Hans crossed the empty square alone, the white rag trembling in his hand, while the muskets and the falconet in the watchtower tracked him like eyes of death. The village held its breath. That silence weighed more than any volley.
Derek, Brian, and several others appeared atop the watchtower as the approach was announced.
"Parley!" Hans shouted as he advanced towards the centre. "Parley...!"
"The damned priest is calling a parley," Brian said.
"That's only between pirates!" Eddy jeered, and laughter broke out.
The sergeant and his soldiers remained wary; they knew there was no "code of honour" among outlaws.
Hans kept the flag aloft, asking for a truce.
One of the pirates raised his musket and sighted on Hans's head.
"Here's your parley," he growled—but before he could fire, Rafael's hand checked him and pushed him aside so he could peer down into the square. There stood Hans, brandishing the rag. Rafael smiled at the sight of the solitary Jesuit, exposed to the shot. The pirate folded his arms.
"What do you want to bargain?" he asked.
"Something to your advantage—those documents you carry. I can read them," Hans replied.
The pirates muttered among themselves; Derek, in particular, frowned.
"You had your chance," said Rafael.
"I'm offering it to you," Hans returned. "It may be your chance to take a rich treasure, now you've lost your footing here."
"The only one who'll lose everything is you," Brian said, and raised his musket to take aim, but Derek hurried to catch his arm; then he stepped close to Rafael and murmured in his ear.
They exchanged a few words in low voices while Hans felt his legs tremble and the whole village watched in suspense. The Spanish sergeant and his men followed every turn, and at one point the sergeant drew out his snuff-box, took a pinch and inhaled.
"That priest is dead," he said after sneezing.
The soldiers hastened to raise their wagers. At last Rafael stepped to the watchtower rail and looked down at Hans, hands on his hips.
"Your offer is tempting, in principle... name your terms," he said.
"I'll interpret the writings," Hans answered, "and you may take me with you to the coast as security."
"You're not worth much to us alive... and dead, even less."
"It's the only card you have to play. Well? Information and my person, in exchange for Magdalena."
Derek leaned to whisper to Rafael again; then the pirates began to grumble. In the end Rafael withdrew; Derek gave a few instructions. From the watchtower they made a sign, and Hans walked towards the redoubt. The Jesuit set out for the compound, feeling himself falter; each step seemed to seal his fate. The way felt endless in the utter hush, so that he could hear the crunch of gravel beneath his soles and the hammer of his heart in his ears. He reached the heavy church doors at last and waited a moment; a whistle came from the lookout above. Bolts scraped on the far side, the leaves of the door opened a hand's breadth to let him in; the instant he crossed the threshold they crashed shut behind him like a tombstone falling. The echo of the bolt dragging boomed out into the square.
Inside, the pirates Eddy and Vicente took him by the arms, while a third frisked him to make sure he carried no weapon. Hans was led along the nave of the old Franciscan temple. The main aisle still kept its lime-washed walls and stone arches, but the plaster was cracked and the sacred paintings were fading under damp. On the dusty floor lay overturned benches and planks heaped into improvised barricades; the light of evening came through the narrow windows, partly boarded, so that the interior lay in half-darkness, lit only by smoking torches.
Escorted by Eddy and Vicente, Hans advanced, his footsteps ringing in the hollow nave. Every corner reminded him he was in a place violated in its sanctity and turned into a stage for mockery: a blasphemous theatre in the service of a false prophet. The pirates, weapons ready, watched him pass with equal parts wariness and scorn. A strong stench of rot hung in the air. They went towards the high altar, which still held a modest gilded wooden retable—brought across the ocean for this now-forgotten church—though the pirates had stripped it of images and any ornament of precious metal.
Derek stood with a musket slung across his back and a cutlass at his side. Magdalena was in a corner, bound and seated on the floor; when she saw him her eyes widened in surprise.
"Father—you're alive!" she gasped.
"Not for long," Brian pronounced.
Laughter followed.
Rafael approached with the papers and set them upon the altar table.
"Let's not waste time with theatrics... here it is. Start talking," he said, folding his arms.
"Not until Magdalena is freed," Hans replied.
Laughter rippled; Rafael raised his hand.
"We need assurances of work. You give us convincing information... then we extend the credit," said Rafael.
"That's how we do things in England," Derek added.
"Ah, yes... in England you need credit. In the Black Forest, a man's word used to be enough. But then, we deal with wolves, not bankers," Hans said.
A low stir ran through the pirates—muttered oaths, a few dark chuckles.
"Time is running," Rafael said, taking a watch from his waistcoat pocket.
