CHAPTER IV: CORTÉS'S DECISION
For two days they sailed hugging the coast, so close that the stench of rotting mangroves mixed with the salt spray. The turquoise waters lapped at beaches of white sand; beneath their gleam, the edges of coral waited for the hull of the first distracted ship. Antón de Alaminos, his gaze fixed on the lead sounding line hanging wet over the gunwale, never ceased murmuring warnings: "Shallows, more shallows... reef to port..." He carried in his eyes the memory of his first voyage, when the ship he was traveling on tore its bottom against a reef and black water gushed in, sinking the vessel in a few moments.
It was on the third day, when the coastline flattened against the horizon into a brown and fetid smear, that Pedro de Alvarado, his face still bruised purple from a fever contracted in Cozumel, sought out Cortés. In his right hand, he clutched a poorly drawn map on raw deerskin; the parchment still held the smell of tallow and blood, which he had bought from a Maya fisherman in exchange for three glass beads. His fingers, stained with ink and sweat, pointed to an indentation on the coast.
—Captain —said Alvarado, his voice hoarser than usual—. Further ahead lies the Bay of the Bad Fight. There, at the Champotón River, the disaster happened. Córdoba and his men, skirting the peninsula, reached that mouth looking for water. The Indians, from the shore, signaled them to leave, but they disembarked anyway; then the Mayas came out by the hundreds. That day, more than twenty men died on the beach, and Córdoba was mortally wounded, even before he could form the men on the shore. Those who survived, wounded and battered, managed to re-embark, but he died a few days later from his wounds. The same fate befell my cousin Grijalva's expedition; we thought that, with more caution and knowing the danger, that time would be different, but upon disembarking on the beach, the Indians came out against us again by the hundreds, and the disaster repeated: we lost seven men and my cousin Grijalva had two ribs broken before we could weigh anchor. Now the winds are in our favor. It will be better to pass by without anchoring there; we have already seen enough of that coast to know it brings nothing but bad fights. In two days we can be at Potonchán.
Cortés did not answer immediately. He knew the story. He had heard it dozens of times in the taverns of Havana, while the survivors of that expedition repeated the details in broken voices: Córdoba's men, lying on the shore of Champotón, some with their bellies opened, others with arrows still stuck in their throats, swollen by the sun. And he also knew that Córdoba himself had managed to reach Havana, but that the wounds received on that beach consumed him slowly until, ten days after his return, he gave up his soul far from his mother and his homeland, his face so destroyed that his own men could barely recognize him before burying him.
—The Mayas of Champotón —continued Alvarado, lowering his voice so that only the captain could hear— have already tasted our steel. They already know that the arquebuses make noise and smoke, but that they take time to reload. If we disembark there, we will lose half the troop before noon. And if Velázquez —he chewed the name— has already set sail from Cuba with orders to hang us for disobedience, we cannot arrive limping to the battle that awaits us.
The wind picked up. Cortés felt the spray freeze his eyelashes. He turned east, where the sky began to darken with storm clouds, and then west, where Alvarado's map marked a land of which they only knew rumors. Alvarado, seeing that Cortés did not respond, stepped forward and placed both hands on the gunwale.
—Captain, I was already here. With Grijalva, barely a year ago —his voice hardened, as if the memory scraped his throat—. Further southeast there is a wide river, of fresh water, which the Indians call Tabasco. The Chontal who live on its banks are not like those of Champotón. They negotiated with us as if we were merchants. They offered us cotton blankets, macaw feathers, and baskets of cacao. He paused and lowered his tone. And besides, one of their chiefs told us of a great empire to the west. An empire of white cities and gold. He said they were called Mexica. That is what Grijalva asked me to tell you if we ever met.
Cortés narrowed his eyes. He did not look at Alvarado, but at the point on the horizon he had pointed to.
—And did you believe them?
Alvarado shrugged.
—I believed them enough that even today, a year later, I still dream of those cities. He turned and faced Cortés. What we found in Potonchán was not a fishing village. It was a port. They traded with people from the interior. There were roads, messengers, tributes. That is not improvised by a people who only know how to wage war. That is the route we should take.
Cortés fell silent. The wind moved his dark hair while his fingers tapped the edge of the gunwale, but he was no longer meditating: he was listening. Alvarado had seen that river with his own eyes. He had breathed the air of Potonchán. He had spoken with its people. Cortés had no maps, no reports, no spies. He only had that blond, feverish man who looked at him with the certainty of one who had already been there.
—Then —he said at last, fixing his eyes on Alvarado's—, if you have seen that river and have negotiated with those Indians, tell me: can we disembark there without them cutting our throats at dawn?
Alvarado smiled for the first time all day. It was a dry smile, with teeth clenched.
—We can disembark. But if you want them to receive us with blankets and not arrows, you will have to let me speak first. They remember me. And they remember that we did not rob them.
Cortés nodded slowly. Then, with a sharp gesture, he called Alaminos.
—Turn the prow southeast. Leave Champotón to starboard. I do not intend to leave my men's bones on the same beach where Córdoba's rotted in the sun. We will take the fight to more fertile ground, where the Mayas have not yet seen the smoke of our arquebuses.
