Ehecatl arrived at the holding cells in the tecpan's lower levels the next day, the air dank and heavy with the scent of unwashed bodies and straw matted with filth, the torchlight casting flickering shadows on the adobe walls like dancing specters. The 20 Castilians were chained in separate alcoves, their beards matted and eyes hollow from the night's confinement, the clink of their restraints echoing softly as guards in ichcahuipilli stood watch. He consulted his bark-paper notes, testimonies from the women scribbled in haste. Malinalli's venomous recollections, Catalina's tearful accounts, and Tecuelhuetzin's bitter whispers of camp horrors.
Pinpointing a braggart among them, a twisted soul named Juan de la Cruz, known for boasting of his depravities to boost morale among the men.
Ehecatl signaled the guards to bring de la Cruz to a small interrogation room, the man dragged in with chains rattling like bones in a grave, his once-fine linen tunic torn and stained, his face a mask of defiance mixed with fear. Seated across from him on reed mats, Ehecatl leaned forward with a disarming smile, his voice low and conspiratorial, like two old raiders sharing war tales over pulque.
"Juan, is it? I've heard you're a man of action, not like these sniveling priests or bookworms in your lot. Let's talk plainly, warrior to warrior. You know, during the time when your people occupied the city, I had my fun too. took a few Mexica girls in the ruins, made them scream for hours before finishing them off. Felt good, didn't it? Claiming what's yours. What I want to know is how a fellow kindred man like yourself ended up in these parts?"
De la Cruz's eyes narrowed at first, suspicion flickering, but the false story hooked him, his posture relaxing slightly as he chuckled darkly, the sound raspy from thirst. "You? The devil-boy? Aye, we heard tales of your 'ripening'. Filth on blades, whispers that Olmedo mad. I respect that. Born in Seville, 1492, to a baker's family. We were as poor as dirt, so I sailed to Hispaniola at 15, seeking gold. Worked the mines first, whipping Taíno slaves until their backs split open, took a few of their women in the huts for sport, their screams like music after a hard day. Got a taste for it there. Breaking the indias, claiming them rough until they begged."
Ehecatl nodded encouragingly, leaning in closer. "Sounds like my kind of fun. And the mainland? What brought you here?"
De la Cruz grinned, his teeth yellowed and uneven. "Joined Cortés in '19. Landed in Yucatán, raided Maya villages, burned their idols, took their gold and girls. Fucked a chieftain's daughter in front of her father once, made him watch as I thrust deep, her tears mixing with blood, and semen as I made that bitch carry my bastards. Good times. Then Tenochtitlan, the war, siege, and occupation was heaven for a man like me. I too raped Mexica women in the streets, their husbands and children gutted beside them, bodies still warm as I claimed them. One noble girl fought hard and clawed my face. But I choked her until she went limp, spilled inside her as she gasped. Afterward, with Olid, we trained them Tlaxcalan dogs. But I took my share there too, a few of their women in the camps, screaming in Nahuatl as I broke them. Hehehe oh how delightful it was, the Nahuatl word for no being 'amo' while that word in Castilian means love."
Ehecatl kept his expression neutral, or supportive but inside he cataloged every detail.
"Speaking of women" he said casually, "what ever happened to Catalina? Heard Olid gave her up to you to save his own skin. Hope you broke her in good devil-boy, she was quite the desired prize in our camps."
Ehecatl laughed crudely, leaning back against the wall. "Catalina? The little whore from Hispaniola who Olid gave to me? Aye, I still have her around. Sweet thing, cried pretty when I thrusted her pussy rough that first night I had her. Fucked her in the ass once, made her scream like a gutted pig."
Ehecatl's smile and fake boasts didn't waver, but his fist clenched under the table, as all of this was key to the charges. He wrapped the interrogation with a few more shared "tales." drawing out de la Cruz's birthplace in Seville, his mining days whipping Taíno slaves to death in Hispaniola while fucking their wives, his raids in Yucatán burning villages and raping chieftains' families, his role in the Tenochtitlan siege, the war and occupation that involved massacring civilians and enslaving children, and his post-war training of Tlaxcalans while indulging in their women. The braggart spilled it all, thinking he had a kindred spirit, the details vivid and damning. Names of victims, dates of atrocities, boasts of "breaking indias until they begged for death."
