Ehecatl arrived in Texcoco under a midday sun that beat down on the city's reclaimed streets, the air thick with the scent of blooming chinampas and fresh lime mortar from ongoing repairs. Cihuatecuhtli Ayauh awaited him at the palace gates, her leather-reinforced huipil clinging to her swelling belly. Now pregnant with his child, making three women in his life carrying his children with the first being Catalina, then Malinalli, and now her. Her all-female army stood guard, their reed-and-blood banners waving like defiant scars, but her eyes lit with a mix of vengeful fire and sultry anticipation as she drew him into a private chamber, the door sealing shut.
No sooner had they entered than Ayauh dropped to her knees, her hands deftly parting his tilmatli, her full lips wrapping around him with submissive hunger. The room's air hung heavy with incense from a nearby brazier, the flames casting flickering shadows across her curves as she sucked with devoted fervor, tongue swirling the tip before taking him deep, her eyes looking up in yielding adoration. "Command me, husband." she murmured between pulls, her pregnancy adding a sensual swell to her breasts that pressed against his thighs. Ehecatl gripped her hair firmly, guiding her rhythm with dominant tugs that made her moan around him, the vibration sending jolts of pleasure through his body, her saliva glistening as she worked him closer to release. He spilled into her mouth with a groan, her swallow eager and complete, drawing out every drop until he softened, pulling her up for a deep kiss that tasted of him.
Sated for the moment, he held her close, his hand resting on her belly as he informed her of the plans. The trial of the 20 Castilians, the need for testimonies from her women to strengthen the charges of rape, massacre, and enslavement. "Your survivors have seen the horrors up close," he said, his voice low and commanding. "Their words will bury them." Ayauh nodded, her expression hardening with vengeful resolve, summoning a few of her women who were willing to testify.
Their stories pouring out in raw detail, tears and rage mingling as they recounted the violations, the burnings, the broken spirits. That part was easy, their willingness a testament to Ayauh's leadership.
The hard part came with the faraway villages. Places like distant Cholula hamlets or eastern hill settlements by the coast that were ravaged by Castilians, where no love remained for Mexica or Castilian alike. Ehecatl had traveled with a small escort of Yaoquizque Tlapixque, their spiraled uniforms a menacing sight that drew wary stares.
In one village, local leaders refused outright, their voices bitter as they declared the past buried, "Let the ghosts rest; dredging them invites more blood." He persuaded with promises of protection under the new alliance, negotiating tribute exemptions for cooperation. Another hamlet required bribes, gold dust from trades and steel tools from the forges to loosen tongues, the women ashamed, their eyes downcast as they whispered of rapes in the fields, bodies left bruised and seeded against their will.
Some resisted fiercely, the women fearful and bitter, huddled in adobe huts with faces etched by trauma, refusing to relive the horrors for "Mexica justice." In those cases, unfortunate coercion crept in. Subtle threats of withheld aid or exposure of local collaborations with Castilians, pressed until they yielded, their testimonies extracted like blood from a thorn-pricked finger. The process dragged, the villages' dirt roads caked in mud from recent rains, the air heavy with the scent of smoke from hearth fires and the underlying rot of unhealed wounds. But in the end, Ehecatl got it done. Dozens of witnesses secured, their stories a damning chorus of rape, pillage, and cruelty, transported back to Tenochtitlan under guard, ready for the trial. The effort exhausted him, but the empire's justice demanded it, no repeats of that kangaroo court of a failure like the Cortes trial this time.
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Ehecatl sat in his alcove when he arrived back to Tenochtitlan. The reed curtains drawn against the cooling breeze from the lake, torchlight flickering across the scattered bark-paper ledgers and scrolls that covered the low table like a battlefield of words. The air hung heavy with the scent of fresh ink and aged amatl from Bernal's seized journal, its pages yellowed and stained with the chronicler's own blood and sweat. A treasure trove of self-incriminating "heroics" detailing temple desecrations, mass rapes, and civilian slaughters in meticulous Spanish script. He began compiling the evidence methodically, his quill scratching steadily as he cross-referenced the pieces into a damning mosaic.
