The Surrender of Tabscoob – Nahuatl VII

 CHAPTER VIII: THE SURRENDER OF TABSCOOB AND THE SIGNING OF THE REQUIREMENT

The day after the battle, the Spaniards began to transform Potonchán into something of their own. The wounded lay in the galleries of the main house, wrapped in cotton bandages that the Maya women, with trembling gestures, had provided them after the surrender. The groans mingled with the murmur of Fray Bartolomé de Olmedo's prayers, who muttered his orations as if they could stop the gangrene in the pike and arrow wounds.

The Spanish fallen were few. On the outskirts, next to the main temple, the corpses of the Maya warriors were piled up. He saw the priests, with their black cloaks and blood-matted hair, gather them at dusk to incinerate them in the forest. The smoke from the pyres rose toward the sky like an unanswered question. The wounded who still breathed had no one to gather them. Many fled into the jungle; others dragged themselves through the streets, and those who remained hid in the corners, watching the conquerors with the fear of those who have nothing left to lose.

Cortés ordered respect for those who offered no resistance, but the order was more theory than practice. Tension made any abrupt gesture capable of triggering a new confrontation. The Spaniards moved in groups, swords drawn, and the Maya stepped aside as they passed.

He walked through the streets of the city, straight and well laid out, until he reached the central plaza. There stood the stepped temple, dedicated to Kukulkán, the Feathered Serpent. It was not as tall as those he had seen during his captivity on the coast, but its limestone walls were decorated with reliefs of intertwined serpents and warriors holding decapitated heads. At the top, two stone altars, stained with sacrificial blood, faced east. Fray Bartolomé de Olmedo saw them as soon as he set foot in the city. His face, furrowed by the wrinkles of sun and penance, hardened. And then he did what the Spaniards always did: erase one god to put another. With the help of two soldiers, he tore the serpent figures from the main altar and placed a large wooden cross that the ship's carpenters had assembled in haste. The cross, rough and unpolished, rose above the temple, and its shadow was cast at dusk over the houses of the Maya.

That morning he climbed the temple, before dawn, and stood looking at the cross. He did not know quite what he felt. He had been among the Maya too long to ignore that that cross seemed to recognize it in the temple's bas-reliefs, in the paintings on the vessels, in the drawings of the codices, like a sign that time had carved into the stone long before the Spaniards arrived. Perhaps it was only his imagination, or perhaps the weariness and years of captivity were playing tricks on him, but he could not get it out of his head. Fray Bartolomé said it was the work of the devil, who had imitated the true cross to deceive the Indians. He was not so sure. But he said nothing.

While the soldiers searched every house and every temple for loot, he watched from the doorway of Tabscoob's residence. Gold and jade accumulated in chests that now filled one of the rooms. The pieces were small—necklaces of beads, circular ear ornaments, plates with faces of gods with stone eyes—but for the soldiers every gram was a promise of wealth. They also found fine cotton cloaks, so soft they seemed made of clouds, and baskets of quetzal and macaw feathers that the soldiers piled up without distinguishing them from chicken feathers. The sailors, more practical, took the clay vessels and gourd containers for the camp. Everything that could serve, be sold, or be traded was requisitioned.

But something troubled him. From the entrance of the city, the wounded Maya who could still move dragged themselves to sit beside their dead, with their legs drawn up against their chests, and they waited. They carried no water, no food, no weapons. They only waited. The guard soldiers murmured that they had seen messengers emerge from the jungle at dusk, and that the wounded, upon hearing them, had raised their heads like those who recognize a signal. He did not know whether to believe it. Each passing hour hurt a little more, not knowing what they were waiting for.

The mystery cleared at dawn, when the sentries gave the alert. The sunlight, golden and warm, filtered through the treetops and bathed the packed-earth streets in a warm glow. From the jungle, a procession approached. At the front, Tabscoob, erect on a litter adorned with feathers, surrounded by caciques in cotton cloaks with red and black borders, and warriors with leather breastplates and cane shields. They carried no raised weapons. They carried offerings: baskets of flowers, clay vessels, folded cloaks, quetzal feathers of a deep green, like that of the jungle after rain.

