THE MAYA CODEX

by Adrian D'hagé

  Trembling, Ramona Weizman wiped away a tear and turned off the radio. She closed her boutique and went upstairs to the apartment to retrieve her prayer shawl.

  8

  TIKAL, GUATEMALA

  Levi Weizman moved back onto the track, away from the balsa tree he’d used for cover. He froze immediately. A two-metre fer-de-lance, one of the largest and deadliest snakes of Central America, slithered towards him, the black diamonds on its dark chocolate-and-grey back clearly visible in the moonlight. Levi backed slowly into the jungle. The pit-viper could detect a change in temperature to one thousandth of a degree, enabling it to strike its prey with lethal accuracy. The dose of venom fatal to humans was just fifty milligrams, and Levi knew that a fer-de-lance could deliver up to 300 milligrams in a single strike. The huge snake slithered past and headed towards the river in search of frogs and rats. Levi could hear the troop of howler monkeys further up the river, but the track behind him was clear. Perhaps he’d been imagining things, he thought, and he turned towards the rickety rope bridge that spanned the swirling river separating the Mayan village from the ruins of Tikal.

  ‘It’s been a long time, Professor Weizman.’ The jungle to the right of the bridge parted and Roberto Arana appeared, wearing his customary red bandana atop his weathered face. Roberto was smiling and he stretched out his hand.

  ‘I was beginning to wonder if you’d received my messages,’ Levi said as he followed the shaman across the bridge, holding on to the swaying ropes and carefully choosing his footholds across the gaps between the worn wooden planks. ‘Was that you following me?’

  Roberto shook his head. ‘A jaguar.’ The jungle suddenly reverberated with a spine-tingling roar, confirming the jaguar’s presence. ‘But don’t worry, warriors from the village will escort you back. As to your messages … that which you seek has remained hidden for centuries, Professor. The codex and the remaining figurines will be revealed when the timing is right, but already, the elders sense that timing is near. They have some information for you.’

  Levi’s pulse quickened. ‘On the figurines, or the codex?’

  ‘If you decipher that which they disclose, you will find what the ancients want you to find,’ the shaman answered enigmatically.

  The jungle track on the far bank of the river was narrow and Levi followed in Roberto’s footsteps. A short while later they reached a big clearing by the river bank, around which ten thatched huts were grouped. Smoke from the cooking fires drifted towards the fast-flowing river. The women of the village had soaked maize kernels in lime the night before, to soften them, and during the day they had ground them into traditional masa dough. Blackened pots hung over the fires, and next to them the comales, or griddles, were warming, ready for the tortillas. A savoury aroma wafted into the jungle: chicken simmering in jalapeno chillies, diced peppers, oregano and limes. Some of the younger women were still working their looms by the firelight, sitting on mats with one end of their looms strapped behind their backs, the other tied to trees along the river bank. Colourful huipils, traditional Mayan ponchos, were taking shape as the village women deftly moved the loom warps back and forth, the cedar worn smooth by countless hours of use. Every village and town in Guatemala could be identified by its unique traje or traditional dress, and here, bright reds and yellows were wonderfully interwoven with diamond patterns of blues and turquoises. The women and older girls all wore the corte, a long wraparound skirt with a wide woven belt.

  The elders were waiting, dressed in their traditional kamixa, colourful cotton shirts and straw hats. Levi smiled politely as solemn introductions were made and he was offered a seat on one of several cedar logs grouped around the central campfire.

  ‘Hach ki’imak in wo’ol in kaholtikech. We are very happy to meet you,’ said Pacal, the village chief. There were gaps in his warm and welcoming smile.

  ‘Ki’imak in wo’ol in wilikech. And I am very happy to be here.’

  The elders nodded, smiling broadly as Levi responded in their own tongue. Long hours spent studying the Mayan language had paid off handsomely.

  ‘Bix a k’aaba?’ Levi asked the young woman who’d been designated to look after him.

  ‘My name is Itzel,’ she replied. Her white teeth sparkled in the soft light of the fire.