The fleet turned slowly. The helmsmen pulled on the braces, and the eleven ships heeled at the same time, like a flock of birds changing course before the storm. But from the land, the movement did not go unnoticed. The Maya lookouts stationed in the thicket had seen the sails since early morning. On top of a hill covered in ceiba trees, a group of warriors with dark skin tattooed with red lines watched how those eleven ships, with their dark hulls and masts tall as deadwood trees, moved against the wind with a slowness that did not seem natural. The fishermen paddling near the shore had fled, abandoning their nets. The warriors watched how those floating houses glided parallel to the coast. They had seen that fleet before, a year ago. And this time, like the last, the ships turned and sailed away without attempting to land. The chief of the lookouts contemplated the village that stretched at the foot of the hill. There, on the beach, they were ready. The warriors had sharpened their flint spears and obsidian axes; the children and women had been sent inland. The sails shrank until they were white dots on the horizon. Then, nothing. The sea was empty again. The warriors put away their spears. The elders extinguished the torches they had prepared for self-immolation. And on the shore, where the tide licked the sand, a boy picked up a half-buried ring left over from the massacre of the bearded ones. He clutched it in his fist and kept it, not knowing that that object was worth more than all the fish his father would catch in a year.
But the Spaniards were not leaving. They were only looking for another entrance. At dawn the next day, the ships anchored off the mouth of the Grijalva River. Cortés had observed the tides for two days and knew that high tide would push in from the sea, bending the current that three years earlier had spit Grijalva out. It was not a burst of courage, but a cold calculation. The boats were lowered into the water. The soldiers, armed to the teeth, took their positions. The rowers sank their oars into the murky water. This time, the current yielded. They rowed up the river with determination, overcoming the force that had previously humiliated the Spaniards.
The landscape opened on both sides: a green and liquid plain, crisscrossed by channels that disappeared among islets of vegetation so dense they seemed to float. To the right, the Grijalva bled into smaller branches; to the left, beyond the mist, another river, wider, could be glimpsed, coming to merge with that labyrinth of water and mud. The Mayas, Cortés thought, must know each of those paths like the palm of their hand, and he was entering their territory without knowing even the first one. Suddenly, the river opened up. They reached a wider area, where the current slowed. And there, on the bank, they saw them. Hundreds of Maya warriors were lined up on the shore. They wore headdresses of red and green feathers, wooden shields adorned with jaguar skins, long spears with obsidian tips. Their skin was painted red and black. They beat their shields with their hands, a rhythm that sounded like rain on a palm roof. Their shouts echoed over the water. Among them, Aguilar distinguished some figures of shorter stature, but equally fierce. They were women. They had bare chests, painted with red and black stripes, and their hair was gathered in tight braids. They wielded short spears and slings, and their faces showed the same determination as the men's.
But it was not only the warriors on the shore that worried Cortés. From the side channels, among the mangroves, canoes began to appear. First one, then another, then dozens, then hundreds. They were carved wooden vessels, some so large they could carry twenty or thirty men. The rowers moved the oars with precision, and the warriors standing on the prows raised spears and bows. The canoes deployed on the river, forming a barrier that blocked the passage inland. They did not attack. They only placed themselves in front of the Spanish boats, blocking their advance. The Maya warriors beat their shields and let out warning shouts.
Cortés ordered a halt. The boats stopped, rocking gently in the current. Cortés's boat advanced a few fathoms. He stood up. He wore his shining armor and the helmet with white feathers. He held a sword in one hand and a crucifix in the other.
—Aguilar —he said—. Translate for me.
Aguilar nodded. He stepped forward in the boat, raised his voice, and spoke in Maya:
—Men of this land! Our captain comes in peace! He only wishes to speak with your chief! We have not come to harm you!
The Mayas did not respond. They only beat their shields. The rhythm grew faster. Louder. The sound filled the river like a continuous thunder. The women also beat their shields, and their voices joined the war cry, shrill and piercing. Alvarado, in the boat alongside, watched the shore carefully. He recognized Tabscoob at the head of his warriors. The chief of the Chontal Maya was in the center of the formation, with his quetzal feather headdress and his jade collar. His face, painted red, showed no emotion. He only observed.
—Sir —said Alvarado to Cortés—. That is Tabscoob. I met him last year. He let us take water and leave, but he made us swear we would not return.
—Well, we have returned —said Cortés with a cold smile—. And we have not come to ask for water.
Aguilar spoke again in Maya:
—Our captain asks you to let him disembark! He wants to offer you gifts! He wants to speak of peace!
Tabscoob stepped forward. His warriors fell silent. The chief raised his spear and pointed at the Spaniards. He spoke in Maya, with a deep and firm voice:
—Last year other white men came. We let them take water and food, and they swore they would not return. We trusted their oath and let them go. But now you have returned. And you do not stay at the mouth nor ask for provisions. You row up the river, you advance inland. You do not come in peace. You come to stay, and to take our land. We will not let you pass!
Aguilar translated. Cortés listened in silence.
