“Like having your own Howard Carter at Thanksgiving.” She smiled at him.
“As a matter of fact, he spent most of his twenties following Livingstone around Africa. In fact, that was part of the reason I was so late back. Intriguingly, one of his diaries spoke of a trip to Spain. Reading between the lines, TF seemed to think this might have something to do with the legacy of Hernán Cortés.”
Juliet adjusted her glasses and continued to study the book, finally shaking her head. “Whoever wrote this was clearly not an expert on the Mesoamerican languages. What we have here is nothing but gobbledygook.”
“I know; I couldn’t make head nor tail of it either. One thing I do know, though, is that my ancestor was far too knowledgeable to be taken in by an obvious forgery. Up till now, I’ve been working on the theory that this was some kind of copy. Now I can’t be completely certain, but I’m pretty sure this is his handwriting.” He opened up the next book, which was the diary found on the boat. “Notice the penmanship here.”
Juliet accepted the diary and compared the handwriting. Though the newest one was written in English and included the occasional diagram, the other contained mainly symbols written in Nahuatl.
The writing of the Aztecs.
“Well, the penmanship could be a match. It’s tough to tell without looking at the same words or letters.” She removed her glasses. “Have you seen anything like this before?”
“Not exactly, though I have seen something similar.” He retook possession of the diary and turned to the page where TF had made a drawing of the Pizarro grave. “Here. Back in 1904, TF recorded how he was walking through a graveyard on one of the islands and found a strange grave with a Spanish name and Aztec markings, including the feathered serpent.”
“What was the island called?”
“St Lide’s.”
Juliet shrugged. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“That doesn’t particularly surprise me. It’s no longer inhabited.” He decided against mentioning his grandmother’s story. “But check out the symbols here. Some are similar to those in the codex.”
Juliet replaced her glasses and checked them both. “These symbols don’t seem to compare with anything in Nahuatl. There are certainly no pictograms that I know of that match this.”
“This symbol” – he spoke of the feathered serpent – “crude though it may be, TF believed to be Quetzalcoatl. He suggested the grave markings were meant as some bizarre recognition of the gods at the Templo Mayor.”
She looked at him, confused. “Whose grave was it?”
“I don’t know exactly. The name on the headstone just read Pizarro. From what I can gather, TF believed the possibility can’t be ruled out that someone descended from Francisco Pizarro and Hernán Cortés was responsible for a trip to Mexico, possibly as late as 1581. In this, he even asserted that Hernán Cortés’s daughter Catalina lived much longer than her recorded one year and made a far bigger mark on the world than history records.”
“But that’s ridiculous. There would be evidence.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” He flicked through the diary. “But if you read this, just here, you can see what TF thought.”
Juliet read two pages quickly, becoming increasingly surprised by what she saw. “This is unbelievable.” She looked him up and down, curious but also clearly dubious. “All this time, I should have had you teaching a class on Narnia.”
A wry smile. “A week ago, I might have said the same thing, but I’ve seen too much since to dismiss it all together. I found this as well.” He showed her the biography of Walter Raleigh. “I checked the catalogue here and everywhere else I could think of. The book is clearly genuine, but I can’t for the life of me find evidence of it elsewhere. This may be the only copy in existence.”
She returned the diary to Ben and picked up the Raleigh book. Though the library-bound cover was clearly a later addition, the printing seemed genuine and clearly legible.
“Who’s the author?”
“I don’t know. Unlike the handwritten books, this one is printed.”
“Is it possible TF was the author and this was a version that may not have been mass produced?”
Ben raised an eyebrow. “In truth, I hadn’t thought of that, but from the evidence, I’d say that’s probably unlikely. The year given is 1691, which, assuming it isn’t a forgery, would seem to rule him out. If he did write it, he clearly said nothing about it; nor did he include his name on the cover.”
Juliet read the early pages. The name of the publisher was shown along with the date. The longwinded title, The Life and Adventures of Sir Walter Raleigh and his journey in search of the legendary cities of gold, suggested to her that the book could be authentic.
“What’s it about?”
“From what I’ve read, it concentrates solely on one area of Raleigh’s life. While out sailing close to the Bay of Biscay in 1581, he came across a strange ship, later identified as a Spanish galleon, though pretty sophisticated for its time. After opening fire, Raleigh noticed gold spill from the rear of the hull, some of which was recovered.”
“What of its whereabouts?”
“Sadly, your guess is as good as mine. Apparently three weeks later, Raleigh found evidence of a wreck in an area called St Mary’s Sound, north of St Lide’s and south of St Mary’s. Interestingly, TF catalogued a wreck in the exact same area in 1905; however, even then word of it was confined solely to local folklore. Official designation didn’t occur until the late ’70s.”
“If it was known for so long, how come it wasn’t designated?”
“Apparently it wasn’t widely known, at least aside from Raleigh and TF. Folklore among the locals confirmed certain elements of the story, but they couldn’t find evidence of the site.”
“Sounds like the Mary Celeste. Evidence of its existence is irrefutable, but no one could find the crew.”
“I was actually thinking more of El Dorado. Within a year, Raleigh became obsessed by something called the Stone of Fire. You ever heard of it?”
