“Sadly again, your logic is not without its flaws. Even the city of Teotihuacán has yet to be studied in sufficient detail to answer every query. Even an outsider cannot fail to acknowledge the clear inspiration the Aztecs took from it, nor the importance of the winged serpent to its people. A connection between the city and Tenochtitlán is already well documented. Who knows what great secrets remain hidden beneath the dirt?”
Ben delayed his response. Although he recognised that Cortés had made a valid point, a definitive connection with Colts’s pastel drawing was still a bridge too far for him.
“Just what was that thing you picked up in Madrid?”
Cortés placed his hand beneath the V-neck of his polo shirt and removed some form of trinket attached to a chain.
Ben couldn’t believe what he was seeing. A bizarre glow emanated from its core, reminding him of the stone he had seen in the mine. As Cortés placed his palms flat, Ben clearly made out its features: a diamond-shaped stone, smooth on all sides. The colour was red, in keeping with the so-called Stone of Fire, though no more than half the size of the one from Cornwall.
Cortés passed it to Ben. “Perhaps you have come across similar things?”
Apart from the stone in the mine, Ben had never seen anything remotely similar. Though he had seen other precious idols throughout his career, nothing rivalled the strange way the stones seemed to create their own light. His instinct told him the stone was probably crystal, but it felt lighter than expected. The exterior created a fractious tinny sound when he tapped it, similar to a spoon on concrete. Whatever was responsible for the inner patterns stumped him. Like the Cornwall stone, part of the interior appeared to be liquid coated by a tough shell. There was something familiar about the patterns; they reminded him of the replica emeralds that had led them to Cornwall.
There was a word written within the liquid interior.
Santuario.
Sanctuary.
Ben let go of the stone, and Cortés replaced it beneath his polo neck. Ben’s scepticism remained unchanged.
“You honestly believe this to be one of the stones we saw in Colts’s drawing? I’m sure it won’t have escaped your notice, there’s a word there written in Spanish.”
“As a man of your expertise will surely appreciate, great dangers arise when one gets too far ahead of oneself. When something fits the appearance of what one is looking for, it is only natural one gets excited.” The Spaniard’s expression became reticent. “You speak about wasting time following myths. Sometimes the quickest way to become sidetracked is by doing the exact opposite.”
Ben bit his lip, confused. “You mean we’re dealing with replicas?”
“Let me tell you a story, Ben; perhaps this one you will have heard before. When Hernán Cortés escaped the Aztec warriors on the sad night, he did not return to Spain immediately. Instead, he regrouped and inspired his men to lay siege to the city. By the middle of 1521, the great city had fallen firmly under his authority. The Aztec Empire was wiped out in one swift movement.”
Ben hated the way he gestured with his hands. “You know, more recently a guy named Adolf was scorned for doing almost the exact same thing.”
“I am not trying to defend the actions of those who came before me, nor justifying the necessities of war. Who knows what greatness civilisation might now be blessed with had the great cities and records been salvaged?
“Nevertheless, certain things have survived. While Hernán Cortés remained in Mexico, three great galleons did leave the Americas and sailed for Bilbao. Amongst their cargo were many great riches salvaged from the sad night.”
“I’m guessing that if this one was true, he failed to tell the King of Spain about all of it?” Ben replied.
“When Cortés returned, he brought with him many more great things, all of which were displayed before the court. Many there were captivated by what they saw; the queen herself was most envious of the five emeralds that my ancestor instead offered as a present to his wife.”
“Well, I’m guessing the king and queen must have had a long wait. Cortés didn’t return until 1528.”
“Not completely true. He returned briefly in 1521 but went back to Mexico in 1522, along with his wife.”
That didn’t agree with the history books. “I’m guessing this visit had something to do with the gold?”
“Despite the many great things my ancestor did for Mother Spain, even successful conquest of the New World was not enough to ensure lasting favour. Among my possessions are many letters confirming his true position. In 1520, he petitioned the king to return, but his request was refused. The next year, he returned anyway, bringing back many great things to Extremadura.”
“So what happened to these great things?”
Cortés’s expression became distant. “The answer to that question is the reason the slimy eel seeks the remainder of these.” He grasped the mysterious stone through his shirt. “Only when all are brought together can the final location be found.”
Ben remained sceptical. “If that’s the case, why was one of these found in the mine in Cornwall? Surely that one was owned by Catalina?”
“You are quite perceptive. Though Hernán Cortés was successful in bringing back large quantities of treasure, such amounts were insignificant when compared with what he left behind. For those alive at the time who had never seen the great empires of Mexico, understanding what existed would have been impossible. For the great man’s descendants, I imagine the stories were almost teasing in nature. People invariably struggle to understand what they have never seen.”
“So if Catalina took it to Mexico and later to Cornwall, what purpose did it serve? Surely by taking it to Mexico she risked losing it.”
