The Emperor's Treasure

by Daniel Leston

  He kept Pilar’s revelations to the basics.

  Born and raised ten miles northwest of Enid in a tiny community known locally as Indian Town, she was of mixed Navajo and Hispanic ancestry. With the recent passing of her widowed mother, she’d spent much of the previous fall taking a few free Native Study courses offered by the New Mexico State University at Albuquerque.

  While there, under the auspices of the university, she’d volunteered to assist in an ongoing archaeological program taking place just several miles north along the Rio Grande River. What was being unearthed was a pre-Columbian village—and it was while there that she first came to meet Peter.

  Like her, he’d volunteered for the experience to learn more of this ancient Native American culture—but within mere days of his arrival there mutual attraction for one another began to eclipse any initial reasons for either of them being there. All of their free time was soon spent together, and the joy they shared in each others' company was fast becoming a love relationship.

  When the site eventually closed down for the winter, David moved into her small, off-campus apartment, even knowing as he did so that she would soon, out of necessity, be returning to Texas. With the approach of Christmas, he explained his obligation to fly back east to visit with his family for the holidays, but promised to keep in touch and return to her immediately afterward.

  She never doubted his intention.

  Nor did he disappoint her.

  She picked him up at Del Rio Airport in early January. From that day forward they were together constantly until the day of his death—and in these brief months their love blossomed. To be sure, her small three-room home on the outskirts of Indian Town had few modern amenities, but it now belonged to her outright and was part of her heritage. Her family had lived on the property for uncounted generations.

  To his credit, Peter seemed not to notice its dilapidated condition, delighting only in being constantly with her. Over time he even began to take an active roll in her continuing fascination with discovering and copying unusual Petroglyphs found along the Rio Grande valley. He apparently found that whatever sparked such a passion in her was likewise worthy of capturing his own interest. Thus it was that the frequency of their enjoyable outings gradually increased with the steady advance of warmer weather.

  It was during this period that she came to learn as much as she did about Peter’s family and of his ambition to someday emulate David’s impressive career in the field archaeology. He told her fondly of his lengthy stay a year earlier with David and Elizabeth in Greece, and how the experience only served to cement this desire.

  By late February, Peter was talking marriage.

  He was already enrolled to begin advanced archaeology courses this coming fall at the University of Michigan, David’s alma mater—which he would only do if she moved there with him as his wife. Though it would entail her permanently leaving Indian Town, she’d no living connection there since the passing of her elderly father.

  It was an ancestral cord she was quite willing to sever.

  This settled, they jointly began the process of preparing her home for selling. While David undertook what few cosmetic repairs he felt capable of handling, she leisurely tackled the necessary task of sorting through old boxes of potential family heirlooms stored under her late mother’s bed. It was while doing so that she came across something she only vaguely recalled seeing as a child—a thing long forgotten, yet something that in retrospect she now believed may have subconsciously instilled what later became her adult interest in petroglyphs.

  It was a faded black and red image painted onto a roughly twelve inch square of cracked vellum—apparently not the kind produced from a fibrous plant material, but instead from a thin and carefully prepared animal skin. Unsure of what it represented—possibly a high stone outcropping with what appeared to be a stylized eagle at its summit—she showed it to Peter, who was immediately intrigued by its unique design. As did she, he found it not the least bit similar to anything in their recent collection. After some moments of puzzled study, he soon felt a growing confidence that it was actually Aztec in origin—which made it an extremely old artifact, indeed.

  Upon hearing this attribution, Pilar then innocently made the biggest mistake of her young life—one she now believed led directly to Peter’s death.

  With no foreknowledge of the eventual ramifications of her action, she relayed to him a fanciful story routinely passed down by her family elders for uncounted generations.

  If the legend had any basis in fact, her ancestors were actually descended from an Aztec lord, no less, someone who had been driven from his Mexican homeland hundreds of years earlier at the time of the Spanish conquest. Allegedly, he’d brought with him a treasure belonging to his embattled emperor—items he’d been sworn to hide from the rapacious conquistadors.

  Over time, of course, this fanciful tale became little more than an amusing family myth, something no longer intended for serious consideration by recent generations. At best, it had evolved into an oft-repeated and whimsical story told to children at bedtime.

  To her surprise, however, Peter found this tale to be far more intriguing than amusing—and he came to feel that the premise of the story was definitely worthy of further investigation. What could be the harm in a little adventure? After all, he reasoned, they had the entire spring and summer ahead of them before their move to Michigan. Perhaps with this enigmatic drawing to guide them, that should prove adequate time for them to further explore the local terrain.

  After fifteen days of doing so, Peter’s main focus finally settled on three of the tallest outcroppings in their general area. All were west of Indian Town, each standing in semi-isolation mere miles from the Rio Grande Valley. The prohibition to their exploration, however, was the fact that all three were widely encompassed by wire fencing designating the entire area as private property with no trespassing allowed.