Hans began to look over the documents.
"Were these the papers those people were carrying?" he asked, intrigued.
"The map belonged to those madmen; the book was the priest's."
For a moment excitement eclipsed his peril. Hans spread the map carefully. He studied it avidly, willing it into memory. It was drafted with surveys, showing a temple with passages, chambers, and tunnels. There were descriptions in a cryptic language, but also notes in English, Spanish, and German giving instructions on how to reach the temple and how to enter.
"Aren't you going to tell us anything?" Rafael said.
"Your time is running, priest," Derek added.
"This is the schematic of the temple of Hun-Hunahpú," Hans said.
"We know that already," Derek shot back. "We used it to dig tunnels and reach those chambers."
"Obviously it doesn't mention the hidden chamber you spoke of... the one with the image of the Madonna by Tiepolo, or whoever it may be."
He looked to the foot of the map, where a compass rose marked coordinates. Rafael snatched the map away—there was an audible tear—and hurled the old volume. Hans caught the book, read the title: Spiritual Exercises. He opened it carefully—and froze, astonished.
"This isn't Saint Ignatius's book, it's... an epic written in the year 761 by Harigasti Teiva... in Old Germanic," Hans said. "It tells of the odyssey of a forgotten people after the second Ragnarök, when they hid a... thôl."
"What is that—thôl?" Derek asked.
Hans raised his brows, uncertain.
"I don't know what it refers to—apparently it is... something, an object that gave them the power to defeat Alaric's hosts and, at the same time, damned them—so they let it lie undisturbed for a thousand years," Hans said. Then, recalling his dream—the whisper in the dark cave, the voice that warned him never to wake what sleeps—he muttered, "As Gizob."
"What the hell is it?" Brian said.
"I don't know... I don't understand what it is," Hans replied, "but it points to the lands of Kukulkán, under the gaze of the skull—at least, that's what's underlined."
"It's no use, Rafael," said Eddy. "We're wasting time..."
"Silence! Get to the point, priest," Rafael snapped, and drew out some folded sheets that had been tucked inside the book. He spread them on the table and struck them with his palm.
"What's this damned map got to do with it?"
Hans frowned over the map; he began to go through it and read the notes written there.
"It's a ceremonial complex at the centre of the world... where, in its depths, lies the Rind-tirith en-Amair—'the Guiding Disc of Amair'—which turns upon the three wardens of the seas, facing towards the light that guides... And here..." he ran a finger along the parchment, "it speaks of a road of the dead that leads to the stone skull at the foot of the mountain."
The pirates stared blankly—none of them understood, yet the word "disc" seemed to glint with promise.
"This is cryptic," Rafael said. "You're not giving us anything."
"Where is this complex, and what does it hold?" Derek asked.
Brian came close and drove a knife into the table before Hans.
"Tell us where the gold is!"
Voices rose as one:
"Gold!"
Hans swallowed.
"It says there is a plain ringed by mountains, where the dead march in procession towards the heart of the world, under the gaze of three stone towers that watch the skies," he paused. "From the north, the stone skull dominates the valley, and at the foot of its shadow opens the entrance to the hidden circle... there where the gods were born."
The pirates tugged their beards; others seized fistfuls of their long hair and muttered among themselves. Hans watched them, bloodless; his mind burned between the revelations of a Jesuit document and the blade of death laid over him and over Magdalena. Plainly, those men wanted coordinates, not mythologies.
"You've said nothing," Rafael concluded, and, seated at ease in the high-backed chair, he drank from a bottle.
The pirates broke into argument; Brian flung himself at Hans, seized him by the lapels and shook him hard.
"Speak, you worm! We want gold—gold and more gold!"
Derek moved to intervene, but the others held him back. The scuffle grew; then Magdalena raised her voice:
"It might be Chichén Itzá!"
"Chee-chen Itza... sounds like a hen," a pirate laughed, and the rest roared.
Magdalena's eyes flashed.
"Laugh if you like, but there the gods descend in the form of a serpent. According to the ancients, there is a vast temple hidden in the jungle, dedicated to Kukulkán... and of course, under the guard of the skull, it refers to Hun-Hunahpú."
Once more they all spoke at once, until the clamour was cut short by a pirate who burst into the church, shotgun on his back, and addressed Rafael:
"We're seeing suspicious movement in the village," he reported.
Rafael clasped his hands and looked at his men.
"Gentlemen, find out what they intend... and keep the priest well secured," Rafael ordered.
As the pirates moved, Hans caught Magdalena's eyes; neither spoke, yet both knew—the next move could damn them all.