Chapter I: The Commission
Governor Diego Velázquez's office smelled of wax, old paper, and the sea. Outside, the Caribbean sun scorched the streets of Havana, but inside, the dimness of the candles created an intimate and tense atmosphere. Velázquez, a man with a broad face and distrustful gaze, observed the outside through the window. His fingers tapped against the wooden frame, a nervous tic that betrayed his unease.
Hernán Cortés waited in silence. He stood with his back straight, his hands clasped behind him, never taking his eyes off don Diego. He wore his best doublet, a dark velvet cape, and gleaming boots. He knew this meeting was important, though he did not know exactly why.
Velázquez turned and walked to the table. He sat down and gestured to the chair across from him. Cortés took the seat with deliberation.
—Hernán —said the governor—. I have made a decision.
—Tell me, don Diego.
Velázquez spread a map across the table. He pointed to a hand-drawn coastline with annotations in the margins.
—The Crown has granted us permission to organize a new expedition toward the west. The coasts of the mainland. I want you to lead the expedition.
Cortés raised an eyebrow. He had not expected that.
—I, don Diego? Are there not others more suited? Younger men, more loyal...
Velázquez smiled bitterly. Cortés's humility was a mask, and both of them knew it.
—You have experience, Hernán. You know these lands, you know the sea, you know war. The soldiers respect you. You are the best for the position.
Cortés inclined his head, accepting.
Velázquez leaned back in his chair and fixed his eyes on him. His voice grew deeper, more measured, like a man who warns without shouting.
—But there is another matter, Hernán. A matter I want made very clear before you accept command.
—Tell me.
—If you find riches —said Velázquez, pronouncing each word slowly—, if you find gold, silver, jewels, or anything of value, they are to be brought to me personally. Then to the king. Are we in agreement?
—Perfectly, don Diego —replied Cortés.
—I mean it, Hernán. I do not want you to break my orders. If you try to act on your own, I will have no choice but to take action.
—I will do as you ask —replied Cortés—. I will not fail you.
They stood. Velázquez extended his hand, and Cortés shook it firmly.
—Prepare your ships, your men, your provisions. When you are ready, set sail. God be with you.
—And with you, don Diego.
---
Just a few weeks later, the port of Santiago de Cuba had become a hive of activity. Cortés recruited men, gathered ships, stored provisions and gunpowder. But he also did something else: he talked.
—Friends —he said to the soldiers in the taverns of Santiago—. To the west there are new lands, virgin coasts. There will be gold, there will be riches, there will be something worthwhile. And we Spaniards are the only ones with the courage to go looking for it.
Not only soldiers listened to his words. In the corner of the tavern, near the door that opened to the street, a group of women followed the conversation with crossed arms and hard stares.
One of them, about forty years old, with her hair gathered under a headscarf and hands calloused from years of rope and salt, spat on the floor when Cortés mentioned gold.
—Gold —she said, low enough but clear enough for those at the next table to hear—. That's what the other one said last year. What was his name? Ponce de León. And he came back with bones thinner than when he left. And without gold.
The soldier next to her, a young man with his shirt open and a sweaty chest, laughed.
—Doña Isabel, always so bitter. You haven't seen what lies to the west.
—And neither have you, boy —she replied, unflinching—. But I have seen those who went return. I have seen the faces with which they return. And they are not the faces of rich men.
The woman stood, took a jug from the table, and filled it with wine without asking whom it belonged to. She took a drink and slammed the jug back down.
—Don't come to me with tales of empires —she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand—. I saw my husband board a caravel with the promise of gold and return on a plank, without legs. Gold doesn't care about gender, but neither does death. And death doesn't ask if you are man or woman. It just arrives.
The young soldier fell silent. He did not know what to say.
Isabel sat back down, crossed her arms, and fixed her gaze on Cortés, who was still speaking at his table.
—That one —she said, jerking her chin toward him—, that one will not return empty-handed. And not because he will find gold, but because he is the kind who cannot return without having taken something. Even if it is the lives of others.
A younger woman sitting beside her touched her arm.
—What if he is right, doña Isabel? What if there really is gold?
Isabel looked at her with a mixture of pity and hardness.
—If there is, girl, it will not be for us. It will be for them. For those with swords and horses. For those who can kill without trembling. We stay here, waiting for them to return. Or not to return.
—And the governor? —asked a skeptical soldier—. What does he say?
Cortés smiled.
—The governor wants us to explore and trade. But we soldiers want riches. And riches are not obtained by waiting for orders. They are obtained by going to find them.
The soldiers watched him attentively, but without the gleam they did not yet have. Cortés had not given them concrete reasons to believe, only vague promises.