—Tell him —he replied— that this land and everything in it is, by the grace of God, of His Majesty the King of Spain. That if they let us disembark in peace, we will harm no one.
Aguilar translated. The Mayas laughed. A shout of mockery rose from the shore. Then they began to shake their spears and beat their shields with their hands. The noise was deafening. Tabscoob spoke again:
—We will not let you disembark! This is our land! Leave now or you will die!
—Sir —said Aguilar—, they are not going to negotiate.
—No —replied Cortés, through clenched teeth—. I see that.
He observed the canoes blocking the way. There were hundreds. Behind them, on the shore, the warriors moved, ready to attack. There was no way through. The Mayas were not going to allow them to reach their city. Then, Cortés made a decision. He turned to the notary traveling in the boat with him. He was a thin man, with an inkwell and quill in his hand, writing in a large leather book.
—Notary —said Cortés—. Perform the Requerimiento.
The notary stood up. He unfolded a parchment and began to read aloud. It was the Requerimiento that the Crown required before any combat: a formal declaration that the Spaniards came to bring the Christian faith and the authority of the king, and that if the natives refused to accept it, the war would be just. The notary read in Spanish. His words echoed over the water, but the Mayas did not understand a single word. They only saw the parchment, saw the quill, saw the inkwell. And they laughed again.
A Maya warrior in the front row, a man of about forty with scars on his chest, stepped forward and pointed to the river that disappeared inland. He spoke in Maya, addressing Tabscoob, but loud enough for Aguilar to hear:
—Chief, those men do not stop. If they keep rowing upstream, in a few hours they will reach Potonchán. We cannot allow them to reach our city. We must stop them here, in the water, before they set foot on dry land.
Tabscoob nodded without taking his eyes off the Spaniards.
—Sign! —shouted the notary, waving the parchment—. Accept the authority of His Majesty!
The Mayas did not respond. They only beat their shields. The rhythm grew faster. Louder. The sound filled the river like a continuous thunder. The women also beat their shields, and their voices joined the cry, shrill and fierce. Cortés observed the scene. He saw the canoes, the warriors, the women with their spears. He saw the determination on their faces. He saw how the notary waved the parchment in vain.
—You heard them —he said to the notary, in a cold voice—. They have rejected the Requerimiento. The war is just.
Then, in a low voice, almost to himself: —But not here. Not in the water. And raising his voice: —Turn back! We return to the ships!
The splashing of the oars sinking into the murky water and the creaking of wood against the current accompanied the maneuver. The boats turned slowly, protecting one another, and began to retreat downstream. The Mayas did not pursue them; they stayed in their positions, watching, beating their shields and shouting cries of triumph, whose echo bounced off the thick jungle.
Back on the ships, Cortés summoned his captains to the captain's cabin. The cramped space, lit by an oil lamp that danced with the rocking, smelled of dry gunpowder, sweaty leather, and melted wax. They were all there: Pedro de Alvarado, with his reddish beard and furrowed brow; his brother Jorge, more silent, against the wall; Alonso de Ávila, the treasurer; old Juan de Escalante; and Francisco de Montejo, who kept looking at the map, tracing invisible routes on it with his fingertip. On the table, Cortés placed the parchment of the Requerimiento.
—They have rejected the Requerimiento —he said—. The war is just.
—But we cannot get through —said Montejo—. The canoes block the river. If we force our way forward, they will massacre us in the water.
—I know —replied Cortés—. That is why we are not going to row up the river. We are going to disembark.
The captains looked at each other.
—Disembark? —asked Alvarado—. Where?
—Here —said Cortés, pointing to a point on the coast, east of the mouth—. There is an open beach, between the mangroves. The Indians do not expect us to land there. It is firm ground, no swamps. We can set foot on land and advance inland. The Indians think we are trapped in the river. They do not expect an attack by land.
—But if we land there —objected Montejo—, the Indians will see us. They will attack us as soon as we set foot on the beach.
—That is why we will land at dawn —replied Cortés—. Tomorrow, before daybreak, while the Indians are resting. The boats will take us to the beach in silence. Once on land, we will form the lines and advance inland. In the open field, our horses and our armor will be decisive. The Indians have no horses. They have no steel. They have no arquebuses. On firm ground, we will defeat them.
Alvarado smiled slowly. —And when we have them in the open field, we will massacre them.
—Exactly —said Cortés.
Escalante nodded, slowly, with the experience of one who has seen many captains fail through impatience.
—We will disembark at dawn —said the old man—. But if the Indians are waiting for us on the beach, we will have to fight from the moment we step on the sand.
—That will not be necessary —replied Cortés, and in the gloom of the cabin, his eyes shone with the certainty of one who has already seen the future—. Tomorrow we will disembark, and tomorrow we will defeat them.
Alonso de Ávila, the treasurer, had remained silent throughout the discussion, listening with his cold, calculating eyes. He was a man of few words, but when he spoke, everyone listened. His hands, calloused from counting coins and handling swords, rested on the table.
