The Jesuit made his way to the naajo'ob, the house assigned to him by the cacique. It was a single, elongated room: wattle-and-daub walls and a high huano-thatch roof blackened by years of cookfire smoke. From the beams hung polished jícaras and dried gourds. The packed-earth floor had been swept in careful spirals. Two henequen hammocks hung from smoke-darkened posts; beside them, a rolled petate mat and a wooden chest held the family's few belongings.
In one corner, coals glowed between three stones where an old woman tended the comal, warming tortillas and, now and then, stirring a pot of beans. The air smelled of copal, nixtamal, and achiote. When Hans stepped in, she pointed him to a petate and handed him a bowl of beans with a fresh tortilla. He ate in silence, mulling over the fate of the poor missionary and the secrets that lay buried in that village. Then he took the medal from his pocket and studied it again; the letters "O.A." continued to trouble him.
At that moment, a soldier appeared in the doorway, musket in hand."Captain Sepúlveda y Costilla requests your presence," he announced.
Hans, his mouth full, hurried to chew and swallow before answering.
"I'll come in a moment," he said, lifting the bowl.
"The captain requires you now," the man insisted.
Hans set the bowl on the petate, rose, and followed the soldier out into the street. The man walked briskly, musket slung over his shoulder, tricorn set square. They reached the captain's tent: broad, of heavy canvas, propped by wooden masts and guyed with ropes sunk into the muddy ground. Inside, the air smelled of leather, tobacco, and wine. The tremulous light of an oil lamp threw long shadows across the walls. In the center stood a folding table strewn with papers and a regional map marked over with fresh inked notes.
Captain Sepúlveda y Costilla wore his coat unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled against the heat. His dusty riding boots tracked prints across the earth, where a threadbare groundcloth had been spread, as he paced to and fro with a piece of Azure Ore in his left hand, arguing with three officers and Sergeant Legazpi, who sat in folding camp chairs. One smoked a pipe; another, spectacles low on his nose, fanned himself with a notebook; the third, a black patch over his left eye, followed the captain's movements with his single stare.
When Hans entered, the murmur died. The captain turned slowly, lifted his cup, and took a measured sip before speaking.
"Ah. Our dear and very heroic German Jesuit, Brother Hans von Lübeck," the Captain said.
Hans returned the greeting with a diplomatic smile, though the ironic—almost sarcastic—tone did not please him.
"You acquitted yourself well in this affair," said Sergeant Legazpi.
"Even if it lies outside your clerical functions," added the bespectacled officer.
"I merely did what was required to save the town and the cacique's daughter," the Jesuit replied.
"Well then, I shall see that your name is made known to His Excellency the governor and to your superior, the Provincial of New Spain," said the captain.
Hans's eyes widened. He managed a smile.
"Oh, no, Captain—that won't be necessary," he answered evenly, though unease pricked him within.
"What is it, man? Is your humility so great?" the captain shot back, glancing sidelong at his officers.
"It is not necessary that the Provincial hear of my… misadventures. It would cause needless mortifications," Hans said carefully.
The captain pressed his lips.
"How much do you know about the business of these heretics?" he asked.
All eyes fixed on Hans.
"The same as they will have told you: they extracted that mineral you hold in your hand and sold it," Hans said.
"To whom?" the captain asked.
"I don't know their arrangements. As I understand it, the stuff has more ornamental value than anything else."
"Gold has ornamental value as well… and yet it pays war debts—and the Empire's bills besides."
"So does jade, for the locals, but its valuation—"
"You might spare us the lecture on mineral values and sundry commodities," the captain cut in.
Hans inclined his head.
"What do you know of the profits?" the officer pressed.
"Not much."
"That is not what the pirates said."
A hollow opened in Hans's chest.
"I cannot say what they might have claimed," he answered warily.
"According to them, a fugitive slave stole the takings and fled with you—and with the cacique's daughter. Do you know who he was?" the captain asked.
"They say it was a Negro," added the pipe-smoking officer, one brow raised at Hans.
"I know nothing of any profits," Hans replied. "In fact, I don't recall seeing him carry a single chest. But that man saved our lives and made our escape possible."
"That man, by their description, was a runaway slave who kept pirate company—who also made off with gains that, in any case, belong to the King," the captain said.
Hans swallowed, then, after a pause, answered,
"I believe his deeds merit his freedom."