  Undeterred, Peter developed a plan by which he could at least give them a cursory examination without drawing attention to himself. Though Pilar was at first reluctant—for the possibility of him being caught and arrested troubled her—she nevertheless drove him out early one morning and left him within sight of the outcroppings in question. Per their agreement, she was to pick him up again that evening at twilight in the same spot.

  It was the last she ever saw of him.

  When she returned before sunset for their rendezvous and he nowhere in sight, her concern became one of growing alarm. Hoping that her fears were only exaggerated and he merely delayed, she spent the entire night and much of the following morning waiting in vain for his return. By then she was in a virtual state of panic as to what to do as she drove back home, trying to think of various scenarios to explain Peter’s absence. All of her imaginings became increasingly dire, from his being held by the property owners to the possibility of him having fallen and been injured.

  Whatever the truth of it was, by late evening she knew she must go to the sheriff’s office to report him missing and damn the consequences. It was when she arrived in Enid that the grim story of a young man’s brutal murder was already circulating on the street.

  Found along a gravel road close to the Rio Grande River, the grossly disfigured corpse had been transported mere hours earlier to the Trayle County morgue, there awaiting an autopsy and identification. In her heart, she knew it could only be Peter. Deeply shaken, she sat sobbing in the cab of her pick-up before eventually driving back to her empty home. The fault was hers alone—a guilt she felt never to be forgiven.

  It was approaching sunset when David finished compiling his notes, Pilar thankfully still asleep on his couch. Though he suspected she might also need nourishment, he’d no desire to waken her. At least not for the time being, anyway. That could wait for another hour, or so.

  But there was one thing he knew he must do without further delay.

  Retrieving Torres’ card from his shirt pocket, he picked up his cell phone and went into the bedroom,
softly closing the door behind him.

  Outside, sitting patiently in the Clarion’s west parking lot, Hogan opened the second pack of cigarettes of his long day—then likewise checked his wristwatch, thinking he was about due to make his scheduled call to Marino.

  Maybe another ten minutes.

  As boring as he routinely found his job to be, he nevertheless thought of himself as a true professional, well deserving of his high rate of pay. Too, it always gave a boost to his self-image whenever he’d something of potential interest to report to his boss.

  Fortunately, this was such a day . . .

  Several hours earlier he’d taken note of an attractive young woman who parked her dusty pick-up not far from him and went inside. It wasn’t until a bit later he realized she was actually there to see Manning. Having a direct view of the second floor balcony, he occasionally saw her pacing back and forth inside the sliding glass doors. Though the drapes were eventually drawn, by then he was sure enough that he stepped out of his vehicle and recorded the pickup’s license plate number into his pad.

  He was now about to call in his report when things got even more interesting.

  How curious, he thought, watching as Deputy Sheriff Torres swung into the lot and parked his police cruiser across from him. There was no doubt as to who he was there to see.

  Hogan re-pocketed his cell phone.

  Best to hold off until he saw how things developed.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Northeast Of The Rio Grande River. Early Spring of 1521 C.E.

  Chimuli knew the long march back to Tenochtitlan would begin shortly, for their duty to Emperor Cuitlahuac was very close to completion. The huge pit was dug, the burden of the vast treasure in their care uniformly deposited within. All that remained was for the hundreds of long-suffering bearers to replace all of the earth from the excavation, thus returning the barren landscape to its natural appearance.

  At a minimum, this chore was expected to consume another three days.

  With this in mind, the young artisan felt no immediate pressure to hurry the small painting he was currently preparing. This one was being made solely for his own satisfaction—to maintain and hone his skills—not part of his assigned responsibility to fashion an accurate map of their extended journey. That obligation was already completed and properly stored for travel.

  The late afternoon was virtually cloudless, the pale, blue sky a delight to behold. Sitting cross-legged on a low, sandy rise overlooking all the activity, he’d taken his time to carefully outline and proportion the drawing in the most pleasing manner. This done, he could begin the process of applying the traditional colors taught to him back in the emperor’s palace by his aged mentor, Nochetzin, who had personally recommended his talents for this important journey.

  He was now fifteen, their difficult mission to secretly reach this unknown land having consumed eleven full cycles of the Moon Goddess, Coyolxauhqui. It had been a seemingly endless trek the young man would never forget. But with the emperor’s vast treasure effectively hidden from the grasping hands of the hated Spanish, their march back home promised to go infinitely faster.

  Yet he also knew that many now wondered what they would there find. In the elapsed year had the hated devils returned to Tenochtitlan? Having had no contact during this long period there was no way of knowing.

  But this was a speculation the happy youth refused to dwell upon. For him, it was quite enough that the emperor’s gold was successfully hidden.

  The actual choosing of the burial site had ultimately been the responsibility of Xaca, the designated commander of their mission. In a dramatic way, however, it was the Gods, themselves, who made the final selection. Of the three, lofty stone outcroppings standing in grand isolation on the flat plain, it was the one closest to the meandering river valley behind Chimuli that captured both his and Xaca’s inspired attention. Though not the tallest of the three, it could’ve been no mere coincidence that a pair of nesting eagles was visible at its summit—and if this wasn’t a true sign from the Gods, what else could possibly be more auspicious? After all, not only was Xaca a seasoned Eagle Warrior of the highest rank—but also this was reminiscent of how the founding of Tenochtitlan first came to be. Back then the Gods had likewise used an eagle to state their wishes, indicating the island location of their choice to the early band of wandering Aztecs seeking a permanent home.

