneath the Star Castle that even the smallest mistake could put everything in jeopardy.

  She took the stone and ran her fingers along the grooves. The exterior was cleaner than it had been; a soft lemon fragrance permeated it. She left her seat and switched on the kitchen light, closing the curtains as a precaution.

  She studied everything with the magnifying glass, focusing on every side in turn. The core was strange, as if somehow out of perspective.

  Unlike the exterior, it appeared to be made of liquid.

  Elena sat with her arms folded, her eyes unblinking. Valeria had seen that look before.

  Since the day of her arrival, she had rued her inability to read the woman’s thoughts.

  “The gold is still in the mine,” Valeria said, replacing both items on the table. “The others are all dead, including Juan. I saw them with my own eyes. There is no one else who knows.”

  Elena gestured again to the food. “Eat. It’s important you keep up your strength.”

  Valeria picked up the spoon and lowered it into the creamy liquid, blowing softly before taking the first mouthful. Unlike the coffee, the soup had cooled sufficiently to be taken at speed.

  She took several mouthfuls and wiped her lips with a serviette. “All of the replica emeralds have now been found. Only with all five could the door to the mine be opened. It will never close unless they are removed. If we return, we must go soon.” She noticed a strange look in her grandmother’s eye. “What is it?”

  Elena moved to the seat next to her and retook possession of the stone. “Look. See the patterns. Why do the lines move in such ways?”

  In truth, Valeria was still to even question it. “My concern has never been about its appearance. Only its ownership.”

  Elena smiled. “Nothing remains the same forever. Those who harbour the greatest treasures eventually learn they cannot take them into the afterlife. When the great Aztec lord knew his empire was crumbling, his men bargained with Cortés that lives be spared in exchange for things less valuable. Sadly it was our own countrymen who failed to learn which was of greatest importance.”

  “My friend is dead. I saw him bleed. Helping him would have only prolonged his agony.” Valeria’s eyes were cold, steely. “Did I do wrong?”

  Elena picked up the glass and pointed. “Take a look here.”

  Valeria focused on the area beyond her grandmother’s fingernail. Through the lens, the lines seemed more defined, as though a primitive artist had engraved a series of letters into the liquid centre. Like the five stones that had been scattered among the Isles of Scilly, it appeared to be conveying a message.

  She made out five letters: tillo

  “What does it mean?”

  The old woman’s expression changed, no longer inquisitive but philosophical. “The Stone of Fire was only ever recorded twice in writing. The first was by its creators, over a thousand years before the coming of the Europeans. The writer claimed the stone was brought from the east by a winged serpent who dropped it in a golden nest. The gift was one of great significance. To bestow the blessings of that god.”

  “Quetzalcoatl?”

  The woman nodded. “The second account came much later, written by a man who travelled with Cortés. While he was there, Cortés discovered it inside a sacred temple a long way from the city. It was said in the original book that the conqueror was moved to tears by a light unlike any other.”

  “Which man?”

  “You will know his name; you have heard it many times.”

  “Díaz?”

  Her grandmother nodded. “In the early years, the keepers spoke of a great rare metal, its exterior the colour of lamb’s blood. The stone was kept for many years. Then it was taken away.”

  Valeria’s gaze returned to the table. The stone before her was purple. “And the second?”

  “Díaz described almost a perfect match. The stone he found was identical to the one of legend in every way, red like blood.”

  Valeria studied the material in front of her. “Then what is this?”

  “In the original accounts, the stone was described as being unlike anything else ever seen in their culture, different to every jewel that existed in that land. Once every fifty-two years, people from throughout the empire would come to visit and offer sacrifices in the hope of obtaining a blessing from the gods. When the Spanish came, they saw nothing quite so holy.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “If the accounts of the soldier are correct, at the time of the Spanish invasion, the stone was accompanied by four lesser stones, hidden in a secret chamber below the temple: one was gold, one blue, one purple – similar to this – and the last green. None were present in the Templo Mayor on the night of La Noche Triste. When the conquistadors reached the coast, much of the treasure had already been lost or recaptured. The fate of the stones, however, was not recorded.”

  Valeria allowed herself time to process the find. “So what happened? If Catalina returned, the stones could have been recovered.”

  “Even at the very end, the soldier was precise in his writings. Those who left Mexico returned to Extremadura. The riches due to the Spanish Crown were originally given; or at least the Spanish Crown had not been suspicious enough at the time to investigate Cortés’s actions. When Hernán Cortés left the New World a second time, he returned to Spain with even greater riches. Only that which he brought to Extremadura was transported in secret.”

  Valeria listened intently. The stories she had been told during her youth had always had a consistent theme: the treasure of her ancestors had never been found. The exact contents had a tendency to change slightly, particularly as she got older. Whatever Catalina had brought from Mexico never made it to Spain. The rest had been left behind.

