“What happened?”
“I later learned from the chief of the tribe who took us in, the people we saw were an older tribe, one even the Spaniards had failed to wipe out.”
“What do you mean, older? Older than the Aztecs?”
“Older than the Toltecs. Older than the Maya. Older than the Olmecs.” Colts sighed. “The cradle of Mesoamerican culture was sacred to every civilisation, be it the very first or the very last. When the tribes began to expand, only those deemed purest remained in the original city. To this day, I know of no other alive who knows what I know.”
“You never went back?”
“There was no going back, Ben. This was no longer about archaeology. Even as we reached the Jeep, the poisoned darts were still flying. It’s a miracle any of us got out that day.” He glanced up at a crucifix on the wall. “Not a day goes by I don’t give thanks.”
Ben rubbed his thin beard and gazed once more at the picture on the wall. Still it didn’t seem real.
“So what exactly do we need?”
“To enter the inner sanctum? A screw loose would be a good start.”
“Forget about the natives; for all we know they’ve died out by now. After all, it’s not like they all have BUPA insurance. You mentioned the door was locked.”
“The door was identical in almost every way to the one at Godolphin, the only exception being that the exterior was partially covered by a throne. It was as if the one at Godolphin were a stone replica. Only without the throne.”
“So we’re definitely looking for the original Cortés emeralds? That’s it?”
“Uh-huh,” Colts sipped his coffee. “Which leads us to the one side of the story that even mainstream history can’t fail to get right. When Hernán Cortés returned to Spain, he brought with him five precious emeralds shaped like a bell, a trumpet, a cup, a rose and a fish. When the Queen of Spain saw them, their beauty took her breath away. However, Hernán, perhaps understanding their true significance, decided against giving them up. History records that he gave them as a gift to someone else.”
“His second wife.” Ben was familiar with the story. “What happened after that?”
“That, I’m afraid, Ben, is where the trail goes cold – where our entire investigation has come to a stop.”
“You don’t know of anything?”
“Do you?”
“No, apart from Cortés gifting the emeralds to his wife, I know nothing more, though I do recall reading in the Raleigh book that Cortés became obsessed by something called the Stone of Fire, and that something similar is mentioned in Díaz.”
Colts thought back to their first conversation in the Gibbous Moon and grinned wryly. “Wherever do you get these crackpot theories from?”
“According to Díaz, four additional stones were brought from beneath the Templo Mayor, where they were kept on an altar in the shape of the serpent god’s head. One of the stones was brought out once every fifty-two years, in a procession called the Ceremony of Fire. Also every fifty-two years were other ceremonies: the Ceremony of Wind, the Ceremony of Water, the Ceremony of the Sun, and the Ceremony of Earth. Together there was one almighty ceremony during which all five were shown to the world.”
“The Ceremony of Ages.”
Ben nodded. “Díaz confirms only that the five stones were not in the temple the night of the Noche Triste. His commentary on the five emeralds is, sadly, lacking in detail, but he did say that Cortés brought with him five similar stones, each more green than the lushest dehesa.”
Ben took a seat, remembering the book he had read in the helicopter with Cortés on the way to Valladolid, ruing that he no longer possessed it. Though the emeralds were clearly part of the original hoard, nothing of Cortés’s meeting with the royal family was recorded.
“Juan mentioned nothing about the five emeralds, though he did seem obsessed with what he referred to as the Tollan Stones,” Ben continued. “Furthermore, he willingly allowed me the opportunity to read Díaz’s uncut version. If Juan had the emeralds, surely he would have found the original city by now.”
“Local lore among the mountain folk once told that something of great significance was buried deep within the monastery at Cabañas del Castillo – a large stone originally brought back from across the sea. If Cortés was able to enter the inner sanctum, we can be confident he may have found at least one of the five.”
“He didn’t,” Ben assured him. “I was with him the whole time. Thanks to Chris and Valeria breaking into the model room in his castle and Juan’s subsequent plan to lure them into a trap, it was possible to recover the original four. He still needed the fifth.”
“You’re quite sure he didn’t have it?”
“No.”
“You mentioned he stopped in Madrid.”
“Right.”
“To go to a bank?”
Ben wasn’t following. “And?”
“You said he showed you something in Mérida. Some kind of gemstone that looked like a red diamond.”
Ben’s face drained white. “Son of a bitch.” He slapped down hard on the nearby desk and paced the aisles between bookcases furiously.
“That man was playing you like a fiddle and you just didn’t see it. Chances are he waited until you were gone and entered all by himself.”
Ben bit his lip. Suddenly the reasons for Cortés’s lack of interest in the mine and his sudden departure from the guesthouse were abundantly clear.
“Make sure you get someone on him immediately. It’s imperative he’s followed.”
“You think I didn’t already know that? Trust me, it’s been taken care of,” Colts assured him.
Ben decided against asking further questions. “You think he has them all?”
