The Xibalba Murders

BEN

In one of those extraordinary coincidences that divert, if not entirely change, the course of history, Hernando Cortes managed to arrive in the New World in the year 1 Ben, which also happened to be the year that the Aztecs had prophesied that Queztalcoatl would return from the eastern sea.

Presumably the pale and bearded Spaniards, attired in their suits of armor and plumed helmets, bore some passing resemblance to the locals’ idea of a pale-skinned serpent god. One thing is certain: they came from the right direction.

The Mesoamerican equivalent of a year was eighteen times the twenty-day Tzolkin, or 360 days, plus five very unlucky days at the end to make their calendar square with their knowledge of the solar year. Solar years were named for the day on which they began. Without going into the intricacies of it all, the Tzolkin and the year, in this case 1 Ben, arrived at that same combination once every fifty-two years. Cortes was a lucky man.

The result of this convergence was that Cortes and his army were, for a time at least, considered gods and treated with the appropriate respect and fear. Cortes was able to press the psychological advantage and by 1521, just two years after his arrival, had conquered the Aztecs.

In 1697, the Itza fell to the Spaniards, the last of the Mesoamerican groups to do so, notably at the start of Katun 8 Ahau, a Katun, or twenty-year cycle, that always signaled trouble for the Itza. The Spanish generals may or may not have understood the Maya calendar by this time, but they invariably profited from it.

What armies, the prophecies of the Maya calendar, and superior weapons could not do, smallpox, influenza, measles, and the Spanish liquor aguardiente did. The diseases alone wiped out ninety percent of the native population within a century of the Europeans’ arrival.

But the principal agent of European culture was the church. The Spaniards brought with them their rituals, their images, and of course, their priests. The Franciscans were given an exclusive in the territory: they were the only order allowed into the Yucatan.

Knowing the power of a language, both written and spoken, many of these friars strove systematically to wipe out any traces of it. To do that they made the performance of Maya rituals and the ownership of Maya books punishable by torture and death. Maya children, when they were educated at all, were educated in Spanish and Latin only.

Diego de Landa, a Franciscan friar who later became bishop of Yucatan, was one of the worst. In the 1560s in Mani, a site near Uxmal, one of the most beautiful Maya cities, Landa held a full-blown auto-da-fe. Huge bonfires were built, onto which all the books Landa could find were thrown. Thousands of Maya were tortured, hundreds died.

To add insult to injury, one of the few eyewitness accounts we have of Maya life at the time is Landa’s own Relacion de las cosas de Yucatan of 1566. The book, which loosely translates as a report on things of the Yucatan, was written to the King of Spain in the defense of the friar’s outrageous behavior. It is a second-rate account, and basically chronicles a lifestyle he tried desperately to stamp out.

But the Maya are a resilient people. Denied their language and their books, they wrote down their history in secret, using the only alphabet they knew by that time, the alphabet of their conquerors. Without that stubborn tradition, the Popol Vuh of the Quiche Maya and the books of Chilam Balam of the Yucatecan Maya would not exist, and the ancient culture would be virtually lost in the mists of time.

What was lost for centuries, in fact until very recently, was glyphic literacy, the ability to read the old hieroglyphic language and many of the stories and history that went with it.

It was an unbelievable tragedy. The Maya were not as technically advanced as some civilizations. They did not use the wheel, for example, nor did they work with metals. They were no more or less warlike than their neighbors, no greater custodians of the environment.

Instead, their great achievements were those of the intellect. They invented zero and place-system numerals, something the cultures of ancient Greece and Rome never did. They had an intricate way of measuring and recording the passage of time. They measured the visible cycles of the heavens and had the ability to understand them mathematically.

But perhaps their greatest achievement was their literacy. The Inca of Peru, despite their artistic and architectural achievements, had no written language. There were other written languages in Mesoamerica certainly and the Maya were not the first to develop a writing system.

What the Maya had that many other groups did not was a fully functional written language that represented the spoken word and could be used to convey complex ideas, something that made them the most literate of all Mesoamerican civilizations.

Scribes were valued and honored members of the society, and their work recognized through glyphs that named them. Writing, whether in the folded bark-paper books now called codices, or in stone on monuments, was treasured. And while it is highly unlikely that everyone in classic Maya times could read and write, there is evidence to suggest that the elite could.

All that is left of this language, which the Maya themselves nurtured and preserved for centuries before the arrival of the Spaniards, are fragments from ruined cities, and four codices, each one a tattered window into the past.

The question for me was, was it possible there were five? And if so, where would the fifth be?

The question of whether or not there could be another was a pretty basic one. While, as Alex had told me, one codex, the Grolier, had surfaced in 1971, found somewhere in the region maybe thirty years earlier, it was in extremely bad condition. As time went on it became less and less likely that another could be found.

Under what conditions, I wondered, would one of these survive at least five centuries?