Confessions from the interrogations piled first. Juan De La Cruz's boastful accounts of island rapes and mainland lootings, scrawled in graphic detail that turned Ehecatl's stomach; Villafuerte's tearful admissions of raping Taino, Mayan, cholulan women and girls. And slitting Mexica women's throats amid pleas for their children; the zealot Cruz's hollow recitals of blessed massacres and crucified priests; Ordaz's traded secrets on Cortés's mutinies and supply weaknesses; and the opportunist Ávila's tales of claiming women as "prizes" in Yucatán temples, all woven with unintentional slips that sealed their fates. The willing witnesses which were primarily the broken men like Villafuerte with added sworn promises to testify, their remorse a tool for the trial's credibility.
Testimonies from the women layered next, each one a visceral punch with Malinalli's venomous recounts of Castilian rapes in the camps, her words sharp as obsidian detailing nights of forced submission and beatings; Catalina's tearful memories of Olid's abductions and "gifts" of women for morale, her voice breaking as she described witnessing baptisms of native people turned to violations; Tecuelhuetzin's guarded details of Olid's leers and threats in Tlaxcala, her bitterness underscoring the alliance's fragile trust; Ayauh and her all-female army's raw stories from Texcoco, survivors recounting group rapes in raided villages, bodies left bruised and seeded against their will, their voices a chorus of rage that made Ehecatl's fists clench. Women from distant villages that were persuaded, bribed, or coerced after grueling negotiations added their accounts: a Cholulan midwife describing temple desecrations where priestesses were raped on altars; a Huexotzinco survivor whispering of children enslaved and mothers broken in front of them. Each testimony, he scrawled in English or Spanish notes, built the case like bricks in a pyramid.
Bernal's journal crowned it all, its pages a self-damning chronicle: entries boasting of "heroic" charges into unarmed crowds, justifications for burning codices as "devil's work," and casual mentions of "claiming indian women" as rewards, the ink faded but the horrors vivid.
With the evidence compiled, Ehecatl began writing down the charges for each of the Castilians, his quill flowing with precise fury. Olid for leading massacres and trafficking in women; Ordaz for temple burnings and forced conversions; Díaz for documenting and participating in atrocities; Olmedo for religious persecution and blessing rapes; the rest and their ilk—for rape, murder of non-combatants, enslavement, and looting, each name paired with specific acts from confessions and testimonies. The list grew long, a litany of sins that would bury them in the trial's unyielding judgment. Satisfied, he set the papers aside for the moment. The empire's justice now etched in ink, ready for the reckoning.
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Ehecatl gathered all his notes the next day, the bark-paper scrolls heavy with confessions, testimonies, and charges compiled from the interrogations, the women's accounts, Bernal's journal, and the distant witnesses' raw stories. The air in his alcove hung thick with the scent of dried ink and copal from a small brazier, the weight of justice pressing on him like the pyramid's ancient stones. He rolled them into a bundle, slinging it over his shoulder before heading out, the Yaoquizque Tlapixque falling in behind him as a silent guard, their spiraled uniforms swirling like contained storms through Tenochtitlan's bustling streets.
The holding cells in the tecpan's undercroft greeted him with the familiar dank chill, the air stale with sweat and despair, stone walls dripping with lake moisture that pooled in shallow puddles under the prisoners' feet. The 20 Castilians were herded into a central chamber under guard, their chains rattling like dry bones as they shuffled in, beards matted, bodies gaunt from rations, eyes darting with a mix of defiance and fear. Olid stood at the front, his glare unbowed; Ordaz beside him, muttering prayers; Díaz clutching himself like a lost child; Olmedo kneeling in silent resignation; the rest a huddle of broken men, their loincloths soiled and spirits dimmed.
