F0177 · Outside the City

26 June 1520. Outside the city.

Cortés wept when he learned that Moctezuma had died. These were not tears of mourning, but of something deeper, darker. The game had changed.

They held a funeral for him. But not even death brought the emperor’s story to a close.

Atonatiuh and Farid wandered, lost in themselves.

—What are you doing? —Atonatiuh asked.

Farid did not answer at once. He looked towards the horizon, as if waiting for something.

—I am waiting for the man who made me a slave.

Atonatiuh understood. They both stood at the edge of the abyss. There was no homeland, no future.

The sun blazed above their heads.

—Then let us wait —he murmured— for the slave traders to come for us.