Jonathan had said we should work together on Don Hernan’s murder. And he would know the answers to my questions if anyone would. But I was afraid to ask. It required a level of trust in him and our relationship that I could not yet summon.

Who else? Lucas? That would require even more of a stretch than Jonathan.

Antonio Valesquez.

I returned to the museo and his dusty little library. He actually looked mildly pleased to see me.

“Antonio,” I said, “I’m exploring your idea about a book. But I keep wondering how a book would survive these many years. Even the first-edition Stephens that Don Hernan left me in his will is not in great condition. The leather is worn, the pages damaged in some cases by the damp. And it dates from 1841.

“How could something made of paper survive from before the Conquest?”

“Certainly I can find you some books on conservation, piles of them actually, since this is a museum. I think, however, there may be a faster way,” he said. “I think I owe you what you call lunch. Meet me at the Cafe Piramide. It’s in the market area.”

“I know where it is,” I said.

“I’ll be there with a colleague of mine. One-thirty all right with you?”

“See you there.” I nodded.

I had no trouble finding the cafe this time around, and was waiting at a table when Antonio approached with a young man, early twenties I would say, in white slacks and T-shirt, his ears well decorated with pierced earrings and studs. The most surprising thing about him was his hair, cut very short, and very blond, bleached to within an inch of its life, and by an amateur at that. It was quite the fashion statement.

“Meet Ernesto Diaz, one of our more talented conservators. The one who was working on the vase I was telling you about the other day.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

“Same here,” he said.

We ordered our meal. In Mexico, the food at this time of day is often taken from what is called the corn kitchen, a cuisine that dates back to Aztec times. In those times, corn had to be dried, then boiled with lime, then ground. Now, of course, you can buy the flour, masa harina, in any grocery store. Sort of takes the romance out of it, though.

We ordered an assortment of green enchiladas with coriander and green tomatillos, enchiladas with mole sauce, and tamales, Yucatan style, with spicy peppers and chicken, and a pitcher of beer to wash it all down.

We were well into the food before we finally got around to the subject at hand.

“Senora McClintoch has an interesting question for you, Ernesto, for a paper she is writing for her graduate degree in Mesoamerican studies,” Antonio began. He could lie with almost the same facility as I.

“It’s Lara, please, Ernesto,” I said as the young man turned to me with some interest.

He smiled. “And the problem?”

“I’m researching Maya codices,” I began. “The background, the provenance, of the last one, the Grolier, is rather…”

“Vague?” he offered.

“Vague,” I agreed. “I know that carbon dating has made it the oldest of the four—”

“Early 1200s,” he agreed.

“But surely that is not possible! How could something as old as that, and that kind of material survive, even in terrible condition for that long?”

“Interesting question,” he said. “Not our field, you know. Terra-cotta is what we do. We would have to think about that, wouldn’t we?”

We waited.

“They’re made of fig-bark paper, we believe. Organic. Cellulosic. But coated in gesso or something, probably mineral in origin. The worst thing in this climate is the dampness, the relative humidity. Encourages mold. That’s the real killer. That’s one of the reasons the codices in Europe are in such bad shape. Even if they were cared for once they arrived, which they probably weren’t, there was only one way to get there in those days—by ship. Nasty, damp journey!

“At least one kept here would not have to survive a sea journey. And the good news is that bark often contains a natural fungicide. That would protect it for a while. But it would still have to be somewhere where it could be kept relatively dry.

“Lots of other things to worry about; secondary, though. Paper is very susceptible to acids. But the soil here is alkaline—limestone. That’s one good thing. And paper is relatively unaffected by light, although we’re not so sure about whatever they used for inks. Colors might easily fade. Probably not a problem, though, since the fact that the Grolier only surfaced recently would indicate it was kept well hidden, presumably in a dark place. Bugs, though. Insects and bacteria. Thrive in the warm damp climate,” he mused.

“That is what we’re trying to find out, isn’t it? Where the Grolier might have been?” he observed.

I nodded. If Antonio was prepared to lie to this man, so was I.

“That would be an interesting area of study. There are lots of rumors, of course.”

“For example?”

“The most likely one is that it was found in a cave near Tayasol, by grave robbers.”

“Where’s that?”

“Tayasol, or Tah Itza, was the last stronghold of the Itza before they were subdued by the Spanish in the late 1600s. It was located where the town of Flores in Guatemala is now.”

“So if it were in a cave, wouldn’t that take care of a lot of the problems—light, for example? The Dead Sea Scrolls were found in caves,” I said.

“Yes, but not the bugs, and certainly not the mold. The Dead Sea Scrolls were found in caves in a desert climate.”

“What about tombs? You’d think sealing them in tombs would do it, wouldn’t you?” I said, growing slightly impatient with all these musings.

