The Lost Treasure of the Aztec Kings Read online

  The Lost Treasure of the Aztec Kings

  Wyatt Liam Anderson

  Editing and Proofreading by

  Angela Walker & James Barnett

  Copyright © 2021 by Wyatt Liam Anderson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Chapter One

  2. Chapter Two

  3. Chapter Three

  4. Chapter Four

  5. Chapter Five

  6. Chapter Six

  7. Chapter Seven

  8. Chapter Eight

  9. Chapter Nine

  10. Chapter Ten

  11. Chapter Eleven

  12. Chapter Twelve

  13. Chapter Thirteen

  14. Chapter Fourteen

  15. Chapter Fifteen

  16. Chapter Sixteen

  17. Chapter Seventeen

  18. Chapter Eighteen

  19. Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  August 1969

  A hundred and twelve days went by like a puff of smoke. Still, the digging continued. No one had gone outside the cave in days on Master Cervelli's orders. Night and day passed like a prisoner's timeline. It was hard to tell the weather from the inside unless those at the outfield came in to share the updates. Apart from the few that busied themselves at the tunnel, most of the workers were primarily underground at various excavation points. One of those that regularly checked in with the team of workers from time to time was John Di Bojan. He was the middle guy, connecting Master Cervelli Di Maggio with the investors in Florence, Venice, and Vatican City.

  Cervelli was highly disciplined. Some associated his moral virtue with his maternal linage that was solidly rooted in Judaism. As frequently as that subject was debated in hushed tones amongst workers, he had never stopped by to join in the discussion. Cervelli showed before he said. From prospecting to extraction, he was always the first call. This was probably why he died with the first few victims when the mine collapsed.

  More than half of the 113 workers at the largest gold mine in Karnataka were in the tunnel on a warm evening, as Alejandro Martini had lived to recall. Alejandro was just one out of the twenty-five Americans recruited by the Italian mining company in 1969. He was only twenty-one at the time. He was newly wedded and was the gladdest person in New York when he received the news. Mail spent enormous time journeying through trains and trucks during the time. His young wife was almost as anxious as he was while he tore out the letter sealed inside the parcel with the running horseman-labeled overleaf. The despondence that had swallowed their brief honeymoon soon blossomed into tearful joy as he read the content of the letter. Looking back at the moment when he kissed his wife goodbye amidst tears and heaps of promises to his love, all he could think of was how his return would change the fortune for his family. He had gotten used to slipping into these beautiful glimpses of reverie at the height of their routine. It gradually became a form of escape for him—escape from the noise of blasting, digging, milling, and other activities that tore romance out of a regular piece of the American dream.

  Someone was behind Alejandro. He had no idea who it was, but he felt the intensity of those prying eyes on him. He adjusted his hands on the stamp mill with a laser focus on the chunk before him. His body stiffened as he felt a hand on his shoulder. A whisper followed it. Bojan wanted to show something to him. He and Bojan were the first to meet on a train en route to JFK. They became close since then for one reason only: the proximity of their home. Other than that, Bojan wouldn't have made his friend list on a regular day.

  When Bojan caught his attention, he looked into his brown hat and found some gold grains. Alejandro shook his head and continued on the chunk before him. High-grading was common amongst young workers on site. After several of those show-offs, Bojan finally came to terms with the kind of cloak his friend was made from. Alejandro didn't have it in him, so it was no use trying to lure him.

  Bojan stopped bothering him for a while and went back to his unit, but not for too long. He came back again in less than twenty minutes to ask Alejandro if he knew the meaning or interpretation of a code they saw on a wall.

  "Sorry, the only thing I know is how to complete my time here, earn my shit, and get back to my family."

  Alejandro was as polite as he could be, but the tone of his voice drove his message home.

  A piece of rock fell in between the two men. They turned around. As common as gold theft was amongst young miners in a gigantic industry, the punishment was very severe if the news fell into the wrong ear. Average workers who had no surety or well-known guarantor could easily be swept into obscurity. If the captain was Jewish, the offender could get the Achan execution-style.

  Alejandro and his colleague looked at the piece of rock and then at each other. Who else knew? Thoughts aligned much, but before words could be formed, there were more rocks, and no hands threw them. It seemed the foundation of the rock that bellied them was shaken by a force too great for an explanation. Other workers had stopped, too, apart from a few individuals running for the cage. Others were too perplexed to make a decision. The ones carrying ore quickly dumped it on the floor and grabbed the chute to evacuate themselves immediately.

  Suddenly, the commotion stopped. The silence that followed it was more confusing than the brief life-threatening vibrations. The unqualified geologists amongst the miners came up with various names, but most decided to settle for a volcanic scare. Well, it sounded more agreeable than all the bogus assumptions that flew around when the silence eased into a timeout for an unsolicited geology class.

