Hans was exhausted and, at last, slipped into a deep, untroubled sleep. His breathing fell into a steady rhythm while the silence about him was near absolute, broken only by the ululation of some nocturnal bird or the ceaseless drone of insects in the jungle.
All at once he felt a few taps upon his shoulder, then a sharper shake. He started awake.
"Was?… Wie?… Werwolf!" he cried.
Magdalena clapped a hand over his mouth.
"Hush," she whispered, pressing a finger to her lips. When she saw he had steadied, she withdrew her hand.
"What is it now?" he asked, bewildered.
"Be silent—and follow me," she ordered.
She beckoned him on. They slipped through a breach in the wall and, once outside, crept along it, hunched low. The young woman peered around the corner and Hans imitated her, looking over her shoulder. As he had feared, a soldier had been posted to watch the door of the house where he was lodged. Magdalena turned to the German and, with her palm, signalled him to keep still; then she circled to the back of the dwelling. Hans felt his heart thudding against his ribs, afraid the sound might betray him to the dark.
A brief roar sounded—like the rasping cough of a jaguar. It was Magdalena, blowing a small clay whistle whose breathy note mimicked the beast's cry. The sentry sprang to his feet, took up his musket, and moved cautiously towards the source of the noise. Seizing the moment, Magdalena returned on light feet, waited a heartbeat, and tugged Hans by the collar. They darted across the street and melted into the shadows.
They ran until the jungle enclosed them again, then walked on to where the rear of the redoubt came into view. There they paused a moment.
"Will you tell me what you intend?" Hans murmured.
"Be quiet," she replied.
The Jesuit held his tongue. Only their breathing could be heard. A pair of soldiers passed nearby, speaking in low voices, muskets slung across their backs. One lagged behind, stepped towards the perimeter wall, and, planting himself there, began to relieve himself.
"Mind a snake doesn't spring up at you," his companion joked.
The first man finished and hastened to catch up.
Magdalena waited until the sound of their steps had dwindled. Then, with a light tap to his shoulder, she motioned Hans forward. They crossed the open ground that lay between them and the ruins and slipped through a gap in the wall. Inside, the courtyard was strewn with rubble. Picking their way among charred beams and fallen masonry, they reached what had been the rectory; only the blackened walls remained, the roof lay charcoaled upon the floor.
Moving carefully among the planks, Magdalena stopped at a certain spot. With a sign she asked his help to lift several scorched boards. Hans obliged, striving to make as little noise as possible. The work was slow and wearisome for being done in silence. When at last they cleared the space, a concealed trapdoor came to light. Together they raised it and climbed down, closing it after them.
The young woman struck two candles from her satchel. Their wavering glow revealed a cellar: a row of stacked chests, small barrels, and dust-filmed coffers. A strong smell of damp hung in the air, mingled with the wood of the casks and a faint sweetness of old wine.
"Heavens, Magdalena… where are we?" Hans whispered, astonished.
"In Rafael's secret store," she answered softly.
The Jesuit stepped to the chests and, on lifting their lids, stood dumbfounded: Spanish doubloons, English guineas, French louis-d'or and Portuguese moidores gleamed among jewels, stolen chalices, and unmarked ingots.
"The wealth of a decade of smuggling and exploitation," said Magdalena.
"Enough to buy half a fleet—or to corrupt half a viceroyalty," Hans murmured, still staring.
"I didn't bring you to admire the treasure, Father," the girl said. "I brought you to find your satchel. I'm certain Rafael hid it here. Let's not waste time."
They began to search among the crates and barrels by the flutter of the candlelight. At the far end they discovered a narrow passage roughly cut.
"It must communicate with the tunnel," Hans remarked, venturing in from curiosity; but at sight of the walls furred with spiders he recoiled with a strangled gasp, brushing frantically at himself.
"They are everywhere!" he exclaimed, striving to shake them from his clothes.
"Hold still, please—you are like a child!" she chided.
"God, I can feel them walking on me!" he babbled, panic-stricken.
A large tarantula plopped to the floor and scuttled for cover. Mastered by his arachnophobia, the Jesuit gave chase, stamping, the spider dodging each blow.
"Enough—enough," Magdalena hissed. "For the gods' sake, compose yourself."
The creature vanished behind some crates. Hans, acting on impulse, heaved them aside—and uncovered a recess. Magdalena caught him by the shoulder.
"Will you stop behaving like a boy?" she said. But when she saw where Hans was looking, she crouched and shone the light within. There were bottles, leather folders and—Hans's satchel.
She smiled and tugged at one of its straps, but Hans stayed her hand.
"It could be infested with venomous things."
"Have you forgotten that I live here?" she retorted, drawing it out.
Hans took it gingerly, half expecting spiders to spill forth. He opened it; its contents were intact.
"Magdalena, you have saved my life," Hans said.
She shrugged and smiled. "We should go back before anything else happens."