—Hernán —he said, in his dry, measured voice—. I have counted the provisions. We have food for three weeks, if we ration. Water for ten days. If we stay here, waiting, we will die of hunger or thirst before the Indians attack us.
Cortés looked at him. —And what do you suggest?
Ávila leaned over the map and pointed to the coast. —Disembark. There is no other choice. If we row up the river, they massacre us in the water. If we stay, we starve. If we disembark, we have one chance. Only one. —And if they attack us on the beach? —asked Montejo. Ávila smiled, a cold smile that did not reach his eyes. —Then we fight. I would rather die with my feet on dry land than drown in a river of shit.
Cortés nodded slowly. —Ávila is right. We will disembark.
The meeting over, the captains returned to their ships, crossing their boats in the darkness that already covered the mouth. The eleven ships remained anchored, rocking in the wait, while the night closed in over the mangrove. Only the creaking of wood, the lapping of water against the hulls, and the buzzing of mosquitoes could be heard. The Indians, from the shore, kept watching. They did not move. They did not attack. They waited.
CHAPTER V: THE LANDING AND THE SKIRMISH ON THE BEACH
The next morning, as the sky began to lighten, Cortés gave the order. The boats were lowered into the water in silence. The soldiers, armed and ready, took their positions. The rowers sank their oars into the water carefully, avoiding splashes that might alert the Indians. —Forward! —ordered Cortés in a low voice—. We are going to disembark! The boats advanced toward the beach that Cortés had pointed out on the map. It was a strip of sand between two stretches of mangrove, barely visible from the river. The tide was low, and the beach extended further than it seemed from the ships.
The soldiers jumped into the water. The sand was firm under their feet. The armor made them heavy, but they managed to reach the shore and form a line. But the most delicate and feared maneuver was the landing of the horses. Of the thirty that had left Cuba, nine had died during the crossing. The voyage had been long, the storms had battered the ships, and the animals, hung in their leather hammocks to protect their legs, did not all survive. Twenty-one horses reached the coast of Potonchán. But twenty-one were more than enough. —The horses! —shouted the captain of the nau. The maneuver was slow and dangerous. The horses were hoisted one by one with pulleys and ropes. They hung them from the yards, lowered them to the launches waiting below. Some reared. They neighed, kicked in the air, eyes rolling. One horse broke free from the girth and fell into the sea with a dull thud. They pulled him out with oars, snorting and covered in foam. Another, upon touching the launch, got frightened and jumped into the water. The soldiers held him by the reins as he swam toward the shore, dragging the launch behind. Alvarado, already on horseback on the beach, watched how the animals touched land. One by one. He counted twenty-one. He nodded.
On the beach, the Mayas watched the spectacle with bewilderment. They did not understand what those white men were lowering. But when the first horse touched firm ground, when the hooves sank into the sand, when the animal shook its head and neighed, the Mayas stepped back. They had never seen a horse. They did not know that an animal could be so big. They did not know that an animal could carry a man on top. For them, the man and the beast were a single creature. A monster. The riders mounted. Twenty-one horses lined up on the beach. Manes in the wind, eyes rolling, hooves marking the sand. The soldiers raised their swords. The sunlight reflected off the steel. The Mayas, who until then had been shouting and beating their shields, fell silent. One of them knelt.
—Sir —said Aguilar—, they think you are gods.
—Let them think so —replied Cortés—. It is better that they fear us than that they hate us.
—Sometimes it is the same —said Aguilar in a low voice. Cortés did not hear him. Or did not want to.
The Mayas regrouped. The fear of the horses did not last long. They were warriors. They knew death. Tabscoob, at the front, harangued his men. They formed up, with their spears forward. Their weapons were of stone and wood: obsidian clubs, flint swords, spears with flint tips. They had seen the steel of the knives the Spaniards had given them, but they did not know that steel could be a sword. —Fire! —ordered Cortés. From the ships, the gunners lit their matches. The cannons were small, of wrought iron, mounted on wooden carriages. They fired stone balls the size of a fist. The first shot sounded like thunder. The ball sliced through the air and fell among the Mayas, throwing up a spray of sand and blood. The Mayas did not know what a cannon was. They did not know that that noise could kill. They stood paralyzed for an instant, looking at the smoking hole in the ground. Tabscoob, who had never seen a cannon, felt the tremor in his chest. He heard the whistle of the ball. He saw his warriors fall. But he did not flee. He raised his spear and shouted: —Do not flee! They are men like us! The second cannon fired. The third. The fourth. The balls did not hit many, but the roar was terrifying. The horses reared. The soldiers covered their ears with their hands. The Mayas, who had nothing to cover themselves with, felt the thunder in their bones. Some fled. Tabscoob harangued them, but it was too late. The fear of the thunder was stronger than the fear of death.
