The air was hot and unbearably sticky; Spain had never experienced anything like it. He felt like he was boiling in his armor. Every layer of clothing felt like it was sticking to his skin. Even North Africa was not this incredibly stifling. Spain fanned himself with a piece of parchment, trying to get some relief. He looked up at the ceiling of his tent, there was some strange large insect making lazy circles. What was this strange world he had found. Even the creatures were alien. The people were even more so.
He had met with the Aztec empire a fortnight ago and his mind had yet to stray far from the child, her child. The fascinating child with the wide eyes. Spain couldn't shake the thought of the boy. He felt it deep in his chest; he needed that boy. It was a longing so deep he felt it in his bones. He knew it as certainly as he knew he was supposed to be here. Providence had given him this chance and he was going to take it. He would not spurn God's will when so much had been granted to him.
The insect above him dipped its large wings and turned rhythmically. There was something fascinating about it, the way that the light played off the wings of the creature. At the right angle they flashed brilliant shades of green and blue. Strange though it was, the beauty could not be denied. It was much like this land. Spain tightened his grip on his makeshift fan. He felt the thin parchment crumble beneath his glove. It would all be his as soon as this conquest was over. It was divine will that he should have it. He had been given a sailor to find this place, the bounty of several islands, and now his crowning achievement was sitting before him like ripe fruit.
What he had seen of the towering, glowing capital city still haunted his dreams. He wanted like he had wanted nothing before; he dreamed of riches and could see them when he awoke, gold glittering in the rays of the early morning sun. It was frustrating that they could feel so real and still be so far away. Providence had given him an advantage, but not a decisive one. Tribes had fallen to his relatively small force one by one, but the one he really wanted was eluding him. Cortez was a warrior, but he didn't have the supernatural power to overthrow an empire.
Spain put his hand to the rosary around his neck. It was currently under his armor, but he could run his fingers over each bead. He was praying as he always did for a way for the conquest to be decided in his favor. As he did, he felt a drop of sweat run down the back of his neck and get lost again in the locks of his hair that curled in a ponytail at the nape of his neck.
Then, he heard footsteps outside of his tent. Automatically, he stood and put his hand to the hilt of his sword. But, when the familiar figure of Cortez ducked through the fabric, he let himself relax. The man had an annoying habit of never properly announcing himself and Spain's personal guards never made a point of it, since they conversed so often. Spain said, forcing his voice to not crack as it had been doing recently, "What news?"
There was only one reason that Cortez would barge in, and that was news on the conquest. He welcomed it as long as the news was good. He dared not guess at what it might be. If it was tragic, the disappointment would be far worse if he imagined it to be good. He had more than he would have dared hope for a decade ago, but he still couldn't stand the thought of being defeated, of having his spectacular fortune end. It would be so strange to return to the war and chaos that had engulfed his peninsula before.
But, the mortal gave him a look that dispelled all of his worries. The man said, "This isn't quite a surrender, but I think I've secured something even better."
The words were cryptic, so Spain asked the question that immediately occurred to him, "What is it?" Whatever the man was alluding to was making his heart pound. The pull of fate was strong, telling Spain that this was yet another step in his destiny. It was the same instinct deep in his heart, telling him to leap without hesitation.
He could barely contain himself as Cortez replied, "One of the tribes, claiming to be the rival of the Aztec Empire has come to offer himself to you." Spain could barely believe what he was hearing. Yet another opportunity was presented to him through something superior to himself.
He asked immediately, "Is he here?" He wondered if the man standing across from him could hear the way his heart was pounding.
The answer came equally as quickly, "Yes. I wanted to get your permission before allowing him to speak to you."
There was little propriety between them; Spain trusted the man and it was necessary for them to be open with each other. He also suspected it was because of his age; he was still young. Thus, he replied, not bothering to compose himself, "You have it. I want to see him as quickly as possible."
As soon as Cortez left the tent, a painful awareness washed over Spain, the same one he had fought the entirety of the conquest. He was still young and had never commanded authority as a political entity in Europe. But, there was no reason that the tribes he met here should know that. As far as they were concerned, he was a king among his own. With enough confidence, there would be no difference. He had employed the same posturing every time he spoke to one of them. They seemed to respect strength and that alone, and that he could appear to have.
Spain took a deep breath to calm himself and drew his spine up into correct military posture. He tucked his hands behind his back in a gesture of supreme confidence. It would put him at a disadvantage drawing his sword, but that was the point. If this man had come here under the flag of truce, then there was nothing to fear. These natives were an exceptionally trusting people. It seemed that without Cesar, the idea of warfare through deception never developed.
