Moctezuma himself showed that he could not believe what was happening, and he stared at his wrists as if they were strange monsters. It all happened in a moment, but in the end Captain Cortés had transformed Moctezuma from king to prisoner.
âFrom there he was taken off to Cortésâ chambers and kept there until the four warriors who had killed Escalante and his companions were brought to Tenochtitlan at the order of Hernán Cortés. Days after, when word spread through the city that the warriors were about to enter through the Serpent Wall, everyone abandoned what they were doing and ran out to the central square, hoping to capture a passing glimpse of those men who were by now heroes.
âThey had demonstrated the courage to prove that the invaders were not gods after all. They had exerted Mexica power and prevailed against the enemy. They had single-handedly done what everyone yearned to do to the foul-smelling, vile-sounding creatures whose presence we all found sickening.
âThose warriors were now more valuable to us than perhaps our gods, because they at least were there, flesh and blood, walking and smiling, and hailing us, telling us what we could do if only we had the boldness. By that time, everyone knew of the imprisonment of Moctezuma, and knowing this threatened us more, because now we were without a leader. Nevertheless, those four Mexicas, even though held in shackles, gave us hope that somehow we would yet defeat Captain Cortés and his followers.
âThe warriors marched in through the Serpent Wall holding themselves erect. Thunder could not have drowned out the roar that rose from the crowd. Nothing could have diminished the booming of the sacrificial drums that beat and pounded out their joy. Even the fire-arms of the Spaniards could not have squelched the clamor created by the thousands of rattles and the bleating of conch shells. The whooping of the war cry shattered the air, tearing at the wind.
âDespite the warriors being bound together by shackles, they were showered with gems, feathers, and flowers. Our people rushed them, pushing, thrusting, touching them, patting their shoulders and kissing them. The Spaniards looked on in gloomy silence, but we knew that they were afraid.
âCortés silenced the clamor by stepping into the center of the square. Fists clenched and held arrogantly on his hips, he swiveled slowly in a full circle until satisfied that everyone in the crowd had seen his stony face. He turned to the prisoners and in a voice that bounced off the temple walls, he addressed them.
ââWill you confess to the murder of Captain Escalante and his men?â
âSilence. Only the sound of wind slithering from altar to altar could be heard.
ââIf you recant, I will pardon you!â
âAgain, there was no response, and we looked on knowing that those warriors would not do as commanded. When Cortés became convinced that they would say nothing, admit nothing, accuse no one, he gave the order.
ââBurn them!ââ
Father Benito leaned back in the chair as he stared at the begonia plants. He didnât ask if the warriors had been executed because, although this incident had not been recorded nor studied in Spain, he knew enough of Captain Cortés to know that he would have indeed followed through with that punishment. Again, the priest felt torn between what he knew was justice and the growing sympathy he felt for the Indian womanâs people. Disturbed, he rubbed his eyes wondering if he should put an end to the session.
âThe prisoners marched to the center of the square. I was, as was my duty, accompanying the kingâs wife, who from the moment of his captivity hardly left his side. Then the sudden howl that went up from the crowd told us that something important was about to begin. I stepped out to the terrace and beheld a spectacle that I will never forget. In the center of the courtyard, I saw
âFrom there he was taken off to Cortésâ chambers and kept there until the four warriors who had killed Escalante and his companions were brought to Tenochtitlan at the order of Hernán Cortés. Days after, when word spread through the city that the warriors were about to enter through the Serpent Wall, everyone abandoned what they were doing and ran out to the central square, hoping to capture a passing glimpse of those men who were by now heroes.
âThey had demonstrated the courage to prove that the invaders were not gods after all. They had exerted Mexica power and prevailed against the enemy. They had single-handedly done what everyone yearned to do to the foul-smelling, vile-sounding creatures whose presence we all found sickening.
âThose warriors were now more valuable to us than perhaps our gods, because they at least were there, flesh and blood, walking and smiling, and hailing us, telling us what we could do if only we had the boldness. By that time, everyone knew of the imprisonment of Moctezuma, and knowing this threatened us more, because now we were without a leader. Nevertheless, those four Mexicas, even though held in shackles, gave us hope that somehow we would yet defeat Captain Cortés and his followers.
âThe warriors marched in through the Serpent Wall holding themselves erect. Thunder could not have drowned out the roar that rose from the crowd. Nothing could have diminished the booming of the sacrificial drums that beat and pounded out their joy. Even the fire-arms of the Spaniards could not have squelched the clamor created by the thousands of rattles and the bleating of conch shells. The whooping of the war cry shattered the air, tearing at the wind.
âDespite the warriors being bound together by shackles, they were showered with gems, feathers, and flowers. Our people rushed them, pushing, thrusting, touching them, patting their shoulders and kissing them. The Spaniards looked on in gloomy silence, but we knew that they were afraid.
âCortés silenced the clamor by stepping into the center of the square. Fists clenched and held arrogantly on his hips, he swiveled slowly in a full circle until satisfied that everyone in the crowd had seen his stony face. He turned to the prisoners and in a voice that bounced off the temple walls, he addressed them.
ââWill you confess to the murder of Captain Escalante and his men?â
âSilence. Only the sound of wind slithering from altar to altar could be heard.
ââIf you recant, I will pardon you!â
âAgain, there was no response, and we looked on knowing that those warriors would not do as commanded. When Cortés became convinced that they would say nothing, admit nothing, accuse no one, he gave the order.
ââBurn them!ââ
Father Benito leaned back in the chair as he stared at the begonia plants. He didnât ask if the warriors had been executed because, although this incident had not been recorded nor studied in Spain, he knew enough of Captain Cortés to know that he would have indeed followed through with that punishment. Again, the priest felt torn between what he knew was justice and the growing sympathy he felt for the Indian womanâs people. Disturbed, he rubbed his eyes wondering if he should put an end to the session.
âThe prisoners marched to the center of the square. I was, as was my duty, accompanying the kingâs wife, who from the moment of his captivity hardly left his side. Then the sudden howl that went up from the crowd told us that something important was about to begin. I stepped out to the terrace and beheld a spectacle that I will never forget. In the center of the courtyard, I saw
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