Cortés gave the order to advance. The horses charged first. Twenty-one beasts of war, with riders of iron, hurled themselves against the Maya line. Alvarado was at the front, his black horse opening the breach. The Mayas raised their spears. The obsidian tips crashed against the steel armor and shattered. The wooden spears broke against the horses' breastplates. The stone clubs struck the helmets and only rang out. The flint swords, sharp as knives, could not cut the metal. The Mayas were not prepared for that. Their weapons, which had killed other Mayas for centuries, were useless against those men of iron. Their spears did not reach the flesh. Their arrows bounced off the breastplates. Their wooden shields splintered like dry branches. The Spaniards, on the other hand, charged with steel swords forged in Toledo. The blades were long, straight, with a cutting edge. Each blow of the sword opened a gash. Each thrust pierced a chest. The horses' hooves crushed bodies. The riders cut off heads. The blood stained the sand and the sea foam.
Alvarado, on his black horse, cut through the Mayas like a blade through fruit. His sword rose and fell without rest. He did not look at whom he wounded. He only reaped. The black horse, trained for war, bit and kicked. Its hooves crushed skulls. Its teeth tore arms. Aguilar did not participate. Cortés had left him behind, in the rear, with the arquebusiers. —I cannot lose my interpreter in the first fight —he had told him. Aguilar stayed on the sand, watching the horses knock down the men. How the Mayas fell and did not get up. How Spanish steel cut through wood and flesh. He saw Alvarado, on his black horse, opening a furrow of death. He saw how the blond man smiled as he cut.
The Mayas retreated into the jungle. Not all. Many died that day. Tabscoob, the chief, was one of the last to retreat. He was dragging a wounded warrior. Before disappearing among the trees, he turned. He looked at Cortés. He looked at Alvarado. He looked at the horses. Then he left. Others fled, dragging the wounded. Those who could, vanished into the trees. The beach was strewn with bodies: some still moved, others lay motionless, and the red-tinged water licked the sand with each wave. Cortés ordered a halt. The horses were exhausted. Alvarado's black horse trembled, covered in foam and blood. It was not its blood. It was the Mayas'.
—How many dead? —asked Cortés, without taking his eyes off the battlefield.
—We have carried out a massacre, sir —replied a captain, wiping the sweat and blood splattered on his face—. We have counted more than two hundred bodies on the beach and in the water. Perhaps they number close to three hundred. The Mayas fought fiercely, but our weapons and the horses have wreaked havoc. Of our men, we have lost six: three arquebusiers hit by arrows in the throat, two soldiers who fell into the water and drowned under the weight of their armor, and one more who received a spear thrust in the eye. There are about twenty wounded, most minor, although some are serious.
Cortés nodded slowly. He looked at the beach. The Maya bodies floated in the water, rocked by the tide. Broken spears stuck out of the sand like dead branches. The smell of blood and gunpowder mixed with the salt and the stench of the mangrove. He saw a Maya clutching his broken shield, eyes open staring at the sky. He saw another, a boy of barely seventeen, his face buried in the wet sand and a hand still gripping his obsidian spear. —Good —said Cortés after a long silence—. Have the seriously wounded transferred to the ships. The slightly wounded, let them be treated here. We will camp on the beach tonight.
CHAPTER VI: THE OPEN FIELD BATTLE IN THE PLAINS OF POTONCHÁN
While the Spaniards camped on the beach, Cortés sent scouts inland. They returned after an hour, panting and with their eyes bright with excitement. —Sir —said the sergeant, pointing west—. There is a city. About three leagues from here. It is large. It has stone houses and a pyramid. And it is full of people. Cortés mounted his horse and rode ahead a few hundred paces, to a rise from where he could see the horizon. There, among the mist rising from the jungle, he made out the first structures: palm roofs, lime walls, and in the center, a pyramidal structure that rose above the trees. Potonchán. Cortés smiled. —It is not a simple village —he said, turning to Ávila, who had accompanied him—. It is the capital of a lordship. And now it is ours. He lowered his gaze to the plain that stretched between them and the city. It was open ground, perfect for cavalry. —There —he said, pointing to the plain—. There we will wait for them. Tomorrow, at dawn, we will charge.
Aguilar was in the rear, with the servants and the wounded. He watched the jungle rising before them, a green wall hiding who knows what dangers. —Sir —said Aguilar—, how do we know the Indians have not seen us? —We will know soon —replied Cortés. The Spaniards spent the night on the plain, camped next to the jungle, with the horses saddled and weapons ready. They did not light fires. They did not speak loudly. They waited for dawn.
But the Mayas had not remained idle either. After the defeat on the beach, Tabscoob had retreated toward Potonchán with the survivors. His face, painted red, was tense. He did not show fear, but his eyes moved quickly, counting, evaluating. Too many young men. Too many boys who had not yet seen death up close. In the jungle clearing, a few leagues from the beach, the Maya warriors prepared. There were no grand harangues or solemn speeches. Only the sound of spears being sharpened, the creaking of bowstrings, the murmuring of men who knew that many of them would not see the setting sun. Tabscoob walked among them. An old warrior approached. —Chief, the white men have landed. They are a day's journey from here. They are coming toward us. —I know —replied Tabscoob—. I have seen them from the hill. —And what will we do? Tabscoob stopped. He looked at the old man. Then he looked at the warriors surrounding them, waiting for his words. —We will fight —he said—. We have no other way.