He was waiting for only a couple minutes before a native who he immediately recognized as a nation entered the tent. His manner of dress was strange, but no more so than all the others Spain had met. At first it had been shocking, but each encounter made it less so. Now, it was expected. The Spaniard noted that the other was not carrying any weapons, a sure sign that this was peaceful visit. Spain still wore a sword at his hip and carried a dagger for close quarters.
As soon as he saw Spain, the man made a sweeping bow. The Spaniard made no attempt to reciprocate the gesture. He wouldn't do that courtesy to a savage and a pagan. He would not sit in the presence of this man either, so he remained standing while the other straightened up and slowly brought his eyes to Spain's face. Not allowing for any silence, which had the unpleasant ability to breed plots, Spain said, "So, who are you?"
This question was merely a practical one. If they were to be allies, Spain would need to know exactly what kind of man power was available to him. An unassuming interpreter had accompanied the tribe; usually she followed Cortez around. He seemed to have other intentions for her once she was no longer needed for translation, but Spain did not inquire. She translated into, what Spain suspected to be, more polite terms. The other made one more small bow before saying something in the Aztec language.
The interpreter girl said, "He is Tlaxcala. He is an independent state." This one Spain had heard of from some of the others he had conquered: They said he was a strong warrior who had resisted Aztec conquest for decades. That was intriguing; this one would likely have been difficult to overcome. He must have made the decision to come here based on what he thought he could gain. Perhaps there was a politics of duality here after all.
Spain's next question was more measured than the first, "Why would you seek an alliance with me?" He could already guess at the reason, but he wanted to hear it directly from the man's lips. He waited while the both the question and the reply were passed through the translator. But, Spain didn't need a translation to recognize the smug smile that appeared on the man's face. It was the look of one who finally saw the opportunity to destroy his vexing enemy.
The translation invariably came, "He says that he believes you have a mutual enemy. Her defeat would benefit you both. He also recognizes you as a warrior and says spilled blood between the two of you would be a waste."
This was exactly what Spain had been expecting to hear. This tribe, for all his grandeur, was seeking out a tool to use against his personal enemy because he feared his own destruction. It was pure pragmatism. But, he was offering the man power that Spain needed to bolster his own forces, and that could not be ignored. However, Spain was wary; help never came without the expectation of return. That much he had learned from years of watching European politics from a distance. He wouldn't agree until he knew exactly what it would cost.
He asked, "And what do you expect me to give you in return?" He could have spoken diplomatically around the quid pro quo of conquest. He knew dozens of ways to do so, but each seemed like a waste of time. Why pretend that there was some gratitude or gift for support when it was buying troops? Spain ignored the compliment embedded in the request. Of course he seemed to be invincible to savages who didn't have the advantage of gunpowder.
Judging from the length of the translator's statement, Spain judged that she had created the nuance that he had elected to ignore. All the same, the other nation responded with his eyes fixed almost admiringly on Spain. The wait for the translation seemed agonizing, but the girl finally said, "He expects to remain as he is now: a free city. If you want to take the rest of the empire, it is your right of conquest. He wants the plunder of Tenochitlan when you do take it. But, he also reminds you that she has a son, and-" She stopped for a moment to find words in Spanish to soften the blow of the request. He saw her swallow nervously as though not translating it could make the rest of it disappear. Finally she said, "He wants the boy as his prize. That is the most important of his requests."
Spain felt the bile immediately rise in his throat. He dared not ask what the man would do with Aztec's son once he had him; there were many options, but they were all equally unpleasant. He could guess from the stories of what the Aztec empire did to her enemies. The boy was both helpless and guiltless. Handing him over to his mother's enemy would be knowingly handing him to a butcher. He could not allow that to happen, especially because he already considered the child to be his.
But, the stress put upon this made refusing delicate. Spain knew he needed the extra men, and that turning down this willing ally would be a very poor strategic decision. But, he felt a deep pull towards the child, more than he had towards any of the Carib children he had already taken in. He pulled in a deep breath through his nose. The moist jungle air flooded into his lungs, granting him a moment of clarity. He could not act like a boy anymore; he had to be the empire he hoped to become. What would his father do in this situation? He answered himself: Rome would agree when it suited his needs and then find a way to avoid paying the price when the time came. Spain decided that he would do exactly the same. He said, "I agree, but you will have nothing until the battles are won."
