and Victor had reconstructed the first eight pages of the codex.
Even with most of the document still left to reconstruct and decipher, they knew that their findings would change Maya scholarship forever.
So much more than just the personal thoughts of a scribe, Paktul’s codex was a political protest—an indictment of a king’s rule and an unprecedented questioning of a god. Chel took comfort in the fact that, no matter what happened to her or her career, the world would eventually see this strange gift of history. It was the work of a moral, learned man willing to risk his own life for what he believed in, which illustrated beyond a doubt the humanity of her ancestors.
But there was still a more pressing issue: finding out where the codex was written, so they could help the CDC identify the source of the disease. Neither Chel nor anyone else in her lab had ever heard the name before, but the scribe called his home
“Anything come up in the databases about Akabalam?” Rolando asked.
Chel shook her head. “Sent it to Yasee at Berkeley and Francis at Tulane too,” she said. “But they had no idea.”
Rolando ran a hand through his hair. “By the end, the glyph appears on almost every one of the fragments. I still don’t get what it could be.”
They had never seen such a proliferation of glyphs referring to one god in any of the literature. Understanding its significance would be crucial to completing the translation.
“It’s not a question of syntax, like the father–son combination,” Rolando said. “It’s more like Paktul is dedicating the final pages to him.”
Chel nodded. “Like
“But there are fragments where it seems like the scribe is negative about Akabalam,” Rolando said. “Wouldn’t it be heresy for a scribe to openly resent a god?”
“The whole book is heresy. The first glyph block indicts his king. That alone would’ve been punishable by death.”
“So we’ll keep searching. In the meantime, should we talk about page seven?”
“What about it?”
Rolando turned to the section in question and said sheepishly, “I guess I’m curious what you make of the thirteenth-cycle reference.”
And the dying man’s words were heard by those of us above the fray, and they were an omen of things to come, as black as the end of the thirteenth cycle.
Chel sat down. The five-thousand-plus-year Long Count was divided into major periods of about 395 years each, beginning on a mythical creation date of 0.0.0.0.0, the equivalent of August 11th, 3114 B.C. in the Gregorian calendar. In the Long Count, a day was expressed by 0.0.0.0.1, a year by 0.0.1.0.0, and the important 395-year periods by 1.0.0.0.0. 12/21/12—in the Maya calendar 13.0.0.0.0—would mark the end of the all-important “thirteenth cycle,” at which point the last Long Count had supposedly come to an end. Just one reference in the
Chel glanced over at the door of the lab, next to which an intercom hung on the wall. It could be used to summon the security detail stationed at the bottom of the hill. She hoped never to have to use it.
“He could be talking about a Tzolk’in cycle of thirteen days for all we know,” she told Rolando. “It might not have anything to do with the Long Count.” Chel wasn’t sure if she believed it herself, but she couldn’t let 2012 distract her now, nor would she give the Believers anything to hang on to.
One of the Believers she had in mind walked into the lab and caught the tail end of their conversation. Victor’s short white hair was combed back and wet, as if he’d just showered, his perpetual polo shirt green this time.
“Please continue,” he said.
Even at Victor’s lowest points, Chel had always marveled at his seventy- something energy. When she was in graduate school, he’d do decipherment work for twelve-hour stretches without ever eating or going to the bathroom, and now he’d been instrumental in getting them this far.
Still, as grateful as Chel was, she wasn’t eager to bring up 2012 when he was around.
“The thirteenth-cycle reference is up for interpretation,” Victor said, jumping right in.
“I guess it is,” she responded warily.
“I’ll check the computers,” Rolando said, taking his cue to leave.
Victor went on, “But there are many things that will be up for interpretation, depending on people’s particular biases. And I believe we have
Chel was relieved. “I do, Victor. Thank you.”
He held up his copy of the translation. “Good, then,” he said. “Let us do that.” He put a hand gently on Chel’s shoulder, and she reached up to meet it with her own for a moment. “I think the first things we must discuss are the implications for the collapse, right?”
“What implications?”
“The possibility this book could tell us something about the collapse we aren’t prepared for,” he said. “What do you see in Paktul’s discussion of the failing city?”
“I see a community stricken by a mega-drought, trying to survive. Paktul says there are barren markets and starving children. The drought must have been going on for at least eighteen months, based on the likely water stores.”
“We know there were droughts,” Victor said. “But what about the reference to the food-preservation techniques they’re using?”
Our army has a new way to preserve food, salting its supplies more heavily than before, so that we may launch wars on lands even more distant.
“What about it?” Chel asked.
“Heavier salting is a major innovation in warfare,” Victor said. “You know war between the polities was often hampered by food supply. Figuring out better salting techniques would have let them fight more effectively.”
“What are you implying?”
“I’m just saying, the ability to wage more war ultimately made them more vulnerable.”
“To what?”
“To everything.”
Now she understood. Victor had made this argument forever, even before his 2012 hysteria: He believed her ancestors were better suited to simpler, more rural lives, and that the cities—for all their glory—fostered the self- destructive excesses of despotic kings. “The ancients could have ruled for a millennium if it weren’t for the droughts,” she said. “They used their technology to great advantage.”
Victor disagreed. “Let us not forget that the Maya have endured much longer droughts living in the forests than they ever did in the cities. Once they moved back into the jungle after the classic and stopped building temples and waging more wars and burning all their wood for plaster, they survived the dry periods just fine.”
“So the noble savages could only survive in the jungles? They couldn’t handle the pressures of civilization?”