But then, the tavern door opened and a tall man entered, with blond hair and an easy smile. Hanging from his neck was a necklace of green stones, and on his belt a dagger with a gold hilt.
—Pedro de Alvarado! —someone exclaimed.
Cortés recognized him instantly. He had heard of him: the captain who had returned ahead of Grijalva's fleet, the one who brought fresh news from the mainland.
—Leave us —Cortés told the soldiers—. We will talk again tomorrow.
The men dispersed, though some looked enviously at Alvarado's necklace. Alvarado sat across from Cortés, ordered a jug, and took a long drink before speaking.
—I know they have given you command, Hernán —he said, wiping his mouth—. I heard it in the port.
—That is so —replied Cortés—. The governor wants me to explore and trade. Nothing more.
Alvarado let out a short laugh.
—That is what he told you?
—Yes.
—Then he lied by omission —said Alvarado, leaning over the table—. Or at least, he did not tell you the whole truth.
—What do you mean?
Alvarado rested his arms on the table and lowered his voice.
—I was there, Hernán. I saw what exists. We sailed with four ships, my cousin Grijalva in command. We rounded Yucatán, passed by a great river we named after him. But the real prize came after. We reached an island, San Juan de Ulúa, and there we were met by some Indians who said they were emissaries of a great lord from the highlands. An empire, Hernán. A city of gold built on a lake.
Cortés stood motionless, listening.
—They came out in canoes —Alvarado continued—, with cotton mantles so fine they looked like silk, quetzal feathers, necklaces of green stones. And gold, Hernán. Much gold. Diadems, bracelets, breastplates. Pieces so thick you could feel their weight in your hand. And they offered it all without asking anything in return. They just wanted to know us.
Cortés felt a chill at the nape of his neck. Alvarado's words ignited something inside him: empire, city, gold. Everything he had promised the soldiers without knowing if it was true, turned out to be real.
—And what did Grijalva do?
Alvarado paused, letting the question hang in the air.
—My cousin, good Grijalva, merely observed and took notes. When I told him we should found a settlement, that those lands were empty of Spaniards, he replied that he lacked authorization. He collected the gifts, stored them in the hold of his ship, and gave the order to return. Not a cross, not a flag, not a single man did we leave on land.
—And the riches? —asked Cortés, his voice tense.
—He has kept them in the hold of the flagship. He says he will deliver them personally to the Crown. That he does not want anyone to touch anything until the king decides. Not even his uncle, the governor, has seen the pieces.
Cortés leaned back in his chair. His fingers drummed on the table. Now he understood everything. Velázquez had spoken to him of exploration and trade, but had concealed the essential: that beyond the sea there was an empire with enough gold to make rich all who dared to take it. And his nephew, Grijalva, had been stupid enough to let it slip away.
—So Grijalva has all that gold in his holds —he said slowly—. And Velázquez has not seen a single piece.
—That is so —confirmed Alvarado—. And I do not think he is pleased. He financed the expedition with his own money, and his nephew has cheated him of the reward. That is why he told you nothing. If he had told you there was an empire, a city of gold, he knew you would not have settled for exploring.
Cortés was silent for a moment. His mind worked quickly. If those Indians offered gold without asking for anything in return, it was because they had much more. If Grijalva had been so foolish as to claim nothing, he would not make the same mistake.
—Tell me, Pedro —asked Cortés, his voice low—. Would you return to those lands?
Alvarado raised his jug.
—Of course.
Cortés stood, left some coins on the table, and looked down at Alvarado.
—Then prepare yourself. We are going to do what Grijalva did not know how to do.
Alvarado asked no more questions. He knew that Cortés, unlike his cousin, would not stop for any order.
---
At another table in the same tavern, a young soldier with a poorly shaved mustache stared at his empty jug.
—Do you really believe there is gold? —he asked the man sitting across from him.
Bernal Díaz del Castillo shrugged and took a drink.
—Alvarado says so. And Alvarado is no liar.
—But what if they send us back? —insisted the young man—. The governor does not want us to found anything. Only to trade.
Bernal let out a rough laugh.
—Listen, boy. Captain Cortés is not carrying cannons on his expedition to trade. Nor has he loaded horses to barter for blankets. Do you understand what I am telling you?
The young man nodded slowly.
—So keep quiet and sharpen your sword. And when you see the Indians, do not ask how much their necklaces are worth. Take them. There will be time to bargain later.
The young man fell silent, staring into the bottom of his jug. He did not know if what he felt was fear or excitement. Perhaps both.
Outside, in the port, the eleven ships waited with their sails furled, like sleeping beasts that would soon awaken.
---
The rumors, like a trail of gunpowder, reached Havana.
—Governor —said the secretary, entering the office with a pale face—. There is news.