With the confession noted, Ehecatl signaled the guards, de la Cruz's smirk fading as he was dragged away, the interrogation a success that sharpened the trial's blade.
Ehecatl moved to the next Castilian in the tecpan's undercroft, the dank air clinging to his skin like a shroud, heavy with the stench of fear-sweat and unwashed despair. The Castilian inside, a gaunt man in his late twenties named Juan Rodriguez de Villafuerte, from his note's quick recall huddled in chains against the wall, his beard unkempt and eyes red-rimmed.
Unlike the braggart de la Cruz from earlier, who had boasted , this one started crying the moment Ehecatl entered. Tears streaming down his dirt-streaked face as he fell to his knees, his voice breaking in a torrent of Spanish pleas.
"Por favor, demonio… I beg you, spare me." Villafuerte sobbed, his body trembling, hands clasped as if in prayer, the chains rattling like bones in a grave. "I've sinned, yes… but please have mercy, for God's sake!"
Ehecatl settled on a stool across from him, his expression calm but his mind adjusting tactics on the fly. To draw him out, Ehecatl opened up first, his voice low and confiding, weaving half-lies to build rapport, making himself seem relatable in cruelty.
"I understand that fear, Juan. Before the occupation, I'd never killed a man, never drawn blood in anger. But war changes us. I led raids where I gutted scouts slow, made them watch their own entrails spill before finishing them. And the women… I took one from a village, in a foggy haze of dominance, revenge and lust. I claimed her rough in the dirt, her screams echoing as I thrusted deep inside her, and didn't stop until I left her broken and marked. It's what war demands, no? Tell me my friend, how did a good man in a bad time such as you get to where you're at right now?"
Villafuerte's sobs slowed, his eyes widening in surprise at the "confession." the shared "darkness" lowering his guard as he wiped his face with a shackled hand. The words poured out then, a flood of confession laced with remorse, his voice cracking with each revelation.
"I… I was born in Extremadura, a poor farmer's son, joined Velázquez for gold in the islands. In Hispaniola, I raped Taíno girls in the jungles, their small bodies warm and struggling under me until they went limp. Came to the mainland with Cortes for more. Burned Maya villages, took women in the ashes, whoever caught my eye. I thrusted into them amid the smoke, their blood slick on my skin. During the war here, I killed non-combatants, slit throats of Mexica elders who begged, looted temples for idols to melt. After the fall, and when we raided Cholula before even arriving in Tenochtitlan. I raped priestesses in the ruins, their screams like music as I spilled inside them, left them bleeding and shattered. It felt so good in that moment. Taking a pagan priestess, showing her why we're right and their wrong, while thrusting into her I had called her a heathen, a witch, a pagan, and… when I spilled inside them I said something along the lines of baptizing them with my seed. Lately with Olid in Tlaxcala, trained their men but sampled their women too, forced a mother in a hayloft, her cries muffled by my hand. Please… I don't want to die, or have my soul eaten by you. Mercy, I confess it all!"
Ehecatl nodded solemnly, masking his disgust behind empathy, the man's life story. Extremadura birth, island rapes, mainland atrocities. A tapestry of horrors that strengthened the charges.
"You won't have your soul eaten, Juan. that's just a rumor, I don't actually do that. While I make no promises on your fate, it might be possible for an early release. It's still in the works, but so long as you behave, cause no problems, and do the hard labor assigned, some years could be shaved off your sentence. And perhaps even more if you're willing to be a witness, so long as your testimony is accurate, detailing what you and your comrades did."
Villafuerte wept in relief, nodding frantically, his chains rattling as he clutched at Ehecatl's tilmatli. "Yes… anything, I'll testify true." Ehecatl rose, leaving the broken man to his cell, the confessions noted like fresh glyphs on bark paper, the trial's web tightening with each tear-stained word.