“Should I have?”
“Again, a week ago, I would have said no, but had you experienced what I have these last few days, you might be thinking a little differently. While I was over there, I met a man who claims to be Cortés’s descendant.”
“That’s unlikely; the male line died out.”
“No, you’re thinking of Columbus. Cortés’s family, at least from his second marriage, are still recognised as having lived on. As far as I’m aware, he has no kids. And only one nephew.”
Juliet removed her glasses and stared sceptically at Ben. “Even if the descendants of Hernán Cortés do still walk the earth, there’s no reason to place particular importance on this. I have an aunt who thinks we’re related to Charlemagne.”
“Yeah, and my cousin once said we’re Robin Hood’s great-nephews twice removed. Though he was six at the time,” he said, making her smile. “While I was over there, Cortés let me see something. It was a book by Bernal Díaz.”
“Cortés’s biographer?”
“Got it in one; only unlike the original, this one was longer, apparently uncut.”
“In what way? What else did it say?”
“Mainly just gave extra figures: exact number of deaths at the Noche Triste; evidence of personal conversations between Cortés and Montezuma that he apparently witnessed first hand. However, interestingly, he specifically confirmed that Cortés did remove some treasures from Tenochtitlán before the city fell, and at least three ships returned to Spain, apparently not with the consent of the King of Spain. Among his wares, he may or may not have brought something called the Stone of Fire.”
“So what was it?”
“I’m not sure, exactly; however, I did see something similar over in England and again in Spain. If Cortés Junior is to be believed, it comes from the City of Tollan.”
“You mean Tula?”
“No! I mean the one that doesn’t exist.”
Juliet loo
ked back, astounded. “You can’t be serious?”
“Yes, but before you say any more, I’m not saying I’m buying into this one. That Catalina Cortés survived and later went on to have a daughter of the same name, I now feel there is good proof. Cortés personally allowed me access to parts of his castle, and there are certainly things there that the average historian isn’t normally privy to.”
“What kind of things? Why did he let you see them?”
“It’s a long story, but suffice it to say they were definitely worth seeing. Whatever treasure his ancestor left behind, he clearly doesn’t have all of it.”
“You ask me, the treasure was merely a myth. Just look at El Dorado; it was a case of things lost in translation,” Juliet replied.
“You say that now, but you haven’t seen what I’ve seen.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“TF discovered that the shipwreck story was real, authenticating at least part of the Raleigh story. Since then the wreck has been designated, but two questions that haven’t been officially answered are who piloted the ship and what became of the crew.”
“You think a band of conquistadors survived and buried something on St Lide’s?”
“I don’t think so, I know so.” He returned to his rucksack. “Check this out.”
Juliet replaced her glasses as Ben removed a selection of gold coins.
“This was part of the hoard.” He allowed her to study them as he dug out a further two books. He flicked through them, stopping on two similar but clearly different maps. After everything that had happened, he had neglected to return the history of the Isles of Scilly book to Dr Phillips.
“This is St Lide’s.” He handed over a modern guidebook before comparing it to the older book. “Notice the original layout compared to the current one. The area surrounding the castle at Hell’s Bay was purposely manipulated. Everything fits. There were three causeways that could be used to approach it. It’s constructed in the middle of a small lagoon, just like Tenochtitlán.”
“It’s not exactly like Tenochtitlán. Tenochtitlán was hardly in the centre of Lake Texcoco. The lake was bigger than some countries.”
“Fair enough, but think of how it looks on the Cortés coat of arms.” He showed her a copy to remind her. “Furthermore, the coat of arms wasn’t discovered until relatively recently. TF himself saw something prior to that time.”
“You know, for an alleged expert on post-Columbus voyages, it doesn’t half feel as if I’m chatting with an undergrad right now.”
He smiled at her. “Laugh if you want, but this last week I’ve experienced things I never thought possible. I’ve met people I never knew existed. Seen places I’ve never heard of and touched objects I never knew could possibly be real.”
“So what do you think this is?” She spoke of the coins. “This Aztec treasure? Are we talking something that an arms dealer would get thrills over or something that would have inspired Hitler?”
Ben’s grin widened. “Both – not to mention every billionaire who owns a sports franchise. From what I can gather, Catalina Cortés buried whatever the galleon was able to bring back on St Lide’s, after locating at least part of the hoard looted on the Noche Triste using knowledge left behind by her grandfather. After becoming shipwrecked, they used the then abandoned St Lide’s as a base and buried their cargo beneath what is now the castle. However, around seventy years later, it was discovered by a group of Royalist troops who were stationed there during the English Civil War and returned to England, where it was buried.”
“You can’t be sure of that.”
“Actually I can.”
*
Ben spent the next ten minutes explaining to Juliet everything that had happened, concentrating on Colts. He ended by giving her the low-down of their trip to Spain.
Anecdotes regarding Nicholl and Valeria, he decided to use sparingly.
Juliet took a seat on the visitor’s side while Ben perched himself at the side of his desk and monitored her reactions, quietly amused.