—Of what kind?
—The soldiers talk. They say Cortés promises them lands and riches. That he speaks of an empire to the west, a city of gold. That he is gathering cannons, not trinkets. I have heard he has loaded ten bronze cannons and four falconets, and that he is taking thirty-two horses.
Velázquez leaped to his feet. His face reddened with rage.
—That traitor! —he shouted—. I gave him clear orders and he is disobeying them!
He paced back and forth, pounding the walls with his fist. His fingers closed on a parchment, and he hurled it against the wall.
—After everything —he murmured—. After everything I gave him, everything I did for him... I know his viper tongue from the moment he set foot on these islands, and still I trusted him. And this is how he repays me?
—What do we do, don Diego? —asked the secretary.
Velázquez stopped. His breathing was ragged, his eyes bloodshot.
—Send an order of dismissal —he said, his voice hoarse—. Have Cortés relieved of command. Have him arrested. Now.
The secretary nodded and ran out. Velázquez was left alone, staring at the sea through the window.
—I warned you, Hernán —he whispered—. I warned you not to disobey. And you did. You found out about the gold, and now you think you can keep it all for yourself. But it will not be so. Not as long as I am governor.
But the messenger arrived too late.
Cortés already knew. He had spies in the governor's court, friends on the docks, men who warned him of every movement by Velázquez. By the time the order of dismissal was being written, Cortés had already given the order to set sail.
—Weigh anchor! —he shouted from the stern of his ship, the Santa María de la Concepción—. Course west!
The sailors obeyed. Eleven ships, five hundred soldiers, horses, cannons, and an iron will put out to sea. The coast of Cuba faded into the distance, and with it, Velázquez's authority.
Cortés gazed at the horizon. He was not thinking of discovering new lands, nor of glory. He was thinking of what Alvarado had told him: the gifts of gold, the emissaries, the city on the lake. He was thinking of the riches he had waited for all his life, that would make Spain forget his origins as a poor hidalgo.
—What if they pursue us? —asked his second-in-command, Diego de Ordaz.
Cortés turned to him. His eyes did not shine with epic fire, but with the cold determination of a man who knows he has crossed a line and there is no turning back.
—Let them pursue us —he replied—. Where we are going, we will decide what we do. And what we will do is simple: take everything we can to return to Spain.
Ordaz nodded, needing no further explanation. Both knew that this expedition was not for exploration, but for plunder. And both were prepared to do it.
Velázquez, upon receiving the news that the ships had sailed, hurled the parchment against the wall and shouted Cortés's name into the void. But it was too late. The wolf had escaped, and the governor knew, in that instant, that he had made a mistake: not by giving him command, but by not telling him the truth from the beginning. Because if Cortés had known about the gold from the first day, he might have reached some agreement with him. Now, the gold and power would belong to a man who did not intend to share them with anyone.
---
# Chapter II: Cozumel and the Omens
From the stern of the flagship, the Santa María, Hernán Cortés stood erect, his legs spread to counter the ship's roll. The salt wind lashed his face, tangling in his dark beard and stealing his breath with each gust. His gaze swept the horizon again and again. The fingers of his right hand drummed on the wooden railing, a nervous gesture known only to himself. He had spent weeks preparing this expedition, and he expected to return laden with gold.
Around him, the deck was a hive of activity. Sailors climbed the rigging, their bare feet gripping the hemp ropes, as the canvas sails swelled with the wind. The morning sun filtered through the shrouds, casting long shadows across the planks, where soldiers sharpened swords and checked their harquebuses with calloused fingers. Crossbowmen drew their strings, testing the elasticity of their weapons, and the smell of pitch, sweat, and iron mingled with the sea air.
—Captain —said Pedro de Alvarado, approaching the stern with his arrogant stride and playing with the dagger he always wore at his belt—. The lookouts spot land.
Cortés did not answer immediately. He merely nodded, as his fingers stopped drumming and gripped the railing. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with air that smelled of salt, seaweed, and promise.
Cozumel emerged from the mist like a shard of broken obsidian. Cortés felt the wind change its scent: no longer salt and seaweed, but damp earth, greenness, and fresh water.
When the longboats touched the white sand, the soldiers jumped into the warm water with their harquebuses raised, protecting the matchcords from moisture. But Cortés stopped them with a gesture. He was the first to step down, barefoot, with empty hands.
At the edge of the jungle, a line of Maya warriors watched them in silence. They did not hold their bows drawn, but lowered, as a sign of waiting. The one in command was a stocky man, his chest crossed with old scars and a necklace of jaguar teeth around his neck. Beside him, a sharp-eyed woman held a short spear. She was not a companion; she was a commander.
