After the meal, Paquito had fallen asleep under the shade of a broad tree, beside the horses, while Hans consulted his notes, seated cross-legged on the ground and leaning against the trunk. Overcome by the heat, he took off his hat and began fanning himself with it. His gaze was suddenly drawn to a monument attached to one of the buildings, half hidden by a tree.
Moved by curiosity, he stood up and approached. It was a rectangular stone stele, several meters tall, with a stone ring set high on one side. Both the column and the ring were covered in glyphs, which Hans began to examine. Many had been hammered away—perhaps by the missionaries—but faint traces could still be discerned.
One glyph, in particular, caught his attention: a man blowing into a conch shell. He studied it carefully, then pulled out his book to compare it with one of the symbols described inside. Leafing through the volume brought him to a loose page:
"The Bacabob were four brothers whom a god placed, at the creation of the world, at the four cardinal points to uphold the sky, lest it should fall. From their stations they could see the light of Hun-Hunahpú greeting them from the sacred horizon, as well as his sons, who at the first gleam would sound the ritual conch (there was an image of a man with a conch) and begin the sacred game in honor of their father, preceded by the Bacab of the East (a drawing of the glyph of Cantzicnal) and of the West (a drawing of the glyph of Hóchanek)."
After reading this, Hans raised his eyes toward the ring. Then he turned and let his gaze travel around the perimeter of the plaza, until it came to rest on the church.
"What does it matter?" he muttered, wiping the sweat from his brow.
He entered the atrium and moved closer to the wall to study the glyphs and figures that intermingled like a disorderly puzzle. Slowly, he followed the lines of the walls until he reached a shaded side where fruit trees grew. Bougainvillea climbed upward, and at their base sprouted mint, basil, and other herbs.
"How did these get here?" Hans murmured as he observed them.
"The church was built over a pyramid," said a voice.
Hans turned. It was the gardener.
"Do you know to whom it was dedicated?" asked the Jesuit.
"Centuries ago, knowledge of the temple's owner was lost. Although"—he lowered his voice—"sometimes, in the distance, lights are seen that are not of this world. Some say they are the gods speaking among themselves."
Hans lifted his gaze, intrigued.
"Lights… like will-o'-the-wisps?" he asked.
"No. More like a distant light, as if sending signals from the horizon."
Hans was left speechless, but he had no time to ask further questions. The creak of sandals on the paving stones announced the arrival of a friar carrying a bucket of water. The Indian fell silent, removed his hat, and lowered his eyes at the appearance of the clergyman, who cut off the conversation.
"Stories… nothing but stories to frighten children," said the friar, setting the bucket down. "Chepe, don't trouble the father. Go finish your chores."
The gardener withdrew after making a reverence.
"These Indians have vivid imaginations… still far too tied to their old rites," said the friar, plucking dry leaves from an achiote bush. "But tell me, what news comes from outside? And tell me, how is it that a heretic follower of Luther ends up in the Company of Jesus?"
Hans smiled.
"Politics and wars—always the same. As for being a heretic, let me tell you: I am from the Black Forest, and my family, like all our neighbors, has long been faithful vassals of the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire."
"It is strange to see Europeans who are not peninsulars in these parts. Most remain on the coasts, watched over by the Inquisition," the friar said, taking a bowl to water the plants along the wall. "Sometimes pirates venture inland seeking treasure or hatching mischief. Long ago, I saw one of your order pass through here."
"Do you remember his name?" Hans asked.
The friar scratched his head.
"He was looking for forgotten ruins in the jungle. I suppose he hoped to find riches to fund a mission in the region, for he made many inquiries. He spent nearly an entire day perched atop the belfry," he added, nodding toward the tower. Hans glanced up, visibly intrigued. "From there he scanned the horizon like a ship's captain with a spyglass."
"Interesting…" Hans murmured. "Do you know what became of him?"
"No. Once someone strays from the royal road, the jungle swallows him. I do not believe in specters, but I do believe in bandits and…"—he lowered his voice—"there have been uprisings in the area. So tread carefully."
"I understand that. But tell me more about the ruins the missionary was searching for, "Hans asked.
"What ruins?" replied the friar.
"The ones you mentioned… those the Jesuit was after."
"Did I say he was a Jesuit?"
Hans nodded.
"Oh, yes… well, I supposed he was," the friar admitted. "He wore black, like you. But I never understood why a Jesuit would be interested in a pagan temple." He sighed deeply and picked up the bucket, taking a few steps toward another cluster of plants and pausing before them to begin watering with the bowl. "Imagine suffering in the jungle," he said while pouring water, "when one might be comfortably lodged in your well-ventilated colleges."
"I sense some reproach from your order toward mine," Hans remarked.
"Rather admiration," the friar replied, sprinkling water. "You are keen hounds, sniffing out where gold or generous patrons of wealth and influence may be found. We are left with the poor and must beg to survive."
"Well, that is what distinguishes each order. Ours is scholastic and scientific… yours mendicant and practical," Hans answered.
"Yes… you are the mind of the Church, and we its feet. The difference is that feet know where they tread… and the mind, at times, wanders and forgets where it is." He dipped the bowl once more into the bucket and poured fresh water onto the stems of the mint and basil. Then he plucked a few leaves, crushed them between his fingers, and inhaled their aroma with a sigh.