Ehecatl stood before them, his noble tilmatli flowing in cochineal red, his voice resonant and commanding as it filled the chamber.
"Castilians, hear your charges. Each of you stands accused of war crimes against the Nahua peoples, cholulan, Huexotzinco, Tlaxcalan, Otomi, and Totonacs. murder of non-combatants, rape, enslavement, destruction of sacred sites, and more. I call you out one by one."
He unrolled the scroll, his tone steady as he listed them, the guards shoving each forward as their name echoed off the walls.
"Cristobal de Olid, your to be charged with leading massacres in Cholula, trafficking in women, complicity in temple burnings, and aiding the occupation's atrocities."
Olid spat on the floor, his voice snarling. "Lies from savages!"
Ehecatl continued undeterred. "Diego de Ordaz, charged with forced conversions at swordpoint, destruction of temples in Tenochtitlan, participation in raids on civilians, and looting cultural artifacts."
Ordaz hung his head, muttering in defeat. "G-g-god's will… b-b-b-but mercy."
"Bernal Díaz del Castillo, charged with documenting and justifying mass rapes and murders, participation in village burnings, and propaganda for the conquest's horrors."
Díaz clutched his empty hands, his voice weak. "I only wrote the truth, señor…"
"Fray Bartolomé de Olmedo, charged with religious persecution, blessing rapes and massacres, forced baptisms leading to drownings, and desecration of sacred sites in Cholula."
Olmedo knelt in prayer, his voice hollow. "The Lord forgives…"
The list went on for the remaining sixteen—names like Juan Rodriguez de Villafuerte charged with slitting throats of pleading women and rape; Antonio de Ávila for island rapes and mainland enslavements; each accusation met with sobs, curses, or silence, the prisoners' reactions a symphony of despair that echoed through the undercroft.
With the charges announced, Ehecatl stepped forward, his presence commanding as he addressed them all, his voice firm yet measured. "You are not owed silence, but you may choose it. You are not owed mercy, but you may request it. Speak clearly, for the scribes are listening. Lie, and both the Mexica gods and your Christian god will see it before we do. Confess, and your life may yet serve a purpose. Refuse, and the court will decide without you."
The Castilians murmured among themselves, some weeping anew, others defiant, as Ehecatl rolled up the scroll, the guards shoving them back to their cells with clanking chains. The trial loomed, the empire's justice a blade honed sharp.
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…
The door was shut, and silence followed. Then the chains began to rattle again as the prisoners shifted and murmured, the weight of the charges settling over them like ash after fire.
Olid was the first to speak.
"They call it justice." he said, voice thick with contempt. "This is revenge. That boy in a cloak thinks he's a judge."
Diego de Ordaz sat on the floor, his back to the wall, rosary dangling from his hand.
"H-He's not wrong on e-e-everything." he muttered. "W-w-w-we d-d-did what we did. W-we all did. S-so did they."
Olid scoffed.
"So what? It was war. Siege. Pussy. Fire and blade. What did they expect, a sermon and silk gloves?"
Bernal Díaz shifted in his corner, voice low but sharp.
"They expect their dead accounted for. And we gave them reason. Maybe too much. Maybe too eagerly."
"Careful, Bernal." Olid growled. "You sound like you want to confess."
Díaz rubbed his temple.
"I don't know what I want. But I know they're keeping track. And he has my book. My words. All of it."
Antonio de Ávila, hunched near a dripping wall, let out a bitter laugh.
"Then we're all damned by his pen before the court even speaks."
Olmedo stirred from his silence, eyes still closed in his hollow state.
"They do not understand the Lord's work." he said softly. "They judge it by their own gods. Their own rites."
"But they have rites." muttered another man. "Scrolls. Guards. A cell for each of us. This isn't butchery. It's a fucking court, it's as if we're back in Cuba or Castile."