Cortés ordered the interpreters to leave the trade goods on the sand: iron knives, scissors, glass beads. Then he stepped back two paces.
The scarred warrior advanced, and the woman followed like his shadow. The Maya picked up a knife, weighed it, brought it to his face, and breathed on the steel. He showed no amazement. He showed calculation. The woman, however, did not look at the knives; she looked at Alvarado. She studied him as one studies an adversary. Alvarado drew his sword and offered it for her to touch. She ran the tip of her thumb along the edge and, seeing the drop of blood, smiled. It was not a friendly smile. It was the smile of one who has found good metal for forging arrowheads.
Cortés saw that smile and knew these Indians were not frightened savages. They were strategists.
---
On the third day of trades and haggling, a tall, thin Maya with an angular face and black paint on his cheekbones crossed the camp without looking at anyone. He walked with the confidence of one who knows the terrain and fears no beasts. He headed directly to Cortés's tent and, without asking permission, entered.
Cortés looked up from his map and watched him carefully. The Indian carried no weapons. He wore a thick cotton cape and a necklace of shells. He stopped before the captain, looked him in the eyes, and spoke in Maya. The interpreter accompanying Cortés translated:
—He says, captain, that you should not go to Chactemal. That if you go, you will not return.
Then, without adding another word, the Maya turned and disappeared into the undergrowth. Cortés stared at the place where he had vanished, frowning, his fingers drumming on the table. He did not know what to do with that warning, but he stored it in a corner of his memory, like one stores a thorn that never quite sinks in.
---
The Yucatán sun was a sheet of scorching iron on the back of Jerónimo de Aguilar's neck. He had felt that weight for eight years. Eight harvests of maize, eight droughts, eight times the rains came late and the cacique beat his ribs with a stick to make him work faster. His hands, once skilled with the pen and the rosary, were now only calluses and cracks filled with earth.
He was pulling weeds from the milpa when he heard strange voices. They were not Maya. They were more guttural, quicker, and carried an accent that scratched at his memory. He raised his head, squinting against the brightness, and saw three natives with necklaces of glass beads that were not from the region. They carried small bronze bells that tinkled as they walked.
Aguilar's heart leaped. Glass beads. Bronze. Iron. Those objects they carried were not Maya.
—Aguilar! —the cacique's voice cut through the air like a machete—. Come here, dog!
He left the hoe and walked with his head bowed, shoulders hunched, the posture of eight years of submission. When he reached the lord's hut, he saw on a flat stone an object that made him hold his breath: a folded sheet of paper, sealed with red wax.
The cacique threw it at his feet.
—These men say they come from the eastern island. That there are other bearded ones like you. That they pay for your freedom.
Aguilar picked up the document with hands that began to tremble. The wax bore the imprint of a cross and an intertwined letter "C." He broke the seal with his teeth, because his fingers no longer obeyed him, and unfolded the paper. The words danced before his eyes.
*Brother in Christ...*
The letters were firm, confident, from a man who knew what he wanted. Aguilar read them aloud, and his voice broke on the second line. Tears fell on the paper and blurred the ink, but he could not stop them. He smelled the paper, that scent of linen and glue he had thought forgotten. It smelled of Spain.
—What does it say? —insisted the cacique, distrustful.
Aguilar looked up. He knew his life depended on what he said next. If he showed too much enthusiasm, his master would refuse out of pride. If he showed indifference, perhaps he would keep him out of utility. He had learned to read the eyes of the Maya like one reads a map of storms.
—It says, lord —he replied in perfect Maya, his voice measured—, that those men offer these goods for me. But I am yours. If you want me to stay, I stay. If you want me to leave, I leave.
The cacique watched him in silence. Aguilar knew that man was not stupid. He knew that iron was worth more than any slave. But he also knew that the cacique's pride was as fragile as obsidian.
—And what else do they offer? —asked the cacique, gesturing to the messengers.
The messengers deposited the rest of the trade goods: two iron axes, a polished metal mirror, and three scissors. The cacique picked up an axe, weighed it, and cut a branch with a single stroke. The wood fell to the ground with a dry thud. His eyes lit up with greed.
—Three more axes —said the cacique, without looking at Aguilar—, and he is yours.
The messengers conferred in low voices. Finally, they nodded.
—Deal —said one of them.
Aguilar felt his legs weaken. But he showed no relief. He merely inclined his head and, when the cacique made a dismissive gesture, withdrew to the hut that had been his home for eight years. He had nothing to gather. Only a threadbare blanket and the paddle he always carried on his shoulder.
As he walked toward the canoe, a gray-haired Maya woman spat at his feet.
