F0181 · The Maroon Kingdom / It Comes to Watch
December 1520
The air in the camp near Tlaxcala was icy, and the stars seemed to shine with unusual intensity, as if witnessing with indifference the events unfolding beneath their gaze. The campfires crackled, casting sparks into the sky, illuminating the weathered faces of the Spanish soldiers and their Indigenous allies, who shared the space in a mixture of fatigue, expectation and mistrust.
At the centre of one of the tents, Gonzalo de Sandoval bent his head over an improvised map. His eyes followed the irregular lines tracing the territories that still resisted submission. His men, gathered around him, listened in silence as the captain explained the mission entrusted to him by Cortés: to secure the supply route from the coast and dismantle the Aztec garrisons in Zautla and Xalacingo.
—There is no margin for error —Sandoval said firmly—. Each step we take brings us closer to Tenochtitlan, but also exposes us. If we fail in this mission, there will be no second chance.
Meanwhile, in another corner of the camp, a group of soldiers spoke in low voices. One of them held a small book that was said to have arrived from Europe. On its pages, Luther’s words burned with the same intensity with which the German reformer had burned the bull Exsurge Domine and the Suma Teológica of Saint Thomas Aquinas.
—They say he defied the Pope —one of the soldiers remarked, his voice laden with incredulity.
—And they say the Pope called him a son of the devil —another added, letting out a bitter laugh.
The discussion, though distant, reflected the tensions crossing oceans and lands, tensions that seemed to resonate even in that camp where the flames illuminated more than faces: they illuminated the fissures of a world being reshaped.
Suddenly, a figure appeared among the shadows, wrapped in a white mantle that shone like moonlight. It was the Virgin of the Tribulation. Her appearance silenced the camp; the soldiers, incredulous, fell to their knees. Her hands, extended as if offering comfort, seemed to invoke a peace that contrasted with the violence that had brought them there.
Atonatiuh watched from a secluded corner, his face impassive, but his eyes revealing an inner tumult. Beside him, Farid, ever an enigmatic figure, inclined his head slightly, as if studying the vision with a mixture of curiosity and scepticism.
—Do you think she is speaking to us all? —Atonatiuh asked in a barely audible whisper.
Farid did not answer at once. His eyes remained fixed on the Virgin, but his voice, when he spoke, was serene.
—Sometimes, the divine does not come to speak. It comes to watch.
Atonatiuh did not know what to answer. The image of the Virgin vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving behind a heavy silence, as if the entire camp were holding its breath.
Meanwhile, in Tlaxcala, Hernán Cortés supervised the construction of the brigantines. His hands moved over the plans with an almost obsessive precision. He knew those vessels would be key to regaining control of the lake and laying siege to Tenochtitlan. His determination was palpable, a force that seemed to spread to everyone around him.
The night advanced, and though the cold seeped into their bones, the fire of the human spirit burned more fiercely in that camp. Soldiers, Tlaxcalans, and figures such as Atonatiuh and Farid remained beneath the stars, aware that the fate of two worlds was colliding in that place, at that time.
F0181 · The Maroon Kingdom / It Comes to Watch
December 1520
The air in the camp near Tlaxcala was icy, and the stars seemed to shine with unusual intensity, as if witnessing with indifference the events unfolding beneath their gaze. The campfires crackled, casting sparks into the sky, illuminating the weathered faces of the Spanish soldiers and their Indigenous allies, who shared the space in a mixture of fatigue, expectation and mistrust.
At the centre of one of the tents, Gonzalo de Sandoval bent his head over an improvised map. His eyes followed the irregular lines tracing the territories that still resisted submission. His men, gathered around him, listened in silence as the captain explained the mission entrusted to him by Cortés: to secure the supply route from the coast and dismantle the Aztec garrisons in Zautla and Xalacingo.
—There is no margin for error —Sandoval said firmly—. Each step we take brings us closer to Tenochtitlan, but also exposes us. If we fail in this mission, there will be no second chance.
Meanwhile, in another corner of the camp, a group of soldiers spoke in low voices. One of them held a small book that was said to have arrived from Europe. On its pages, Luther’s words burned with the same intensity with which the German reformer had burned the bull Exsurge Domine and the Suma Teológica of Saint Thomas Aquinas.
—They say he defied the Pope —one of the soldiers remarked, his voice laden with incredulity.
—And they say the Pope called him a son of the devil —another added, letting out a bitter laugh.
The discussion, though distant, reflected the tensions crossing oceans and lands, tensions that seemed to resonate even in that camp where the flames illuminated more than faces: they illuminated the fissures of a world being reshaped.
Suddenly, a figure appeared among the shadows, wrapped in a white mantle that shone like moonlight. It was the Virgin of the Tribulation. Her appearance silenced the camp; the soldiers, incredulous, fell to their knees. Her hands, extended as if offering comfort, seemed to invoke a peace that contrasted with the violence that had brought them there.