  In Mexico.

  Her thoughts returned to the purple stone. “So is this one of the four or a fake?”

  “When Cortés brought this stone to Madrid, the King of Spain desired it more than anything else, believing it to be the real stone.” Elena shook her head. “In order to appease the king, Cortés offered him a large quantity of different jewels. When his majesty ordered experts to value the stone, no two could ever agree on an exact amount. When Cortés heard of the projections, his greed escalated to new levels. When the king became aware of Cortés’s real intentions, his appreciation of him turned to fury. That was his greatest mistake.”

  Valeria glanced at her food and pushed the bowl away. “What happened?”

  “Do you remember when you were young, people in the village used to speak of the legends of the serpent?”

  “I remember mother got lost up in the monastery when she was a little girl.” She also remembered having a conversation with Ben about it less than three days earlier.

  The mention of her mother seemed to upset her gran
dmother. “Poor child.” She joined her hands together tightly. “Your uncle, too, was cursed by his impatience.”

  Valeria was confused. “I thought the legends of the mountains were older? That the people who dwelled there came from the south.”

  “The Saracens?” She raised her eyebrows, confident she had understood correctly. “The mountains are old; there are parts still that have never been explored. When the monastery was lost, the riches of the order disappeared – be it by monk or monster only God now knows. Years later, skeletons in robes were found deep within the mountain. All they carried were the clothes they stood up in.”

  “So things may still be hidden there?”

  “When Cortés returned to Spain, he knew the castle at Medellín would no longer be a safe place to hide the treasures. If the king was to order a search, he knew his life would be forfeit.”

  Valeria was sceptical. “The castle has vaults. You have seen them yourself.”

  The old woman shook her finger. “Hernán Cortés was a shrewd man. The castle was searched, many times. He knew any evidence of gold beneath the ground would only intensify the king’s rage. The design of the castle is clever, but not clever enough to withstand inspection indefinitely. Cortés knew the only way to withstand scrutiny was to hide the treasure in a place no one would look.”

  “In Extremadura?”

  “The word of the soldier was respected as truth by all who heard it. Cortés knew that any hint of a trail would have awful repercussions. For that reason, the manuscript was censored. Only one full copy was made, which Díaz gave to his commander.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “When Catalina was murdered by agents of the king, the property fell into the royal hands. Many attempts were made to salvage the treasure. All failed, aside from one.”

  Valeria’s eyes were suddenly alight.

  “When Catalina passed over, her daughter sought vengeance on those who killed her mother. One night, she ventured to Valladolid and broke into the palace. Later she fled, never caught. Years later, the manuscript was discovered. Not on St Lide’s, but deep among the archives.”

  “She was not discovered?”

  “Fortunately her family has always been blessed by loyal friends. When the book was translated, it was used by another in our family.” Her voice tailed off, tears veiled her eyes.

  Valeria needed no clarification. “Pedro?”

  Elena dried her eyes and continued cagily, “For five hundred years, men have ventured into the mountains, searching for what Cortés hid there. All fell at the first hurdle for the same reason.”

  After recent days spent searching for the stones with Colts and Ben, Valeria sensed she knew exactly what her grandmother had in mind. “So it was definitely buried in the mountains?” She rose to her feet, suddenly furious. The revelation was shocking. All this time something lay hidden on her childhood doorstep. “Why did you not say?”

  Elena needed a moment to compose herself.

  “Mother told me the treasure in the mountains once belonged to the Moors and had been brought back from the Crusades. That Uncle Pedro was inspired by stories of the Nazis.”

  Mention of that word soured Elena’s mood further. “That the Germans came is true. They came one night through our village, driving one vehicle and asking questions about the monastery. They stayed only one day, then disappeared. Later they returned again.”

  “They found nothing?”

  Elena shook her head. “Like the mine in Cornwall, the path can only be found by one who knows where to look.” She felt the hard exterior of the stone with her leathery fingers. Then she reached below the table and produced a second stone almost identical to the first.

  Only it was green instead of purple.

  Valeria was speechless.

  “Pedro succeeded in discovering the new paths, yet unfortunately over the years they had become ruined. The pathways beneath the castle go deep; when you enter, the light goes fast.” Her eyes reddened with tears. “The first time Pedro returned, he brought back photos that showed the way. For one year afterwards, he would sit in his room, reading books and creating maps. The plans were detailed. Eight agreed to join his quest. When he returned, he left in good weather. They say early summer is the best time. After three days, they spoke on the radio of entering a lost tunnel. That was the last time I ever spoke to him. None of the nine were ever found.”

  Valeria watched in silence as her grandmother mourned the memory of her son. She placed her hand on her grandmother’s wrist. “Why did you never tell me? Uncle Pedro was my family, too. If the treasure is there, we owe it to him to find it.”

