Anchored to the two perpendicular walls like a giant vertical donut is a circular stone ring, its hoop twenty inches in diameter.

‘You’ve duplicated the Mayan Ball Court? Why?’

‘You’ll see.’

‘The Mayan inscription on the embankment—what does it say?’

‘This particular ball court was known to the Maya as “black hole”, indicating it stood at the entrance of the Underworld, or Xibalba. The heroes of the game were said to have descended to Xibalba to conquer death. Look, here come their challengers.’

Mohr points below and to their left.

Entering from the southern end of the arena, their faces cloaked behind Mayan death masks, are a dozen brown-skinned warriors. Too large to be of Mayan descent, the men are as tall and muscular as Ryan Beck. Each carries an object like a baseball bat, the handles shaped like a serpent’s head.

The twelve technicians work furiously at their control stations, each manipulating their designated warrior.

The Mayans line up in formation, shoulder to shoulder beneath the opposite eastern goal.

From the northern end of the field appear two men. In stark contrast to the warriors, these athletes are dressed from head to toe in modern-day Special Ops combat body armor, one in black, the other in white.

‘What are they wearing?’

‘An advanced type of exoskeleton. The outer layer consists of ballistic-resistant ceramics backed by a lightweight carbon nanotube. Fabric’s as strong as steel, as light as cotton. A mini-fuel-cell-powered thermal comfort system, worn at the hip, cools or warms each soldier. Microturbines fueled by liquid hydrogen provide the body armor with ten kilowatts of power. Those teardrop-shaped helmets have integrated communication systems and augmented reality optics with night-vision screens. Strapped to their backs is a thin, pressurized water pack feeding a tube mounted inside each of the soldiers’ helmets.’

‘Sorry I asked.’

Side by side, the two modern-day warriors jog toward the western wall, playing sticks in hand, tinted face shields obscuring their identities.

Two of the brown-skinned warriors step forward, swinging their bats as if warming up for a cricket match.

A bloodcurdling bellow shatters the silence, causing the hairs on the back of Manny’s neck to stand on end.

The two men in body armor step forward, accepting the challenge.

From atop the Temple of the Jaguars appears a Mayan king. His face is concealed behind the mask of a gaping serpent’s head, a trail of green feathers running down his back. In one hand he holds an obsidian knife, in the other—a round object, dripping with blood. The king raises both arms in ceremonial fashion and begins chanting in an ancient tongue.

‘Itz’-am-na, Kit Bol-on Tun, Ah-au Cham-ah-ez …’

‘The king is invoking the gods,’ Mohr whispers.

Manny focuses on the dripping object in the Mayan’s hand, shocked to see it is the severed head of a boy.

‘Game ball,’ Mohr says, his eyes dancing. ‘Are you familiar with the game of tlachtli?’