“If he does, chances are he will probably act fast, which makes monitoring him closely all the more crucial; though if I were a gambling man, I’d say it’s probably unlikely at this stage. If Hernán Cortés was worried about his property becoming the target of bounty hunters and royal agents, chances are he split them up, just like he did the other stones.”
“Where?”
“Díaz and Raleigh aside, there is only one book I know of that could possibly shed any light on what we’re looking for,” Colts answered.
“What is it?”
“A few months after our return from the ancient city, Arthur felt himself become suddenly inspired, a second wind. He knew, just as we do now, that the only way to enter the inner sanctum would be to become the sole owners of the original emeralds, all of which, as far as we were concerned, remained unaccounted for. Arthur, during his extensive investigations, became aware of a rare book, apparently written by Cortés himself, that apparently documented his final activities.”
“What kind of book?” asked Ben.
“He found it in a bookcase in a side chapel of Seville Cathedral, apparently on the advice of the curator. It came at a steep price of course.”
“Of course. What did it say?”
“It was actually written in Nahuatl; however, unlike the other codices that survived and were brought back to Europe by those who visited the New World, this one made no sense.”
“Why?”
“Though the book used the correct letters and symbols, the content was all nonsense, as if the words had been deliberately scrambled. After reading it through several times, Arthur came to the firm conclusion he was dealing with a code, most likely devised by one of Cortés’s followers, perhaps Malinche.”
Ben was confused. “For what purpose?”
Colts looked back with a dry expression. “If I knew the answer to that, it wouldn’t be a mystery now, would it?”
“Did you see it yourself?”
“Once. Trust me, reading it wouldn’t help.”
A sudden thought entered Ben’s mind. His fingers shook as he picked up his rucksack and unzipped the main section.
“What the hell is it?”
“TF had something else.” Ben searched through the contents
. The Aztec codex was inside. Still to be deciphered.
He showed it to Colts. “I found this along with the Raleigh book. It’s written in TF’s handwriting, but it’s exactly as you described.”
Colts took the book, spending less than a second examining the exterior. The cover was library bound, with tears along the seam and dusty fingerprints on the lower half. Turning to the first page, he saw black handwriting on yellow paper, eighteen lines consisting of both Aztec pictorial content and classical Nahuatl.
Colts was stunned. “Where on earth did you get this?” He flicked through every page in turn, closed the book and looked curiously at Ben.
“I told you before. I found it among my ancestor’s keepsakes, along with the others.”
Colts looked closely at the rear cover before placing the book down on the desk. “Your ancestor must have seen the original in Seville and made a copy. It must have taken him months to complete.”
“Knowing my ancestor, this isn’t the entire thing. Unless the original was only twenty pages long, most likely he figured out what was important and prioritised those bits.”
Colts skimmed through it again. “Shame he didn’t translate exactly what it meant.”
“You said that Arthur saw it, that it apparently offers an insight into Cortés’s activities. What exactly did he find out?”
“According to the curator of the cathedral at the time, the book found its way into their hands sometime in the seventeenth century. Unfortunately, but perhaps not surprisingly, no record of its purchase or acquisition is known to survive. It was Arthur who deduced it was originally a code. Clearly nobody in the position at the time was an expert on the cipher.”
“Or fluent in Nahuatl.” Ben smiled wryly. “What exactly were Arthur’s conclusions? Could he detect the medium?”
“If he did, he didn’t figure out the full translation.”
Ben’s smile widened. “Maybe I know somebody who can.”
*
Juliet was still in the living room, engrossed with the new finds. She glanced up at the opening door as Ben entered and watched him place a paperback book down on the coffee table.
She put down the artefact she was holding and picked up the book. She could see from the title it was about deciphering codes and ciphers.
“What’s this?”
“Something I borrowed from Colts’s study. The Aztec book isn’t a forgery. Hernán Cortés wrote it. Later translated on his behalf.”
Juliet removed her glasses. “Translated? Into what?”
“The book was written in code, using Aztec pictograms and classical Nahuatl. Colts thinks the book is the key to locating the five lost emeralds and opening up the inner sanctum of the main temple at Tollan.”
“The what?”
“This book here will help us. First we need to figure out what the cipher is!”
14
Madrid, 2 p.m.
Cortés stared impatiently at the large windows of the ornate study where its owner stood in deep contemplation, digesting the words he had just heard. His chair was comfortable and curiously noble, in keeping with the surroundings that reminded him of an esteemed professor’s workplace or, perhaps, a place used on occasion as a retreat from the outside world by one of the great explorers. The windows overlooked the famous el Retiro park, while the cream and cyan colour combination was pleasing on the eye. Most of the artwork dated back over two centuries, contemporary to the building.
