Morning broke, and the village was stirring with activity, taking stock of the damage after a night of nightmare. The wounded were tended to, homes inspected, and fires rekindled to prepare food, filling the air with the smell of burnt wood and tortillas. Chickens clucked across the square while the platoon of soldiers kept the pirates under guard—those who had survived by hiding at the last moment inside the tunnel.
When they were finally ordered out, soldiers awaited them with muskets leveled, and the villagers stood behind with bows drawn, ready to shoot. All the pirates raised their hands in surrender.
They were led to the square, bound in the Mayan fashion: elbows locked behind their backs and a rope looped around their necks, the vine pulled tight at the nape, as was the ancient custom. Rafael and his henchmen, who had once subjugated the town, now stood reduced to mere prisoners of the Spanish Crown.
"This might earn us a reward from the Viceroy himself," said the sergeant.
"I'd settle for double pay," muttered one of the soldiers.
Meanwhile, Hans moved among the ruins of the church, stepping carefully over charred planks still faintly smoking; only the blackened walls remained. At last he reached the altar—of the old retablo, nothing but a memory endured. He looked around; everything had vanished. Then, glancing down, he shifted a few boards and, to his astonishment, glimpsed fragments of the mysterious book buried beneath the debris.
He knelt and picked it up. Only the covers had survived; the pages were burned away. Hans sighed, handling it gently. When he opened it, he noticed faint traces of writing. With growing curiosity, he could make out a pair of initials: B. M.
Reaching into his pocket, he drew out the medallion he had found in the pit. There was no doubt—it was a Jesuit medal, bearing the traditional IHS monogram, symbol of the Society of Jesus since its founding in the sixteenth century. Yet, turning it over, he frowned. Something didn't fit.
There, engraved on the back, were the letters: P. B. M. O. A.
He studied the medallion more closely. To his surprise, the twelve rays radiating from the sun around the monogram were identical to those he had once seen in ancient pagan sanctuaries in the mountains of the Upper Rhine—and to the very same symbol carved into the ceiling of the secret chamber beneath the temple of Hun-Hunahpú.
"What will you do now that you're seen as a hero?" asked Magdalena.
Hans turned, startled. The girl stood there, watching him.
"I'm no hero. I'm a Jesuit," he replied.
"A Jesuit who likes sneaking into tombs, reading forbidden manuscripts, and getting into trouble."
"Thank you. I believe you've described me rather well," Hans said with a weary sigh.
"Well, I suppose I must prepare for a long journey to Campeche, then to Veracruz, and from there to Mexico City."
"You'll have much to tell your superior, I imagine."
Hans looked at her and shook his head.
"This adventure must never be spoken of."
"For a priest, you seem to have many dark secrets."
"We all do, Magdalena… Tell me, did you ever meet the missionary?"
"No. But the elders spoke of him as if merely uttering his name brought misfortune. They said he was a strange man, with restless eyes, obsessed with finding the lost temple. He was warned not to approach—that it was cursed ground. He didn't listen… Did you find anything?"
"The remains of his book. A few markings, perhaps his name."
The girl regarded him with quiet curiosity, handed the book fragments back, and hesitated.
"Father, there's something I've been meaning to ask you."
Hans's eyes wandered toward the arches still standing. He turned slightly toward her.
"That pendant you wear… how did it come to you?"
"You noticed it?"
"Only I did—if that's what worries you."
"There's nothing to hide."
"Except that you're a Jesuit who was caught inside a forgotten pyramid in the middle of the jungle. That tends to draw attention."
"You're a very curious girl."
"I like to stay informed."
Hans smiled faintly, drew out the pendant, examined it briefly, and passed it to Magdalena. She held it with reverence, tracing the carved symbol of Bacab Zac-Cimí, a shiver running through her.
"U Bacab le Xamán, K'ujul Ix Chel, a kanant teno'ob—'The Bacab of the North, sacred Ixchel, protect us,'" she murmured.
"Is something wrong?" asked the Jesuit.
Magdalena shook her head and returned the medallion.
"How did it come into your family's hands?"
"I've had it for as long as I can remember," Hans said softly. "It's an enigma—one that drove me to investigate. Perhaps my ruin."
"What is it you truly seek, Father?"
"Perhaps… redemption."
"Redemption from what?"
Hans bit his lower lip, uncertain how to answer. Before he could speak, the distant roll of a drum reached their ears. Soon, one of Magdalena's brothers appeared—a teenage boy, followed by a smaller child.
"Ixzel, in papa' k'áat a tal (Father wants you to come)," called the elder.
