F0174 · The Rain Would Not Stop

The rain would not stop. It rained as though the sky, in its fury, were trying to erase those men’s tracks from the wet sand. Hernán Cortés watched the camp with a frown, aware that every drop falling on the gunpowder destroyed what little chance they had of defending themselves in the event of an attack. Dampness was a silent enemy, seeping into the ships’ cracks, into the weapons and into the men’s spirits.

A short distance away, Father Díaz carried out his double task as confessor and physician. He had treated the wounded with enemas and bloodletting, methods that drew groans more bitter than the pain itself. The men regarded him with a mixture of respect and fear, as though that friar held in his hands the salvation of both body and soul.

In the jungle, the stench of a dead animal filled the air, mingling with the metallic smell of blood and the sea’s salty dampness. Francisco de Montejo, barely a young man of twenty-one, had been ordered to explore the surroundings. It was his first important mission, and his nervousness showed in every gesture. Alessio and Farid had watched him leave, exchanging a curious glance from their corner of the camp. Both were silent observers, figures who seemed to be there only to witness and record, as though their presences belonged more to the future than to the present.

Montejo had returned hours later, pale as a leaf, his eyes laden with images he did not know how to process. He had found human sacrifices, bodies opened with almost surgical precision, their chests exposed and offered to the sky. Flies still hovered over the remains, indifferent to the rain. That sight had confronted him with a truth he would have preferred to ignore: his own vulnerability, his own mortality.

—What did you see? —Cortés asked him, without taking his eyes off the horizon.

Montejo could barely answer. He stammered something about the bodies, the rituals, the faces frozen in an expression that was not pain but surrender. Alessio and Farid listened from the shadows, their expressions unperturbed, as though that description were no more than a line in a book they had already read.

The jungle, meanwhile, remained silent, broken only by the snapping of branches beneath the weight of the men who arrived shortly afterward to inspect the place. Cortés led the group with a firm step. The Alvarados held their swords ready, and the restless dogs pulled at the leashes held by the slaves.

The place was more dreadful than Montejo had described. The bodies, aligned with a disturbing symmetry, were a reminder of the power of the ancient gods who still claimed their place in that land. Alessio looked at Farid, who, with an unsettling calm, observed every detail as though seeking to understand the logic behind the horror.

—This is no different from what we do —Farid murmured, low enough for only Alessio to hear.

Two days later, when it finally cleared up, the scene had changed. The men, trying to shake off the weight of what they had seen, began repairing the ships and amusing themselves with horse races on the beach. The Alvarados laughed as they urged their mounts on, and the slaves walked the dogs, their steps slow and resigned.

A man hidden among the trees watched every movement with fascination. His ink-stained hands traced quick, precise drawings on a piece of parchment, capturing the riders with a mixture of wonder and admiration. He knew those drawings would reach Moctezuma, who would see in them not only the men who came from distant lands, but also the gods who walked among mortals.