Ehecatl moved on to the next cell in the tecpan's undercroft, the dank air clinging to his skin like a shroud, heavy with the stench of fear and unwashed despair, the stone walls dripping with lake moisture as torchlight cast flickering shadows that twisted like mocking spirits. The prisoner inside was a wiry man in his forties named Antonio de Ávila. He was chained to the wall, his beard unkempt and eyes sharp with the cunning of a survivor who'd chased gold across oceans. Ávila sat with a slouched posture, his chained hands fidgeting as if itching for a dice game or a woman's thigh, his reputation as an opportunist clear from the women's testimonies. A raider who looted for personal gain, raped for pleasure, and betrayed allies for land.
Ehecatl settled on the stool across from him, his voice casual and confiding, leaning in like old comrades sharing war stories. "Ávila, right? I've heard about men like you. Crossing seas for riches, women, land. Sounds like the life. Me? Before all this, I was a nobody, but now… the world's my feast. I can have any silver or gold I want, anyone's wife, mother, sister, daughter, aunt, niece or cousin is mine to fuck if I wish it. But, before I tell you about my life, it'd be rude of me to not hear you out first. Afterall my story has just gotten started, I'm sure you've got plenty of stories I could live out."
Ávila's chained eyes lit up, a sly grin cracking his grimy face as he leaned forward, the chains rattling softly.
"You get it, indio. Born in Cáceres, poor as dirt. Joined Columbus's crews for the islands, fucked Taíno girls in the palms until they begged either for more, or for death. I looted gold necklaces off their necks while they screamed. Riches? Stacks of cacao and feathers here, but nothing beats Cuba's conquest. Claimed a plot of land for my hacienda after gutting the locals, bedded their daughters nightly, filled 'em with my seed to breed a new line. You? Bet you've got stories, with that harem they whisper about."
Ehecatl chuckled, matching his energy with a nod, his mind noting the unintentional confession of rape and looting in the islands. "Oh, plenty. In Cholula last month, I felt like a god amongst the men. I had priestesses lining up, full tits and asses begging to be claimed. Took one in the temazcal, steam hot as her pussy, fucked her senseless until she screamed my name. Even had a damn noblewoman who I had free will to do with as I pleased. Fucked her in her ass, spilled on to her face, and she smiled happily at me for it. I want more like that, rich lands beyond, women from other lands to fill with kids, build dynasties. You must've dreamed the same when you arrived."
Ávila laughed, his chained hands gesturing wildly as he opened up further.
"Dreamed? Lived it! In Yucatán with Cortés, burned Maya villages for sport, raped their priestesses in the temples. tight as virgins those bitches, screaming in tongues while I thrust deep, spilled inside to mark 'em. Got rich off their gold idols, fucked bitches left and right, claimed even more land for future haciendas where I'd breed my own stock. During the war here? Looted your temples for feathers, gold, silver and jade, took Mexica women in the streets. I pinned one down, her ass up as I rammed her raw, left her bleeding while I pocketed her earrings. I had planned to take more after the fall, fill 'em with my kids to own the new world."
Ehecatl nodded along, his smirk hiding the disgust as he noted the confessions. Rape in Yucatán temples, looting during the siege, and occupation, plans for enslavement and forced breeding, as each detail was a nail in Ávila's coffin.
"Sounds like we could've partied together in another life. Riches flowing, women begging. But duty calls." He rose abruptly, leaving the opportunist mid-sentence, the cell door clanging shut behind him as Ávila's grin faded to confusion, the interrogation a trap sprung with shared "ideals."
Ehecatl moved on to the next Castilian. A burly man in his forties named Pedro de Vargas, a loyalist born in Toledo with a history of fanatical service to the crown, involved in island massacres and mainland conquests. Vargas sat chained to the wall, his beard wild and matted, eyes burning with the fervor of a zealot unbroken by capture, his loincloth soiled but his posture straight as if facing the king himself.
Vargas spotted him and immediately spat on the floor, his voice booming with righteous fury, chained hands gesturing wildly as spittle flew from his lips.
"You think you've won, demon-boy? My king and emperor Carlos I, rules an empire mightier than this pagan empire! Even if you slaughter us twenty, more will come. Waves of Castilian steel crashing on your pagan shores, your temples crumbling under our cannons, your women claimed for Christian seed! You can't stop the Kingdom of Castile and Leon! We're God's chosen, destined to civilize your savage world!"