"Ts'uulo'ob! (Outsiders!)" cried the younger.
The Jesuit and the girl hurried to the square, where once again the entire village had gathered. All eyes turned toward the direction of the drum.
"The regiment's arriving," said the sergeant to Hans with a grin.
Hans stood beside Magdalena and her family.
"I don't know what secrets you carry, but I hope you've spoken with your father," Hans said in English.
"He knows everything," she replied in the same tongue.
The drumbeat came first. Then, through the brush—cut back by Indigenous auxiliaries attached to the presidio— appeared a drummer boy of fifteen, his faded blue coat clinging to his frame, the drum strapped across his chest. He marched at the head, marking the rhythm. Behind him rode the captain on horseback, followed by his officers. Then came the company from the Presidio of Bacalar—muskets on their shoulders, tricorne hats tilted under the heat—and, at the rear, the porters dragging two small field guns through the mud.
A murmur rippled through the villagers. Magdalena whispered something to her father, who stood tall with his ceremonial staff, while the captain displayed his chest with pride. The prisoners shifted uneasily, hearing the metallic rhythm of the soldiers' boots.
"Silence, you damned heretics!" shouted one soldier, musket ready, glaring at the pirates.
Hans exhaled deeply. He longed to close that chapter and return to his ecclesiastical duties.
When the troops entered the square, the drum fell silent. Only then came the captain's orders and the clatter of equipment as the men aligned. The air smelled of gunpowder and smoke, mingled with the scent of burnt wood from the homes. The army's presence carried the weight of the empire and the unease of the villagers. The tension was palpable: from living under the pirates' yoke, they now stood under the shadow of the Crown.
The Spanish captain, wearing a powdered wig and a blue coat trimmed with crimson, dismounted with the help of his aides. He surveyed the scene: the redoubt still smoldering, the houses around the square half-ruined, villagers tending their wounds. A dozen men sat on the ground with their hands tied behind their backs. Before them, the sergeant and his men stood at attention, saluting.
"Welcome, Captain Antonio Sepúlveda y Costilla," said the sergeant, removing his tricorne. "To the village of…"
The sergeant glanced sideways at one of his men, who whispered quickly, "San Jorge de Ch'en Sasil."
"To the village of San Jorge de Ch'en Sasil," the sergeant repeated with a bow.
"And these are the pirates?" asked the captain, eyeing the prisoners.
"Yes, sir. They survived the assault, and we've taken them to be sent to the presidio for proper trial."
The captain produced a handkerchief and pressed it to his nose as he approached.
"For a moment I thought you'd prepared them for sacrifice," he quipped, drawing a few uneasy laughs from his officers.
"The locals' method, Captain," replied the sergeant.
The captain stopped before Rafael, who sat bound and defeated.
"You're the pirate who posed as a holy man?"
Rafael said nothing.
"We'll see about that," muttered the captain.
He turned his gaze toward the villagers and soon noticed the Jesuit among them.
"That one—the German priest?"
The sergeant nodded. The captain gestured for Hans to step forward.
"And who might you be?"
"Father Hans von Lübeck, of the Society of Jesus."
"Ah, a Jesuit… far from your mission, aren't you?"
"Merely exploring, Captain, to confirm a few matters as part of an audit."
The captain's stare hardened.
"Where are you from?"
"From Schwarzwald—the Black Forest, sir."
"I see. From a land too close to heretical Lutherans," he said dryly. "I'll have a few questions for you later, Father."
Hans nodded silently. The captain dismissed him with a flick of his hand and turned to his subordinates.
"Sergeant Legazpi, have my tent raised at once. I'll need a full report of what transpired here."
"At once, Captain. Also, the village chief wishes to greet you," said the sergeant.
The captain approached the cacique, followed by his officers and a young native interpreter dressed in a uniform, boots, and tricorne hat. The captain removed his own hat with a bow.
"Captain in charge of the Presidio of San Felipe de Bacalar and of the eastern region," he said formally.
The cacique returned the gesture.
"Welcome to Ch'en Sasil," translated the interpreter. "We thank the soldiers who have freed us from the pirates' oppression."
"You have nothing more to fear," said the captain. "From this day forth, you are under the protection of the Crown."
Having said this, he turned to inspect the remains of the redoubt while the camp was swiftly erected. The captain walked away among officers and smoke, under the unrelenting noon sun. The villagers watched in silence as the helmets and cannon gleamed.
Hans pressed the medallion in his pocket. He knew that report would not bring him a happy end.