From the central plaza, he was the first to see them. He watched them approach with the ceremonial slowness of those who know that every gesture will be observed. He recognized at the front Tabscoob, the cacique, who came to prostrate himself before Hernán Cortés in a white cotton cloak, so pure it seemed to shine under the first rays of the sun, and a headdress of quetzal feathers that rose majestically above his head, the long, shiny feathers falling over his back like a cascade of green light. Necklaces of jade and shell covered his chest, and on his arms he wore bracelets of gold and green stones. His face, which in battle had shown fierce determination, now showed a serene dignity, that of the vanquished who accepts his fate without losing pride, and who presents himself before his victors with the greatness of one who offers his treasures not as a plea, but as an act of recognition.

Among the leaders accompanying him, he distinguished one he had seen fighting on the beach during the landing. He remembered him well: then his body bore war paint, red and black stripes that formed spirals and jaguar figures, and his face was crossed by black lines that gave him a fierce, almost supernatural air. He wielded his obsidian macana with a bravery he had not forgotten, as if death itself danced around him. Now, however, his body showed new paintings: red and black stripes that ran along his arms and chest. It was a code of honor that erased defeat by displaying bravery, for the appearance before the new lord.

But he noticed something more. A few steps behind, twenty women walked. They carried no loads. They held their hands crossed over their bellies, fingers interlaced in a gesture of restraint, as if clinging to something invisible. Their gazes, though lowered, moved quickly, registering everything around them with the silent fear of those who know their lives are about to change forever. They wore huipiles embroidered with colored threads that shone under the sun, and in their hair they wore cacaloxóchitl flowers, of an intense white that contrasted with the blackness of their braids. They were young, most of them, with serene but restless faces. He understood that they had not come to offer anything, but to be offered.

He felt a lump in his throat. Then, without quite knowing why, he turned and ran toward Tabscoob's residence, where Cortés had set up his headquarters. The ancient house of the Maya cacique, the largest and best built in the city, had become the Spanish operations center. Its spacious rooms, with lime walls and wooden beam ceilings, now housed the command tables, the chests of loot, and the royal standard that waved from the entrance.

In one of those rooms, the chamber occupied by Cortés had the austere appearance of a headquarters. At one end, the camp bed, still unmade, recalled the precariousness of the journey; opposite it, a silver crucifix presided over the bare wall, the only nod to the faith that sustained him. But the nerve center of the chamber was a wide wooden table, on which rested, unfurled, the map of the coast that Alvarado had given him and a route notebook. There, among drafts and annotations, Cortés recorded each night the events of the day, accumulating a record of each day for the moment when the Crown would demand explanations from him.

He burst in without hardly announcing himself, and the slam of the door opening made the scribe startle his pen. The soldier gasped, his chest still heaving from the run.

"Sir," he said. "They're coming. The Maya. They come with offerings."

Cortés looked up. He was going over the accounts with the scribe, counting the pieces of gold and jade they had found in the city.

"Tabscoob?"

"Yes, sir. He comes with his nobles and wounded warriors. They carry no weapons. And they bring women, sir. Twenty young women." He said it in a tone that he could not entirely hide his discomfort.

Cortés set down the pen on the table, rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, and interlaced his fingers. A slight smile, more of satisfaction than joy, formed on his lips at the mention of the women.

"Twenty women," he repeated, as if savoring the words. "And what else?"

"Gold, sir. Cotton. Cloaks. Feathers. And the women, sir. Those twenty women I tell you about."

"I've already heard about them," said Cortés, and the smile grew a little wider. "But the gold and the cloaks count too."

Cortés stood up, adjusted his sword, and walked to the door.

"Well, let us receive them as they deserve."

---

Cortés went out to meet them in the main plaza, the same packed-earth space where the Maya held their ceremonies. He was accompanied by his captains Alvarado, Ávila, Montejo, Escalante, and Aguilar, who would serve as interpreter. The Spanish soldiers formed a corridor, swords drawn and arquebuses ready, though they were not aimed. It was a show of force, but also a warning.

Tabscoob stopped a few paces from Cortés. The two men looked at each other in silence. The ascending sun tinged the sky with gold and blue, and the shadows shortened on the packed-earth plaza. The breeze carried the smell of smoke and wet vegetation, and from the jungle came the song of birds greeting the new day. It was a moment of tense stillness, as if time itself had stopped to witness that encounter.

The men accompanying Tabscoob, barely half a dozen nobles and wounded warriors, some leaning on canes or on the shoulders of others, knelt and prostrated their faces against the ground, in a sign of absolute submission. But Tabscoob did not kneel. He remained standing, his back straight and his gaze fixed on Cortés's. The others waited in silence, heads bowed without quite touching the ground with their foreheads.