Ehecatl leaned against the cell bars, his expression calm at first, but Vargas's words ignited a fire in his chest, the memories of Tenochtitlan's fall flashing like lightning. The screams of raped women, the blood-slick streets, the Castilian laughter echoing amid the ruins.
"Your 'king' is a distant fool," he shot back, his voice rising in heated retort, stepping closer with clenched fists. "Ruling from across the sea while you butchers rape and burn in his name! We've broken your 'invincibles' before. Cortes is groveling in muck now, Your ships on the waves will crash and shatter on our shores, your steel melting in our forges!"
The argument escalated, voices booming off the stone walls like thunder in a canyon, Vargas's chains rattling as he lunged forward, spit flying from his bearded mouth. "God's will prevails! We'll baptize your heathens in blood, claim your lands for the crown. Your women will bear our sons, your gods forgotten!"
Ehecatl countered with fury, his face inches from Varga's. "We'll feed your god to ours, your king's head will be on a pike! Your empire is already on the decline because of ME!"
But Ehecatl calmed then, breathing deep to rein in the rage, his mind shifting tactics. The man was a loyalist, ego tied to crown and glory, so boost it to break him. He stepped back with a forced chuckle, leaning casually against the wall.
"You're right, Vargas. Your king might send more, crush us like ants. If that day comes, they'll inherit my notes and when they read it? They'll make you a martyr, a hero in their tales. Tell me your story, then. Let me record it for posterity, so Castile remembers the man who stood unbowed."
Vargas's chained eyes lit with suspicion at first, but the flattery hooked him, his posture straightening as pride swelled in his chest like wind in sails. The words poured out then, a torrent of boastful confession laced with fanatic zeal, his voice echoing off the damp walls as he spilled his life's sins.
"Born in Toledo, son of a blacksmith. Joined the crown's service for glory in the islands. In Hispaniola, I claimed Taíno villages, looted gold idols for the king while their bodies lay bleeding. Came to the mainland with Cortés for more. During the war against you pagan filth, I led charges into your streets, slaughtered non-combatants for sport, skewered elders on pikes while their families watched. Raped Mexica noblewomen in their homes, their huipils torn as I pinned them down, their cries sweet as victory wine. After the fall, i gutted priests, and fucked their daughters on the altars, left them shattered and pregnant with bastards. In Tlaxcala, we trained their men in volleys and civilized them while sampling their women."
Ehecatl nodded along, the confessions flowing like pulque as Vargas bragged, the cell's dank chill seeping into his bones. The details noted. Toledo birth, island rapes and looting, mainland temple burnings and massacres, siege atrocities, post-war atrocities, recent abuses in Tlaxcala. The case strengthened, a web of war crimes ready to ensnare him in the trial. Ehecatl rose, leaving the loyalist mid-boast, the cell door clanging shut behind him as Vargas's grin faded to anger as he wasn't done speaking.
Ehecatl moved on to the next. A gaunt friar in his fifties named Fray Diego de la Garza. Garza sat chained to the wall, his habit torn and soiled, eyes burning with the fanatic fire of a man who'd seen God in every slaughter, his cross clutched like a lifeline.
Garza spotted him and immediately launched into a tirade, his voice booming with righteous fury, chained hands gesturing wildly as spittle flew from his lips. "Demon! Servant of Satan! I repent nothing. God guided my hand in purging your pagan filth! The Lord will strike you down for this blasphemy!"
Ehecatl settled on the stool across from him, his expression calm at first, but Garza's words ignited a fire in his chest, the memories of temple burnings and forced conversions flashing like lightning. The screams of priests as their codices fed the flames, women raped after "baptism" to "cleanse" them.
"Tell me your story, Fray Diego," he said evenly, leaning forward. "What 'sins' have you committed in God's name?"
Garza laughed maniacally, his eyes wild as he rose against his chains.
