The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation

by John Paul Davis

  “Was the site of interest?”

  “Not really. Unless you’re a botanist.”

  Ben decided to let the matter pass. “Well, unlike here, the treasure that was brought to Spain has disappeared for now. As I mentioned to you on the phone, the Stone of Fire, or whatever it is, and the three others Valeria managed to find led us to the monastery at Cabañas del Castillo. Whatever was taken there has since been removed, most likely by Napoleon. In another of his books, TF mentioned stuff being taken to another abandoned mine further south in Extremadura. Whatever had been taken there has also since been moved on.”

  “You visited the monastery?”

  “It’s a long story. Chris and me also checked out the mine at La Serena before flying back from Madrid.”

  “In that case I’m surprised you didn’t see Catalina’s grave yourself. It was in the same place.”

  “Where?”

  “Below the castle, there was a small church with a graveyard close to the mountain pass. As far as I can remember, it contained no headstone.”

  Ben hadn’t noticed it. “I guess Juan Cortés must’ve had other things on his mind than to point it out to me.”

  Colts adjusted his hard hat. “Well, you certainly made your way around, Ben. Though it’s a shame you didn’t ask me first. I could have saved you a journey.”

  “Between you and me, I fancied a change of scenery. You were already aware?”

  “Sure was. Remember, Ben, I’ve had a thirty-year head start on you.”

  “And here was me thinking you were Stephen’s undergrad. What happened at Cabañas?”

  “You mean with Napoleon?”

  “And the layout?”

  “Cabañas was probably constructed in the 1520s using the original catacombs dug out by the Moors. It can’t be ruled out that the torch system you saw in the main chamber was inspired by something the Spaniards saw in Mexico; however, that can’t be proven.”

  “You’ve seen the interior yourself?”

  “Unfortunately no. The doors you passed were shut over a century earlier; however, what I have seen are the eyewitness reports of the people who closed them. If Napoleon did take it, sadly that’s where the trail gets cold.”

  “There’s no evidence?”

  “Not that I can find, but that might not be a bad thing. Sometimes, Ben, the cleverest thing a person can do is frame another.”

  Ben raised an eyebrow. “There was a second door in the inner sanctum, one Valeria was unable to open. I examined it myself. It required another stone.”

  “Whatever was hidden behind that door was almost certainly another stone, most likely one of the five Hernán Cortés refused to hand over to the Queen of Spain.”

  “You mean the emeralds?”

  “Exactly. See, when I first learned of the connection on the Scillies, I honestly thought I was losing it. Seeing five such perfect replicas was just more than I could take. Whoever designed them was a genius. Furthermore, they understood perfectly the significance of the original five.”

  “You mean together the originals serve the same purpose?”

  “Only put together would they spell out the name of the original location. Only together would they provide the map. Only together would they unlock the final door.”

  Ben couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “How do you know all this?”

  Colts grinned broadly. “Shame you lost all those books, Ben. Between you and me, I reckon one of them could’ve been mighty helpful.”

  “Well, in that case, I’ve got some good news for you. I managed to get them all back.”

  “Oh, you did?”

  “Yep. Valeria dropped them in Valladolid . . . it’s kinda a long story.”

  “Well, you’ve got plenty of time to tell it to me. I don’t suppose you were clever enough to bring them with you?”

  “I left them in my bedroom. I’m guessing they’ll be safe there.”

  “Well, in that case, why don’t we go get something to eat? I’m starving.”

  8

  Valeria and Maria stared at one another from across the grave. The service had been brief, affectionate. They had known the priest since childhood; the man had baptised them both when they were less than a week old. Most of the locals came out, some just to poke their nose in.

  As far as the wider community was concerned, Elena had died of a brain haemorrhage.

  Valeria waited until the last of the mourners had departed before throwing the first soil. Despite the sadness, it felt good knowing she was doing things correctly. The body had been found in the torch room, buried in a shallow grave. Not surprisingly Cortés had gone out of his way to ensure any form of dignity was avoided. After three days, the skin had already severely decomposed; it no longer looked like her.

  For Valeria, that made things easier.

  She had found her aunt’s scooter parked in the garage. When the burial was over, she rode it along the lonely road and climbed the pathway to the castle. The ruins were cold, windy. Heavy cloud filled the skies. She tightened her jacket, prepared for the worst. She remembered her mother had always told her it never rains in Spain.

  It only pours.

  Her appearance had changed since the service. Her mourning dress had already been consigned to the rubbish, replaced by a heavy waterproof jacket, dark waterproof leggings and a hard hat she had fitted with a torch. For the second time in four days, she passed through the previously blocked entrance, noticing that the doors had been purposely broken, no longer closed.

  The torch room had since gone dark. Despite the lingering smells, the fires had burned out, the last of the oil exhausted. She walked on slowly, guided by the lights of her head torch and another in her hand. The smells were greatest outside the main doors, where a few days earlier the stench of lamp oil had almost overwhelmed her. Only now she sensed something different in the air, more natural.

