by Clay Farrow
Revenge of the Maya
by
Clay Farrow
Copyright © 2017 Clay Farrow
All Rights Reserved
Cover Image
© Jose I. Soto | Dreamstime.com
I would like to thank my wife, Monica, for her
many ideas and the long hours she spent editing this book. I couldn't have written this without your love, help and support.
I would also like to thank Irene Lowen and Penny Duffield for their invaluable suggestions.
I am also deeply indebted to Patricia Harrison for her insights into the art and craft of writing.
Table of Contents
Prologue
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Epilogue
Prologue
Tikal, Guatemala – 794 A.D.
Jaguar Fang appraised the first from head to toe, a naked male, about twenty-two years– too old. Closing his mind to the din of the open-air market behind him, he sidestepped to the next prisoner, a girl close to eight, her tattered sarong on the ground by her feet. He paused, silently debating whether it would have an effect on one so young. Shaking his head he moved on.
The third captive was a female of thirteen or so and of noble birth judging by her tattoos and jade facial piercings. Her jade earrings had been removed, and the thumb-sized holes in her earlobes had been threaded with thin pieces fig tree bark, a mark of humiliation. The prisoner brought a smile to his lips, a girl on the cusp of womanhood – she would do very nicely. He pulled her out of the line and pushed her into the arms of the squad leader, Smoke Serpent.
"Please lord," begged the young girl, "my vestments."
"Be quick about it," he barked.
She scrambled to retrieve her jade shoulder mantle and a colorful, but soiled blouse and skirt before Smoke Serpent passed her on to one of his men.
Jaguar Fang gazed down the line of captives. His task was to select a half dozen males and females to entertain the king and his nobles tonight. Most of the prisoners in front of him were destined to become slaves, but a significant number would be sacrificed to appease the gods. "You did well, commander."
"Thank you, lord," replied the squad leader. "The brigade attacked the village before first light and caught most sleeping. Our squad was given the honor of marching the captives back to the city because of the bravery shown by my men."
"How many prisoners?"
"One hundred and eighty-three, lord. It was a rout."
"What of the defenses?"
Smoke Serpent gave a hearty laugh. "The earthen fortifications were easily breached. Those we didn't kill or capture, fled into the swamps."
The squad leader wore a brown breechclout, a wooden breastplate, and leather shoulder armor. His leather helmet had a monkey skull fastened to the crown. Around his neck hung the lower jaw of a jaguar, attached to his shoulder armor in such a manner that the ornament acted as a chin protector.
A sudden surge in the noise of the crowd drew Jaguar Fang's attention to the market stalls in the Great Plaza of Tikal. The squabble was quickly snuffed out by the authorities and he continued down the column of misery, choosing five more females about the same age as the first, and six males, a year or two older.
Smoke Serpent and a soldier led tonight's performers off to the baths while the rest of the squad split the captives into two groups, one destined for the slave market and the other for the temple.
Jaguar Fang watched the three columns of captives separate and become enveloped by the marketplace crowd; prisoners pleading to remain with their loved ones were ignored or beaten. If tonight was a success, the king would surely heap many honors upon him. His stature in the court would rise immeasurably.
"Jaguar Fang," cried out a voice. "Jaguar Fang, I have finished your goblet."
"Eighteen Rabbit," he replied, waiting for the pudgy scribe to catch up. "Just in time. I have a use for it tonight."
As medicine man to the king, Jaguar Fang was the blender and boiler of roots and bark, herbs and animal organs. He held a special status in Tikal and wore his badge of office with great pride - a tall headdress of woven grass topped with the feathers of the Quetzal and Macaw.
Eighteen Rabbit held up a mug. The foundation color of the ceramic cylinder was a brilliant white, while around the lip and base of the vessel were a series of hieroglyphs painted in vivid reds and yellows. In the center of the nine-inch tall cup, men had been drawn with little bubbles rising from their mouths. Contained in the last and the largest of the bubbles were more hieroglyphs.
The shaman closely inspected the artwork and inscriptions on the pottery, silently nodding as the scribe slowly rotated the mug in a complete circle. "The formula painted on the vessel has been transcribed precisely as I instructed?"
"Exactly, lord," said the scribe, bobbing his head.
"Very good, Eighteen Rabbit. You are a true artist," said the healer, taking the mug from the man.
The scribe bowed his head. "It is an honor to have your trust and praise, lord."
Jaguar Fang smiled approvingly at the vessel in his hand. "Thank you again, but I must rush. There is much to do before tonight."
He turned and began to walk through the crowded market toward the king's residence in the Central Acropolis. Striding across the Great Plaza, he gazed up at the Temple of the Great Jaguar, a stepped pyramid constructed according to an honored and ancient tradition. Befitting a symbolic mountain, it seemed at times that the summit of the temple, like others in the city, was lost in the clouds. The temple was rendered smooth with mortar and painted a rusty brown.