  Elena squeezed tightly and let go. Then, she placed the two stones together, side by side.

  The first thing Valeria noticed was how together the illusion changed. It reminded her of the eureka moment in the bar of the Gibbous Moon.

  Elena spoke again. “My mother once told me that Hernán Cortés created four of these stones, exact replicas of four that sat inside the original temple. Only together would they reveal the location of what was hidden. This was written in no history book. Only those of direct descent were told the true story.”

  Valeria examined the stones, paying them similar attention. Again she saw letters in the second.

  Cabañ

  Elena continued, “Years later, Juan’s father shared the story with me with his own rat tongue.”

  “He never found it?”

  “David” – she spoke of Juan Cortés’s father – “discovered one of the pieces hidden away in Cuba. Years earlier, they had already inherited the first.” She edged closer to her granddaughter and looked her squarely in the eyes. “If the stories are true, these are the last remaining pieces.”

  Valeria was suddenly breathless. A cold chill had descended, penetrating her lungs. Two out of four possible clues regarding the remainder of the great treasure were there before her.

  Only two remained.

  She heard a noise coming from above, footsteps. Chris had clearly awakened.

  “I’ll check on him.”

  Elena grabbed hold of her hand. “The riches in England must remain concealed. If what you say is true, it will take a miracle for another to locate them. If Adrian Nicholl is dead, we must move on before questions are asked. We must leave now.”

  “Where will we stay?”

  “Mérida. There is someone there we must see.”

  13

  His rucksack was practically empty, just as Ben feared it would be. The majority of the content had been books; the same four he had retrieved from his grandmother’s attic. A fifth had briefly joined it.

  Ironically, TF’s diary was now the only one of which he knew the whereabouts.

  Valeria’s belongings had also vanished; unlike him, she had brought only a light rucksack. He remembered her complaining on leaving St Mary’s of not being allowed time to pack. Due to the storm, Colts had refused her the opportunity to return to the lighthouse. She had stepped aboard the boat with only the clothes she stood up in and a few supplies from the Gibbous Moon.

  Colts’s van was missing, as, inevitably, were the keys. Ben considered calling the police.

  Then he decided against it.

  Colts concurred.

  *

  Cortés had returned to the mine on leaving Colts’s bedroom. He allowed himself a few moments to examine the lake of coins before dealing with the matter of Pizarro, Busquets and Alvarez.

  Danny was with him when Ben arrived. Choosing against using the entrance near the Raleigh statue, Ben took a golf buggy across the grounds of the estate to the pub and, aided by his walking stick, followed Danny’s instructions for entering the cellar.

  What he saw was surreal, even compared to what he had seen beneath the North Atlantic Inn. What began as a typical cellar room filled with beer kegs and wine bottles descended deep into a natural cavern. A pathway led in two directions: right, down into the heart of the mine, and left to the area from where, h
e guessed, Nicholl had opened fire. Heading right, at the bottom of the pathway, he saw the railway tracks surrounded by ancient carriages and tools.

  A second path, he vaguely remembered, led up to the treasure lake.

  Cortés had finished by the time Ben arrived. He stood close to the tracks with his head bowed, his hands joined together in deep contemplation. Danny kept his distance, unwilling to disturb him. Three gold crosses had been placed in the ground; Ben guessed Cortés had found them amongst the coins. Together they marked the graves of his comrades. There would be no grand ceremonies, no softly spoken words; nor would effigies or epitaphs cover their makeshift graves. The reminders would be simple, seen by no one else. It was a tribute in honour of those who had died seeking adventure and who abided by the same code of conduct.

  Life would go on without them.

  Ben cleared his throat. Cortés glanced over his shoulder.

  “I remember when I was a young boy, Fernando once burst into my room in the dead of night, screaming of a face looking back at him from the mirror. My father and his mother had been brother and sister; even when we were older we often stayed together in the same house.” He smiled faintly. “Even the day before yesterday, he pleaded with me not to leave him alone in the dungeon bar.”

  “I’m very sorry for your loss . . .” Ben leaned against his walking stick and glanced at Danny, who shrugged. Cautiously he approached Cortés.

  “I don’t wish to appear insensitive or anything, but you still have something of mine, and I’d rather like it back before I leave.”

  *

  Cortés had left the diary in his bedroom, a similarly impressive room with white walls, an antique four-poster bed, and lots of wooden furniture. He had initially gone for the room Valeria had chosen but changed his mind when Colts told him the full story.

  He entered the room in a hurry, stopping briefly to examine his reflection in the antique mirror that overlooked the fireplace. His long hair had become unkempt, his goatee beard uncharacteristically ragged. The rest of his facial hair was also longer than usual; he was still to shave since leaving Spain.