  Work would have resumed five minutes later because Cervelli had taken up his tools again. The ones that made it out of the hole regained their confidence to rejoin their units. Two or three people were injured during the rush. Alejandro was among those that made it to the mouth of the exit points during the rush out. They were laughed at for it.

  "Cowards!" some chorused as they returned one after the other. Some who spoke foreign languages also joined in the mockery.

  "Hey, are you sure you're alright?" a colleague asked Alejandro.

  He didn't respond because he assumed it was a jest, but when two other workers pointed their headlamps at his shoulder, he knew it wasn't something he should overlook. He was bleeding, but before he caught the sight of his blood, the pain didn't register. When he saw the injury, the ability to walk left him. Someone had to help him and assist him as they went back up and through the tunnel until they got to the outfield. He was taken to the emergency unit that was a hundred meters from the tunnel. The colleague left him there. Until the doctor returned from treating those inside the hole that weren't seriously injured, he would have to wait. The short episode of how he tried to pass through a tiny space between people during the rush began to unfold like a film projector. There was a sharp iron bar that obstructed his exit. That was the one that caught him during the struggle. Instead of sitting there and losing blood, he reached out his hand for the first-aid box he saw on a metal table.

  Work was almost in full steam again. Some did murmur in the background, trying to protest for a longer timeout. They could have been awarded a few minutes if they persisted, but there was another interruption. There were rays of blinding light pointing in various directions this time, all coming from excavation units. The feature looked like an enormous sun slowly coming out of
the rock without the beating noise accompanying the strange light.

  The curiosity or daredevil nosiness that caused the miners to move toward the unusual scenery for a closer look was one of the traits that had been on the back of such a profession, like a tattoo. Those with safety goggles saw enough to believe that the hole was the last place to be in. Unfortunately, only a few of them got to the exit point before they heard a shrieking sound that lasted for seconds. Even those at the outfield weren't safe from the mysterious occurrence that followed the sound. The emergency unit was a bit secure because of the distance. When Alejandro heard the unfamiliar sound, he hopped down from the metal table to go peek through the door. He noticed the rays of light that exited the hole in various directions and how those who made it out experienced the most horrific deaths he had ever witnessed. Blood gushed from their eyes, nostrils, mouths, and other parts of their bodies before they crumbled to the ground. He also felt blood coming out of his ears before he fell asleep.

  ___________

  By the time Alejandro woke up, a week had passed.

  A nurse tried to explain in Hindi that he had been in a coma for days. He spent one more week in the hospital, and no one cared to answer all the bugging questions that stole sleep from him. He had no idea who took him to Tirupati. Then, finally, an Indian man who never said a word to him came one morning and handed an envelope to him. Inside it was his flight ticket and some gold coins that were enough to start the life he had always wished for. He was a bit curious about the name engraved on the coins: Xipil Tezcacoatl. He stared at it for a while, but like the codes and other inscriptions Bojan had shown him, this too went over his head. He tried not to dwell on it. Besides, he needed the money it would fetch from its sale and not the name or symbol engraved on them.

  By the time he looked up, he had hoped he didn't get robbed by the prying eyes in the hospital ward before he got to fulfill his lifelong dream.

  Anyone who was able to join a few words in English amongst the locals that he inquired from kept pointing him in the direction of some tourist spots like the Swamy Temple. He was lucky to meet someone who was very eloquent in English while using their Dharma Rathams, a free bus service. The man directed him on how to connect to Mumbai, where he would catch his flight.

  The first thing he did on arrival in New York was to meet his friend, Rossi, that worked with a news media called Il Progresso Italo-Americano. He tried to convince Rossi to take up his report for weeks, but Rossi and his colleagues treated the details with a pinch of salt. Next, Alejandro reached out to other media houses, but his scars, tears, and deep-seated grief couldn't convince anyone to believe him. His wife, Amelia, did listen to him, including other family members, but no one took him seriously enough to do anything about it. So, over time, he learned to get used to not being heard or believed.

  Fifty years passed, and his traumatic experience in India gradually turned into a bedtime story that he shared with his granddaughter, Jane. Until one day, he received a visitor who would pay anything to hear him tell it one more time.

  1

  Chapter One

  Brooklyn, New York

  June 2019

  "Invitees only, thank you."

  The expressions on the people's faces that crowded the big hall in front of one of the most exquisite and expensive galleries in Brooklyn showed that they had been expecting to hear the stern warning. The man with a grey beard and a white suit made the announcement and watched as the numbers reduced. His colleagues, about a dozen of them in black tuxedoes, stood elegantly to his right and left like models in a runway show.

  The caliber of people that marched into the exhibition afterward was no regular folks. No average person strolled into such a place or wielded the silver card with which they flashed in front of a biometric at the doorway as they entered. A young man in his early twenties carried a suitcase as he sneaked between some guests. He passed between a middle-aged couple that glared at him for a second. Someone would have cautioned him, but the way he innocently gazed at the door as he moved with his suitcase earned him unspoken apologies from the guests.