"It's mockery!" Olid snapped. "They act like us, Castilians. Court, rules, and scribes. As if that makes them our equals."
Bernal shook his head slowly.
"Not even our equals, this whole court and trial makes them our betters. We wouldn't have done this for them. Not like this. We'd have just hanged or burned them."
One of the younger soldiers, barely more than a boy when they landed, swallowed hard.
"They said we could confess. And live."
Olid's eyes flared.
"And you'd lick the boots of the same people who want to string you up like a dog?"
"I want to go home." the boy said quietly. "Or die quick."
Silence fell again.
From the far end, one man let out a weak cough. Another began to pray under his breath, in broken Latin.
They weren't soldiers anymore.
Just men waiting for a sentence no cross could stop.
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A few days had passed, and the word was out that everyone in the city is to attend the trial of the twenty Castilians. And it's to be in the templo mayor. It was a strange and new concept for the average Mexica when explained what type of trial this is, but nonetheless they all want to see what happens to the Castilians who caused them so much harm.
The news spread through Tenochtitlan like wildfire through dry maize fields, whispered in markets where vendors hawked feathers and salt, chanted in plazas during pledges, and echoed in temples where priests prepared extra copal for the gods' witness.
"A trial for the Caxtilteca." the commoners murmured, their cotton tilmatli rustling as crowds gathered at dawn. The air thick with the scent of blooming chinampas and fresh lime from ongoing reconstructions. Families streamed toward the Templo Mayor, children hoisted on shoulders for better views, warriors in ichcahuipilli mingling with healers and scribes, all drawn by the promise of justice for the war and siege's horrors the rapes, burnings, and blood that had scarred their city.
The Templo Mayor loomed like a twin-headed serpent, its dual pyramids dedicated to Huitzilopochtli and Tlaloc rising above the sacred precinct, steps freshly painted in cochineal red that gleamed under the rising sun. Scaffolds had been erected around the base for the accused, reed mats laid for the nobility, and bark-paper banners hung with the eagle-serpent flag, a symbol of the Sixth Sun's renewal. Guards from the Yaoquizque Tlapixque stood vigilant in their spiraled uniforms, grenades at their belts like promises of thunder, while Cuauhmecatl's priests from Cholula chanted invocations, their bone masks rattling softly in the breeze.
The average Mexica buzzed with confusion and excitement as runners explained the "trial" not a sacrifice or quick execution, but a structured reckoning with charges, witnesses, and confessions, a new concept that puzzled many.
"Like judging the god's will?" one vendor asked, scratching his head, while a healer nodded thoughtfully.
"The Cihuacoatl calls it justice for war crimes, to cleanse the shadows." Whispers rippled through the crowd, some skeptical of this "foreign" idea borrowed from Ehecatl's visions, but all eager for vengeance.
The Castilians' names cursed in hushed tones, memories of looted homes and violated kin fueling a collective hunger. Women clutched their children closer, eyes hard with unresolved pain, while men gripped macuahuitls, ready to cheer whatever fate befell the twenty who had brought ruin.
Ehecatl stood at the altar's base, his noble tilmatli flowing in red and gold, flanked by Cuauhtemoc and the high priests, the stage set for the trial to unfold, the empire's new justice a spectacle that would etch the Sixth Sun's laws into every soul.
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The trial began at dawn in the shadow of the Templo Mayor, the massive pyramid looming over the sacred precinct like a divine judge, its dual summits dedicated to Huitzilopochtli and Tlaloc casting long shadows across the assembled crowd. The air hummed with anticipation, thick with the scent of copal incense from braziers and the murmur of thousands of Mexica commoners, nobles, and warriors packed into the plaza, their cotton tilmatli rustling as they shifted for better views. Scaffolds ringed the base for the accused, reed mats laid for witnesses, and bark-paper banners hung with the eagle-serpent flag, a symbol of the Sixth Sun's renewal. Guards from the Yaoquizque Tlapixque stood vigilant in their spiraled uniforms, grenades at their belts like promises of thunder, while Cuauhmecatl's priests chanted invocations for truth to prevail.