"Sins? Holy work! Born in Seville, joined the order to bring light to the heathens. In the islands, I baptized Taíno savages by the hundreds, drowning those who resisted in holy water until they saw the truth. Here on the mainland, with Cortés, I blessed the burning of your devil-temples, watched as idols crumbled in flames that purified the air. Fought your warriors hand-to-hand, slitting throats of those who defied baptism, their blood a sacrament on my blade. During the siege, I led charges into your streets, smashing altars and crucifying priests who clung to their false gods. God's will, all of it. Your souls saved or damned, but the kingdom advances!"
Ehecatl's jaw tightened, his patience fraying as the zealot ranted without remorse, the confessions spilling out unintentionally amid the pride. Admitting to drownings in baptisms, temple desecrations, crucifixions of priests, all war crimes by his standards. Anger boiled, his fists clenching as he stood, voice rising in frustration. "You call that holy? Murdering in the name of your god?"
Garza spat on the floor, his laugh echoing madly. "Holy war! The Lord forgives the righteous and your end is near, demon!"
Ehecatl didn't get much more, the zealot's fanaticism a wall of unyielding stone, but the proud boasts of combat against "pagans" and unintentional slips into atrocities. Drowning resistors, crucifying priests. It was sufficient for the trial, damning evidence of religious persecution and murder of non-combatants. He left the cell pissed off, the door clanging shut behind him like a final judgment.
…
…
…
Ehecatl pressed on through the tecpan's undercroft, the dank corridors a labyrinth of despair where the air grew heavier with each cell he visited, the stone walls slick with condensation that dripped steadily like the slow bleed of forgotten wounds. Torchlight flickered erratically, casting twisted shadows that seemed to mock his efforts, the scent of unwashed bodies and fear clinging to him like a second skin.
The remaining prisoners blurred into a monotonous parade of broken men, their names and stories echoing the same patterns as the ones before. Braggarts boasting of rapes; cowards weeping tales of burning Cholula huts and fleeing the canyon ambush, their remorse as thin as their chains; opportunists like the one from Seville who chased gold through island massacres and mainland lootings, admitting to claiming women as "prizes" in graphic detail; loyalists ranting of Castile's glory while slipping into admissions of temple desecrations and forced baptisms; zealots like the friar from Madrid who preached God's will amid confessions of drowning resistors in holy water and crucifying priests.
Each interrogation drained him further, the confessions piling up like stacks of bark paper notes. Visceral details of slit throats, ravaged women, looted idols. All fuel for the trial's fire, but the repetition wore on his spirit, the notes he's made of supplying backgrounds that faded into sameness. Born in Extremadura here or Seville there, sailed for adventure, committed atrocities for gold and god.
By the sixteenth, his eyes burned from the dim light, his back ached from the hard stool, exhaustion seeping in like the lake's moisture through the walls. The main notable prisoners Olid, Ordaz, Díaz, and u wait; he was fucking tired, his mind foggy from the relentless flood of horrors, each story a mirror to the siege's shadows he'd witnessed.
He rose abruptly from the last cell, the prisoner's sobs fading behind him as he signaled the guards. "Lock them tight. I'll finish the big ones tomorrow."
Stepping into the fresh air outside, the sun's warmth a stark contrast to the undercroft's chill, he rolled his shoulders, the weight of confessions lifting slightly as he headed home, the empire's justice one step closer but his body craving rest.
…
…
…
Ehecatl returned to the tecpan's undercroft the next morning, the air even heavier with the stench of confinement, the stone walls slick with condensation that dripped steadily from the ceiling, each drop echoing like a countdown in the dim torchlight. Guards nodded him through, their ichcahuipilli armor clinking softly as he made his way to Olid's cell, the man who'd once commanded fear now reduced to a chained shadow. Olid sat against the wall, his beard matted with grime, eyes sharp and unbowed despite the bruises from the raid, his body lean from weeks of sparse rations, but his spirit tough like the cockroach Ehecatl knew him to be surviving chaos, betrayals, and now capture.
Ehecatl entered without preamble, settling on the stool across from him, his voice steady and direct, skipping the usual feints of empathy or lies. "Olid, you're a survivor. Like a cockroach scuttling through the ruins. I respect that. So I'll cut straight to the point. I'm willing to give you a reduced sentence for everything you know about who's who in Cuba and Hispaniola. Governors, captains, friars. What are their vices, sins, weaknesses. Personal details that cut deep. Give it up, and you might see daylight sooner than the grave."