Spain slowly disengaged himself from Mexica's arms. The boy was apparently used to sleeping close to his mother or some retainer because he curled up against Spain's body in his sleep as though reaching out for heat. Like a cat, he had found the closest source of heat and brought his own body against it. Spain could have laid there all night watching the boy sleep, his little chest rising and falling rhythmically, but he had another duty.
There was an agreement he had broken in leaving the capital with this boy in his possession, and it needed to be dealt with before the injured party decided to create an uprising. He had had little time to contemplate a solution with the conquest moving so rapidly. But, from here a letter should suffice. It could be left at Hispaniola when they docked there for supplies and returned to the mainland. An interpreter could read it to Tlaxcala and it would end their agreement. He could not tell that vicious nation that the boy was alive and in his safe keeping. If Mexica was ever to return to his homeland, and it was less a matter of if than when, then Tlaxcala would likely try to steal him away. It was better to pretend that there was no prize for either of them to claim.
That way this unfortunate alliance could fade, fulfilled in every other way. From the small desk in the corner, he produced a piece of parchment and a quill. He took one more glance at the boy asleep on his bed, who looked like a dark cherub on the sheets. That boy, whatever his blood may be, did not deserve to be butchered by his mother's enemy. This letter would be enough protection. Spain wrote a quick lie about how the child had been too young to survive the illness that his mother was able to weather. It was the same lie he had told the child. But, with every stroke he felt like he was erecting a wall between the child and the world to which he no longer belonged. Tlaxcala would no longer be a problem and the child could be safely hidden in Madrid and educated as a colony. Spain couldn't help but congratulate himself on his cunning.
Spain was looking through the reports from the Northern peripheries for what felt like the thousandth time that day. It was so frustrating that England thought he could build his little fledgling colonies on this continent. Spain had explained more than once that the pope had given him the right to all this land, but neither England nor France listed to him. Now he had to build up buffer zones on the frontiers. No one was going to infringe on his claim to New Spain unless they stepped over his dead body to do it. Mexico City was the perfect center of operations from which to deal with the new threat. He hoped that the inhospitable, uncultivable nature of the North would drive out the English colonists on it's own, but he couldn't count on it exclusively. England was an irritating upstart who continued to beat the odds and vex Spain. So, Spain was drafting orders to do away with England and his troublesome queen. The queen of Scots would prove more agreeable and would bring Arthur forcibly under the yoke of Rome.
The door opened and a messenger stepped in. He looked nervous and Spain was immediately intrigued. He had not expected to be interrupted today, and certainly had not planned a meeting with anyone. If someone had come to petition, then they had chosen an inopportune time. But, it may prove a welcome distraction from the frustrations of European politics, so Spain beckoned to the man.
The mortal immediately began to speak, "There is someone here to see you, sir. I told him you had strict orders not to be disturbed, but he keeps insisting. He will see you and no one else. He's very insistent." Spain raised one eyebrow. Insistent partitioners were usually not as important as they thought they were. This was starting to sound like a waste of time.
So, to gauge whether this was really going to be worth the effort, he asked, "Who is he?"
The mortal gave an involuntary gesture that seemed to be a shrug and then he said, "He will not tell me. He is an Indian so I told him there were other authorities. But he says he is accountable to no one but the crown." Spain sighed to himself. He knew who this was; the last sentence made it clear. Only one other nation would have the audacity to come to his door like this. It was a problem that could be easily dealt with; usually his concerns could be dealt with with a quick exemption or some specialized law.
He replied, "Tell Tlaxcala that I will see him."
The mortal's eyes widened for a moment, but he quickly realized that it was not his place to ask. He left the room and Spain let out a low sigh. This distraction may prove to be just as dull as the alternative; Tlaxcala rarely brought any interesting grievances. This was likely to be another squabble between that self-aggrandizing city state and another Spanish settlement. It would have been impossible to beat the Aztec empire without him, so Spain still granted him an audience. But, it was taxing to have to listen to this man's demands as though Spain was not a conquerer.
The Spaniard stood and took a quick glance at the wall behind his head. The Spanish royal crest was hanging proudly on the wall with a single sword beneath it. It was not a beautiful sword, but it had a history. It was the sword Spain had carried during the conquest. Tlaxcala would know exactly what it meant though. The city state was not immune from consequences. As long as Spain still had New Spain, he would lose nothing by executing the Indian nations or chastising them as he saw fit. New Spain was his key to riches and power, not any of the old nations.