—You go with the foreigners —she said, with contempt—. Those who speak with mouths full of thunder. Those who do not know how to plant. Do you think they will want you? Your skin is darker than theirs. Your tongue is more twisted. You are not one of them. You are not one of anyone anymore.
Aguilar did not reply. But when he looked at his reflection in the water of the well, he felt a chill. The woman was right. His face, tanned by the sun, was crossed by wrinkles that had nothing Spanish about them. His hair, cut in Maya style, fell over his shoulders like an animal's mane. He wore the puyut and the cloak. Would Cortés's soldiers recognize a Spaniard disguised as an Indian?
He climbed into the canoe. The six rowers pushed the craft out to sea. The wind blew against them, and the sea swelled with treacherous waves. Aguilar, seated in the stern, pressed the paddle against his chest and kept his eyes on the horizon. After a few hours, the sky darkened and a storm lashed them. Water poured into the canoe, and the rowers shouted in Maya, cursing the gods of the sea.
—Faster! —shouted Aguilar, his voice hoarse—. If we capsize, we all die!
But the current swept them off course, and when the storm abated, the canoe was not heading to the main port of Cozumel, but to a deserted beach bordered by mangroves. Aguilar leaped into the warm water and ran toward the tree line.
Then he saw them. A group of men, with rusted armor, walking along the shore with harquebuses at the ready. They were Spaniards. Aguilar wanted to shout, but his throat closed. Eight years without speaking his language, and now the words stuck in his throat like thorns.
The one who seemed to command the group, a weather-beaten man named Andrés de Tapia, raised his hand and ordered a halt.
—Halt! Who are you?
Aguilar stepped forward. His body, accustomed to submission, wanted to stoop. But something inside him rebelled. He straightened his back, raised his chin, and spoke:
—Are you Christians who understand me?
The soldiers looked at each other, incredulous. Tapia approached cautiously and examined the man: the cloak, the puyut, the burned skin, the Indian hair. But the eyes... the eyes had a different light.
—I am Jerónimo de Aguilar —said the man, and his voice no longer trembled—. I was shipwrecked on these coasts eight years ago. I have been a slave. I have lived among them. But I am a Christian, a friar from Écija, and I am a Spaniard. Take me to Cortés.
Tapia smiled and slapped him on the shoulder.
—By all the saints, you are Castilian! Come, man, Cortés is waiting for you!
---
The Spanish camp buzzed with activity when Aguilar arrived, escorted by Tapia and his soldiers. The tents lined the beach, and the men, dark and bearded, moved with the discipline of an army. Aguilar watched everything with amazement, like a child seeing his first toy. The clothes, the weapons, the horses, the hunting dogs. Everything was so familiar and so strange at the same time.
But upon reaching the camp, Aguilar stopped at the sight of the standard of Castile waving above the main tent. The crimson and gold cloth produced a strange sensation in him: it was not pride, nor relief. It was a dull nausea, the vertigo of one who has forgotten the color of his own blood and now recognizes it as a foreign object. He knelt, not to pray, but to keep from falling.
Cortés, hearing the commotion caused by the arrival of the expedition and the man they brought, came out to meet him and embraced him tightly. But Aguilar, in that embrace, felt the stiffness of two strangers who did not know if they could trust each other.
—Who are you? —asked Cortés, his gaze scrutinizing.
—I am, señor —said Aguilar, rising slowly—. Jerónimo de Aguilar, friar of Écija. I was shipwrecked in Yucatán in 1511. I have served a Maya cacique for eight years. I know their languages and their customs.
Cortés watched him in silence. Then, his face lit up with a wide, genuine smile.
—You! —he exclaimed, stepping forward—. Jerónimo de Aguilar! Get dressed, brother! You have suffered enough. From now on, you will be at my side. Your language and your knowledge are a treasure for this expedition.
He gestured to his soldiers, who brought clean clothes: a linen shirt, a doublet, breeches, sandals, and a cap to cover his head. Aguilar dressed with trembling hands, feeling the fabric on his skin for the first time in eight years. When he was dressed, Cortés embraced him again, and in that second embrace Aguilar noticed something different: it was not fraternal warmth, but the calculation of a man who has found a useful tool. But Aguilar said nothing. He had learned, in eight years of slavery, that sometimes it is better to be silent and wait.
---
Evening fell over the camp when Jerónimo de Aguilar, now clean, shaved, and with his hair cut short, walked toward Hernán Cortés's tent. He wore Spanish clothes for the first time in eight years: the linen shirt chafed his skin with an almost painful softness, and the breeches and doublet hugged his body like a memory of who he had been. The cap, pulled down to his eyebrows, gave him an appearance he did not recognize in his own reflection. Each step toward the captain's tent was a step toward a world he had believed lost forever.
