The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation

by John Paul Davis

  “I thought you said you’d read the book.”

  “I didn’t realise the ruins it mentions was a reference to a place that doesn’t exist.”

  “You still think the city doesn’t exist?”

  “Does it?”

  “When Raleigh entered the city, he found something out of keeping with everything he had seen so far. Signs pointed to the possibility an even more ancient civilisation had created it. When Raleigh entered the holiest of holies, he found himself in an inner sanctum not unlike the one you saw in Spain.”

  Ben raised an eyebrow. “That’s where you’re wrong. The one I saw beneath the castle in Spain was clearly inspired by the Templo Mayor.”

  “And what do you think that was based on? When Raleigh saw the inside of the temple, he knew he was in the presence of something otherwise unseen, possibly since the days of its creators. Only problem was to enter the legendary heart of the temple, he needed five stones. Five emeralds to be precise.”

  “Presumably Hernán Cortés knew of this?”

  “Cortés, history indicates, almost certainly owned the fabled stones; however, it seems unlikely he knew of their purpose. If he did, he decided to keep it to himself.”

  Ben sensed that was more likely. “You really think the city exists?”

  “Know for a fact it does. I’ve seen it.”

  Ben folded his arms, sceptical. “Let me guess. I saw it in a drawing in your study?”

  Colts laughed. “You mean Arthur’s study. See, it was Arthur who made the initial connection back in the early seventies when a freak discovery among the archives of Valladolid threw up a complete curve ball.”

  “Díaz?”

  “Don’t worry, this one wasn’t obvious to me either. However, fortunately Arthur saw the world in a different way to most of us. Realised the book actually included a secret code, and cracking it meant the location of the lost city would appear on a map.”

  “You really saw it?”

  “The city itself was almost a complete ruin; however, amongst the chaos was something that hadn’t been seen probably since Raleigh himself. The interior of the temple was incredible, something out of a real movie theatre. Only the same problem remained. The door could only be opened with the five stones.”

  Ben rubbed his stubble, curious. “The book talks of a temple atop a great pyramid situated in the shadow of a curved mountain. The place of creation. Are we really talking about Tollan?”

  “You’re familiar with the name Chicomoztoc, Ben?”

  “The place of the seven caves. Another myth.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. If the old legends are true, the cave actually existed close to Tollan itself. Find one, we find the other. And maybe we’ll find some real answers.”

  Ben picked up his sandwich but decided to leave it. “Talking of real answers, there’s another thing that’s been bothering me. What really happened on St Lide’s?”

  “You mean to TF?”

  “No. I mean what happened afterwards? Surely you’re not still trying to convince me the island was abandoned due to subsidence?”

  Colts’s expression soured. “Now you have to be mighty careful here, Ben. I’m letting you in on a lot, but it doesn’t do to play one’s luck too far.”

  “So there was a genocide?”

  Colts lowered his head and sighed. “What you must understand, Ben, is that TF wasn’t exactly working for the Boy Scouts on this one.”

  “So just who was he working for?”

  “When TF visited the first time, no one. However, then fate did what fate does best. A chance conversation with a colleague from the Royal Society just so happened to find its way to the Duke of Cornwall himself. When news that the legendary treasure could be buried somewhere in the Duchy reached his ears, the matter was treated with the utmost importance.”

  “What happened?”

  “TF was once a soldier, you know that?”

  “As a matter of fact, he was Royal Fusiliers.”

  “Exactly. Thanks to his prowess as a soldier, he was invited in on something known as Project Estelle. You can probably figure out why it was called that.”

  “What happened next?”

  “TF spent the next year researching everything; probably during that time he wrote the biography of Raleigh. That same year, he discovered not only the location of the city, but also that of the hoard in Cornwall; sadly he was killed before he got to pass on the exact location.”

  “You sure he found it?”

  “You told me yourself there are pages missing from the diary.”

  “You think he passed on the knowledge?”

  “If he didn’t, someone else took it. When news of TF’s disappearance became known, St Lide’s became an instant target for visitors. That island was strange; even those on St Agnes or the nearby islands weren’t exactly their best of friends. Between you and me, there were a lot of people there who wouldn’t have been overly concerned if one day they just disappeared.”

  “What happened?”

  Colts took a deep breath. “From what I’ve heard, they took everyone to a cave on the south-west side of the island. Two are known to have survived, including the same boy who later went on to keep the light on St Agnes.”

  “Smethwick?”

  “The corpses, I understand, were later incinerated. Either that or disposed of some other way.”

  “There must be proof?”

  “Even if there is, why does it matter?” He leaned forward. “These people killed your ancestor, Ben.”

  Ben bit his lip. “What else do we know about the emeralds?”

  Colts’s body language became defensive. “For over thirty years the recovery of the stones has remained the only thing preventing us from entering the final chamber. Find them, we find everything.”

  Ben nodded and rose to his feet. “All right. I suggest that should be where we concentrate. In the meantime, do me a favour.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Make sure Juliet gets a chance to examine the coins. And in the meantime, I suggest you keep a close eye on Juan Cortés.”