Olid's chained eyes narrowed, his beard twitching with a sneer as he leaned forward, the chains rattling like dry bones. "Reduced? From what? your devil court's noose? Why should I trust a savage like you?"
Ehecatl's smile was cold, leaning in closer, the torchlight reflecting in his eyes like embers. "Because you're smart enough to know the alternative which will be you toiling in endless labor in the muck like Cortes, or worse. Spill, and live to see another day. Who's running Cuba now? Velázquez?"
Olid snorted, but the offer hooked him, his resistance crumbling as the weight of isolation pressed. He began spilling, his voice gravelly and bitter, laced with the resentment of a man who'd chased gold across seas only to end in chains.
"Yeah, Diego Velázquez is the governor of Cuba. He's fat and greedy as a swine at trough. Vices? Hoards gold like a dragon, fucks his Taíno slaves nightly, beats them when they don't bear sons. Sins? Ordered massacres in Baracoa, drowned natives who wouldn't convert, pocketed crown tribute for his estates. His Weaknesses… I guess it would be gout from rich food, paranoid of rivals. Afterall he hated Cortés for stealing his glory in the mainland push."
Ehecatl noted it down on bark paper, his quill scratching softly as Olid continued, the confessions flowing like pulque from a cracked gourd. "Pánfilo de Narváez. Velázquez's lapdog, sent to arrest Cortés but got his ass handed to him at Cempoala. His vices would be that he's a glutton for wine, drinks until he pisses himself, fucks boys from the islands when no women are around. As for sins? He burned Nahua villages for sport when he arrived to arrest Cortes, he also raped priestesses in front of their altars to 'break idols,' enslaved hundreds for labor mines. His weaknesses would be that he's now a one-eyed from an arrow because of the battle of cempoala, he's also an arrogant fool. Underestimates natives, thinks his 'superior blood' wins wars."
The list grew, Hernán Cortés' rivals like Juan de Grijalva, explorer of Yucatán. "Greedy for pearls, raped Maya nobles for their jewelry, weak to fevers from tropic bites."
Fray Bartolomé de las Casas, the "protector" friar. "preaches mercy but blessed conquest ships, sins in hypocrisy, vices for fine robes and wine despite vows."
Governors like Pedro de los Ríos in Panamá. "corrupt taxman, fucks indigenous concubines, weak to bribes." Each detail painted a web of corruption, vices of lust and greed, sins of rape and massacre, weaknesses from disease to hubris. All ammunition for future campaigns or trials.
Olid wrapped up with a bitter laugh. "There, your 'case.' Now reduce my sentence, demon, or may God curse you."
Ehecatl rose, his notes complete, the information a treasure trove for weakening Castilian remnants.
"You've earned some mercy, Olid—perhaps a cleaner cell while you rot." He left the cockroach to his chains, the trial's foundation stronger, the empire's reach extending even to distant islands through confessed sins.
Ehecatl moved on to Ordaz's cell in the tecpan's undercroft, the air even thicker with despair as he approached the chamber where the once-proud captain was held. The stone corridor echoed with his footsteps, the damp walls glistening under torchlight that cast long, wavering shadows like fingers reaching from the underworld. Diego de Ordaz sat chained to the wall, his frame lean and battered from the raid, beard unkempt and eyes hollow from sleepless vigil, his soiled loincloth a far cry from the armored conqueror who'd led charges into Mexica lines.
Ordaz looked up as Ehecatl entered, his face twisting in defiance, but Ehecatl settled on the stool across from him with calm authority, unrolling a bark-paper scroll of notes from the women's testimonies and prior confessions.
"Ordaz." he began, his voice steady and resonant, leaning forward to meet the man's gaze with empathetic weight. "I've got witnesses who can attest to your atrocities. Temple burnings in the siege, forced conversions at swordpoint, leading raids where civilians were slaughtered like livestock. It doesn't look well for you; the evidence stacks high, and the trial will bury you under it."