  In a sense, history had repeated itself.

  Beyond his heady sense of accomplishment, Chimuli had yet another reason to feel grateful for having participated in this great adventure—and he paused to watch as the smiling young slave-girl carried over his evening meal. Given to him a full moon earlier by one of the warriors he’d befriended, the lithe girl was two years older than him and possessed of such a pleasant and charming disposition that he soon began calling her Terzi, meaning ‘one who brings joy’.

  And this she’d quickly brought to him in abundance.

  Not only did he find her to be infinitely helpful and companionable during the ensuing days—but also delightfully amenable to gratifying all his needs beneath their shared blankets during the cool, desert nights. He smiled in anticipation, setting his work aside as she knelt and offered him the prepared dish, thinking as he often did at this time of day that the sun couldn’t set fast enough to suit him.

  The Present.

  “So what’s your professional opinion?” asked Torres as both men studied the faded and cracked painting that Pilar had earlier retrieved from the glove compartment of her pick-up. “Is it as old as it appears?”

  David thought before responding, choosing his words carefully as his eyes flicked toward the young woman still consuming one of the several sandwiches sent up by room service. The last thing he wanted was to offend her by casting doubt on its authenticity—which in turn she might then think reflected negatively on the veracity of her story.

  All he could do was to speak honestly.

  “If I had to guess,” he finally said, “I’d say yes, it probably is. I’m no real expert on such things, but that’s my initial opinion.” He paused; then quickly added, “However, at this point it’s actually pretty much irrelevant, don’t you think? You heard her story. The only thing that really matters is what Peter believed—and where that belief eventually led him.”

  Torres saw the logic.

  “You’re right, of course. Nevertheless, it would be fascinating to know one way or the other.” He lifted his eyes to David. “Just how would one go about verifying it?”

  David felt they were getting off track, but chose to humor Torres’ natural inquisitiveness.

  “Two ways,” he informed the younger man. “The first and most obvious would be to simply have it examined by a recognized specialist in this field through a major museum or a highly qualified university. Preferably one noted for its expertise in identifying authentic Aztec artifacts. But, once again, that would only be an extraneous distraction to our investigation.”

  “And the second? Just curious, understand . . . ”

  David obliged.

  “Equally time-consuming and likewise serving no immediate purpose as regards Peter’s murder, it would require cutting away a significant piece of the vellum hide and sending it away for carbon 14 dating—something not recommended considering the size of the painting. Far too destructive, for one thing. Plus, under the very best of conditions, the accurate dating of animal skins using this method can be notoriously tricky. That much I do know.”

  As Torres pondered on this, David took the opportunity to resolve one of the nagging little mysteries that had troubled him since day one. Opening up his briefcase, he pulled out the envelope containing Peter’s careful rendering of the vellum painting, the last drawing received by Andrews.

  He then handed it to Pilar.

  “You haven’t said,” he asked, “but can I assume you were the one who mailed this to Peter’s grandfather two or three days after his death?”

  She nodded in the affirmativ
e.

  “Mind telling me why?”

  Pilar sighed, her hesitation only momentary.

  “It was more impromptu than anything else,” she said. “Part of me wanted to hang onto it . . . it being the last thing Peter had touched. The envelope was already addressed and sealed, just lying on our bedside bureau. It took me a few days after his murder before I could finally bring myself to take it into town and have it posted. It was what he’d intended and seemed the right thing to do. Too, there was another consideration, one that in retrospect now appears somewhat naïve on my part—but at the time it seemed to have a compelling logic that I couldn’t ignore.”

  She swallowed before continuing.

  “In an odd way, it was almost as if Peter was whispering in my ear.” Her eyes briefly darting to Torres who was now also listening intently. “It’s rather difficult to explain. Even though we’ve never met until today, Professor, on a subconscious level it all revolved around you.”

  David’s brow creased in puzzlement.

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “Remember how I told you that Peter often spoke in the evenings about his stay with you in Salonika and the profound regard he had for you and your work?”

  “I recall you said that’s how you learned so much about his family.”

  “Well, you couldn’t know, but his copy of this painting was actually meant more for your eyes than for his grandfather’s. Peter knew you were soon to be moving permanently back to the U.S. from Europe, but had no clear idea as to exactly when or to where. That’s why he prepared it for mailing like the others, thinking it would eventually come to your attention. He was convinced you’d find it every bit as intriguing as he did, for he appreciated your tenacity when it came to ferreting out the truth of any mystery. He said it was a natural trait of yours. After Peter’s death, this description of you kept running through my mind and became a contributing factor in my decision to post it. As illogical as it perhaps now sounds, I fervently hoped it would be you who eventually came to investigate his murder, and no other.” She smiled for the first time in hours. “Call it fate, or whatever, but my prayers were answered.”