A couple of hours had passed when the pirate, standing on the pyramid's upper terrace, raised his spyglass to his eye. He clicked his tongue and gave a short whistle to call the attention of the ensign, who sat in the shade of the old sanctuary. The officer rose and walked toward him.
"It's the Garnor," the pirate said.
"Are you sure?" asked the ensign, shading his eyes with one hand as he tried to glimpse the distant sails that shimmered faintly on the horizon.
"Of course. Her rigging is unmistakable. She bears a symbol—likely the mark of her company," replied the lookout.
"How far?"
"About three nautical leagues, sir," the man answered. "With this eastern wind, she'll reach us in less than two hours."
The ensign descended from the pyramid and crossed the sandy yard toward where the lieutenant sat under the porch of a storage house, lounging in a folding campaign chair, one leg crossed over the other, smoking and reading one of the forbidden books. On the table beside him sat a bottle of contraband wine from the viceroy's own shipment.
"Well?" the lieutenant asked, without looking up.
"It's the ship," Yanga reported.
The lieutenant smiled faintly, set down his pipe, and stood. "Good. Let's have a look."
He began walking toward the cliff, followed closely by the ensign. They passed alongside the pyramid until they reached the edge, where a wooden crane jutted out over the void, its ropes and pulleys swaying in the salt wind. A fragile ladder clung to the rocks, descending to the beach below, where several boats lay overturned on the sand.
The lieutenant took out his spyglass and, with his single eye, peered toward the horizon. In the distance, the ship sailed proudly, her white sails stretched taut with wind.
"How far?" he repeated.
"Three leagues, sir. Estimated time—two hours."
The lieutenant snapped the spyglass shut and thought for a moment."Prepare everything to receive her. If we manage to capture that vessel, the viceroy will see to it that we're well rewarded."
He looked around at the nearby soldiers, then turned his gaze toward the mouth of the estuary. His eye fixed on the rocky headland where a stone tower rose between the palms.
"Yanga," he said, "we need men positioned at the battery the pirates set up on the ridge. The tide is still in our favor — that gives us the advantage. If they enter the estuary, they won't be leaving."
"We don't have enough experienced men, sir," Yanga replied. "Our two gunners will already be manning the fort's cannons."
The lieutenant exhaled sharply and gave him a look of irritation."Offer pardon to anyone who can handle artillery."
"Pirates, sir?" asked Yanga.
"No, ensign—to the mothers with their children and the slaves," the lieutenant replied with biting sarcasm. "Of course pirates. Those beasts have more experience with cannons than most of your men. Just make sure they're watched—keep muskets aimed at their heads."
The ensign saluted and hurried to carry out the order. They went to the storage house where the prisoners were kept and offered amnesty to anyone capable of operating the battery. Two pirates raised their hands and followed the soldiers outside.
They walked along a dirt path that wound toward the lighthouse ruins. The ensign went to inspect the battery; it was mounted on a terrace of the crumbling complex, where a light cannon rested on a wooden carriage aimed toward the estuary's entrance. Inside one of the old sanctuaries, several barrels of gunpowder were stacked beside wadding and flint for the fuses. After giving instructions, the pirates began their preparations.
Yanga watched their work in silence, then decided to take a walk around the perimeter. The place was made up of several ancient temples connected by corridors lined with carved columns depicting glyphs and forgotten gods. He stepped into a central courtyard, where pirates had piled up empty crates and broken barrels. Then something caught his attention—a doorway framed by intricate carvings.
He walked toward it and entered a long hall. The walls were painted with faded murals; broken furniture and filthy bedding lay scattered about. A narrow corridor stretched into darkness. Driven by curiosity, Yanga followed it. The whitewashed walls led him into a small chamber—almost a sancta sanctorum—where faint light filtered through two small holes in the stone. The stench of urine and filth was unbearable. The buccaneers had clearly used it as a latrine.
He was about to leave that wretched place when something on the wall drew his attention: a mural whose colors still glimmered faintly despite the salt and decay. Pulling out a handkerchief, he stepped closer.
The mural depicted a procession of warriors, chiefs, nobles, and villagers carrying offerings. At the forefront stood a priest-king wearing a feathered headdress and a golden pectoral, holding in his left hand a staff shaped like a serpent or some supernatural creature, from whose mouth burst a small flame. His right hand was raised, showing three fingers. Before him stood another figure, cloaked and helmeted, wielding a sword—a man who clearly did not belong to that world. His clothing contrasted starkly with the Mayan style, as if a pirate artist had inserted him centuries later. Yet the composition was seamless.
Around them were three symbols arranged in a triangle.
Yanga's eyes widened. He stepped closer, then reached into his shirt and drew out a medallion hanging from his neck. It bore the same symbol.
"What in the devil's name…" he murmured.
Footsteps echoed behind him. Yanga quickly hid the medallion and turned as a soldier entered the chamber, squinting and wrinkling his nose at the stench.
"Sir! Forgive me—I was looking for you."
"I was inspecting the site. What is it, Tulio?" asked Yanga.
"We're ready, sir. The pirates are in position."
The ensign nodded and cast one last glance at the mural before leaving. He crossed the corridors, passed beneath the colonnade, and stepped out onto the terrace where the cannon waited. The pirates stood by the parapet, watching the horizon where the silhouette of the ship was growing clearer with every gust of wind.
Yanga raised his spyglass and fixed his gaze on the ocean.The Garnor was sailing toward the coast—bold and unsuspecting.