He turned again to see exactly who he expected. The man was beginning to show the signs of age, the years since the conquest had not been kind to him. When Spain had first met him, Tlaxcala had been a hardened warrior who had spent years fighting against the Aztecs. He had been formidable. Now there was a slight bend in his back and lines in his skin; he no longer seemed to be a threat. There was something fascinating about the way a country could age so rapidly when he lost all power. It seemed that as New Spain grew up the old nations that made up his land waned.
Spain spoke first, as was his right as an empire talking to a supplicant, "What is so urgent that you need to seek me out?" Tlaxcala looked slightly offended by the question, but there was a determination in his eyes that Spain had not seen in decades. The man had mostly accepted his place. He had agitated surprisingly little after the conquest.
He spoke with a new found strength in his voice, "Do you remember the day Tenochitlan fell? I worked with you to bring down my biggest enemy. Do you remember what I asked of you when she was dead?"
Spain wasn't certain where this conversation was going, but he entertained it anyway. This was not anything he had not rehashed before. He had not revisited the fall of the Aztec empire in years. He wanted to keep the information far away from New Spain. The boy was perfectly loyal and he didn't need a reason to question it. Spain had plans for him, plans that were coming to fruition already. The boy was turning into a very good colony, an obedient Catholic colony. It was exactly what Spain had planned for him from the beginning. Spain answered the question, although his memory of the day was not as clear as it used to be. He said, trying to hide his contempt, "You asked for the spoils of the city and I allowed it."
He remembered it well. He had allowed the sack of the city, and allowed his allies to take what they wanted. A larger prize had presented itself to him. All this information was not important now. All of that was gone now, nothing more than a fading memory consigned to history. Tlaxcala was glaring at him, and he was struggling to understand why. The city state spoke, his eyes still fixed like fire on Spain, "That is not all I asked of you. I was promised her child.I knew she had a child who could take her place. You told me he was dead."
Spain nodded. He remembered, that was the lie he had told. This still seemed completely unrelated to whatever was making the man so upset; that promise was made and broken long ago. Spain sighed and took a couple imperious steps forward. He replied, "Why are you wasting my time? I told you that the Aztec bloodline ended." He could hear the certainty in his own voice even though he knew it was a lie. New Spain was alive and well, but there was no reason for his mother's enemy to know that.
Spain felt the other's eyes stab straight through him, the accusation burning in them. Tlaxcala spoke, "I did not come to the capital today to petition you. I wanted to walk the streets and remember what this city used to be. I find myself sentimental more often now. I saw something today I did not think possible." Spain was about to snap at him again, but the man continued, taking his time to build to his point, "I saw a young man. There was something very familiar in his face. I could not figure it out at first, but then I saw his eyes." Spain felt an uneasy sinking in his chest. It was accompanied by the intuition that he knew where this was going. It became perfectly clear when Tlaxcala said, "His eyes are gold, just like his mother's. I know that color, it looked down on me enough."
The man stopped speaking, a liquid rage was boiling behind his eyes. Spain's heart was pounding in his chest. The instinct to fight was itching at his fingers. It didn't matter that he was caught in a lie. The man couldn't do anything; he was old and feeble. Spain considered remaining silent, but he could get more triumph out of speaking. He plastered a self assured smile on his face, "So you saw Nueva Espana. What about it?"
The older man recoiled, as though he had expected Spain to be nonplussed. But, he fell back on his anger and snapped back, "You lied to me. He is Aztec's son and heir. You told me he was dead!" Spain could not recall the last time a conquered nation had raised his voice at him. He was tempted to threaten the man into silence, but there was an easier, honester way. Spain didn't need to fear Tlaxcala, especially now that his hold was so secure. When he had just unseated Aztec, his power had been precarious. Now, the man was no threat.
So, Spain said, "You're right. I didn't want you to threaten him because of who his mother was. He is safe with me." He took a moment to build tension. Tlaxcala was going to have to wonder what he was about to say for a moment. Spain's mind flitted for a moment to New Spain. How close had Tlaxcala gotten? If he had done anything to New Spain, Spain had no qualms about ending him right here. He had no idea how far the desperate old man was still willing to go. Spain continued talking while his own mind went over all the possibilities, "I know you hated his mother. I was not about to let you kill him for that. He was a child."