A young warrior, his face still without scars, stepped forward. His hands trembled. —Chief... I have heard that their beasts are monsters. That their weapons kill with thunder. How can we fight against that? Tabscoob looked at him. He saw the fear in his eyes. He saw the same question everyone was asking. —Are you afraid? —he asked. The young man lowered his gaze. —Yes, chief. Tabscoob nodded slowly. Then he raised his voice so that all could hear. —I am also afraid. Anyone who says otherwise lies. But fear will not save us. Flight will not save us. Do you know what will save us? The young man raised his gaze. —What, chief? —To fight. To fight until there is no air left in our lungs. Because if we do not fight, we will have nothing. Neither land, nor home, nor free children. We will be like dogs begging at the doors of strangers. The young man swallowed. Then he nodded. —I will fight, chief. Tabscoob placed a hand on his shoulder. —I know. You are young, but you are strong. And tomorrow, when you see the white men, do not think of their beasts. Think of your mother. Think of your little brother. Think of the house where you were born. And then you will know why you fight. The young man nodded again. Tabscoob walked away, continuing his rounds.
A woman, Xochitl, approached him. Her face was painted black, and in her hand she held a short spear. —Chief —she said—. The women are ready. We will fight by your side. Tabscoob looked at her. He had seen Xochitl in battle before. He knew she was fiercer than many of his warriors. —I know —he replied—. And I am glad. —Do you think we will win? Tabscoob fell silent. The question was the same one everyone was asking, but no one dared to voice it aloud. —I do not know —he replied at last—. But it does not matter. Win or die. There is no other choice. Xochitl looked into his eyes. Then she nodded, without saying anything more, and walked away toward the group of women waiting for her. Tabscoob was left alone. For a moment, his face relaxed. Weariness showed in his eyes. He closed his eyelids for an instant, and in the darkness of his mind, he saw his little daughter, the one who had died of fever two years earlier. He saw her face, her smile. And he knew he would fight for her, for her memory, for the world she would never get to see. He opened his eyes. He took up his spear. And he headed to the front of his warriors, where the sun was beginning to peek through the trees. —Prepare yourselves! —he shouted—. They are coming. And we will wait for them.
At dawn the next day, the battle began. The sun rose over the jungle, and its first rays burned the mist rising from the ground, as if the light itself wanted to erase the traces of the night. The Spaniards advanced in formation. The twenty-one horses at the front, the infantry behind, the arquebusiers on the flanks. —Cavalry! —shouted Cortés—. Charge! The twenty-one horses galloped forward. The ground trembled. The horses' hooves pounded the earth like a hammer. The riders raised their swords, which gleamed in the sun. Alvarado was at the front. His black horse looked like a shadow on the grass. The sunlight, reflecting off his armor, turned him into a dazzling figure. —Santiago! —he shouted—. Santiago! The Mayas saw the riders charging. They saw the horses, huge beasts they had never seen before, with men of steel mounted on top. For them, they were not two creatures. They were one. A monster. Some warriors fled. Others stood their ground, raising their spears. The obsidian tips crashed against the armor and shattered. The stone clubs struck the horses' breastplates and only rang out. The women also resisted. A woman of about forty, her face painted black, stood in front of Alvarado's horse and threw her spear. The obsidian tip struck the rider's breastplate and broke. Alvarado, without flinching, plunged his sword into the woman's chest. She fell to the ground without a cry. Another woman, younger, ran toward the horse and drove her knife into the animal's leg. The horse neighed in pain and reared, throwing the rider. The soldier fell to the ground, dazed. The woman threw herself on him with her knife raised. But a second rider reached her with his lance, piercing her side. The woman fell next to the soldier, her blood mingling with that of her enemy.
The horses crushed bodies. The riders cut off heads. The blood stained the grass. Alvarado, on his black horse, cut through the Mayas like a scythe through wheat. His sword rose and fell without rest. He did not look at whom he wounded. He only reaped. The black horse, trained for war, bit and kicked. Among the Mayas, panic began to spread. A middle-aged warrior, who bore the scars of previous battles on his chest, saw how the black horse knocked down three of his companions in a single charge. He felt his legs tremble. But he forced himself to stand firm. —Do not run! —he shouted to the young men around him—. If you run, they will catch you! Stand firm! Raise your spears! The young men looked at him. Some obeyed. Others ran.
A young Maya, barely eighteen years old, knelt and raised his hands. He shouted something in his language. Aguilar, from the rear, heard the word: —Enough! Alvarado did not understand. Or did not want to. He reined in the black horse, which stopped short, snorting. The Maya still had his hands raised, pleading. Alvarado looked at him for an instant. His gaze, clear and cold, showed no mercy. Then he drove his sword into his throat. The boy fell to his knees. The blood gushed between his fingers as he brought his hands to his neck. Alvarado did not wait for him to fall. He turned the black horse and continued charging. Later, Aguilar would see Alvarado behead a wounded Maya lying on the ground. He would see how he laughed as he did it. He would see how his black horse trampled the bodies without flinching.