Ordaz's chained hands clenched, his voice gravelly with resentment. "W-w-witnesses? Me-me-mexica lies! I s-s-served the crown f-f-faithfully! Y-y-your pa-pa-pagan c-c-courts mean n-n-nothing!"
Ehecatl nodded slowly, his expression unchanging, but he shifted tactics with a confiding tone. "I can help you, Ordaz, but you have to help me back. Give me insider knowledge on how the Cortés expedition worked. The chains of command, the supply lines from Cuba, the weaknesses in Velázquez's governorship. Details that expose the rot. In exchange, a reduced sentence. Hard labor instead of the noose, perhaps even release if your testimony breaks the others."
Ordaz's eyes narrowed, the offer hooking his survival instinct amid the cell's chill dampness. He leaned forward, chains rattling softly.
"Y-you want the g-g-guts of it? F-fine. Cortés mu-mutinied a-against V-velázquez in C-c-cuba, a-and h-he b-burned the sh-ships to force our h-h-hand. S-s-supply lines ran through Veracruz with ca-caravans f-from Cuba loaded with pow-powder and horses, b-but Velázquez skimmed tribute, w-w-weak on enforcement, ha-ha-hated Cortés for stealing glory. Ra-raids were ordered for g-g-gold, t-temples b-burned to break s-spirits. Olmedo blessed it all, said 'G-god's work.' M-men like D-d-de l-la c-cruz looted for themselves, ra-raped for sport t-to 'motivate.' O-olid plo-plotted his own conquests, whi-whispered a-against Cortés in camps."
Ehecatl noted it all meticulously, the details a treasure trove for future campaigns. Supply vulnerabilities, internal rivalries, religious justifications for atrocities that could paint the Castilians as systematic butchers. Ordaz spilled more under the promise of leniency, his confessions flowing like blood from a fresh wound, strengthening the case against the expedition's core. Ehecatl rose, leaving the man to his chains, the trial's foundation solidifying with each revealed secret.
Ehecatl proceeded to Bernal Díaz del Castillo's cell in the tecpan's undercroft, the corridor's damp chill seeping through his tilmatli as he approached, the torchlight casting wavering shadows that played across the stone like restless spirits. Bernal sat chained against the wall, his gaunt frame hunched over a tattered journal clutched in his shackled hands, his beard unkempt and eyes darting with the cunning of a man who'd chronicled horrors to justify them. The air reeked of ink and despair, the chronicler's scribbles a desperate anchor in his captivity.
Bernal looked up as Ehecatl entered, his face twisting in defiance, but Ehecatl settled on the stool across from him with calm authority, unrolling a bark-paper scroll of notes from the women's testimonies. "Bernal." he began, his voice steady and resonant, leaning forward to meet the man's gaze. "I've got testimonies that paint you dark. Witnesses saying you documented the massacres like heroic tales, justified the rapes and burnings as 'God's work,' even participated in looting temples and claiming women as spoils. It doesn't look well for you; the evidence stacks high, and the trial will expose you as the chronicler of atrocities."
Bernal's chained hands tightened on his journal, his voice cracking with a mix of fear and pride. "Lies! What did those vile treacherous men tell you? I wrote the truth. Cortés's plans, the conquest's divine mandate! Your pagan court can't judge me!"
Ehecatl nodded slowly, his expression unchanging.
"I can help you, Bernal, but you have to help me back. Give me your notes and writings. The full chronicles, every detail of the expedition's sins. In exchange, I'll see what I can do about your sentencing. Reduced labor, perhaps mercy from the noose."
Bernal's eyes narrowed, the offer hooking his survival instinct amid the cell's oppressive dampness. He leaned forward, chains rattling softly.
"My writings? They're my legacy. It's history! But… if it spares me the devil's maw…" He hesitated, then shoved the journal forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Take it."
Ehecatl took the journal, flipping through pages stained with ink and blood, the details a treasure trove for the trial. Admissions of mutiny, mass rapes, temple desecrations, all in Bernal's own hand.
"You've earned some leniency, chronicler. Your words will bury your comrades." He rose, leaving Bernal to his chains, the writings a damning archive that would seal the Castilians' fate in the empire's new justice.