Atonatiuh watched from a secluded corner, his face impassive, but his eyes revealing an inner tumult. Beside him, Farid, ever an enigmatic figure, inclined his head slightly, as if studying the vision with a mixture of curiosity and scepticism.
—Do you think she is speaking to us all? —Atonatiuh asked in a barely audible whisper.
Farid did not answer at once. His eyes remained fixed on the Virgin, but his voice, when he spoke, was serene.
—Sometimes, the divine does not come to speak. It comes to watch.
Atonatiuh did not know what to answer. The image of the Virgin vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving behind a heavy silence, as if the entire camp were holding its breath.
Meanwhile, in Tlaxcala, Hernán Cortés supervised the construction of the brigantines. His hands moved over the plans with an almost obsessive precision. He knew those vessels would be key to regaining control of the lake and laying siege to Tenochtitlan. His determination was palpable, a force that seemed to spread to everyone around him.
The night advanced, and though the cold seeped into their bones, the fire of the human spirit burned more fiercely in that camp. Soldiers, Tlaxcalans, and figures such as Atonatiuh and Farid remained beneath the stars, aware that the fate of two worlds was colliding in that place, at that time.
F0181 · El Reino Cimarrón / Viene a observar
Diciembre de 1520
El aire en el campamento cercano a Tlaxcala era helado, y las estrellas parecían brillar con una intensidad inusual, como si presenciaran con indiferencia los acontecimientos que se desarrollaban bajo su mirada. Las fogatas crepitaban, arrojando chispas al cielo, iluminando los rostros marcados de los soldados españoles y sus aliados indígenas, quienes compartían el espacio en una mezcla de cansancio, expectativa y recelo.
En el centro de una de las tiendas, Gonzalo de Sandoval inclinaba la cabeza sobre un mapa improvisado. Sus ojos recorrían los trazos irregulares que delineaban los territorios que aún se resistían a someterse. Sus hombres, reunidos a su alrededor, escuchaban en silencio mientras el capitán explicaba la misión encomendada por Cortés: asegurar la ruta de avituallamiento desde la costa y desmantelar las guarniciones aztecas en Zautla y Xalacingo.
—No hay margen para errores —dijo Sandoval con firmeza—. Cada paso que damos nos acerca a Tenochtitlan, pero también nos expone. Si fallamos en esta misión, no habrá segunda oportunidad.
Mientras tanto, en otro rincón del campamento, un grupo de soldados hablaba en voz baja. Uno de ellos sostenía un pequeño libro que se decía había llegado desde Europa. En sus páginas, las palabras de Lutero ardían con la misma intensidad con la que el reformador alemán había quemado la bula Exsurge Domine y la Suma Teológica de Santo Tomás de Aquino.
—Dicen que desafió al Papa —comentó uno de los soldados, su voz cargada de incredulidad.
—Y dicen que el Papa lo llamó hijo del demonio —añadió otro, dejando escapar una risa amarga.
La discusión, aunque lejana, reflejaba las tensiones que cruzaban océanos y tierras, tensiones que parecían resonar incluso en aquel campamento donde las llamas iluminaban más que los rostros: iluminaban las fisuras de un mundo que se reconfiguraba.
De repente, una figura apareció entre las sombras, envuelta en un manto blanco que brillaba como la luz de la luna. Era la Virgen de la Tribulación. Su aparición silenció el campamento; los soldados, incrédulos, cayeron de rodillas. Sus manos, extendidas como si ofrecieran consuelo, parecían invocar una paz que contrastaba con la violencia que los había llevado hasta allí.
Atonatiuh observaba desde un rincón apartado, su rostro impasible, pero sus ojos revelaban un tumulto interno. Junto a él, Farid, como siempre una figura enigmática, inclinó ligeramente la cabeza, como si estudiara la visión con una mezcla de curiosidad y escepticismo.
—¿Crees que nos habla a todos? —preguntó Atonatiuh en un susurro apenas audible.
Farid no respondió de inmediato. Sus ojos permanecieron fijos en la Virgen, pero su voz, cuando habló, era serena.
—A veces, lo divino no viene a hablar. Viene a observar.
Atonatiuh no supo qué responder. La imagen de la Virgen se desvaneció tan repentinamente como había aparecido, dejando tras de sí un silencio pesado, como si el campamento entero contuviera la respiración.
Mientras tanto, en Tlaxcala, Hernán Cortés supervisaba la construcción de los bergantines. Sus manos recorrían los planos con una precisión casi obsesiva. Sabía que esas embarcaciones serían clave para retomar el control del lago y asediar Tenochtitlan. Su determinación era palpable, una fuerza que parecía contagiarse a todos a su alrededor.
La noche avanzaba, y aunque el frío calaba hasta los huesos, el fuego del espíritu humano ardía con más fuerza en aquel campamento. Soldados, tlaxcaltecas, y figuras como Atonatiuh y Farid permanecían bajo las estrellas, conscientes de que el destino de dos mundos colisionaba en ese lugar, en ese tiempo.