1516

Isabella didn't want a foreigner to have too much to say on Spain's life, and Ferdinand had to see how their projects to be sure of this crumbled. Fate had made their heirs die young and now the crown rested on the head of a child that had been raised far away from Spain's land, under the care and influence of Austria and his entourage. