Excavation

Gil kept a watch on the camp as they climbed down. The surrounding rain forest, its edges lit up by the four spotlights positioned at the compass points around the ruins, echoed with the hoots and occasional screeches of the night. The jungle noises and the chugging rattle of the camp’s generator should mask their efforts.

Satisfied, Gil hooked his rifle over his shoulder and climbed down the ladder to join the others.

“Ai, Dios mio, it’s a fucking maze down here,” Juan whispered sourly.

Miguel just grunted, spitting out a jawful of hoja de coca. The coca leaves splattered against the granite stonework.

Neither had been down into the ruins. Only Gil had intimate knowledge of the tunnels and rooms of the buried building. Crouching, he led them through the maze to the last chute that led to the sealed door.

Juan continued to grumble behind him until the thin man stepped fully into the chamber and saw the door. “Jesu Christo!”

Gil allowed himself a small grin. The arched doorway set in quarried stone spoke of ancient times and hidden treasures. Its bands glowed in the glare of the single sodium lamp. The writing and crucifix were a dark blemish against the silvery metal.

“We don’t have all night,” Gil snapped.

They knew what had to be done. Miguel dropped his bag of tools to the floor with a clanking clatter and fished through its contents. Juan swung his pickax in precise swings, loosening the rock around the bolts. Miguel then used his crowbar and hammer to free the bolts. Within minutes, the top band fell to the mud and rock underfoot.

Juan wiped sweat from his brow, his grin wide. Miguel’s shirt clung to him like he had just climbed from a river. Even Gil, who did nothing more than oversee the labors, found himself mopping his face with a handkerchief. The eternal dampness of the tombs seemed to cling to them, as if claiming the three as its own.

In short order, the other two bands soon joined the first in the mud. Rock dust sifted through the room, stinging eyes and irritating noses raw. Juan sneezed and swore a stream of vulgarities.

Gil clapped him on the shoulder. “A little respect for our ancestors, ese. They are about to make us rich.” He wiped a smudge of mud from Juan’s cheek with his thumb. “Filthy rich.”

With a swing of his arm, Gil waved his two companions aside. He grabbed the crowbar and approached the unfettered block of stone. “Let’s see, mamita, what you’ve been hiding for so long.”

Gil worked the edge of the crowbar between rock and arch, then leaned his weight against the bar, his shoulder and back muscles straining. The door held firm against his efforts. He dug his toes in and pushed harder. Suddenly a loud grinding crack erupted from the door, and the stone shifted.

Gil stepped back, his face still ruddy from the struggle. He nodded to Juan and Miguel. “Put your backs into it.”

The two leaned their shoulders to the loosened stone door and shoved. The block of stone toppled forward. Dust bloomed like a shrouded phantom from the mouth of the burial chamber, and a muffled thud echoed through the room as the stone struck the floor of the tomb’s entrance.

Waving the cloud of dust from his face, Gil strode to the door. “Hand me one of those lights,” he said, bending by the entrance.

Miguel tossed him a flashlight from his canvas bag. Gil caught its long silver handle.

“Stinks in there,” Juan said as he joined Gil and stared over his shoulder.

“It’s a grave,” Gil said, clicking on the light. “What did you expect from -” Words died in his mouth as the light lanced into the dark depths of the tomb, illuminating the passage ahead. Beyond a short entry hall lay a huge chamber, about thirty meters along each side. Gil had expected to discover piles of bones and scattered pottery, but what his handlamp actually revealed was a sight he could never have imagined – not even in his most drunken dreams.

“Dios mio!” he exclaimed in a voice hoarse with awe.

His partners gathered to either side, speechless.

Ahead, the right and left walls of the square chamber were plated with sheets of gold. The beam of Gil’s flashlight reflected and sparked off the mirrored surfaces, a brilliance that almost blinded after the dim tunnels of the excavation. But Gil ignored all this, his light still fixed on a single object resting against the far stone wall of the chamber, directly opposite the gathered trio.

“We are all going to be filthy rich, mi amigos.”

Across the open chamber stood a six-foot golden idol, a figure of an Incan king outfitted in ritual mantle and crown, bearing a staff topped by a stylized sun. The detail work was so lifelike that the figure’s stern face seemed ready to shout a warning at any moment. But no word of protest was raised. The Incan king, sculpted of gold, stood silent as Gil led the others into the chamber.