The twenty women, however, remained a few steps back, hands crossed over their bellies and fingers interlaced. They had set down the baskets with the offerings on the ground, and now they waited, motionless, without raising their gaze. Aguilar watched them out of the corner of his eye. One of them, the youngest, wore a huipil different from the others, embroidered with red threads that formed serpent figures. He did not know why, but that woman caught his attention.

Behind Cortés, Alvarado shifted restlessly. His fingers drummed on the hilt of his sword, and his eyes scanned the Maya procession with distrust. He leaned toward Cortés and murmured, barely loud enough for the captain to hear:

"Sir, I don't trust them. They could be pretending. In Champotón, the Indians also came with offerings, and then they forced us to weigh anchor."

Cortés did not turn his head. His gaze remained fixed on Tabscoob.

"Shut up, Pedro," he replied in a low voice, barely moving his lips.

Alvarado fell silent, but his hand did not leave his sword.

Tabscoob spoke first, in Maya. His voice was deep, serene, though fatigue was noticeable in his words.

"I have come to prostrate myself before you and acknowledge my defeat."

Aguilar translated:

"Sir, he says he has come to surrender."

Cortés showed no emotion. Tabscoob continued, pausing after each phrase for Aguilar to translate his words before proceeding.

"I have seen my warriors fall. I have seen my sons die. I have seen my women flee. I cannot keep fighting. I have no strength. I have no men. I acknowledge that you are the lord of this land now."

Aguilar translated:

"He says he has seen his warriors fall, sir. That he has seen his sons die and his women flee. He says he cannot keep fighting, that he has no strength and no men. And that he acknowledges that you are the lord of this land."

Tabscoob paused. His eyes traveled across the plaza, the buildings that had been his home, the temple where he had officiated ceremonies. Then he spoke again.

"I have brought offerings. Gold, quetzal feathers, precious stones. It is all we can offer."

Aguilar translated:

"He says he has brought offerings, sir. Gold, quetzal feathers, precious stones. That it is all they can offer."

The Spanish soldiers opened the baskets and revealed their contents: small gold figures, some in the shape of men, others of jaguars and serpents, necklaces of jade beads, headdresses of quetzal feathers of such an intense green that they seemed to glow with their own light. Alongside the gold pieces, there were jade stones of various sizes, some the size of a fist, which the Maya valued more than gold itself.

Cortés examined the offerings without touching them. His eyes stopped on one piece in particular: a gold disk the size of a hand, decorated with the figure of a man emerging from the mouth of a serpent. It was a work of such delicacy and precision that it surprised even the most veteran soldiers.

"I accept your offerings," Cortés said finally. "But before we can speak of peace, there is a matter of the Crown of Spain to resolve."

He gestured to the scribe, who stepped forward with a parchment in his hands. It was the same requirement that Cortés had had read on the boat, before the attempt to go up the river. The same document the Maya had rejected with mockery. Now, the scribe held it again.

"This document," Cortés explained, with Aguilar translating, "establishes that you and your people recognize the authority of His Majesty King Charles of Spain. And that you accept the Christian faith and the protection of the Crown. It is the same one we read to you before the battle. The one you rejected."

Tabscoob looked at the parchment without understanding its content. But he understood what it meant: submission, the recognition of an authority that was not his own. He remembered that day on the river, when the white men had read a document no one understood, and the warriors had laughed. Now, laughter had turned to silence, and silence to defeat.

"If you sign," Cortés continued, "the war will end. You will be a vassal of the King of Spain, but you will retain your title and your lands. You will be governor of your people under the authority of the Crown. And there will be no more deaths."

Tabscoob kept his gaze fixed on the parchment for a long moment. The seconds stretched. Aguilar watched in silence, his heart tight. He knew Tabscoob could not read the words, but he understood the gesture.

Finally, the Maya cacique nodded. The weight of defeat was reflected in his shoulders, which slumped slightly.

The scribe offered him a goose quill and an inkwell. Tabscoob took the quill with a steady hand, though trembling. For an instant, the quill hesitated over the parchment, and Aguilar saw the cacique close his eyes. Then, opening them, he traced a careful sign on the parchment: a circle with a dot in the center, accompanied by a wavy line. It was the glyph of his name.

Then the nobles accompanying him, two of them, the only ones still wearing decorated cotton cloaks, did the same, tracing their own glyphs beneath their cacique's signature. They were signs that for them meant lineage, power, and commitment.

The scribe picked up the parchment and inspected it.

"It is signed, sir," he said to Cortés.