"The King decides who is free and who is not," the captain returned. "Besides, we know that Negro was an agent at a smuggling station on the coast. We wish to know where it lies, so we may send a party, apprehend him, and keep pirates far from here. Did you know of this place?"
"Forgive me, Captain—without meaning to contradict you," Hans began, "but the testimony of pirates is hardly reliable. I'm afraid I cannot assist you; I do not know the site, nor who else might be involved."
The captain studied him with a severe look, like a man who senses his interlocutor is withholding something.
"You stated that, by direct order of your superior, your Provincial assigned you certain duties at the mission of San Ignacio de Chenutialbak. What is your Provincial's name by the way?"
"Father Horst Maria von Reichenbach," Hans replied.
The captain glanced at his officers; they shrugged. He turned back, frowning, and accepted a cup as an aide refilled it with wine.
"And you have been acting as an auditor, eh?" he said, then drank without taking his eyes off the Jesuit.
"Yes. I was bound for Campeche to take ship for Veracruz, and thence to Mexico City," Hans added.
"Tell me, Father," the captain began, his voice cool, "and take no offense: I find it rather imprudent that you should leave your route to Campeche to plunge into the jungle. Was it part of your office to audit forgotten temples?"
"I was curious to see the region where a Jesuit expedition had once been—simple auditor's interest."
"The Reverend Mother mentioned as much," Sergeant Legazpi put in quickly.
"Oh? Indeed?" the captain arched a brow, returning his gaze to Hans.
"I wished to learn why resources had been assigned to that exploration," Hans said.
"According to the pirates, you entered the temple. What did you expect to find? Treasure?"
"I was not seeking treasure, Captain."
"I do not see why a Jesuit missionary would be interested in an ancient temple—and in locating veins of rare minerals besides."
The bespectacled officer, peering over his lenses, cleared his throat.
"By the pirates' account, the cenote's location was indicated by certain documents carried by the Jesuit we buried today," he said.
Hans nodded calmly.
"In the Society of Jesus, we often reconnoiter regions that might sustain a mission. Our purpose is evangelization, yes—but also study."
"What say you, Mister Pérez?" the captain asked the pipe-smoking officer, who lifted his thick black brows beneath his powdered wig and removed the pipe from his mouth.
"In my long sojourn in these jungles, teeming with mosquitoes and other vermin," he said, "the only orders to have pushed this far inland have been Franciscans and Dominicans, save a few lesser congregations."
"Which is why I am intrigued to know what you were seeking—if indeed you are a Jesuit missionary," the captain added.
"We do have records of Jesuits in these parts—and none better than the brother we laid to rest today," Hans answered evenly.
The captain frowned, as if to say that proved nothing.
"Even so, we have no evidence that you carry a document proving you are a Jesuit, with explicit orders to be in this region," he said.
"I have a question," said the officer with the black patch. "What became of the Franciscan missionaries? Did they abandon the mission?"
All the officers fixed him with stern looks. Hans swallowed; he had not expected that. He was about to reply when two soldiers entered, aided by villagers, bearing steaming dishes on tin plates. A mulatto soldier hurried to clear the table, lay a white cloth, and set out serving dishes, tin plates, cutlery, and cups. In the center they placed a four-branched candlestick.
The captain took the central camp chair. At once a servant tied a cloth napkin at his neck while the officers settled around the table.
"I require proof of who you are," the captain said, eyeing the meal being served. "An explicit order from your Provincial. Failing that… you will accompany us to Bacalar with the other prisoners."
"Captain—" Hans began, striving to keep his usual composure.
The officer cut him short with a flick of the hand and motioned for him to withdraw.
Hans left, troubled, and returned to the naajo'ob. The old woman sat in her corner; when he entered, she lifted the bowl to him again. He understood the offer, but shook his head and went to the hammock. He lay back and set himself gently swaying.
Everything had taken a sinister turn: with the redoubt in ashes, he now stood under suspicion, and anyone might send for reports on his presence in the Jesuit mission. But how could he justify his being here, in the heart of the jungle? The thought spelled real danger.
Seeking to quiet his mind and banish the captain's words, he took refuge in fiction. Scenes from pirate novels rose before him, and one in particular: The Legend of the Uncharted Isle, by Virgilio Coppieter. Hans recalled its opening lines:
"It was the best of times, but not for Captain Owens, who had lost everything—even hope. Yet his luck was about to turn when he met that drunken pirate in the sordid tavern called The Bald Pelican, in the dark suburb of Wapping… What the man confessed would change his fate—and the fate of many more."