Ehecatl stood at the altar's base flanked by Cuauhtemoc and the high priests, his noble tilmatli flowing in cochineal red as he addressed the crowd, his voice resonant and commanding.
"People of the Mexica, today we hold the Castilians to account for their war crimes, atrocities against our kin and gods. This is no spectacle but justice, evidence and testimony to cleanse the Fifth Sun's shadows."
The 20 Castilians were marched out in chains, their beards matted and bodies gaunt, loincloths soiled as they shuffled before the scaffold, eyes darting at the sea of hostile faces. Malinalli stood nearby as translator, her expression cold and venomous, ready to relay their Spanish pleas to the Mexica tongue.
Ehecatl called the first, Cristobal de Olid, hauled forward by guards. "Olid, you stand charged with leading massacres in Cholula, trafficking in women, complicity in temple burnings, and aiding the occupation's atrocities."
Olid spat defiance, his voice booming in Spanish, "Lies from you pagan savages! I served the crown!" Malinalli translated sharply, her words cutting through the crowd's murmurs like a blade, drawing boos and shouts of "Rapist! Murderer!"
Testimonies followed from a Cholulan survivor, voice trembling but firm, recounted Olid's raids, "He burned our temples, took our women as 'gifts,' his men raping them in the streets while he laughed."
Catalina, her hand on her belly, added softly in broken Nahuatl, "He gave me to you, but before… he beat and claimed me like property." The crowd's rage swelled, stones about to be thrown but halted by guards. Olid denied it all, but Bernal's journal entries, read aloud by a scribe, damned him.
"Olid led the charge, claiming spoils of flesh and gold."
Diego de Ordaz came next, charged with forced conversions, temple destructions, and civilian raids. His stuttered defense in Spanish.
"God's work!" was translated by Malinalli with disdain, her eyes flashing as witnesses from Huexotzinco described his burnings,
"He crucified our priests, forced baptisms on the dying." The pattern repeated for Bernal, his own writings turned against him.
"I documented the glory, and the truth!" he protested, but entries of "claiming indian women" drew the crowd's fury.
Fray Bartolomé de Olmedo, hollow and broken, offered no defense, his hollow admissions from interrogation read aloud. "I blessed the rapes… all for faith." Priests in the crowd chanted curses, the atmosphere electric with vengeance.
The lesser 16 followed, their confessions from interrogations presented. Braggarts boasting of rapes, cowards weeping over massacres, opportunists admitting lootings. Each met with the crowd's roars, Malinalli's translations fueling the outrage.
The trial ended with verdicts, a life of hard labor for all of the 20 Castilians. The crowd cheered as the Castilians were led away, the Templo Mayor's altars stained with the blood of justice, the Sixth Sun's dawn feeling cleaner in the empire's sacred heart.
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A day had passed since the trial, and the sun was already high when the twenty were marched out of their cells, shackled and sun-starved, toward the lake's edge.
They didn't know where they were going at first.
Until they saw him.
Cortés.
Bent over a wheelbarrow, sleeves rolled, face shadowed with grime and defeat. The chains on his ankles clinked as he dumped rubble into the barge. He turned at the noise and froze.
For a moment, he almost smiled.
"Well…" he rasped, "you all made it. I see they didn't kill you."
No one answered.
The guards shoved them into line beside him. Same tools. Same barge. Same sweat and rot.
"I take it your trials were quick?" Cortés said with bitter humor. "Mine was short. No questions. No promises. Just labor."
Olid was the first to speak. His voice was hoarse.
"They did question us."
Cortés blinked.
"They did what?"
Ordaz nodded.
"All of us. One by one. He—Ehecatl had scrolls and Bernal's book. Accusations. Names. Witnesses. He read them aloud. Then asked if we had anything to say."