Cortés took the document and read it. Then he smiled, satisfied. He raised the parchment for all to see.

"With this signature," he said, in a clear and authoritative voice, "you and yours become subjects of His Majesty King Charles, and I, in his name, take you under his protection. From today, Potonchán is land of the Crown, and your people must obey the king, pay the tributes that are assigned to you, and receive the word of God."

And after his words were translated, Cortés extended his hand toward Tabscoob. The Maya cacique hesitated for an instant, then took the Spaniard's hand. It was a strange gesture for both: the firm handshake of a conqueror and the hand of a vanquished man. The two men looked into each other's eyes. In Tabscoob's gaze there was no hatred, but a deep sadness. In Cortés's, satisfaction, but also a spark of something that might have been respect.

"Let provisions be prepared for these men," Cortés ordered his captains. "And let the wounded receive attention. They are now vassals of the King of Spain."

The soldiers moved to carry out the order. The wounded Maya were led to the outskirts of the plaza, where they received bandages and ointments. Tabscoob and his followers withdrew slowly, without looking back. The ceremony was over.

---

As soon as Tabscoob and his retinue disappeared, Cortés turned to Aguilar.

"Father," said Cortés, his voice firm, "the women. The twenty women they gave us. Tabscoob has left with his people. Take care of them: give them water and food, and then separate them and distribute them among the captains and the troops."

At that moment, Fray Bartolomé de Olmedo, who had remained silent throughout the ceremony, stepped forward. The friar's face was furrowed by the wrinkles of sun and penance, and his eyes, of a pale blue, shone with the intensity of one who has spent too many nights awake praying. His Franciscan habit, threadbare and patched, contrasted with the chainmail and swords of the soldiers surrounding him. He crossed himself slowly, with a trembling hand, before speaking.

"Sir Cortés," said the friar, "before distributing these women, should we not baptize them first? They have lived in idolatry. If we hand them over like this, without the grace of baptism, their souls could be lost forever."

Cortés looked at him with contained exasperation.

"Fray Bartolomé, we will have time to baptize them later. What matters now is the morale of the troops. The men have bled, they have seen their comrades die. They need something to remind them why they are here."

The friar insisted, his voice firmer though his fingers still tangled in the cord of his habit.

"But the salvation of these souls cannot wait, sir. The devil has woven his nets in these lands for centuries. Every lost soul is a victory for him."

Cortés sighed and brought his hand to his face, rubbing his forehead as if to erase fatigue. When he spoke, his voice had a sharp edge.

"Fray Bartolomé, I tell you with all the respect your office deserves: they are part of the tribute. They will be distributed among my captains and the troops. They will know what to do with them. And if they need to be baptized, they will do so when they see fit."

The friar opened his mouth to reply, but Cortés raised a hand, cutting off any attempt at argument. His eyes fell on Aguilar, who was still standing by the entrance, watching the scene.

"Aguilar," said Cortés, gesturing toward him, "you understand the language of these Indians. You will take charge of the women. Give them water and food, and then separate them. The youngest for the captains. The rest for the troops. And let Melchor help you. He understands the language of Cuba and something of that of these Indians."

Aguilar felt a knot in his stomach. Fray Bartolomé's gaze fixed on him, laden with silent reproach. The friar said nothing more, but his lips moved in a prayer only he could hear. Then he withdrew a few steps, with hands clasped, as if praying for those women who had just been delivered to the soldiers' lust.

"Take Melchor," Cortés added. "He will help you. You understand his language. He understands the language of Cuba. Together, you will separate them."

Melchor was an Indian from Cuba whom the Spaniards had brought as an interpreter. He spoke Maya with difficulty—the Chontal Maya of Potonchán—but understood enough to help. Aguilar looked for him and together they went to where the women waited.

As they walked away, Aguilar heard behind him the soft voice of Fray Bartolomé de Olmedo, muttering a prayer in Latin. The words were lost in the wind, but the tone was that of one imploring for souls not yet saved.

The twenty women were still sitting on the ground, in the same corner of the plaza, under the shade of the ceiba tree. Barely an hour had passed since Tabscoob had left. They had not eaten. They had not drunk. They had not wept.

Aguilar stopped in front of them. He looked at them one by one. They were young, most of them. Some barely girls, fifteen or sixteen years old. They wore white cotton huipiles, embroidered with red and blue flowers. Some wore necklaces of shells and jade beads. Their eyes were dry. Their faces were empty.