“We might think so, but that has not proven to be the case. Books were very special to the Maya, so we would expect they were put in the tombs all right. Something to pass the time in eternity.” He laughed. “But they haven’t been found in tombs.”

“Tomb robbers?”

“Maybe, in some cases. But really, tombs are not that well sealed, and even if they are, there is a lot of air in them when they’re closed up. Damp air, at that. So the air and the pests just work away at the books in the tomb.”

He paused for a while, munching an enchilada.

“What we would be looking for would be an environment in equilibrium. Away from energy sources like light, heat, vibration, and other materials that would react with the book.”

He paused for a few seconds. “Ideally, we’d want our book sealed in a container, something waterproof and resistant to the alkaline environment.”

“What would that be?” I asked.

“Well, limestone itself, although it’s pretty porous. Most siliceous materials—ceramics, glass, and stone— would do. Jade survives nicely, as does flint, obsidian. Terra-cotta, too, although that may be too porous.

“It should be a small container. Not too much air. If it could be sealed, well, all the better. The idea here is for the environment in the box to come to equilibrium quickly and stay that way.

“So we’d say a box. A stone box. With only the codex in it. We’ve never heard of them making stone boxes, but why not? Maya scribes worked in stone all the time—the Maya built whole cities. So why not carve out a box of some kind?

“If we remember correctly, these codices had wooden or jaguar-fur covers. It would be better if they were not in the box with the paper. Too complicated when there are greater numbers of materials. They react differently and can affect each other detrimentally.

“What we’d really like would be to seal the box in plastic wrap. Won’t do, of course.” He laughed.

“So what would we seal it in, then?” I asked, falling into his particular speech affectation.

“We’d have to think about that for a minute. We wonder if the Maya had raincoats of any sort at that time. Cloth—they had cotton, I’m sure—coated in some substance to repel water. We used to think the Maya didn’t know about rubber, but recently there has been evidence that suggests they might have. Don’t know much about natural rubbers myself, what the long-term survival of natural rubber would be, so couldn’t say much about that. Maybe some kind of gum.”

He chewed on his enchilada some more.

“Waxes!” he exclaimed triumphantly. “Of course! Much more waterproof than gums. The Maya were great beekeepers. How about beeswax? Gum elemi? It’s found in the Yucatan. Or candelilla wax. It’s from a weed native to Mexico. Even bitumen. It’s a natural asphaltic material we bet they knew about. Any of these could be used.”

“So are we saying that it is possible one might have survived, in reasonable condition, all this time?” I asked.

“Depends on our definition of reasonable. The Grolier is in terrible condition. Theoretically, though, it should be possible for one to survive in better shape than that. But we were researching the Grolier, were we not? Or perhaps we are looking for another!” he said slowly, excitement in his eyes.

“Only in theory,” I said, wondering if this conversation had gone too far.

I thanked him for his help and changed the subject as quickly as I could without looking too obvious. I could see I had not been that successful, so I excused myself and went looking for the washroom.

It was at the back of the restaurant, and on my return, I once again found myself witnessing, from the relative darkness of the restaurant proper, a scene between friends. As I watched, Ernesto reached out and put his hand on Antonio’s knee, and then quickly kissed him on the cheek. The Cafe Piramide was quite a romantic spot.

By the time I got back to the table, everything was back to a businesslike atmosphere. Both were discussing some research that was needed. But I understood a little better why Antonio had spent so much time helping the conservator find the picture of the vase with the rabbit scribe, and why Ernesto had been so helpful on first meeting.

I told them it was time for me to go, thanking Ernesto for his help and Antonio for lunch, and headed back to the inn. I made a slight detour, however, to the hospital where Dona Josefina still lay paralyzed. There was little or no improvement, the sister told me.

I sat by her bedside once again, holding her hand. I asked her if I should be looking for a fifth Mayan hieroglyphic codex, and she pressed one for yes.

I asked her if she knew where it was. She pressed two for no.

I wanted to sit with her a little longer, so I told her I had been to a spectacular party, and all about the house, the food, the guests, my new dress. But when I told her that it was at the Gomez Arias residence, she became agitated, so much so that I called the nursing sister to the bedside.

Sister Maria told me that she would take care of her, but that it would be better if I left. I did, much agitated myself. I did not wish to cause Dona Josefina grief, but I thought I needed to know what upset her about Gomez Arias.

All of this was forgotten, however, when I got back to the hotel. The Ortiz family was in considerable distress, to an extent that it took me a while to figure out what happened.

Major Martinez had arrived at the hotel with a warrant for Alejandro’s arrest, not just for the robbery of the statue of Itzamna, but for the murder of Don Hernan.

Ricardo Vallespino, Luis’s brother had also been charged, as were a couple of other students at the university. The police said these were the ringleaders of the Children of the Talking Cross. Luis, though dead, was named as a participant.

Alejandro had been led away in handcuffs. Once again I was confined to the hotel, as an important witness to some of these events.