  ‘Dios bo’otik. Thank you,’ Levi said as Itzel handed him a wooden platter of hot tortillas and salsa, together with a small pottery cup filled with pulque, a heady Meso-American beverage made from the agave plant.

  The elders raised their cups, first inclining their heads towards Roberto and then Levi. Even though Roberto’s home village was on the shores of Lake Atitlán, it was clear that he was revered here just as much as he was in San Marcos.

  Venus had risen well into the night sky by the time the conversation turned to two vital issues.

  ‘Your German colleague could cause problems for you here,’ Pacal observed. The village chief’s wizened brown face was etched with lines of wisdom.

  Levi nodded. ‘I must apologise if his behaviour has caused any offence.’

  ‘It is your safety we’re more concerned for,’ Roberto observed. ‘The Catholic priest should be watched as well.’

  ‘Father Ehrlichmann has attempted to prevent us conducting our cultural ceremonies. He calls us pagans,’ Pacal explained, ‘and as a result, he and his church have remained ignorant of the ancient warnings. But you’re a spiritual man with an open mind, Professor. It may fall to you to unravel the mystery.’

  ‘I’ve been looking for the two remaining figurines, but without success.’

  ‘One of those you seek is still here,’ Pacal intoned. ‘The other has been removed for safekeeping,’ he added mysteriously. He reached into the woven satchel he wore over his shoulder and withdrew two maps inscribed on fragments of bark paper, the first of which he passed to Levi. A strange yellow shape had been painted on the bark. Three lines, each annotated with a bearing and all starting at different points outside the shape, met at a single point on the edge.

  ‘The Germans have been here before,’ Pacal said, ‘and they van-dalised Pyramid IV. The pyramid’s sacred figurine was removed for its protection, and it’s now some distance away, but if you are meant to find it, you will. This map gives the clue to its whereabouts. As to the final figurine,’ Pacal said, handing Levi the second map, ‘it’s still here. Together, the three figurines will indicate the location of the codex.’

  Levi examined the second map. Three points were marked on the map, forming a triangle.

  ‘The ancients constructed calendars according to the movements of the planets,’ Pacal continued. ‘You would also be aware, Professor, that the Mayan calendars are cyclical, unlike the western calendars, which measure time in a straight line. As a result, the Mayan calendars are far more accurate, and our predecessors were able to predict the future based on recurring past events. The next great event will occur on 21 December 2012.’

  ‘A planetary alignment,’ Levi observed.

  Pacal nodded. ‘For the first time in 26 000 years, our solar system will be aligned with the stargate at the centre of the Milky Way galaxy. Are you familiar with the Fibonacci sequence?’

  ‘Yes … but I thought that was a western discovery,’ Levi replied.

  Pacal and the village elders just smiled. ‘The Maya, the Inca, the Egyptians knew about it: all three civilisations were much further advanced than your history has so far revealed,’ Pacal said. ‘And if you’re familiar with the Fibonacci sequence, you will also be familiar with phi, the golden mean?’

  Levi nodded. ‘One point six one eight.’ He’d long been fascinated with the ratio designated by Φ. The Fibonacci sequence, he knew, was a sequence with each term obtained by adding the previous two terms:

  1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144, 233 …

  The extraordinary ratio of 1.618 was obtained by dividing one number in the sequence by its previous number, and Levi also knew that the golden mean was part of life itself. It determined the ra
tios of the spirals on things as small as nautilus seashells, right up to the ratios of the massive spirals of the galaxies themselves. Even the distance between leaves on plants yielded a Fibonacci number.

  ‘The ratio is at the very foundation of the universe,’ the village chief observed, ‘and the Maya, Inca and Egyptians all used it in the construction of their pyramids. If you’re to find what you are looking for, look for the centre of the golden mean,’ Pacal intoned.

  ‘Dios bo’otik. Thank you,’ Levi said. ‘I will keep looking.’

  ‘But be careful,’ Roberto Arana warned. ‘The German officer and the priest are both watching you.’