  She followed the pathway to the previously sealed doorway and saw to her horror things had changed. The doors had separated in the middle, and there was clear evidence of further tampering. Inside, the torch was no longer necessary; the lights of others remained lit, burning steadily. Water trickled from a large fountain at the centre of the chamber, its clear liquid reflecting a curiously rich shade of green created by vast swathes of exotic fauna that in theory shouldn’t have existed so far below ground.

  The chamber was wild and unmistakably foreign in character. Evidence of Mesoamerican culture was clear in the stonework, much of which contained wall carvings that could have been authentic or exact copies.

  Beyond the fountain, she noticed a large statue partially cloaked in shadow.

  She pointed the torch at it and recoiled. There was no denying the identity of the subject. The hat, the beard, the garb, the proud expression all depicted an earnest, resolute commander who had faced many trials and tribulations and ultimately emerged victorious. Like the statue of Raleigh that marked the entrance to the Godolphin mine, Cortés stood with focused eyes and a strong posture. His right hand was raised, indicating he carried something of extreme importance.

  Whatever it had been was now missing.

  Stunned by what she saw, Valeria stood in silence. She felt her heart pounding as she focused on Cortés’s eyes. It was as if the room were becoming smaller, that the spirits of the past were now with her, judging her, stalking her every move. Her grandmother had once told her that the monastery harboured many important things, much of which the wider world now believed to be lost. She thought of Pedro, his friends. Vanished, never to be seen or heard from again.

  As far as she could tell, the interior had not been disturbed in recent times.

  Suddenly she felt excessively nervous, cold despite the flames of nearby torches. She sensed light, movement, breathing.

  She turned. Pointed her torch behind her.

  She held her breath, frozen to the spot by the sight of movement close to the fountain. She heard a scream, whiny, high-pitched. Familiar.

 
; Equally familiar was the face.

  Maria stood before her, panting. Valeria held her hand to her sister’s throat as she attempted to catch her breath.

  “I thought you said you would not come.”

  Maria placed her hand on her sister’s, lowering it from her throat. It was dark enough for shapes and sizes to appear misleading, but not so dark she couldn’t recognise her sister’s features.

  Unlike Valeria, she wore little protective clothing.

  “It is dangerous in here. Take this.” Valeria removed a second hard hat from her rucksack and offered it to her before returning her focus to the statue’s empty hand. “Juan clearly knew more than he cared to admit. The chamber could only be entered with the correct stone. He must have possessed it all along.”

  “What was so important?”

  “Who can say? The statue in England contained a stone in its hand. Here there is nothing.”

  Maria studied the statue, focusing on its hand. “What does it mean?”

  “Stones always come in fives. Abuela said only when all the treasure Cortés brought back is found can the location be revealed of what was left behind.”

  Maria brushed her hair to one side and placed the plastic helmet firmly over her head. Though it offered extra safety, she hated the way the grooves ground against her scalp.

  “Then there is nothing else here. This is over. Finished. We must go home.”

  Valeria was incredulous. She kicked a large pebble; an echo lingered. “Abuela said the original treasure contained something more important than gold. We cannot allow him to continue.”

  “Why? Why fight what cannot be fought? He has already won.”

  “I cannot allow him to keep what is not his.” Without prior warning, she stormed through the doorway.

  Maria caught her up. “What do you intend to do? Break in again? He will kill you.”

  “I will not rest while that dog still owns what he thinks is his.”

  “You will be killed.”

  Valeria scorned her touch. In the fiery light her eyes appeared suddenly venomous. “You do what is best for you. With Abuela gone, my life is already worthless.”

  Maria broke down in tears as she watched her sister hurry through the torch room, her figure disappearing into the gloom.

  Leaving her alone in the inner sanctum.

  9

  Colts grinned at Ben as he closed the biography of Raleigh and stretched his arms in satisfaction. He removed his hat and tossed it across the dining room table.

  Again, his appearance without it reminded Ben of Morgan Freeman.

  “Well, I guess I was wrong about you, Ben. Turns out you just might have known what you were doing after all.”

  “That the only thing you’ve ever been wrong about?”

  “Well, back in ’96 I went and bought myself a lottery ticket. Turns out I’ve been getting that one wrong ever since.”

  Ben smiled and took an adjacent seat, spreading himself across the heavy mahogany frame. He had spent the last few minutes collecting TF’s books from his room while Colts fixed them breakfast.

  “So what does it mean exactly? In your expert opinion?”

  “You not read it yourself?”

  “Scanned it; fortunately it’s not as long as the stuff my students have to read. Have you?”

  “I’ve read a lot of things in my time, Ben. Tell you the truth, after all this time it isn’t always easy to tell the difference between what’s real and what isn’t.”

  “Join the club.” Ben turned his attention to the centre of the table, where plates of bacon sandwiches now surrounded a hot pot of coffee.

  Ben took a sandwich. “If the book is correct, Raleigh clearly saw the Santa Estella sailing through the Bay of Biscay on a warm summer evening in 1581. After failing to sink it, he subsequently failed to pursue it, though he did manage to recover some gold from the water. Again, if the book is correct, he also discovered the site of the wreck near St Mary’s just a few weeks later. That’s over three hundred years before TF. Almost four hundred years before the site was officially designated.”