Aguilar felt the vomit in his throat. He forced himself to swallow. But this time, the nausea did not go away. It stayed there, at the bottom of his stomach, like a caged animal. He looked at his own hands, the same ones that had translated the words of peace to the Mayas, the same ones that had pointed to the parchment of the Requerimiento. Now they were stained, not with blood, but with complicity. He had not wielded a sword, but he had been the voice that allowed those swords to be drawn. He had translated the Requerimiento. He had said "peace" while the cannons were being loaded. And now he saw Alvarado laughing as he beheaded a wounded man.
—My God —he murmured, in a broken voice—. Are you truly on our side? How can God be on the side of this? He closed his eyes for an instant. In the darkness of his eyelids, he saw the face of the pleading youth. He saw his raised hands. He saw Alvarado's sword sink into his throat. And he knew he could not erase that image, that he would carry it with him every day of his life, even if he lived a hundred years. He opened his eyes. The battle continued. The horses kept charging. The Mayas kept falling. And Aguilar knew that, even if he survived that day, something inside him had died forever.
While the cavalry charged, the infantry advanced. The foot soldiers, with their steel swords, faced the Mayas who managed to dodge the horses. The arquebusiers fired. The smoke of gunpowder rose in white clouds. The Mayas, who had never heard an arquebus, fell to the ground, terrified by the thunder. The crossbowmen loosed their bolts. The steel arrows pierced the wooden shields. The Mayas screamed in pain. But they did not flee. They fought. A Maya warrior, his chest opened by a sword, kept fighting until he fell. Another, with an arrow lodged in his shoulder, tore out the bolt and kept advancing. A woman, with a shattered leg, crawled toward a Spanish soldier and stabbed him in the calf before dying.
Among the Mayas, an old warrior stood firm. He had seen his companions fall. He had seen the young flee. But he remained standing, his spear raised. —Do not flee! —he shouted—. I have seen worse things! I have seen our grandfathers fight against the Toltecs! And they won! We can win! His voice was hoarse, but it had authority. Some warriors who had begun to retreat stopped. They looked at the old man. They looked at the Spaniards. Some returned to their positions. But it was not enough.
Cortés watched from his horse. He saw his men massacre the Mayas. He saw the bodies fall. He saw the blood stain the grass. He saw the women, fallen among the men, their spears still in their hands. —They are brave —he repeated. Then he gave another order: —Cannons! From the ships, anchored at the mouth of the river, the gunners lit their matches. The cannons fired. The stone balls sliced through the air and fell among the Mayas, throwing up sprays of earth and blood. The Mayas did not know what a cannon was. They did not know that that noise could kill. They stood paralyzed for an instant, looking at the smoking holes in the ground. Tabscoob, who had never seen a cannon, felt the tremor in his chest. He heard the whistle of the balls. He saw his warriors and his women fall. A cannonball landed near him, throwing up earth and blood. Several warriors fell. A woman, who was at his side, was hit by the shrapnel and fell dead. But he did not flee. He raised his spear and shouted: —Do not flee! They are men like us!
The Mayas resisted, but fear took hold of them. The horses trampled them, the armor defied their spears, the arrows whistled in vain, the noise of the arquebus gunpowder deafened them, and the cannons, from afar, sent their shells into the fight, tearing them apart without them even knowing where the blow came from. They fought against things they did not understand. The horses kept charging. Alvarado, on his black horse, opened a furrow of death. His sword rose and fell. The Mayas fell in his path. The women fell too, their broken spears beside them.
A young warrior, the same one who had spoken with Tabscoob the night before, felt something break inside him. He saw the old man who had harangued them fall. He saw a horse step on his chest. He heard the crunch of bones. Then he saw Xochitl. The warrior woman was surrounded by three Spanish soldiers. Her face, painted black, was covered in blood and mud. Her spear was broken, but she still held a flint knife in her right hand. She had killed two soldiers. The third, his sword raised, lunged at her. Xochitl did not flee. She did not scream. She lunged forward, her knife raised, and drove it into the soldier's throat before the sword could reach her. The soldier fell, but the sword, in its fall, opened a deep gash in Xochitl's side. The warrior woman fell to her knees. The blood gushed from her wound and soaked the grass. The young warrior ran to her. He grabbed her by the shoulders, trying to lift her. —Xochitl —he said, in a broken voice—. Get up. Come on. We can flee. Xochitl raised her gaze. Her eyes, bright with pain and rage, fixed on the approaching soldiers. —Flee —she said, in a barely audible voice—. I will stay. —No. I will not leave you. —Flee! —she shouted, pushing him with the little strength she had left—. Tell our story. Do not let them forget us. The young man hesitated for an instant. Then, with tears in his eyes, he released Xochitl and ran toward the jungle. Xochitl stood up, staggering. The blood gushed from her wound and stained her chest. She picked up a fallen knife from the ground and stood facing the approaching soldiers. She said nothing. She only looked at them, with her eyes of hatred and fire, and raised the knife. The soldiers hesitated for an instant. Then, one of them, a young man with a face covered in dust and blood, advanced toward her. Xochitl raised the knife. But before she could attack, the soldier ran her through with his sword. The warrior woman fell to her knees, then backward, her eyes open staring at the sky. The young Maya, from the edge of the jungle, saw Xochitl fall. He wanted to scream, but the sound would not leave his throat. He could only run, run toward the darkness of the trees, while the tears erased the paint from his face. —Flee! —he shouted, when he finally found his voice—. Flee! The warriors began to retreat. Not all. Some kept fighting. But most fled into the jungle. The women also fled. Some dragging their wounded. Others helping their companions. But some stayed, fighting to the end. One of them, the one who had thrown the spear at Alvarado's horse, was surrounded by three soldiers. She fought with her knife until they brought her down. She fell without a cry, her eyes open.