All at once something glinted in the hole. Hans bent again and lit the depths: several metal discs, stacked in a neat pile, shone beneath the dust. He lifted one with care, brushed away the cobwebs, and examined it. It was of polished metal, some seven inches across.
"Where did you find these?" he asked.
"In the cenote," said Magdalena. "The pirates discovered them in a niche and, seeing no value in them, used them for target practice."
"I see," Hans said, noticing one bent by a ball.
He turned the disc, curiosity mounting. This one bore runic characters and an engraving of three points connected by a line to a rectangle with inscriptions below.
Holding the disc to the candle's tremulous light, he rotated it slowly between his fingers, studying the shallow grooves that scored its rim. They were exact, minutely cut with high precision.
"This is no mere ornament," he murmured. "It is part of a mechanism."
Magdalena frowned. "A mechanism?"
"Yes. Look here," he said, indicating with his index finger the tiny perforations set in concentric rings. "These channels do not follow a script, but a sequence. In the clockmakers' shops of Prague and Nuremberg the artisans use discs like this to give motion to carved figures—automata, they call them."
He turned it once more. The light caught the glyphs incised upon its face, mingled with symbols that belonged to no alphabet he knew.
"But these," he went on, a shiver passing through him, "were not made by European hands. See—these signs are Maya… and these others resemble characters I have seen in the Black Forest."
"And what has that to do with your 'automaton'?" the girl asked, sceptical.
"If the glyphs are instructions—perhaps not for us to read, but for the machine itself to read."
He fell into thought, recalling the twisted iron he had glimpsed in the temple, a sudden, almost painful association striking him—when a faint tickle upon his fingers snapped him back. He glanced down. The tarantula slid from behind the disc and across his hand. Hans, jolted, let the object fall. It hit the floor with a metallic clamour. Magdalena skewered him with a look. Overhead came the sound of footsteps. Both held their breath. A fine sift of ash and dust filtered from the beams; Hans sneezed. The steps halted… then resumed, slower.
"Good Lord… you never cease to amaze me," Magdalena whispered.
Both fell silent, listening as footsteps crossed the floorboards above. The footsteps paused.
"Do you think they heard us?" Hans whispered.
"I don't know; I only hope they suspect nothing," Magdalena muttered, annoyed.
She hadn't finished the sentence when the door creaked open. Sergeant Legazpi descended, followed by three soldiers. They advanced warily, their way lit by two oil lanterns, until they came upon the pair.
"Blessed be the Lord that you found us," Hans said, striving for composure. "For a moment I thought we should be trapped down here."
"What in blazes are you doing here? And what is all this?" the sergeant demanded.
"We came looking for my satchel—and we found it, but…" Hans faltered.
The soldiers let their gaze roam over the cellar; one stepped to a coffer and peered in.
"The pirates' hoard," Legazpi breathed, seeing it heaped with gold and silver. "Damn it—this could buy all New Spain."
The sergeant stared at the coins, as did his men, eyes gleaming. At last he sighed.
"Mister González, send for the captain," he ordered.
The soldier nodded.
"Wait—wait," Hans interposed. "All this was wrung from the people of San Jorge."
"We prefer to call it Ch'en Sasil," said Magdalena.
"If you inform the captain," Hans pressed on, "he will seize the lot—and the villagers will be left with nothing."
"All this belongs to the King of Spain," the sergeant retorted. "It is our duty to report it. Mister González, fetch Captain Sepúlveda."
The man set a foot to the steps when Hans checked him.
"One moment, Mister González… and you as well, Sergeant Legazpi," Hans said. "These riches are not entered in the official inventory."
"The captain asked after them," the sergeant replied.
"Indeed—but they were not accounted for. In any case, the fugitive slave carried them off, did he not?"
"And what are you driving at, Father?"
"There must be more than ten thousand doubloons here, besides jewels and other valuables. If we give the King his due—the tithe—the rest might be delivered to the people… and a portion to your small command."
The soldiers glanced at one another and swallowed; sweat pearled upon their brows. Legazpi wavered.
"Listen, father… are you trying to bribe me?"
"By no means ," Hans said. "I am a Jesuit—a man who seeks justice and stands against corruption. I merely propose what is right as a reward for saving these people from those wretches. What say you, Magdalena, as the cacique's daughter?"
She lifted her chin, proud. "It is just. And all of you have families who would thank you for it."
"Vostede sabe que a rapaza di a verdade," murmured a Galician soldier.
The sergeant wrestled inwardly beneath his men's stares.
"It is… it is what is due to the King," he said at last.
"The tithe," Hans echoed.
A perfect stillness fell. Legazpi drew a long breath and looked to his men. None dared speak. The silence lay on them like an oath.
"And how," he said at length, "do we subtract the remainder of the King's tithe?"
Hans smiled.
"Tell me—are any of you afraid of spiders?"