  Four young village men, descendants of the warrior class of Tikal, escorted Levi back to the airstrip. As they crossed the bridge, another spine-tingling roar rent the night air, but the blazing torches they all carried kept the magnificent jaguar at a distance.

  The camp was in darkness. Levi hid the precious maps in a cavity he’d dug near a corner of his tent, grabbed his weathered leather bag containing his archaeological tools, and set off for Pyramid V. He held a flaming torch in front of him, picking his way through the jungle towards the tomb of a Mayan king. Carefully, he climbed the jumble of blackened limestone steps that led to the small room at the top of the second-tallest pyramid in Tikal. At least there was a full moon, he thought.

  In the jungle below, von Heißen positioned himself behind a huge cedar tree and watched.

  9

  THE VATICAN, ROME

  The Cardinal Secretary of State, Eugenio Pacelli, his soutane immaculate and edged in crimson, was deep in thought. He stood at the window of his office on the third floor of the Apostolic Palace and stared unseeingly towards the Tiber and the ancient City of Rome. The second-most powerful man in the Catholic Church was tall and spindly. His long oval face was lean, his cheeks hollow, his nose hooked and aristocratic. Among the myriad challenges confronting the Vatican’s principal foreign diplomat, some took priority. Above him, on the top floor of the palace, the papal physician was attending Pius XI; Pacelli was now the favoured candidate to take the Keys of Peter. The rise to power of Adolf Hitler and the Nazis was equally grave.

  The Cardinal lowered his gaze towards Piazza San Pietro. The dark cobblestones shone in the soft glow of the Vatican lights. They seemed to hold a message of dark foreboding. Pacelli moved away from the window and returned to his desk, turning his mind towards the other grave matters of concern: the Vatican’s finances and a Nazi archaeological expedition being carried out in the distant jungles of Guatemala. On the wall behind him a two-metre-high black-and-silver crucifix hung in silent observation. Had the solid silver Christ been able to speak, He too might have uttered a warning. Pacelli’s thoughts were interrupted by his private secretary knocking on the double doors.

  ‘Avanti.’

  ‘Il Signor Felici is here, Eminence.’

  ‘Show him in.’

  Signor Alberto Felici, Gentleman of His Holiness and Papal Knight Commander of the Order of Sylvester, bowed deferentially as he entered.

  ‘Benvenuto, Alberto.’ Pacelli kissed the ambitious diplomat on both cheeks. ‘Have a seat,’ he said, indicating one of three comfortable lounge chairs. ‘Desideri acqua minerale, caffè, tè?’

  ‘No, grazie, Eminence, I’ve not long eaten.’ Alberto patted an ample stomach that was testament to his fondness for food and fine wine.

  ‘Thank you for coming at such a late hour,’ Pacelli began, after his secretary had closed the doors, ‘Before we get on to your reports, I hear that congratulations are in order.’

  ‘Grazie, Eminence, you are most kind.’ Alberto had finally married in his late forties and now his wife had given birth to their first child.

  ‘Have you settled on a name yet?’

  ‘Salvatore Giovanni Felici, Eminence, and if your busy schedule allows, Maria and I would be honoured by your presence at Salvatore’s baptism.’

  ‘We can do it here in San Pietro if you wish. Who knows, the young Salvatore Felici may grow up to become one of us. The priesthood is always looking for good candidates, non è vero?’ Pacelli smiled.

  ‘Maria would be very pleased, on both counts, Eminence.’

  ‘Good. Now, what have you discovered about our friend Nogara?’ Pacelli had become increasingly suspicious of Signor Bernardino Nogara, the financial advisor to Pius XI. In 1929 the Italian Prime Minister Benito Mussolini had signed the Lateran Treaty, finally recognising the sovereignty of the Holy See as a separate state. As reparation for lost papal territories, the Italian government had paid an enormous sum to the Vatican, but now rumours of failed businesses, Nogara’s links to an ultra-secret Masonic Lodge and his luxurious lifestyle had been swirling around the Vatican’s corridors.

  ‘When I worked alongside Signor Nogara during the negotiations on the Lateran Treaty, he kept very much to himself, so I was prepared for anything, Eminence. Even so, I’ve been surprised by what I’ve found, and I can assure you the investigation has been very, very thorough.’