Cortés dropped the shovel, wiping his face.
"What do you mean witnesses?"
Díaz's voice cracked as he spoke.
"Women. Survivors. Some were there. Some told him after. Some he found somehow. He knew too much already. Called me out for every village I wrote about."
"And you confessed?" Cortés asked, appalled.
Díaz didn't answer.
The young soldier from before looked down at his shackled hands.
"He said he'd go easier on us if we were honest. If we helped him understand what happened."
Olid spat into the dirt.
"He lied. We talked, and we're still here. Same as you."
"You sure about that?" muttered Ávila. "He spared the ones who broke first. Gave lighter duties to those who begged. Told us the cowards at least knew their place."
One of the older men, silent until now, muttered from the side.
"He said we were tools. And that some tools could still be useful. Others… just reminders."
Cortés looked around, trying to piece it together.
"You mean he passed judgment?"
Ordaz nodded.
"On each of us. As if it were a court. Said it wasn't about just guilt, said it was about what we chose to become once we were here."
Cortés stared at the lake, chest rising slow.
"A Nahua court," he whispered.
"A reformed Nahua Court." Olmedo murmured behind him. "It wasn't what we witnessed back when Montezuma was around. It wasn't Castilian either. It was him. Just him."
They fell into silence again.
Around them, the lake lapped against the stone. The city groaned with rebuilding. And the wheelbarrows waited.
Cortés leaned back against the barge's edge, wiping the sweat from his brow with a dirt-stained sleeve. For a long moment, he didn't speak. Then
"I didn't get what you got."
The others turned toward him.
"No trial. No parchment. No testimony. No questions. Just the sentence. Said I was already judged."
Olid scoffed. "So why not kill you?"
Cortés barked a laugh, sharp and bitter.
"He wanted me alive. Said killing me was too simple. Said I'd be more useful here, humiliated. Working. Sweating. Living like the people we broke."
The silence between them thickened.
"I heard things." Cortés said. "From the cells. Before they moved me. Heard the Mexica whispering. Heard the servants. Heard Malinalli."
The name struck them like a pebble to still water. A few exchanged glances.
"I saw her," one muttered. "At the trials. She was translating."
"Looked heavier than before," another said.
"Pregnant." said a third. "Is it…?"
Cortés didn't blink.
"Not mine."
He let the words hang.
"I didn't touch her much that December. Everything was falling apart. She wasn't exactly keen to lie with me, nor I with her since I spent that month trying to keep everything from falling apart. That child… it's his."
Olid frowned. "So she evaded punishment?"
Cortés nodded slowly. "Of course she did. That bitch was being fucked by him in her cell. How and why else would she evade punishment?"
"A-and what of your trial?" asked Ordaz. "W-why so different?"
Cortés spat into the water.
"Either he was afraid." he said bitterly. "Didn't know how to try me. Didn't trust himself to do it right. Or…"
He looked them each in the eye.
"…he knew exactly what he was doing."
The others were quiet again.
"He visits, sometimes." Cortés said. "Not to ask questions. Not to demand anything. Just to mock me."
"Mock you?" Díaz asked.
Cortés gave a grim nod. "Sometimes he just stares. Says nothing. Other times he sings."
That earned him a few puzzled looks.
"He hums this… strange little song. It's not Nahuatl. It's… it has Castilian words, but at the same time isn't Castilian either, their ugly sounding words. The others laugh when they hear it, but I know he's singing it for me."
He clenched his jaw, voice low and dry.
"Called it 'ilegales en mi patio.'" (Illegals in my yard.)
A few of the prisoners frowned, confused. Others grimaced in discomfort.
"He says it loud enough to echo through the cells. Then walks off like nothing. That's the justice I got."
And with that, Cortés picked up the shovel and returned to the rubble.
Behind him, none of the others spoke. Not out of pity. Not out of guilt.
But because, for the first time, they believed him.
They were prisoners.
But he was something else entirely.