Though many years had passed since their last meeting, Juan had recognised the man immediately. The slick black, typically Spanish hair had gone grey with time, while the old blue jeans and leather jacket combination had been replaced by a Claude-style grey suit and polished shoes that sparkled in the afternoon sunlight. Like Claude, the man was smaller than himself in height and greater in weight, but stood with a proud bearing, as if his body had been crafted by a Renaissance sculptor instructed by his master to make a point about posture. The eyes were deep set, but sad, which was a first. In thirty-six years, he had never seen the man display even the slightest hint of emotion. The study reflected his personality: proud, but private. Juan didn’t blame the man for his aloofness, nor would he pressure him. The news he had received, though not unexpected, confirmed finality. And fatality.
He was looking at Fernando Pizarro.
The father.
Pizarro returned from gazing beyond the glass and eyed Juan with a sour expression. “So, what I have recently feared is true. My son is dead.”
Cortés glanced at Claude, who shook his head sadly, his glasses removed from his face as he rubbed his eyes.
It was clear to Juan that Claude would be no help in breaking the silence.
“We are all aware of the risks in the path we chose to follow. Fernando knew that the fate that awaited my father could also befall any one of us at any time.” Juan looked at his distant relative as though their roles and generations were reversed. “It will warm you, I hope, that he never once faltered from our mission nor showed the slightest fear in the face of adversity.”
The older man bit his lip and exhaled despondently. “What happened?”
“He was killed by the man who owned the legal rights to the land. He feared the loss of his possessions. His fears were not unfounded.”
“He was shot?”
“Yes. So too were Alvarez and Busquets. I still have the wounds to confirm my presence.”
Pizarro nodded, staring back at him with moist eyes. To Juan, they looked like the eyes of a small child. Inquisitive, but not fully engaging.
“And who is this man? Reveal to me the identity of the man who has robbed me of my son.”
“His identity I do not know. Nor is it necessary. He is dead.”
“You killed him?”
“He was killed before I had the chance.”
Pizarro circled his desk and began to pace around a red octagonal rug that covered the middle portion of the cream carpet. He settled on one particular section of the heavy wooden bookcase along the right side of the room.
“You know, when he was a young boy, Fernando would often sneak into this room when I was finished working and pull books from the lower shelves. As he grew older, he understood the purpose of this.” He patted his hand against the portable stepladder that allowed access to the higher reaches. “One day Isabella heard a great scream coming from this room that shook the very floors to their foundations. When she entered, she found Fernando wailing in agony, blood running from his forehead.” He laughed sombrely. “Needless to say, she held my failure to keep the door locked as the prime reason for my son’s injury.”
Claude got to his feet and headed to the right of the desk on which there was an antique globe on a small mount. Opening a cabinet in the lower part of the desk, he produced a bottle of whisky that Pizarro kept in a private minibar and poured single shots into separate glasses.
“Fernando was a brave boy, who now has the honour of being seated in the house of our fathers. We must always remember him.” He passed a glass to Cortés and Pizarro. “Fernando. God rest his saintly soul.”
Pizarro nodded, raised his glass and swallowed.
Cortés swirled the fine dark liquid around his glass before taking a drink, finishing it in one.
“Fernando’s body is unlikely to be found anytime soon. I took the liberty of ensuring each man received a proper burial. The gold will be discovered first; I expect it will be taken within the coming weeks. The mine is redundant; in time there will be little reason for others to view the site as having any particular significance. Eventually, exhumation of the bodies will be possible, but only without surveillance.”
Pizarro placed his glass down on the nearest bookshelf. “Personally I do not know whether to hug you or punch you. Perhaps I should do both. Only a good friend and noble kinsman would go to such great lengths to ensure the honour of his friend. Who can ask for any greater honour than to lie with his friends within metres of his ancestor’s treasure? In the bottom o
f an English pit.”
Cortés detected venom in the final sentence. “I never realised the two of you had reconciled.”
Pizarro was quick to anger. “How dare you? Do not lecture me on any matter. Your father once tried the same thing, and he quickly learned the better for it.”
Juan replaced his glass on the side. “My father achieved more in his life than any of us. Whatever mistakes Fernando made can be attributed to his stubborn mind. Claude recently reminded me of an appropriate quote, the apple never falls far from the tree.”
“You conceited . . .”
“The rules of our endeavour were made long ago,” Juan interrupted, his gaze penetrating. “They have guided our family since the early days. I spoke with Fernando about this on many occasions; he accepted the risks, just as we all did. Recover Fernando, we can, but not now. Soon he will receive the burial you desire, be it among the great family tombs in Extremadura or sailing along the Ganges, it matters not. Right now he must rest in peace, and in secret.”
Pizarro downed his whisky and again paced the room. “You don’t think much of me, do you? You always thought I cared more for the possessions of those who died in great pools of blood than for my own family.”
“Was I wrong?” Cortés asked, rhetorically, but unrepentant. “If such views are true, perhaps I can brighten your mood. Recent days have brought with them many unexpected benefits. Two of the original emeralds have been discovered, the second in the hidden monastery below the ruins of the castle.”
Pizarro stared at him for several seconds from across the room, as if bored by the possibility.
“You do not seem surprised?” Juan pressed.
“My son is dead. Everything he ever fought for or thought about is now redundant.”
The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 72