  Pacelli braced himself for the worst.

  ‘Signor Nogara lives very simply, Eminence. In the time he’s been involved with the Vatican’s finances, he’s drawn a modest salary and his bank account contains less than US$200. As far as I can determine, he gives generously to charities, all of them Catholic. He attends Mass every day and his entertainment appears to be limited to a weekly visit to the movies.’

  Pacelli looked puzzled. ‘And women?’

  ‘There are no women in his life, Eminence, and there is no evidence of … how shall I put this … soliciting sex. He has no connections with the Masons, or any anti-Catholic organisations, and he confines his reading to the financial journals.’

  ‘The accounts?’

  ‘The Special Administration of the Holy See is in excellent order, Eminence, and Signor Nogara is well on his way to turning a hundred million dollars into the Vatican’s first billion.’

  Pacelli’s eyes widened.

  ‘Signor Nogara is very much a man after your own heart, Eminence. He is devoted to the Holy Church.’

  ‘I have done him an injustice,’ the Cardinal Secretary of State observed quietly.

  ‘In matters of finance, Eminence, it’s always better to be sure. I suspect the rumours originated from those who are jealous of Nogara’s access to you and the Holy Father, and, of course, your concordat with Reichskanzler Hitler has realised far greater revenue than we anticipated.’

  Pacelli nodded. The agreement he had signed with Hitler had been a masterstroke. Not only were German Catholics now subject to Canon Law, but criticism of Catholic doctrine was prohibited by German law. In return for the Vatican’s support of his regime Hitler had agreed to a Kirchensteuer or ‘church tax’. This meant that in addition to ‘Peter’s Pence’, which flowed into the Vatican from dioceses all over the world, practising Catholics in Germany now had their pay cheques docked at a rate of nine per cent of income tax.

  ‘It will be important to ensure the agreement on the Kirchensteuer stays in place, but I understand the Holy Father is preparing to issue an encyclical.’ Felici’s Vatican connections were impeccable, and he’d already heard that the dying Pius XI was about to release his long-awaited treatise Humani Generis Unitas – On the Unity of the Human Race. ‘If such an encyclical were to criticise Hitler’s treatment of the Jews, Eminence, it might endanger the concordat itself,’ Felici warned. ‘Ambassador von Bergen is quite worried.’

  Pacelli nodded, only too well aware that all his hard work might be unravelled by a single stroke of the ailing Pontiff’s pen. ‘I’ve assured the German ambassador of the Vatican’s continuing support, especially in the fight against the Bolshevik Communists. In my view they’re a far greater threat than Hitler and the Third Reich. As for the Jews … they’re not our concern.’

  ‘That’s good news, Eminence, because Nogara will shortly suggest a change in the Vatican’s financial arrangements.’

  ‘Why, if we’re doing so well?�
��

  ‘The Special Administration has served its purpose admirably, Eminence, but with so much money flowing in, the Vatican will shortly need its own bank. A separate entity that can operate as a normal bank on the international financial stage.’ Felici knew well that the Vatican Bank would be anything but normal. Immune from any scrutiny by Italian or international authorities, and even from the Curial Cardinals, the Vatican Bank, or the Istituto per le Opere di Religione, would be exempt from any Italian government tax. In time the bank would provide a mechanism for the Mafia and prominent Italian businessmen to launder billions of lire into secret Swiss bank accounts. In the nearer future, the Vatican Bank would become a conduit for Nazi gold and treasures confiscated from millions of murdered Jews.

  ‘A bank might contradict the Church’s teaching on usury,’ Pacelli observed thoughtfully, reflecting on one of the most grievous sins in Catholic dogma. St Ambrose and the councils of Nicaea, Carthage and Clichy had all condemned the practice of earning interest from loans, as had Pope Benedict IX.

  ‘There are ways around these things, Eminence – especially when it is for the good of the Holy Church.’

  Pacelli nodded. ‘Would you be prepared to serve as a delegato on the board, Alberto?’