Tabscoob, wounded and covered in blood, saw his army crumble. He saw his warriors fall, his women die, the young flee. He gave the order to retreat. The Mayas who could escape fled into the jungle. Those who could not lay stretched out on the grass, mixed with the dead horses and broken spears. Tabscoob, before disappearing among the trees for the second and last time, looked at the plain covered in corpses. He looked at the smoke of the arquebuses. He looked at the silhouette of Alvarado on his black horse. And he knew that his world, the one he had known since childhood, no longer existed. This time, it was not hundreds dead. It was thousands.
CHAPTER VII: THE FALL OF POTONCHÁN AND THE BOOTY
The Spanish soldiers advanced toward Potonchán. The streets of compacted earth were deserted. The houses of wood and thatch, with palm roofs, remained empty. The inhabitants had fled into the forest, taking what they could. Only some elderly and sick people, too weak to escape, remained in their dwellings, watching with frightened eyes the passage of the white men. A young soldier, gripping his sword, stopped in front of a house from which a thin smoke rose. Inside, an old Maya with white hair and a wrinkled face sat by the hearth, motionless, not looking. The soldier raised his sword. —Halt! —shouted Cortés from his horse—. Do not touch those who offer no resistance. Look for provisions and weapons. But do not kill unnecessarily. The soldier lowered his sword, not without first spitting on the ground in front of the house's door.
Cortés walked through the streets of Potonchán with Aguilar at his side. The friar observed the buildings with a mixture of curiosity and unease. The houses were of wood and mud, with palm roofs carefully woven. Some had walls of interwoven reeds, covered with a layer of lime that made them shine under the sun. On the door lintels, carvings of serpents and human figures could be seen, remnants of a devotion that Aguilar could not comprehend. —It is an orderly city —said Aguilar, almost to himself—. It is not a simple village. —No —replied Cortés—. It is the capital of a lordship. And now it is ours. They reached the central plaza. It was a wide space, of compacted earth, surrounded by larger buildings. At the back, a pyramidal structure rose about fifteen meters above the ground. It had limestone stairways and, at the top, a small building with a palm roof. —That —said Cortés, pointing to the pyramid—. That will be my quarters. From the top we will dominate the city and any attack. Their gods have fallen, and from their temple we will rule. Accompanied by a dozen soldiers, Cortés climbed the stairways. At the top, the temple was small. Its interior walls were decorated with reliefs of feathered serpents and human figures with elaborate headdresses. In the center, a flat stone served as an altar, covered with dark stains and resin remains.
Cortés looked at it for an instant. He said nothing. But Aguilar, watching from behind, saw something in his eyes: it was not contempt for that pagan altar, it was not revulsion. It was a kind of recognition, as if Cortés saw in that bloodstained stone the reflection of something he also carried within. Aguilar felt a chill. He did not know if what he had seen was respect or identification, but he knew that that man was not a simple soldier of the faith.
—This is where their pagan priests made their sacrifices —said Cortés at last—. Now there will be a Christian cross and the royal standard, and the Indians will know that there is now a new God and a new king. The soldiers began to nail the cross and unfurl the standard. The banner of Castile fluttered in the breeze.
At that moment, a soldier climbed panting up the last steps and stood before Cortés. —Sir —he said—. We have found the palace of the lord of the city. They came down from the pyramid and crossed the plaza to a building larger than the rest, with a porch of carved wood. It was Tabscoob's residence. Inside, the walls were covered with rush mats and finely woven cotton cloths. On the floor lay several wicker baskets and wooden chests. —Look at this, sir —said the soldier, opening one of the chests. Inside, gold objects gleamed: small anthropomorphic figures, decorated disks with reliefs, bead necklaces, diadems. Alongside the gold pieces were piles of quetzal feathers, a deep green like that of the jungle after rain. There were also jade beads, polished and strung, and some darker green stones that the soldiers could not identify, but which the Mayas valued like gold. —This is worth a fortune —murmured a soldier. Cortés knelt beside the chest. He took one of the gold figures, weighed it in his hand, observed its details. Then he put it down and took a handful of quetzal feathers, stroking them with his fingers. —Guard it all —he ordered—. All the gold, the feathers, and the precious stones will be recorded by the notary. This now belongs to His Majesty. Nothing will be distributed without my authorization. The soldiers obeyed, although some exchanged glances of discontent. Cortés noticed it, but made no comment. —And search the rest of the city —he added—. There may be more..
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