“Many times in my family history, the keeping of great secrets has only been possible through great trust. When the treasures of Mexico were taken to Spain, the new location was closed off, lest it should fall victim of chance discovery. When Cortés’s sons and daughters had taken their share, it was forever hidden; the stones scattered among their respective families.”
“Sounds a lot like what happened with the Godolphin stones.”
“If Catalina Cortés did indeed survive her shipwreck and have children with a man from one of the local islands, the possibility that the custom began with her cannot be ruled out.”
“What of the other stones?”
“Including the stone taken from Cornwall, only two now remain unaccounted for. It is for that reason we are here.”
They both heard loud footsteps near the entrance to the bar.
Danny had entered. “I’ve managed to track down Maria’s address. She’s less than a mile away.”
24
A steady breeze blew from east to west. Valeria took a deep breath as she turned into it, savouring its fresh softness on her face. It felt invigorating, reminding her of her youth.
As a young girl, she had spent most of her summers enjoying a similar view, whiling away the time gazing out across the horizon, dreaming of adventure. The older she got, the surer she became that the stories would one day be of great significance. A day would come, her grandmother later told her, when life would change and events from the past would be revisited.
History rewritten.
There was something about the Extremaduran landscape that made it different to every other place in the world. Majestic oaks, rising from an ocean of green pasture, sparkled in the late-evening light as the sun began to set. Flocks of sheep grazed lazily, leg deep in wild flowers, watching over their lambs as they frolicked happily in the orchards, awaiting the return of the farmer and to be herded into their warm barn for the night. A lone eagle and a number of vultures glided, seemingly carried effortlessly across the sky on the prevailing thermal currents, alertly seeking their prey amongst the great steppes and dehesas that continued forever into the distance.
Valeria inhaled the aromas of the countryside, the effect so powerful it caused her eyes to water. She remembered as a ch
ild playing out in the open fields on numerous occasions beyond the boundaries of her own village, losing all sense of time and being chided by her mother for returning home after sundown. As time went by, she acquired a healthy respect for the environment and a practical understanding of the realities that it presented, how the secrets that lay out in the vast openness would count for nothing if you were dying from a scorpion bite.
The space beyond the village seemed endless, the terrain unforgiving. It was a land where over thirty kilometres could exist between villages, where the only form of civilisation existed under a rock. It was for such reasons the region had acquired a sinister reputation. What the eye might see as beautiful could be considered brutal by the rest of the body. The definition of the word Extremadura meant ‘extremely harsh’.
Naturalists referred to it as paradise.
*
There was no way up the hill except by road. The only possible alternative was to rock climb up from the foot of the hill and scale the castle walls the same way. Getting down presented an even greater problem.
Making the jump in the dark would be suicide.
Valeria scanned the ancient stone walls from a safe distance, chewing gum as she did to avoid grinding her teeth in frustration. The lack of light was both a positive and a negative; even with Juan Cortés dead, she knew entering his ancestral home would be foolish in daylight; but with the light gone, effective reconnaissance without appropriate night-vision equipment was virtually impossible. The castle dated from the sixteenth century, the concentric layout built to deter uninvited access. She had seen the plans herself many times.
Little had changed in five hundred years.
There were lights on inside the castle. While the owner she knew to be absent, she assumed the staff were probably still unaware of their master’s death. Juan’s next of kin was a teenage nephew recently returned from college. Last she had heard, he was studying in Salamanca; an ironic choice, she mused. Apart from Pizarro, Juan had usually lived there alone, the three-man staff taking up lodgings in one of the towers.
She didn’t know which.
Her grandmother was the only Flores who had seen the castle from the inside; her most burning desire remained to spit on its walls. In a way, Valeria wanted to let her; the family had suffered much at his hands.
Yet tonight she knew only one thing mattered.
*
Chris sat alongside her, his chin resting against his clenched fists as he gazed through the windscreen from the passenger’s seat. The castle was located on a large pyramid-shaped mound, accessible by a narrow approach road that wound its way up to the entrance. With the naked eye, he saw an imposing outer wall with round turrets and reinforced towers. The stonework matched the colour of the hill, orange and lifeless; according to Valeria, its appearance was famously spectacular at sunset.
He borrowed the binoculars from Valeria and squinted as he adjusted the focus. On closer inspection, he saw the walls created a double perimeter, a probable indication the castle had been extended at various points during its history.
*
Valeria looked at him, noticing his right eye was closed. “Are you feeling okay?”
Chris nodded. “Yeah. Just hurts to stare too long.”
She smiled sympathetically, quietly taking in his features. Though there were obvious family resemblances to Ben – the slightly furrowed brow, the identical triangular-shaped hairline on both sides, the same strong masculine nose and well-chiselled jaw – there were other things that belonged solely to him, both by birth and by fate.