“This is just incredible,” she said at last, her eyes looking vacantly through the window across the green, enjoying the peaceful outlook resulting from the students’ absence. “If part of the Noche Triste Treasure has really been discovered, this will be one of the finds of the century.”
“Absolutely. And once the full details are ascertained, history itself will be forced to come to terms with the consequences. No longer will it be acceptable to conclude that Hernán Cortés’s life ended as a Darth Vader-style tragedy. If anything, the man was a genius. In his very own way, a Spanish Edward Teach.”
“Well, Blackbeard aside, there’s not an archaeologist or museum in the world that won’t be in some way affected by this. If what you’re saying is true, not only does this affect Spain, but our very understanding of Aztec culture. Despite our knowledge of the ruined cities, possession of coins has always been pretty rare. If part of the treasure has been found, someone has a legal obligation to bring the work to light, even if not a moral one. If you do that, it might increase your chances of studying the hoard yourself.”
“Actually, chances are that won’t be important. The hoard was found in Cornwall, close to land owned by the Duchy. Though the entrance may have been on private property, the mine itself belongs to the National Trust. I can’t imagine they and the Duke will have too many quarrels.”
“Even if that’s true, I think the days of royals keeping things for themselves passed some time ago. Someone has to research it.”
“Yeah, well, interesting though Godolphin was, I still think this can wait. Evidence from the hidden monastery in the hamlet in Extremadura confirmed beyond doubt that something of value also existed there and that the same area was visited by forces dressed in Napoleonic uniforms sometime prior to TF’s arrival. The abandoned mine a hundred kilometres south was still full of gold when TF visited it. Sadly, it wasn’t when I saw it.”
“You think he took it?”
“Quite probably,” he said. “And I certainly hope so. Be bizarre for a party that large not to take anything, though a full salvage operation might have been beyond them at the time. If it wasn’t him, chances are it was someone else who followed the story closely.”
Secretly, he still wondered what Juan had meant writing that strange note. The man seemed to have known that the mine had already been depleted.
“If you’re right about this and the latest descendant of Hernán Cortés is still living and looking for what his ancestor missed, what does it mean? After all, you have no proof the original riches from Tenochtitlán exist. And even if they do, it sounds as though they have become at least partially scattered.”
“Well, I can’t vouch for the stuff that was taken to Spain; for all I know it could still be hidden behind the concealed door in the inner sanctum of the monastery. Whatever Raleigh searched for, he clearly believed it existed – more importantly, as far as I can tell, that knowledge was limited only to him and perhaps a few people involved in his quest. If, and admittedly it is a big if, the rest of the treasure exists, be it taken by Cortés’s men and hidden; rediscovered by the Aztecs and re-hidden or perhaps dumped in the lake; or whether it remained in the depleted city, hidden in vaults or taken to a safe place, only God may know. However, aside from the fact that whatever Juan Cortés is currently doing is more than worth keeping an eye on, chances are somebody in the original party or at least somebody who survived the original conquest probably knew a lot more about this than we do.”
“And how do you expect to go about finding it?”
“The same way I do everything. Patient research.”
Juliet’s intended response was put on hold by the ringing of Ben’s office phone. He smiled at her as he removed the cordless landline from its base port.
“Hello, Dr Ben Maloney . . . Yes? . . . Speaking? . . . Oh, really . . . Well, tell him I’d be delighted . . . Absolutely. Tell him both my cousin and myself will be over within two day
s.
“Thank you so much.”
Juliet watched him, her eyes wide open. “A friend of yours?”
“Not exactly, but definitely a friend of a friend. Looks like you were right after all. It seems I’m wanted elsewhere.”
*
Chris was sitting in a chair beside his hospital bed when Ben entered. Pleasingly, Juliet was with him.
“Evening, Juliet. How’s Emily?”
Juliet rolled her eyes; Ben laughed.
“Pack your things, you’ve been discharged.”
“Who by?”
“By me. I just spoke to Colts. We’re going back to England.”
6
Somewhere in Spain
Juan Cortés folded his arms as he looked inquisitively at the strange sphere-shaped object located at the foot of the nearest tomb. He glanced at the familiar features of Dominic Velázquez, the silver-haired curator of Seville Cathedral, as he gave fluent instructions to the two workmen as they prepared to start work on removing it from its encasement within the floor.
Juan’s heart was beating rapidly. Though he believed he already knew what the outcome would be, his body tingled with the strong feelings of urgency that he had been sensing almost permanently in recent weeks.
Theoretically, the location had all of the characteristics of a potential source of such a discovery. The ruined arched doorway behind him, which had once connected the side chapel to a sculpture-lined corridor, was thickly coated in dust and rubble that had clearly not been disturbed in recent years. Just like what he had seen the previous evening, the chapel was deserted and sparsely decorated, but unlike the one in Seville, the interior was forlorn and devoid of light.
To Juan, the illumination of the portable halogen lamps seemed more like an archaeological dig than an evening vigil.
Whatever the chapel’s history, he sensed that once upon a time it had been of great importance, albeit less so than Seville. His eyes focused on the nearby walls where the faces of several statues absorbed the light, a reminder that great riches lay nearby and above his head.
The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 67