  When he got to the door, he also flashed a silver card and waited to hear the beep sound that ushered him into the exhibition hall. A minute after that, someone complained that her card was missing. Too late. One of the tuxedo guys helped him remove his brown overcoat and reached for his suitcase, but he wasn't parting with the case yet. He joined a smaller fraction of people as they moved around the exhibition hall, stopping to look at the artwork on display in various sections. Each group had someone in a tuxedo, guiding and saying something about each piece on display. The showing would last for at least fifteen minutes before the main event, the art auctioning, would be declared open.

  "Can I talk to you for a second?" the young man asked their guide. "I'm Adrian Santini," he said as they took a few steps away from the group. "I want to see the manager. I have a business proposition to make before the exhibition is over."

  "Alright, Mr. Santini. Mr. Ferguson is at the aisle close to Soleil Levant." The guide pointed to where he needed to go.

  Adrian hurried in that direction, carrying his suitcase with caution to avoid tampering with its contents. Mr. Ferguson, the man in the white suit that coordinated the exhibition, seemed like the perfect guy to consult after Adrian's attempt at selling the contents in the case had failed twice already. Moreover, he had plans to visit at least five more exhibition centers in New York if he had to.

  "Hi, Mr. Ferguson," Adrian greeted, drawing the manager's attention. "This will take a minute, but I'm assuring you it is worth it."

  "Okay."

  "I'm Adrian Santini. Inside this box are collections from the finest artist that ever lived, Michelangelo."

  When Adrian detected the skepticism on Mr. Ferguson's face when he mentioned Michelangelo, he quickly tried to change the narrative. Maybe his failures resided in his sales pitch. It would not be easy to convince any art expert to believe that the work he had been carrying around over the last seventy-two hours could be attributed to the creator of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in Rome.

  "I know, that sounds unrealistic, but believe me, these items here transcended from the Renaissance timeline. You can have your experts review them if you wish."

  "I hear you, um—"

  "Adrian."

  "Yeah, Adrian. As you can see, we don't conduct such business here. However, there are several online platforms that I believe you can reach and get a good bargain for your piece."

  "I know, Mr. Ferguson. But you're auctioning some items, as I heard. If you could just throw in this classic material into the catalog that you have, it would affect the value of the others, believe me."

  Mr. Ferguson smiled at Adrian and ended the dialogue with, "Thanks for coming, Adrian."

  Another rejection hit Adrian in the face. The idea of auctioning those items had sounded brilliant when he came up with it. It could even triple the price of each piece. He was disappointed but unwavering in his quest. He found a spot to sit and while away the few minutes until the time for the auctioning. All that time, his eyes were on the manager, watching the people he interacted with. Everyone had a price. Experience had taught him that.

  As he waited, he noticed that Mr. Ferguson was unusually attentive to a specific woman in satin rose gold that matched with her stiletto heels. A hundred-dollar tip to one of the tuxedo guys availed him more than the internet could have supplied. Not only did he get to learn that the woman was the auctioneer, but he also had a one-on-one with her. This time, he started his speech with what she stood to gain from the deal rather than the origin of the items.

  Finally, it was time for the auction sales. The guests had already been furnished with the knowledge of the items on sale. Everyone was ushered into a large room with a cabaret-style seating arrangement. The room was well-lit and suiting for the business at hand. Besides the bottles of water placed on each table, there were bid paddles for each guest.

  The
auctioneer, after she had made a quick introduction, said, "Ladies and gentlemen, an original collection from the Renaissance timeline has been included in the auctions today."

  A musical effect resounded in the background as she introduced the items for sale. She opened Adrian's suitcase and unveiled the materials. The image appeared on the big screen, behind the auctioneer.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, what you're looking at dates back to the seventeenth century. It's called the Flaming Heart, bearing various stones, fashioned after the ideology of Saint Margaret Mary Alacoque. The flaming heart is enshrined on an altar, surrounded by what I believe represents the Knights Templar. With these highly significant items came original maps with old Latin words that I'm sorry I can't decipher," she chuckled. "I do recognize the word, Pondicherry, which I believe is a place in India. There are more details based on my brief research, but for lack of time, I'll move straight to the bidding, starting with the Peruvian Graffiti, designed by Rufus Alphonsus..."

  The auctioneer started with the lowest item on the catalog. The transition of events was as Adrian had hoped. However, midway through the biddings, he felt a little uneasy. He looked at his wristwatch most of the time as if the digital one on the big screen slowed down his plans. Slowly, items began to leave the shelf at prices, proving why the exhibition center was no place for the average.

  Finally, it got to the Flaming Heart. It took almost an hour, but it couldn't have come at a better timing. The numbers in the room had increased after some well-known faces from the entertainment industry and business moguls joined them. There were about six more valued items still on the catalog.