Unlike his cousin, his facial hair had a tendency to grow slowly above his upper lip, giving his stubble a slight irregular edge that she viewed as a rather endearing quality, almost adolescent. Despite the uneven growth, recently he had shared Ben’s tendency not to shave, but she sensed his motivation was different. While the left side of his face was smooth and unmarked, the right was more rugged, betraying some evidence of past trauma. Ben had alluded to an event in his past that he had been lucky to survive. Though the wounds had healed well over time, at close sight a few faint signs remained, like former acne scars that had left the surface of the skin uneven. Nevertheless, he was still handsome, she thought, even mysterious. But distracted.
It was clear Ben was still on his mind.
Valeria retook possession of the binoculars and adjusted the settings for her own eyes. From her present angle, the magnificent walls appeared to merge with the black backdrop. She had parked off the main road, close to the river. The road was deserted, as she had expected; the darkness of the night was further intensified by occasional cloud. The Río Guadiana flowed peacefully below the nearby bank, the lights in the vicinity dancing on its clear surface.
To the right of the castle mount, those of the village shone like a series of small torches, creating a warm atmospheric glow across the horizon. There were sounds audible in the distance; at night, the area had something of a wilder and more deserted feel about it, as though the daylight occupants had abandoned their duties and handed responsibility over to a lone nightwatchman. Experience had taught her the villagers had little to do with the castle. After five centuries, the family had become accepted as part of the landscape. If one of their number should make a trip into the village, the welcome would be a pleasant one. The family were neither loved nor hated. Feared nor idolised.
They were simply there, and always had been.
Valeria sat in silence, thinking things through. The plan had been formed years ago; it had been tried once before with success. Getting in was unlikely to be a problem.
The difficult part would be locating the vaults.
She looked at Chris. “You’re sure you want to do this?”
Chris bit his lip, nodding. His cousin was dead; now the person responsible would pay.
“Yes.”
Valeria nodded, relieved. “Very well. Let us begin.”
*
The frogman emerged noiselessly out of the pitch-black water. Its source, so he understood, was a medieval cistern that had been a feature of the original castle.
Raising his mask, he scanned the locality. He could see outlines in the distance, round turrets connected by strong walls. He had seen similar things from across the river, but they made far more sense close up.
The one successful means of entering the castle undetected had required a strategy so dangerous that only a person with unique skills could carry it out. For defensive purposes the castle had been built on a mount that overlooked both the village and the river. According to Valeria, it had been constructed in the 1500s on the site of a ruined fortress that dated back to the 900s. In the early days the cistern had served the entire village, its residents constantly having to make the arduous trip by donkey up and down the steep pathway to fill earthenware vessels with sufficient water to get the family through the day. As the centuries passed, and the village became blessed with modern plumbing, it served only the castle before being converted to a swimming area. Valeria had warned him later changes might have reshaped the design, but on arrival, he realised her fear would be of no major concern.
The circular walls that surrounded it would aid his entry.
The cistern was accessible via a series of overflow channels that led out into the surrounding hillside. The knowledge came from Elena, who had apparently entered the castle herself in the late sixties. Following her directions, he swam through the largest of the channels, the water pleasantly warm on his tight dry suit, and followed the light of his head torch to the end. As he rose from the classically designed pool, he felt his will become strengthened, that he was suddenly capable of more than he had ever been before. Was he still numb from the pain, shock, the water affecting his thinking? In truth, he no longer cared. Thanks to the owners of the castle, he had lost a cousin.
What would follow, he owed him.
The nearest lights came from the square keep, an impressive, imposing structure lined with battlements and protected by
thick oak doors. Large floodlight-style security lights shone down yellow and amber from the five towers, externally lighting the courtyard and offering a clear view of the bath-like swimming area. There were two cars parked close to a three-step entrance to the main doors, luxury models, orange and blue. If Elena was correct, the staff were not used to security problems. Cortés had a tendency to employ cousins, as they were the only people he considered trustworthy. Unless things had recently changed, most were in their mid-fifties and had lived in the castle long enough for it to feel like home.
All being well, he would catch them dozing.
*
The butler was in the pantry, making himself a sandwich. Though his mouth still watered with delight from the chef’s chicken paella that he had learned to love as much as the ones his mother used to cook, in recent years it had become his custom to enjoy a little tapas around 9:30. It was the time when, traditionally, the master of the house would go for his evening swim.
Even with the master absent, the butler followed his usual routine.
He heard a loud tapping sound outside one of the windows. Putting aside his sandwich on the kitchen table, he made his way as quickly as he could through the main hallway, stopping before a closed door cut into panelled walls.
He opened it and switched on the lights, the overhead chandeliers revealing a room rich in wall paintings and the spoils of past hunting trips. Accompanying the trophies, mounted on the walls was a selection of prized guns, the oldest dating back to the days of the castle’s founder. He removed one of the more recent weapons from its mounting and quickly loaded it with ammunition. A solid reinforced door, flanked by two classical leaded windows, led out to an external courtyard.
He checked the windows first, his stare greeted by darkness. A shadow moved suspiciously against the far wall, as if guided by a moderate breeze. His hand on the door, the butler pushed forward, looking alertly into the wider surroundings beyond.
The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 46