Hans cleared his throat at the friar's biting remark, which seemed likely to spark a debate that could last until dawn.
"Well, Father, we must continue our journey. I thank you for your hospitality."
"Indeed… do not stray from the royal road, especially in these parts. One never knows what lurks in the jungle." He lifted the bucket, then flung the leftover water onto a tangle of bougainvillea clinging to the old wall. "May God be with you, Father von Lübeck."
With that, the friar departed with the bucket. Hans remained with lingering doubts as his eyes rested on the bougainvillea, whose vivid colors drew his attention. There, among the leaves and blossoms, Mayan inscriptions appeared, glistening where the water had washed away the grime. A carved relief emerged from the foliage, catching Hans's eye. The Jesuit bent down for a closer look, pushed the flowers aside, and, to his surprise, recognized the glyph. He pulled out his satchel, withdrew the book, and found the loose page he had read earlier. The character of Cantzicnal was identical to the one on the wall.
His heart leapt with excitement; it felt like a revelation. An idea began to take shape in his mind.
He walked to the center of the plaza, drew out his notebook, and reviewed his notes and calculations. Then he rummaged in his satchel, brought out his compass, and watched the needle align itself eastward. He stood still, following its direction, which pointed directly toward the church.
He contemplated the present scene and, in his imagination, reconstructed the ancient site: the space now occupied by the village plaza could once have been a ball court; the old Mayan walls, still partly standing, with the column and the stone ring to one side—now hidden beneath Spanish buildings—could have been the platforms where spectators, priests, and nobles once sat. And towering above the open ground, in the place of the church, he envisioned a pyramid rising against the sky, crowned by a sanctuary dedicated to the Bacab of the East.
Hans was convinced this had been the place where, in ancient times, ball games were played in honor of Ixbalanqué or Hunahpú. His gaze returned to the church just as its bells began to toll, calling the people to Mass.
"From the heights of the pyramid, within the sanctuary, they must have witnessed Hun-Hunahpú's greeting to the Bacab and his sons, ready to begin the sacred ball game…" Hans murmured. Then he lifted his eyes toward the belfry tower. "There is only one way to confirm it," he said, shading his brow with his hand against the sun.
******
The guide woke up, looked at the sun's position—it was already late afternoon—and went to look for Hans, who was sitting under a tree watching the cattle pass by on their way to one of the haciendas.
"Forgive me, Father. I fell asleep," the young man apologized. "If we hurry, we can make it to the next village and spend the night there. We still have a whole day's journey left."
Hans smiled.
"I think I can follow the road to Campeche from here… You may return to the convent."
The young man looked at him in surprise.
"I can manage without a problem," Hans insisted. "Besides, the friar has invited me to spend a day with them. They wish to have a discussion on philosophy and theology based on the Council of Trent."
"But… the friars don't like your kind, and besides, the mother superior said…" the youth began.
"Don't worry, Paquito, I'll know how to deal with those Franciscans. I can continue on my own. You may take the mare. The friar told me I could leave in one of the wagons heading to Campeche."
The young Maya seemed troubled and hesitant, but at Hans's insistence, he tied the mare to his saddle, turned around, and set off back toward the convent. Hans watched him disappear, like a child trying not to be caught in a mischief.
Once left alone in the middle of the square, Hans smiled and looked for a place to rest and wait for dawn, when he would put his plan into motion. He headed to the Franciscan mission to ask for lodging.
"Well, well… Look who came to visit us," said the friar with a mocking expression, putting his hands on his hips.
"Just for a few hours," Hans replied. "I don't intend to trouble you."
"Our facilities aren't the best for members of your order," the friar retorted.
"Any available corner will be enough for me," Hans said with a smile.
The friar frowned but let him in. They went into the small mission, which had a central courtyard surrounded by whitewashed arcades, with a well in the middle, fruit trees, shrubs of medicinal plants, and flowers. The condition of the buildings, however, revealed decay.
"When I arrived more than forty years ago, we were several friars," the friar remarked as they walked along the arcades surrounding the patio. "Now there's only me… They keep telling me more missionaries will come, but I've been hearing that for ten years. Once, a group was on its way to the mission, but they were victims of pirates just as they were about to reach La Havana."
"Really?" Hans asked, intrigued.
"Yes, they ran into El Carioca. That damned scoundrel attacked their galleon and then sank it with everyone aboard. As for the friars, the wretched heretic used them as human shields to attack Campeche… It was not a good way to die," he said, crossing himself.
Hans nodded, recalling episodes from the pirate novels of Balin Van Buuren that he had read.
"We now use the cells as storage. You may sleep here," the friar added, pointing to a door at the end of the hallway.
Hans entered the room. It was austere, with thick adobe walls whitewashed in lime; several barrels and wooden crates were stacked in disorder. In a corner there was a narrow cot and, beside it, a stool. On one wall, stacked nearly to the ceiling with barrels, a crucifix timidly peeked out.
"This is more than perfect," Hans said as he stepped inside and placed his backpack on the bed.
The friar was about to leave, but before closing the door, he looked at him with a frown and said:
"Just one favor—don't tell the other friars I gave you shelter. They'd be angry with me."
Hans smiled at his words.
"Don't worry, Father… I'll keep the secret."
The friar left, leaving him alone in the room. Hans dropped onto the bed, which creaked under his weight, lay back with his backpack as a pillow, and pulled out his book to read while he waited for dawn.