The light across the old man's face shifted as he understood. The rage turned to disbelief. His voice sounded deflated as he said, "You think I want him dead? He is the heir to all the land of both his parents; that makes him more valuable than you even realize. I wanted to raise him so he was not a tyrant." Spain didn't believe the response for a moment. It would be convenient for his intentions to be good.
Though he didn't believe the man, it didn't matter either way. Even if he was telling the truth and had actually intended to treat the child well, there was no way Spain would reverse his decision. But, he was still certain that this was a lie. He scoffed, "So, you've learned to lie. You can't expect me to believe that. But, it doesn't matter. Whatever you would have done with him would have been harmful. I lied to protect him."
He expected this statement to be sufficient. He was not facing down a man who had any power to threaten him. If he was having this conversation with France or England he would be more concerned, and, consequentially, more guarded. But Tlaxcala, whatever he may protest, he was harmless. The man did not back down. He said, something of the roar of anger slipping in, "What I would have done with him? And what have you done with him? He is the son of two empires and yet he doesn't resemble either of them. Why is he dressed like you? Why is he speaking you language? Why have you renamed him after yourself?"
Spain did not hear most of the questions. The statements had struck him as more profound. He had never discovered who New Spain's father had been. It had hardly seemed important since he had taken the paternal role in the boy's life. He had always assumed that New Spain had his father's temperament, as he never seemed as volatile as his mother. But, now his interest was piqued. If his father had been an empire, then it was important Spain know who he was. It doubled New Spain's value if he was effectively royal on both sides. Spain couldn't resist this line of inquiry; he needed to know all he could about his colony. Understanding him could allow Spain to draw him closer.
He asked, completely ignoring Tlaxcala's indignation, "You said two empires. Who was his father?" He took another step towards the other to make his intention more clear.
But, the old man's eyes widened, "You never asked him? His father was the Mayan empire."
Spain gasped despite himself. This information was surprising. He had assumed that Aztec had bedded some lesser tribe so that she could have an heir. But, now the massive ruins on the Yucatan peninsula came to mind. So, that was New Spain's father. This information was useful; it certainly explained how much land belonged to the boy. Spain was intrigued. This gave him all the more reason to keep New Spain close. His raw material wealth was reason enough, but Spain's own affection made it unthinkable that he would relinquish his claim.
This was apparently what Tlaxcala read in his face because he returned to his original outrage. He looked disgusted as he asked, "Does he know what you did to his mother?" There was a certain straightening of his back that communicated he thought this point would give him some kind of triumph. Spain was suddenly wary of answering the question because he suspected the truth was the answer the other wanted. But, to lie and say that New Spain knew would be to discredit the boy. Only a heartless, faithless son would be loyal to the man who killed his mother.
Spain had contemplated telling him, but every time the honesty did not seem worth the blow to his bond. New Spain was loyal and Spain would not have that challenged, even by his own admission. Thus, he could only answer the truth. But, he would not concede it as a defeat. He said, his voice strong, "No, he does not know" He said it like a proclamation, not an apology. Regretting his lie would only open an opportunity for the man who was still inflicting his presence on him.
The other, however, said, "He will know. I will tell him. Then he will hate you and you will deserve it. You lied to me and you're lying to him. I never should have trusted you and I will make sure he doesn't make the same mistake." Spain's mind lighted on the sword behind him for a moment. It would be easy to grab it and run the man through. Tlaxcala was threatening him in his own home, and that could not be tolerated.
But, there was something less drastic he could do. He took another few steps forward so that they were close, close enough to be threatening. He said, "You should remember that you continue to exist by my good will. If my crown withdrew support, how long do you think you would survive?" He paused for a moment to watch the other's eyes widen further. Then he said, "But that is immaterial because Alejandro will never believe you. Before you ever get the chance to speak to him, I will tell him what you did. You betrayed his mother. You threw yourself at me at the first opportunity. You sacked his capital city. Why would he trust you?"
As Spain left another pause where the other seemed to struggle to find words. He finally said, "But you've-"
Spain cut in with a sneer, "I'm his guardian. I have raised him and he loves me." His voice gained strength as he spoke. He was certain of every word he spoke. New Spain was his colony and he knew him well. A stranger who he may have met once in his childhood had no chance of convincing him. Spain's hold was secure. But, to be completely sure, he would back up his certainty with a threat.
As he turned back to the work that was waiting on his desk, which he had ignored for this practically pointless conversation, he added, "And if you ever go near Alejandro again, I will end you." Spain had his back to the other and he expected that when he turned around Tlaxcala would be gone. Whatever threat he had intended to pose gone with him.