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 Atitlan, 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?. 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 ratios 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 Hei?en positioned himself behind a huge cedar tree and watched.
9
T he 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, caffe, te? ’
‘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 e 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