  10

  Juliet was alone in the lounge, seated on the couch. A small hoard of shiny artefacts littered the nearby coffee table, most of which were coins. She concentrated on one of typical size with a gold exterior and a relief pattern that resembled an assembly hall. She blew on it gently after removing loose debris with a fine brush.

  She was impressed by the quality of the preservation.

  The door opened and Ben entered, carrying a fresh pot of coffee. “Where’s Chris?”

  Juliet looked up at him and removed her glasses. “I don’t trust him.”

  “Chris?”

  “No. The cowboy. What’s an American doing working on this for the English royals?”

  “You talking about you or me?”

  She laughed. “Your friend.”

  Ben took a seat alongside her. “Look, all that matters is we’re here and so is all this.” He pointed to the objects on the coffee table. “Colts was really helpful when I was here before. If it hadn’t been for him, we’d never have found it. Nor would I be in possession of all of the knowledge and information I now have.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Colts claims he knows the location of the mythical city of Tollan; however, it will only help us if we discover the emeralds Cortés brought back as a gift for his wife. Juan never spoke of them, which means he’s probably looking for them too. I doubt he would have been so concerned about finding the other stuff had he already been blessed with the mother lode.” Ben looked around as he poured the coffee. “Where is Chris?”

  “Outside. Said he wanted to know where you entered the mine from.”

  Ben laughed. “He should’ve waited for me; I could have given him the grand tour. What you got here?”

  “Most of the finds are authentic, though not much different from what we already have.”

  “You sound disappointed. What were you expecti
ng, a crystal skull?”

  She smiled at him, determined not to laugh. Ben noticed her appearance had improved since the flight. She had showered and changed; a sweet smell of perfume could be detected from her wrists and neck. He also saw that her small, elegant silver wristwatch was already set to BST.

  “So many things were lost when the Spanish burned the original codices. Just imagine what we might have known about the ancient world had more of them survived. The Aztec treasure has been missing for so long. This is an opportunity to find something much more than just riches.” She shook her head. “Wouldn’t it be amazing to find something that sheds light on something old?”

  “I try not to think about it. Though at least now I know one thing. The real reason you’re here. To steal all my credit.”

  She looked at him, pretending to be hurt. “For your information, I’m here purely to do my job. Not to mention get a free holiday and a private jet.”

  Ben grinned. “Let’s just hope they like us enough to send us home again.” As he replaced his coffee cup, he recognised TF’s Aztec codex on the table. “I don’t suppose you’ve had any luck with this?”

  “I don’t need luck; I know exactly what it is. It was written on purpose to look authentic.”

  “You still think it’s a forgery?”

  “Either that or a deliberate deception.”

  “Why would somebody do that?”

  “I don’t know. Throw someone on the wrong track maybe. It could be that your ancestor bought it from a trader, thinking it was real.”

  “I doubt that; TF was a pretty good judge of things.” He got to his feet and looked out through the window across the grounds. At present there was no sign of Chris. Ben thought of what Colts had said about Raleigh. “You agreed yourself it could be a copy.”

  “Unless your treasure here confirms the Aztecs actually used paper and nineteenth-century binding.”

  He smiled. “So you definitely don’t think it’s genuine?”

  “If it is, it was written by an Aztec with dyslexia.”

  Ben nodded, disappointed. The handwriting was clearly a match. As TF owned all of the books, he knew he couldn’t rule out the possibility he was also their creator.

  “I’m gonna check on Chris.”

  *

  He left the house through the kitchen door and walked quickly across the ancient squares into the woodland. With the sun out, he loved the way birds nestled amongst the ruins and the surrounding shrubbery, how the scenes of the past remained at one with nature.

  The pathway led through a ruined archway and into the woodland. After a couple of minutes he noticed two familiar sights.

  Chris walking around a statue of Sir Walter Raleigh.

  “If you’d only have waited, I’d have given you the guided tour. Then again, there wouldn’t have been any alcohol on it.”

  Chris grinned, absorbed with the sights around him. He noticed several large sheets of metal located on the forest floor between the statue and what had once served as a ventilation shaft.

  “I’m guessing this was where you got in?”

  Ben circled the statue and stopped on the opposite side of the opening. “I would offer to give you a tour of this as well. However, between you and me, I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  “I’d pass anyway. Why use a forest when you’ve got a pub?”

  Ben smiled. “Anyway, Colts has just invited me to his pad; apparently he has a few things he wants to show me, so I’ll see you later.”

  “He’s not trying to get you a British passport, is he?”

  “Probably not, but here’s hoping. In the meantime, look after Juliet. And if you get time, have another look at TF’s diary. I still can’t escape the feeling I’m missing something.”

  11

  Madrid, 12 p.m.

  A man in a dark sports jacket and blue jeans got off the train at the Lavapiés metro station and joined the onrushing crowd in ascending the stairs. Reaching the top, he stopped to get his bearings. Less than a few hundred metres away, the Reina Sofía Museum of Art loomed large above the nearby main road, its corridors busy with visitors enjoying the city’s culture. Across the roundabout, people took in the sights of the Real Jardín Botánico, where forest-like coverings soaked up the sunlight. Others walked the corridors of the Museo Nacional del Prado, browsing masterpieces from de Goya to Rembrandt.