Upon arrival, two soldiers let him in without a word. Inside, Cortés was bent over a rudimentary map, accompanied by Pedro de Alvarado and the friars Bartolomé de Olmedo and Juan Díaz. The captain looked up as he entered, and his eyes ran over Aguilar's transformed figure with a mixture of curiosity and satisfaction.
—You look like a man now, not a ghost —said Cortés, setting the map aside—. Come closer, Aguilar. We need to talk.
Aguilar stepped forward, still feeling the strange weight of the clothes on his shoulders. Before he could speak, Friar Juan Díaz, with his severe face and inquisitive gaze, stepped forward with his finger extended.
—Before anything else, Aguilar —said the friar sharply—, tell us: what is on this island? I have seen smoke of sacrifices on the coast, I have heard chants that are not Christian. What gods do these Indians worship?
Aguilar held the friar's gaze. He had seen too much to be intimidated by a man in a habit.
—We are on Cozumel, Father —he replied calmly—. And this island is sacred to the Maya. It is a place of pilgrimage, where they come from all the provinces to honor their gods. But there is one temple in particular that you should know.
Cortés leaned over the table, interested.
—What temple?
—The temple of Ixchel —said Aguilar, and his voice took on a grave tone, like one who speaks of something he has seen with his own eyes—. Ixchel is the goddess of fertility, of the waters, of the moon, and of childbirth. Maya women come to this temple from distant lands to offer gifts and ask for her blessing. Sacrifices are performed there, not always of blood, but of precious objects, incense, food. But also...
He paused, and Alvarado, impatient, stepped forward.
—Also what?
—Also maidens are offered —said Aguilar in a low voice—. They are considered wives of the goddess. The temple is full of idols of clay and stone, figures representing the goddess with her serpent headdress and star skirt. And in the nearby caves, there are paintings that tell stories of gods that I myself have seen, captain. I have entered those places.
Friar Bartolomé de Olmedo, of milder temper, raised a hand to calm his companion.
—Brother Juan —he said softly—, let us listen to the man.
But Juan Díaz did not calm down. His eyes burned with the fire of righteousness.
—And will you allow that abomination to remain standing, captain? That these souls live in the darkness of the demon while we, who bring the light of Christ, sail away as if we had seen nothing?
Cortés raised a hand to silence him. He looked at Aguilar with attention.
—What is your opinion? You know the land and its people better than any of us.
Aguilar considered his answer. For eight years he had learned to weigh every word, to know the weight of what is said and what is left unsaid.
—The island is sacred to them, captain. If you desecrate the temple of Ixchel without more, you will earn their hatred forever. But if you do it carefully, if you show your faith without humiliating theirs, perhaps you can sow something other than resentment.
—And what do you propose? —asked Cortés.
—Destroy the idols —said Aguilar—, but do not kill the priests. Raise a cross where they placed their offerings. Show that your god is more powerful, but not that you are cruel. Thus, when you leave, they will remember that the Spaniards came, burned their clay gods, and put a wooden cross in their place. And that cross, captain, will be a seed.
Juan Díaz clutched his chest, offended.
—A seed? We did not come to sow, we came to conquer! Faith is not negotiated, Aguilar. The demon is not convinced with courtesy; he is driven out with fire.
—And also with example —Aguilar replied firmly—. I have seen Maya priests tear the hearts from living men at the top of their pyramids, Father. I have seen the smoke of sacrifices rise to the sky. And I have also seen the faith of these Indians, a sincere faith, though misguided. If you show them that your faith is more powerful because it gives life and does not take it, perhaps they themselves will tear down their own idols.
Olmedo nodded slowly.
—Brother Aguilar is right about something —he said—. Faith is demonstrated by deeds, not by blind violence. If we burn the temple and leave a cross in its place, we will be saying: "Our God has conquered yours, but we will not kill you for it." That, captain, is more powerful than a thousand swords.
Cortés remained silent, drumming his fingers on the map. Alvarado, who had listened without intervening, shrugged.
—Let us burn the damned temple and put up the cross —he said with disdain—. If the Indians get angry, we will deal with them later. But I would not waste time on theology.
Cortés looked up and made a decision.
—We will do as Aguilar says —he declared—. Tomorrow, before weighing anchor, I will send a party to the temple of Ixchel. They will burn the idols, tear down the statues, and raise a cross in the highest place. And they will do it without killing anyone, without violating any woman, without stealing anything. Understood, Pedro?
Alvarado nodded with a mocking smile.
—As you command, captain. But I do not promise the soldiers will like carrying their swords to plant crosses instead of cutting heads.
—Whether they like it or not —Cortés replied coldly—, it will be done this way. I do not want to leave a trail of blood behind me that will pursue us inland.