  “Sounds as if you’ve memorised a lot of facts, Ben. Question is, what does it all mean?”

  “Well, Raleigh clearly knew the gold was from Mexico. Whoever wrote the book later goes on to claim that the sight of the gold on the water tortured Raleigh, prompting him to return to the New World; he even found what he believed was the lost city before being executed by the King of England. He never did find the treasure, despite coming close.”

  “And who did write it, Ben?”

  Ben sensed a loaded question. “Well, I honestly don’t know. The publisher name checks out; it’s clearly old. I googled the title; nothing came up. Nor is anything catalogued in the British Library or the Bodleian.” He eyed Colts sceptically. “Am I missing something?”

  “Only the obvious. Question is, Ben, why would your ancestor have owned one of only three copies on the matter?”

  Ben sensed another loaded question. “You suggesting TF was the author? That’s pretty unlikely, don’t you think?”

  “You seem pretty certain, Ben.”

  “TF was a lot of things, but immortal and a time traveller, I don’t think so. The book is dated to the 1600s.”

  “Or so the author wants you to believe.”

  Ben prepared to sip his coffee, but paused. “Don’t get any ideas. Juliet’s already been there.”

  Colts raised an eyebrow. “Woman of many talents; I’ll have to keep a close watch on her. You ask me, it makes perfect sense. Also the ideal way to hide his results.”

  “I don’t buy it. The writing style isn’t similar enough. Furthermore, he would have needed to have a more modern publisher. Besides, why the great deception? TF was a scholar. Surely if Raleigh had done these things, it would be in his best interests to go public. Unless there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  Colts let out a deep sigh. “All right, Ben. It’s time I let you in on a little secret. Ask yourself something: why is it that I know so much about your ancestor?”

  Ben took a long sip of his coffee, his eyes remaining fixed on Colts. He considered talking about what his grandmother had mentioned. “I guess you’re too clever for me.”

  “Hardly. Now, I know you’re smart; I certainly know you’re not the rookie you’d sometimes like me to think you are. I’m guessing by now you’re already well aware TF didn’t exactly return to the Scillies for a vacation.”

  “So just who was he working for on this one? Seems to me, nobody seems to want to talk about it.”

  “And with good reason. See, the Scillies have always been a different place from mainland England. Sure, these days you might be able to stop off for a nice vacation at a quaint inn overlooking St Mary’s harbour, but a trip to the Gibbous Moon back in his day, well, that was just not the kind of thing a man did without good reason.”

  “But St Mary’s was a developing port then. It’s not like wrecking was still going on.”

  “Maybe not on St Mary’s, but in other parts of the Isles it still happened. The British had always been wary of the people of St Lide’s. Historically it was a strange island, where strange things often happened.”

  “What are we talking about here? Witch covens? Necromancy? Wardrobes that lead to hidden worlds?” He remembered Juliet’s quip about Narnia.

  Colts smiled. “Usually more a case of people disappearing and never returning. Not the kind of place for an Englishman to just show up one day out of the blue and start asking questions.”

  Ben accepted he had a point. “So what was this mission? To locate the treasure?”

  “When Raleigh recovered the gold from the water, one thing was instantly clear. The things he saw were unlike anything else he had ever witnessed. When Raleigh consulted the most learned people at Queen Elizabeth’s court, they were all much of the same opinion.”

  “Which was?”

  “Cortés’s hasty departure on the Noche Triste, despite th
e tendency for it to be largely overlooked by later historians, was less of a mystery back then. Especially to the people who had the biggest interest in what he carried.”

  “Wait, this doesn’t make sense. How could the English courtiers have known what the gold looked like at Tenochtitlán? In 1520 only the Spanish had visited it.”

  “In 1520, yes, but by Raleigh’s time London’s finest had had over sixty years to get the pieces together.”

  “How had they researched it?”

  “You never heard of Raleigh before, Ben? Tell me, what was he most famous for?”

  Initially stumped, he answered, “Let me guess, you’re talking about privateering?”

  “Exactly. Piracy. By the 1580s, be it by honest means or other, information about Tenochtitlán and the other great cities started to become known to those at court. When the gold was recovered, Raleigh sought the learned opinions of many such people, all of whom were able to verify that it came from Tenochtitlán. As you should know from reading the biography, the author suggests Raleigh sailed out there himself and investigated the ruined city after visiting Guiana, which, by 1594, was beyond recognition from the paradise explored by the Spaniards. After following in the important footsteps, he attempted to find the mythical city, only without luck.”

  “El Dorado?”

  Colts shook his head. “See here’s where myth and history become cloudy. Though unlike Cortés, Raleigh was open-minded to all of the Mesoamerican legends, not just Aztec. Exactly what the golden one meant could mean different things to different people. For those looking for El Dorado, it didn’t matter whether it was Manóa, the legendary city of the Incas made from gold, or the lake in the Andes where the Chibchas used to pay homage to the golden man, or a legendary city of Toltec creation.”

  “You mean Tollan?”

  “According to this book, when Raleigh returned in 1616, he didn’t just visit Guiana. Nor did he ever intend to do so. After researching the trip thoroughly, he at last made it to the legendary city.”

  “He found Tollan?”