Ehecatl moved to Fray Bartolomé Olmedo's cell last, the undercroft's chill deepening as he approached the friar's alcove, the air heavier with a stagnant despair that clung to the walls like mold. The stone dripped with relentless moisture, each drop echoing like a monotonous prayer in the dim torchlight that barely pierced the gloom. Olmedo sat chained in the corner, a husk of his former self. A gaunt figure in tattered robes, his once-fiery beard now matted and grayed, eyes sunken into hollow sockets that stared at nothing, his cross dangling limp from his neck like a forgotten relic. The man who had once preached conquest as God's will now exuded emptiness, drained and completely nihilistic from their last encounter, when Ehecatl had broken him mentally with relentless questions that stripped his faith bare.
Olmedo didn't flinch as Ehecatl entered, his gaze unfocused, body slumped against the wall as if the weight of his sins had finally crushed him. Ehecatl settled on the stool, his voice steady but probing. "Fray Olmedo, tell me your role in the conquest. The baptisms, the temple burnings, the 'holy' justifications for rape and murder."
Olmedo's response came hollowly and robotically, his voice a monotone drone devoid of passion or defiance, each word falling like ash from a dead fire. "I baptized the heathens… drowned those who resisted… blessed the fires that consumed idols… preached God's will as the women were taken… the children enslaved… all for the faith."
Ehecatl leaned forward, pressing further. "And the specifics? Cholula's massacre, the forced conversions in Tenochtitlan. Your hand in it?"
The friar's eyes remained vacant, his reply mechanical, without inflection or remorse. "In Cholula… I led the prayers before the burning… watched the priests tortured and killed… In Tenochtitlan… I baptized captives at swordpoint… absolved the rapes as necessary to break pagan spirits… all in His name."
Ehecatl spoke again, his tone firm.
"It's up to you if you want to represent yourself and your fellow Castilians in the trial. Speak for your defense, or let silence condemn you."
Olmedo blinked slowly, his voice flat and empty, devoid of care or spark. "It matters not… represent or not… God's judgment awaits… this world is illusion." He fell silent then, staring at the wall as if it held the void of his shattered faith.
Ehecatl rose, the friar's nihilism a chilling echo of broken zealotry, his hollow confessions, baptismal drownings, blessed massacres, absolved rapes. Sufficient to damn him as a religious persecutor in the trial. Leaving the cell, the door clanging shut like a tomb seal, Ehecatl felt the weight of the man's emptiness linger, a stark reminder of war's soul-crushing toll, the interrogations drawing to a close as the empire's justice loomed.
…
…
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Ehecatl sat in his alcove that evening, the reed curtains drawn against the cooling air, bark-paper ledgers spread before him like a conquered battlefield. Confessions scrawled in hasty writing from the Castilian's broken lips, a handful willing to testify against their comrades for a sliver of mercy. Bernal's journal was a fucking treasure trove of self-incriminating "heroics" detailing temple burnings and civilian slaughters. Then there's the women's testimonies adding visceral weight. Malinalli's venomous accounts of rapes in the camps, Catalina's tearful recollections of forced baptisms amid violations, Tecuelhuetzin's guarded details of Olid's leers and threats in Tlaxcala. Part of him wanted to call it done, the lazy urge to wrap the case with what he had tempting like a full gourd of pulque after a long day, but he knew it wasn't enough. The trial needed ironclad proof to set the empire's standard, not a half-assed spectacle like Cortes's humiliation.
No, he had to reach out to the places the Castilians had wrecked havoc. Cholula's ravaged temples, Huexotzinco's looted villages, the eastern hills where raids had left scars on the land and its people. See if the women and survivors whose light had been dimmed were alive, willing to travel to Tenochtitlan to testify, their voices the nails in the Castilians' coffins. And Ayauh's women, those vengeful survivors in Texcoco, their all-female army a repository of traumas from Castilian raids. He'd gather testimonies from them too, their stories of rape and abuse a damning chorus to bolster the charges.
But first, to steel himself for the task, he needed to indulge, and release the tension coiling in his gut. He hasn't fucked her in a while. He summoned a messenger with a quick order to send to Ayauh. "Tell Cihuatecuhtli Ayauh I'll be in Texcoco by dawn."