Juan Díaz frowned, but dared not reply. Olmedo, however, smiled with approval.
—You do well, captain. The cross is stronger than the sword when planted in fertile ground.
Cortés nodded and looked again at Aguilar, who still stood with the blanket over his shoulders, as if he could not quite let go of it.
—And now —said the captain—, let us talk about what truly troubles me. A few days ago, even before I had news of you and sent for you, an Indian came to my tent. He came stealthily, like a shadow, and told me only one thing: that I should not go to Chactemal. Nothing more. Then he disappeared into the brush. I do not know who sent him, nor why. But he left me uneasy. What do you know of that, Aguilar? Why would a Maya come to warn me not to go to that place?
Aguilar was not surprised. During those days he had heard rumors among the soldiers, had seen Cortés's worried face, and had understood that the warning was not a simple notice. It was another piece on the board of a land he knew better than any other Spaniard.
Silence fell in the tent. Alvarado and the friars exchanged a glance, but Aguilar remained still. Slowly, like one who has learned to measure every gesture, he stepped forward to face the captain. And then he spoke, in the grave and measured voice of one who has passed through hell.
—Jerónimo de Aguilar, captain. And I tell you this: do not go to Chactemal without me. I speak their language. I know their customs. But I also warn you: there is another Spaniard to the east, Gonzalo Guerrero. And he will not return with you. He has tattooed his face, pierced his ears, taken a wife, and has children. If you find him, he will not be your ally. He will be your enemy.
Cortés held his gaze for a long silence. Alvarado shifted uncomfortably, and Olmedo murmured a prayer under his breath. The captain, however, did not take his eyes off Aguilar.
—Then I need you at my side —he said at last—. As interpreter. As advisor. Do you accept?
Aguilar looked at his own calloused hands, the blanket he still wore over his shoulders because he could not quite let go of it, as if it were his last slave's skin. Then he raised his eyes and replied with a truth he had not even articulated until that moment.
—I do not know if I am Spanish or Maya —he replied softly—. But I know I do not want to be a slave again. I am with you.
And for the first time in eight years, Jerónimo de Aguilar smiled. It was a small smile, barely a gesture, but in it there was something more than relief: there was the certainty of having chosen his own path, even if he did not yet know where it led.
---
# Chapter III: The Temple of Ixchel
The next day, before the sun rose over Cozumel, Cortés kept his promise. A party of soldiers, led by Alvarado and accompanied by Friar Juan Díaz, entered the island until they reached the temple of Ixchel.
The soldiers stopped short at the sight of the empty temple. Alvarado frowned and scanned the enclosure with his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
—It is deserted! —he exclaimed, turning to the friar—. There are no priests. There is no one.
The men exchanged bewildered glances. Some gripped their harquebuses, fearing an ambush hidden in the undergrowth, but the jungle remained still and silent, as if the trees themselves held their breath.
—How could they have known we were coming? —asked a soldier, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. His voice trembled more than he would have liked.
Juan Díaz advanced toward the empty altar and stopped. His fingers touched the still-warm stone, where the offerings had burned not long before. Then he looked down at the ground. The footprints were clear, recent, a trail of sandals leading into the thicket.
—It is not that they knew we would come —he said, and his voice sounded strangely low, as if he were speaking to himself—. It is that they knew we were going to come before we ourselves set out. These footprints are from this morning, at dawn. They fled with the light. Someone in the camp knew our plans and sent them word. A messenger through the jungle, faster than us. That is why we find the temple empty.
He turned to the men, and in his eyes there was no longer fervor. There was something colder, something the soldiers were not accustomed to seeing in a friar.
—And who, Father? —asked another soldier, spitting on the ground—. Which of our own?
Juan Díaz did not answer. His silence was more eloquent than any accusation.
Alvarado snorted and stepped forward. His hand struck the pommel of his sword with a sharp thud.
—It does not matter who —he said, his voice a lash—. They have been spying on us since we set foot on this land. They watch us from every path, they watch us from every tree. Someone among our own told them our plans. The only thing they do not know is what awaits them.
He stopped and swept his gaze across the faces of his men.
—So stop trembling and do what we came to do. If the idols are empty, we will fill them with our fire. If the priests flee, we will burn their paths. Understood?
A murmur of affirmation ran through the troop. It was not enthusiasm. It was obedience.
No one answered. But the soldiers moved. They knocked down the idols of clay and stone that still stood on their pedestals, broke the statues of the goddess with their serpent headdresses and star skirts, and threw the offerings into the fire. The smoke rose to the sky, gray and thick. There were no blessings or prayers. This was not a ceremony but an execution. The soldiers, with sweating brows, hoisted a great wooden cross in the highest place of the temple, driving it into the earth with dry, firm blows, like one who drives a stake into the side of a wounded animal.
