“Tie them up.”
37
The Spaniards left through the front door, heading toward the nearby coastline. Cortés ignored Pizarro’s request to torch the place, choosing to slap him for a stupid idea. Luck was on their side: one of the five stones had been found. Four remained. Cortés knew they could be anywhere.
He sensed the leather-bound diary he now carried could be a turning point in their search.
Ben had lost control of his upper and lower limbs. His hands had been tied together using rope, and a gag severely restricted his breathing. He felt dizzy and sick, a hideous combination; blood congealed around the side of his mouth, a reminder of Pizarro’s slap. Suddenly he remembered.
The bastard had punched him a second time.
It took several seconds for him to realise he’d been unconscious. How long had he been out for? A few minutes? An hour? Surely it was no longer than that.
He was sitting in a chair, padded with soft velvet, though with a hard, rigid frame. There was a long wooden table on his right, and an original fireplace to the left flanked by various objects, including a poker and several pieces of wood. A sharp wind echoed down the chimney, escaping around his feet, creating an unpleasant chill. When the wind stopped, a deathly hush took over the room, as if a curse had been placed, if not something even more sinister. He shivered, cold or fear, perhaps both. The rope burned as he tried to move his hands. There were marks around his wrists – even though he couldn’t see them, he could feel them. Years of experience told him the weak point, if there was one, was probably in the knot.
He tried to feel for one.
Nope.
He was dealing with professionals.
He heard noise behind him, followed by something hard hitting the back of his head.
“Ow.”
He recognised the noise, a woman’s voice. “Valeria.” He spat away the mouth gag.
“Of course it’s me. Who did you think?”
In truth he thought he was alone. As he wriggled his hands, he felt slender fingers brushing against his, crowned by long delicate nails that dug sharply into the palm of his hand.
“What happened?”
“What you mean, what happened? He took everything.”
Less than a few inches away, Ben could hear her sobbing. He remembered nothing of how he came to be tied up. Whatever had happened, he attributed it to the pounding headache and injuries he had sustained to his face.
“Who was he?”
“His name’s Juan Cortés. A horrible man.”
“I guessed that,” Ben replied, shouting. “He said you were related.”
Valeria spat; though Ben could not see her do it, he could certainly hear it. “It is impossible for a human to be related to a dog.”
Had the circumstances been different, Ben might have mustered a smile. Instead, he detected a long backstory.
“Who is he?”
“During his life, Hernán Cortés had many children; some with a wife, some with others.”
Ben was familiar with Cortés’s love life. In total, he knew there could have been as many as fourteen children. “That was five hundred years ago.”
“When the Cortés treasure went missing, clues were left behind and stories passed down by word of mouth from generation to generation.”
“He’s definitely a descendant?”
“Cortés’s second wife was Juana Ramírez de Arellano de Zúñiga,” she said, her pronunciation of the names impeccable. “Together they had six children, many living into adulthood. They, too, have many children.”
“It’s from them that he’s descended?” Ben asked.
“Yes.” Valeria turned. With their faces turned to the same side, Ben could feel her soft skin on his.
“How are you cousins? You’re descended too?”
“While he was in Tenochtitlan, Cortés entered an agreement with Montezuma’s daughter, most English know her as Isabel.”
“Tecuichpotzin?” Ben said.
“Yes,” Valeria agreed. “Their first child was named Leonor.”
“You mean only child?”
“Right. Leonor had three children. They had children.” She looked Ben in the eye. “It is from them who I’m descended.”
“You’re descended of Cortés?”
“No. I’m descended of Montezuma.”
No sooner had she said it, Ben realised she was probably correct. Montezuma had perished: whether set upon by his followers or killed by the conquistadors, history was unclear. Ben knew for a fact that most of the later attention had been placed on what happened to the treasure as opposed to the emperor himself.
“What was it that he took?”
“When Cortés returned from the New World, he bring many gifts to the Spanish king and his family. Apparently he give to his new wife five precious emeralds.”
Suddenly everything TF mentioned about the stained-glass window in the church made sense. “That was an emerald?”
“Only replica.”
“What is it? Why was it made?”
“Tradition in my family tells that people from all the world look for the Montezuma treasure – but only rightful descendants know the true place to look. They say before the last Godolphin die, he created replica. Only one who has all five can find lost location.”
Son of a gun, Ben thought. “That’s why you live here? That’s what you are looking for?”
“All five are buried here, somewhere. They also say the great T.F. Malone discovered one, if not two.”
Secretly his thoughts turned to the box Kernow had found, the discovery of the bell back in the GM.