  The street in front of him could have been anywhere in the world. Cars passed by in both directions, stopping at regular intervals as the traffic lights at a nearby junction turned red. Across the road, people negotiated the aisles of the small supermarket, some queuing at tills or checking out the delicatessen. Even on a Tuesday morning, the inner city was vibrant, the dress code anything from the smart to the slovenly. It was a setting familiar in every city, particularly the European capitals.

  What had once been just a hub of local trade and commerce was now like a cosmopolitan, scaled-down version of the UN.

  Juan Cortés took a moment to study his location on the Maps app on his iPhone and followed the directions north along Calle de Lavapiés until he reached Calle de Atocha. Though he recognised the general area, he didn’t know it well. Walking in the opposite direction to the museums, he navigated the roads until he reached a Dunkin’ Coffee bar located directly opposite a butcher’s shop. On entering the butcher’s, he was surprised to find that it was fitted out in the manner of a local bar, with two working-class Spaniards cutting up bread and making sandwiches while a handful of customers sat eating and drinking at surrounding tables.

  A man was sitting alone at the bar. He had a full head of silver hair, a neatly trimmed moustache and a small round pair of spectacles perched at the bridge of his nose. His grey suit reflected the lights and complemented the colour of his hair and brown eyes.

  His name was Claude Cortés.

  “So this is where you have been hiding, old man?” Juan said.

  The local smiled and rose to his feet. “Juan Pablo.” He embraced him, the sickly scent of the man’s trademark cologne sticking to his neck like a fly to honey. “Every time I see you I see the ghost of your father, God rest his saintly soul. Tell me, what news of young Eduardo?”

  “If you saw him now, you would see the ghost of his father.”

  “Ah, Juan. God rest his saintly soul. Is the young gentleman well?”

  “Well enough to be playing his guitar into the small hours of the morning. He passed Salamanca without excelling. Of course, the coming year will be far more important.”

  “Ah, sit down, sit, sit.” Claude gestured to the nearest barstool. “There will always be a time for studies, later.” He laughed. “Have you eaten?”

  “Famished.”

  “Ah, good, good.” He laughed louder and caught the attention of the nearest butcher. “Miguel, let us have one of those buckets with the five Heineken and the two meat courses. You know, with the serrano and the breadsticks, then the chorizo on whatever those nice crisps are.”

  “Si, Claude.”

  Cortés took a seat and edged closer to Claude. Looking around, he noticed a large selection of ready-made rolls in transparent plastic containers on the counter, the smell of cold meat on white crusty bread overwhelmed by something far warmer permeating in from the kitchen. Themselves aside, only four others were present at the bar, all men, seated on barstools on the opposite side of the counter and joking loudly in English. He placed them in their early thirties.

  “I have never known a butcher’s quite like this.”

  Claude smiled as Miguel returned with an ice bucket filled with five bottles of Heineken and a plate of cold serrano ham and chorizo with mini breadsticks.

  “Come, try something. The food is out of this world.”

  Juan opened one of the Heinekens and sipped it, savouring the flavour. Next, he rolled a slice of ham around a breadstick and agreed. “It is good.”

  “See, I tell you.” The old man did the same with the chorizo. “So what brings you to Madrid? I thou
ght you younger generation no longer approve of the old ways.”

  Cortés swallowed his food and immediately began rolling another. “The Diario de las Esmeraldas turned up recently among the archives of Seville Cathedral.”

  Claude thought he was hearing things. “The Diario . . . After all this time . . . What happened?”

  “With Velázquez’s help, we discovered it in a bookcase, a large distinguished item made almost solely of oak, in one of the cathedral side chapels. The clue was found in a note left behind by my father in an appendix to the accounts of the soldier.” He hesitated. “Sadly, I should have realised this much sooner.”

  “Saints preserve us.” Claude shook his head, blessed himself and drank quickly from his beer. “So after all these years it is true. The book does exist.”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah. I see the ghost of your father at work again. If only our own father were alive to see what a man you have become.” He grabbed Juan by both shoulders and stared deep into his eyes. “So. The cipher?”

  “The cipher has never been a problem. For years the instructions have been sitting, waiting, in a similar bookcase in our own library. With Velázquez’s help it was easy to translate the diary.”

  “Velázquez.” The man scoffed on hearing the name a second time. “I have told you before about Velázquez.”

  “He is the only man who can help us at the present time,” Cortés replied, momentarily distracted by the four Englishmen on the far side of the counter. All were laughing loudly and clearly on a mission to get drunk.

  He welcomed their idiocy.

  “Dominic so far has proven himself to have our best interests at heart. He is not his father.”

  “Bah,” Claude retorted, preparing to sample more of the cuisine. “You are too naïve, Juan Pablo. Remember, the apple never falls far from the tree.” He picked up the final breadstick and rolled it with meat. “Well, do not keep me in suspense. What happened?”

  “It seems our ancestor’s fascination with the great admiral was true after all.”

  The old man beamed with excitement. “Ah. It is as I always suspected. So, the grave?”