When the cross stood erect, Alvarado swept his gaze across the enclosure with an expression of discontent. He had not achieved what he sought: priests to execute, gold to confiscate, a message of submission to take back to the governor. The empty temple was a hollow victory, and it burned inside him.
—Let us return —he ordered, his voice dry, without concessions—. There is nothing more to do here.
He said nothing on the return journey, but his eyes occasionally fell on each of his men, as if searching among them for a face that did not fit. Juan Díaz walked beside him, in silence, his face still flushed from the effort. The unease left by that silence had become a weight in his chest.
The soldiers, sweaty and tired, dragged their feet over the damp earth, not looking back, as the column re-entered the jungle on the way to the camp.
---
When the last of them disappeared into the thicket, the jungle took a few minutes to recover its murmur. Then, from the dense foliage, the Maya priests emerged slowly. They had not gone far. They had withdrawn just enough not to be seen, but not far enough not to see. They had watched in silence, hidden among the branches, as the bearded men destroyed the goddess's altar. They did not intervene. They did not raise their voices or grasp their spears. They only watched as that strange wooden cross rose where the altar of Ixchel had once stood.
They waited for the intruders to leave so they could salvage what they could: the feathers of the goddess's headdress, the fragments of jade that had not broken, the sacred fire if it still burned in some corner.
One of them, the eldest, stopped before the cross and raised his hand, but did not touch it. His fingers stopped a hand's breadth from the wood, as if that strange object might burn him. Then, without a word, he knelt and began to gather the fragments of jade scattered among the ashes, one by one, with the patience of one who knows that time is on his side. His fingers touched the jade necklace hanging from his neck as he murmured something in a low voice. It was neither a curse nor a plea. It was a question directed at the gods who were no longer there.
—Why did you not answer? —he whispered, and the wind carried his words away as if they had never been spoken.
---
Meanwhile, Alvarado's party reached the camp. The soldiers dispersed among the tents, leaving behind the smell of smoke and ash that had clung to their clothes. Alvarado dismounted in one leap and walked directly toward Cortés's tent, frowning, his hand still resting on the pommel of his sword. He carried no gold. He carried no prisoners. He only carried the news that the priests had fled and the certainty that someone from within the camp itself had warned them.
Juan Díaz lingered a few steps behind, looking toward the horizon of trees. For a moment, he thought he saw a column of smoke rising from where they had been, but it could have been the reflection of the setting sun among the leaves. He turned and entered his tent without a word.
When Cortés received the report, he nodded without enthusiasm. He had done what he considered necessary, but his mind was already elsewhere. On the mainland. In the cities of gold that Grijalva had not known how to take. In the empires that still awaited conquest.
---
In the jungle, the old man pressed a fragment of jade against his chest and spoke again, this time with a firmer voice:
—Not yet. You have not answered yet.
The wind stirred the dry leaves around him, and the jungle fell silent once more.
---
Before the sun had fully risen, the eleven ships had raised their sails. Cortés gave the order from the sterncastle with the firm voice of a man who has burned all bridges. The island shrank on the horizon, and the sea opened before them like an empty promise.
Alvarado, his blond hair tousled by the wind, approached the captain.
—Captain —he said in a low voice—, what do you think Governor Velázquez will be doing when he sees our disobedience?
Cortés did not turn. He kept his gaze fixed on the west, on the faint line where the sea merged with the sky.
—He will have cursed my name a thousand times, calling me a traitor. But when news that eleven ships have disappeared without his permission reaches the Court, the governor will have to give explanations. A fleet of that size is not lost without someone answering for it. The king does not punish those who bring him gold and new lands, Pedro. He punishes those who return empty-handed. And Velázquez knows it. That is why, to save his position, he will have no choice but to pursue us. He will gather ships and men, and swear he acted on royal orders.
—And when do you think that will happen?
Cortés turned slowly. His gray eyes gleamed with the coldness of a freshly sharpened blade.
—I do not know. Perhaps in six months. Perhaps in a year. But when it happens, Pedro, I will already be inside that empire Grijalva did not know how to take. And when Velázquez's ships arrive, they will not find a rebel captain. They will find a conqueror with an army at his back and a city of gold at his feet.
Alvarado smiled, showing his teeth.
—Then we will have to hurry.
—Yes —replied Cortés, turning his gaze back to the horizon—. Very quickly.
Behind them lay Cozumel, with its burned temple and its cross still standing. Ahead lay the mainland. Dark. Unknown. Full of gods, sacrifices, and an empire that did not yet know its end was coming.
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