Aguilar knew they would not cry. The Maya did not cry in front of enemies.

"Melchor," he said in a low voice, "we are going to separate them. The youngest for the captains. The rest for the troops."

Melchor nodded. Together, they walked among the women. Aguilar spoke in Maya, in the language of the Chontal he had learned during his captivity. He asked their names, their ages, where they came from. Some answered in barely audible voices. Others remained silent. Melchor pointed and nodded. They separated the women into two groups: those of more noble appearance, the youngest, for the captains; the rest, for the soldiers.

"That one," said Melchor, pointing to a young woman with dark hair and fine features, "that one is the most beautiful. Captain Alvarado..."

"We set her aside for the captains," said Aguilar. "But not for Alvarado. For Cortés."

Melchor looked at him in surprise.

"Cortés?"

"Yes. He will accept her."

Aguilar turned to continue the distribution, but one of the women, the youngest, grabbed his arm. She spoke in a low voice, in a language Aguilar did not recognize. It was not Chontal Maya. It was something else.

"Melchor," said Aguilar, "do you understand this?"

Melchor listened. His face changed.

"It's not Maya," he said. "It's Nahuatl. The language of the empire. Of the highlands."

Aguilar felt a chill.

"Nahuatl? Are you sure?"

"Yes, father. I have heard merchants. It is the language of the great lord."

Aguilar turned to the woman. He looked into her eyes. She did not look away.

"Ask her what her name is," he said.

Melchor spoke with her. The woman answered in her language, with a firm voice. Then Melchor translated:

"She says her name is Malintzin. But that her name doesn't matter. She says that if the white men want to reach the empire, they will need someone who speaks like her."

Aguilar fell silent. The young woman did not let go of his arm. Her eyes did not look at the ground. She looked at him.

"Where does she come from?" asked Aguilar.

Melchor spoke with her again. The woman pointed east, toward the mountains, and said something more. Melchor translated:

"She says she comes from far away. From the interior. From where the great lord lives. The one they call Moctezuma."

Aguilar felt the ground move beneath his feet.

"Moctezuma?"

"Yes, father. She says she was taken by merchants. That they sold her to the Maya. But that she speaks the sacred language. That of the priests."

Aguilar looked at her for a long moment. Then he made a decision.

"Come with me," he said in Maya.

The young woman followed him. Aguilar led her back to Cortés's tent. When he entered, the captain looked up.

"Sir," said Aguilar, his voice barely a whisper, "this woman speaks the language of the empire. That of Moctezuma. Her name is Malintzin."

Cortés stood up with a start. His face, which moments before had shown weariness, transformed into an expression of alertness and greed.

"Are you sure?"

"Melchor has confirmed it. She says she comes from the highlands. That she was sold to the Maya."

Cortés approached the young woman. He examined her from head to toe. She did not lower her gaze.

"Bring her to me," he said. "And let no one touch her. She is more valuable than gold."

Aguilar felt a knot in his stomach. He knew what was coming.

"Sir," he said, "and the other women?"

Cortés looked at him with impatience.

"The others are for the troops. Distribute them among the captains and soldiers. They are part of the booty."

Aguilar wanted to say something. That they were not booty. That they were people. But the words did not come out. He saw the soldiers descend upon the women, heard their laughter, and stepped aside.

Malintzin, meanwhile, walked behind Cortés toward the tent. Before entering, the captain turned to Aguilar:

"Father, tonight I will spend with her. But not for what you think. To talk. To learn. So that she teaches me her language. Understood?"

"Understood, sir."

Cortés entered. The door closed behind him.

Aguilar stood outside, listening to the murmur of the tent, the voices of the soldiers, the moans of the women. He did not know if what he felt was shame, guilt, or fear. Perhaps all three.

Behind him, Fray Bartolomé de Olmedo remained standing by the temple, contemplating the scene with narrowed eyes. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the plaza, and the wind swayed his threadbare habit as if wanting to tear it from his shoulders. His lips moved in silence, tracing a prayer only the wind could hear. In his hand, a worn wooden rosary turned between his fingers, bead by bead, as if each Hail Mary could wash away the guilt already beginning to accumulate on that newly conquered land. But his eyes, fixed on Cortés's tent, expressed not pity. They expressed a cold certainty, that of one who knows the Evil One hides in every corner of those lands, and that the only way to defeat him is with fire and sword, with the cross held high and the word of God on his lips, even if the souls that are saved must pay the price of their salvation with their flesh.