Clearly TF had found at least one of the five.
There were sounds on the stairs, footsteps, soft but clearly audible, approaching the room. A woman appeared, old, grey-haired, her features unmistakeably Spanish. She entered the room, calling Valeria.
She saw them and screamed.
“Nana,” Valeria said, trying to calm her. She said her name several times before sounding off at her in fluent Spanish.
Ben was in the dark. Even with his head turned, all he could see was the wall and the silhouette of the newcomer moving like a phantom.
Then he saw her in front of him, brandishing a gigantic butcher’s knife.
“Tell her to stop,” Ben screamed.
Ben attempted to move, doing his best to drag the chairs in any direction, anything to get out of the way of the hysterical old woman. He heard shouting from behind him, obviously Valeria. Her tone had become deadly serious, the volume of her words rising. At last she was starting to have an impact. The woman stopped moving; instead she stared at Ben with critical eyes. There was still anger lingering, venom oozing out of her puffy cheeks and hazel eyes.
She seemed oblivious to the fact that Ben was a victim rather than a culprit.
“Tell her to cut us loose.”
Valeria barked at her grandmother in Spanish, the words eventually having the desired effect. She sliced the knife through the bonds that attached him and Valeria to the chairs, and then the ones to their individual hands. Ben felt the relief sweep through him as he gripped his wrists, rubbing the wounds.
The grandmother shouted again, a long wrinkly finger pointed at Ben. For Ben, it was almost as bad as being punched by Pizarro.
“Nana, settle down,” Valeria said, placing her hands on her grandmother’s shoulders. She guided the woman away, leading her into the hallway and then the kitchen.
Ben followed, stopping in the hallway, his eyes struggling to come to terms with the scene of chaos in front of him. He placed his hand to his head and rubbed it, his eyes falling on the nearby cabinet. There was a box on the side, finely decorated, but empty.
That was when he noticed the next thing. There were papers on the side, next to the box. They were photocopies, all of indistinct handwritten pages.
Ben held up the papers and waved them in the returning Valeria’s face. “This is my great-great-grandfather’s diary.”
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Valeria was instantly nervous.
“You broke into my room?”
“Ben.”
He threw the papers on the sideboard and grabbed Valeria’s collar. “What on earth happened to Chris?”
The grandmother returned from the kitchen, again brandishing a knife. Ben was so shocked he let go of Valeria’s ripped sweatshirt and took shelter behind the nearest door.
“Nana, wait,” Valeria said, again taking hold of her grandmother around the upper body. She pushed her grandmother into the next room and returned to Ben, who was still hiding behind the door.
“How did you get the diary?” he demanded.
“You leave it on the side when you speak with Officer Hammill,” she said, brushing her hair over her head. “I only needed to borrow.”
That cut no ice with Ben. “If you wanted to borrow it, how come you didn’t ask?”
Valeria made no response. She looked over her shoulder, then again at the photocopies. All in all, it had at least helped confirm the Smethick story.
Ben moved closer, coming back into the room itself. “What happened?”
“Your great-great-grandfather was no ordinary explorer, Ben. He knew much.”
“What are you talking about?”
Valeria was dumbstruck. “Please, you call yourself a professor? These are not emeralds. You saw the symbol of trumpet. Did it shine? Did it glow? What you saw is replica.”
“I got that. So what does it mean?”
“The treasure was found – soldiers in the Civil War dug it up and took it away. No one knows where.”
Ben was not buying it. “Nobody knows where?”
“Nobody alive.”
Ben exhaled with so much force it moved his hair beneath his hat. “Surely you must know something.”
“When Godolphin ordered the treasure to be removed from the island, he only entrusted the location to five others, all family.”
“Who were they? Which family?”
“That doesn’t matter. Only that all five were told. As a sign, five replicas were made of the Cortés emeralds, each to spell out part of the name of the new location.”
Ben rubbed his chin. It sounded far-fetched, but, then again, Colts himself had mentioned there were markers. “And the one you just saw. What did it say?”
“It said no word. Only the letters H I N.”
Ben was confused. “Meaning what?”
“I don’t know.”
He looked at her, waiting to see if she was going to reveal any more. The first thought that entered his head was of the similar stone back in his room at the Gibbous Moon. It was in the shape of a bell; he was still to examine it thoroughly.
He now knew there must be a connection.
“What about the others?”
“In total there were five emeralds. The others were rose, fish, cup, and bell. According to the diary, your ancestor found bell. Nobody knows where he hid them.”