At the side of the pyramid, those prisoners marked for sacrifice were already snaking their way up the wooden ramp of switchback scaffolding that rose to the temple's terrace. The captives had been anointed with a blue dye, the color of sacrifice. He prayed the offerings would be ample enough to bring much needed rain. Private ceremonies would be held on the altar within the temple during the morning.
Later in the afternoon, after the marketplace stalls had disappeared, public sacrifices would be offered to the gods on the altar that stood at the edge of the terrace. Once the bloodletting began, the steps of the temple would run red with the blood of the remaining captives. The sacrificial ritual would be witnessed by a chanting crowd of 19,000, a mere fraction of the city's population.
Jaguar Fang was jostled by a soldier moving among the hordes of citizens that swarmed through the market. They shoved their way from booth to booth, haggling over local produce and trade goods imported from city-states throughout the Mayan world. It had been many months since he had had contact with commoners or had witnessed this marketplace jousting, and he thanked the gods he was a member of the royal court. Looking back at the trooper who had bumped into him, he noticed for the first time there were a goodly number of leather-helmeted soldiers circulating through the mob, far more
than he remembered on previous excursions into this throng of unwashed humanity. As he pushed his way through the crowd, hurrying to flee to the palace, he saw the looks of envy, sensed the eyes of many boring into his back like resentful daggers and felt the first twinge of fear.
That night in one of the interior patios of the palace called The Courtyard of Captives, dozens of blazing torches reflecting off the white stucco walls forced Jaguar Fang to avert his eyes when he entered the courtyard. He held the ceramic mug at chest height with a solemnity that told all the goblet contained a sacrament. Smoke Serpent followed him, leading the chain of twelve naked prisoners lashed together at the neck with a thick leather thong.
The courtyard, deep within the palace, was a large square used for the king's and the court's private pleasures. A covered recess ran around the quad, the overhang supported by carved stone columns. Alternating panels in the bay had murals depicting events in the king's reign, painted with a palette of dazzling colors. In the center of the northern wall, the king and queen sat on their thrones, facing a large, eight-foot high cage made of wooden poles. The other members of the court were scattered in a semi-circle around the cage, lolling on wooden loungers covered with animal skins. Behind the nobles, torch bearers stood at attention. Servants wove among the reclining aristocrats, offering them food and drink.
The medicine man approached the king, and facing the monarch bowed deeply. "If it pleases you, King Dark Sun, Divine Lord of Tikal, your servant, Jaguar Fang, eagerly awaits your pleasure."
Sitting on a raised throne, the king inclined his head. His headdress, the most lavish in the court, was a magnificent mass of jade beads amid peacock, quetzal, and macaw feathers, a three-foot halo of color. The vast number of overlapping scars on his face and body was a graphic testament to the many years of constant city-state warfare.
Jaguar Fang nodded and the captives were led forward. Their bodies had been scrubbed clean of the grime from the forced march and then rubbed down with oil so they glistened like prize show animals. The women's long hair had been washed, braided, and fashioned into splendid natural headdresses that symbolized mountains, caves or volcanoes.
Smoke Serpent opened the cage door while Jaguar Fang took up his post opposite the entrance. The first captive was halted at the cage's doorway. The leather restraint around her neck was cut away.
The healer held out the vessel to the young girl. "Drink," he commanded.
The terrified prisoner grasped the ceramic mug and took a sip.
"More," ordered the medicine man.
The girl gulped two mouthfuls and returned the vessel to its owner. She bowed to the king and then to his shaman. Ducking into the cage, the captive scurried to the far end and knelt, facing the king. The procedure was repeated with the other eleven prisoners until all were within the confines of the cage. The squad leader closed the cage door. Jaguar Fang backed into the shadows and waited. This would be his shining moment.
1:
Tikal National Park, Present Day – Sunday
Dr. Jeffery Jeffers staggered up the last step to the terrace of the pyramid, turned and cast a harried glance at his pursuers. He had to keep going, but didn't think he could squeeze another step out of his leaden legs. Placing a hand on the convex stone altar at the edge of the terrace, he bent over and sucked air into his starved lungs, ignoring the cigarettes that tumbled out of his shirt pocket. Still using the altar for support, he straightened, swept his silver mane out of his eyes, and gazed down at the six on his tail.
Leading the pack up the ancient stairs was Liz Dennison. Two dozen steps behind her, a lieutenant and three privates from the Guatemalan Army struggled to maintain Liz's pace. And trailing the soldiers was a baby-faced young man. He'd just started the climb up the temple stairway and looked like he was already surrendering to the jungle's heat and humidity.
Panting, Liz paused on a step and looked up at him, her safari jacket drenched with sweat. "Dr. Jeffers … JJ, there's no escaping."
Keep her talking, he thought. Every minute he distracted her added another sixty seconds to his recovery. "That's not my intention. I have to take care of some unfinished business."
"Don't do it. Ken Byers will make you rich."
"That isn't what you've been saying for the last three days, Liz."