He decided not to tell her about the bell. “Have you read the diary?”
“Of course. It confirmed the story of Samuel Smethick. It say where trumpet was hidden.”
“What about the others?”
“Your ancestor only talk about bell. According to something else, the rose was hidden on St Mary’s. I don’t know about cup and fish.”
Ben took a seat in the corner of the room and then immediately stood again. “What difference does it make?” he asked, restless. “Even if you find the name of the place, you still don’t know what you’re looking for.”
“Your great-great-grandfather suggested the five pieces together fit in a wall, a little like a key.”
Ben looked at the photocopies, concentrating on the area she was talking about. He turned the pages frantically, looking for clarification. “Where is the bit about them?”
She looked and found it. “Here.”
Ben immediately began reading. The penny dropped.
“What?” Valeria asked, noticing his change in attitude.
Ben took a deep breath, trying to make sense of everything. The words, appearing in old handwriting but on modern paper, now stood out as clear as day.
“A blank wall is a fool’s writing paper.”
Valeria was confused. “Ben?”
“I need you to take me to Old Town on St Mary’s.”
“Why?”
Ben smiled. “Because I think I know where to start looking.”
38
7:15pm
Ben was first through the lichgate of the churchyard. He’d sprinted all the way from the harbour and neglected to hold the gate open for his companion.
Valeria was unimpressed on both counts.
The churchyard was deserted as usual. It wasn’t yet dark, but the rain had been falling heavily for over an hour. Thick black clouds had settled menacingly in the sky, still threatening a thunderstorm. According to the forecast, it wasn’t likely to improve before dawn.
The Godolphin Mausoleum was in exactly the same state as before, the large crack still unrepaired. Fresh water had pooled around the base on the west side, pouring inside or running onto the nearby grass.
Ben stopped to examine it before entering the mausoleum. He knew from the night before that getting inside without becoming soaked and dirty would be completely unavoidable.
Valeria followed him inside and groaned as she got up from a crouching position to her feet, sneezing immediately.
“Bless you.”
She looked at Ben, again unimpressed. He had already switched on his torch and was shining it on the walls.
Valeria did the same, allowing herself an opportunity to examine the interior before concentrating on the same thing as Ben. There was writing on the far wall, in English and written clearly.
“A blank wall is a fool’s writing paper,” she said, looking at Ben. “How? How did you know?”
He looked at her, adjusted his woolly hat and sighed. “You want the long story or the short?”
Ignoring him, she approached the wall and touched the writing with her fingers. The grooves were deep and even, suggesting they were made with a precise instrument.
“Why is it written in English?”
“Because the Godolphins were English.”
She laughed, realising her own mistake. “But it was Cortés who said the words.”
Ben didn’t respond, but the thought had already occurred to him. Cortés’s soldier and later biographer, Díaz, wrote that while Cortés was staying in Coyoacán in Mexico, he lodged at a palace with whitewashed walls, and every morning they would wake up to find messages written in either charcoal or ink. One of the messages was said to have criticized Cortés, complaining he had secreted away gold otherwise meant for the King of Spain. Priding himself as being something of a poet, he was once recorded as having replied with the words that Ben and Valeria now saw in front of them.
“What does it mean?” Valeria asked.
Ben shook his head; he had been trying to figure out the same thing. There was dust and debris everywhere, small flakes floating in the light, making it harder to see or breathe. He tried pushing the wall, but it didn’t budge. Using torchlight, he read the photocopied diary; even compared to the original, the writing was almost impossible to read.
TF never mentioned the wall’s significance.
Ben walked along the nearest row of tombs. At the centre of the room he noticed a large circle marked out across the floor, surrounded by an even larger one. There were patterns on it, animals, serpents…it was like looking at an Aztec hieroglyph.
Valeria moved towards him, noticing what Ben had seen.
“Stop,” Ben yelled, edging away from the circle. “Don’t stand on it.”
Valeria froze, stopping less than a foot away, preparing to walk toward the centre. “What is it?”
In truth Ben was not sure; it was something he had missed on the first occasion. The outer circle was at least ten feet in diameter. The smaller one appeared like a sun, but with markings on the
inside, like a human face.
He associated it with the Aztec sun god.
He looked to his right and saw something on the end of one of the tombs. A small container was attached to the stone, wide enough for him to insert his hand. He reached in slowly, wary of getting bitten. The large circle had brought back memories of the first time he had seen Raiders of the Lost Ark, whereas now thoughts had turned to the Temple of Doom.
The Cortés Enigma Page 24