"Ken Byers talked to a number of your colleagues at the University of Washington in Seattle."
"And the consensus?"
"As an archeologist, brilliant, but not too astute when it comes to political jockeying for research money."
JJ remained silent and continued to guzzle air.
"With Ken Byers, your funding headaches for projects like this one will vanish. No more groveling before grant committees."
He shook his head. "The price I'd have to pay is too high."
JJ sensed the Guatemalan goons were close to crumbling. They stumbled up the steep staircase, climbing with their hands and feet as if they were on a ladder. He knew he'd bought even more time to recuperate when Liz looked over her shoulder at the youngster slumped on a step, his head between his knees.
"Move it," she rasped as she whipped around. "It's not nap time."
He watched the chubby boy look up toward the terrace, uncertain if the expression on his face was one of scorn or desperation. Liz had her back to him and didn't say a word. But there must have been some sort of communication between them, because the young man struggled to his feet and started to plod up the steps. Liz wheeled and continued her ascent.
"Hasta luego," JJ said and drew a last deep breath then spun and sprinted toward the entrance of a squat building in the center of the terrace. He paused and looked back to see Liz scrambling onto the terrace. Time to go, he thought and ducked through a low opening into the temple.
The interior was a dank and claustrophobic square. Centered in each of the other three walls was a small opening identical to the doorway he had slipped through. And in the middle of the room stood another convex stone altar with hieroglyphic carvings. Along the far wall, a rough wooden door resting on two sawhorses served as his desk and was stacked with research and notes.
JJ dashed across the uneven limestone floor toward the table. He stumbled. His thigh slammed into the corner of the altar. He spun like a top and crashed to the floor in a cloud of dust. An anguished groan escaped his lips as he lurched to his feet and limped to the research table. Groping beneath the workbench, he latched onto the handle of a five-gallon, plastic jug. He heaved the container onto the desktop and frantically unscrewed the cap.
"Don't," Liz yelled, bursting into the chamber.
JJ heard her feet pounding across the chamber as he gripped the narrow sides of the jug and started to upend it. Liz grabbed the handle of the container with one hand and the bottom with the other. As they grappled for control of the jug, gasoline sloshed over the brim dousing JJ's right hand and the crude desk.
He believed they were evenly matched for the moment. He had the muscle but not the endurance. She'd told him she was thirty-six, and the chase up the temple steps attested to her fitness. Unless he changed tactics, Liz's youth would eventually win out.
JJ shuffled toward the center of the room. Using the plastic jug as a rudder, he maneuvered her, so her back was to the table.
Initially, he had thought of her as an overly eager tourist. The attention she'd lavished on him stroked his graying libido. Foolish old man. Fawning over the sizzling vamp like a tongue-tied schoolboy. He ignored the truth until it finally slapped him in the face. Women didn't traipse around Guatemala on their own!
Obviously, his answers to her constant barrage of questions hadn't been satisfactory. She must have ordered in her squad of soldiers during the night, shortly after his armed bodyguards faded into the jungle. It was only then that Liz had revealed she was an ex-FBI agent in charge of security for Byers Pharmaceuticals, and the true purpose of her visit.
"I give up," he said and let go of the jug.
He watched Liz fall back, crad
ling the container to her chest. Her thighs smacked into the edge of the table. She toppled backwards. Her legs shot out from under her. She flung the jug aside as if it was a poisonous serpent. The container landed on its side. Gasoline poured onto the desk. It drenched his research and flowed toward the prostrate woman.
JJ moved in on Liz pulling a Zippo lighter from the right-hand pocket of his shorts. He flipped open the hinged top. He struck the thumbwheel. The steel wheel sparked the flint. The naphtha-soaked wick blazed.
"You're not going to turn me into a human torch, you ... ," she swore, lashing out with her fists.
JJ brushed her arms to one side, grabbed a fistful of her jacket, and rocked back on his heels. He jerked Liz off the table, tossing her behind him, then released the lighter. The saturated papers on the table erupted in a scorching whoosh. Heat exploded in every direction. JJ began to backpedal. Tentacles of fire licked the chamber ceiling for a split second, then retreated. His silver forelocks and eyebrows blackened for an instant before vanishing. The hand that once held the Zippo burst into flames. He turned toward Liz and extended the fiery ball to her.
He saw her already reacting. She tore off her jacket and wrapped it around his burning hand, smothering the flames. Wisps of smoke trailed up from the jacket.
"Liz, …. I don't know what to … Thank you seems trite," JJ stammered as she unwrapped her jacket and examined his hand.
"You'll live."
"Señorita Dennison, you okay?" the lieutenant asked.
Her men stood at the temple doorway open-mouthed as a black cloud of smoke cloaked the sanctuary. The contents of the table had been reduced to smoldering ash.
"Get him," Liz ordered.
Her four enforcers surrounded JJ, but he was in too much pain to consider escape. His hand hurt and was beginning to blister. The cloying smoke made him gag and caused tears to stream down his cheeks.
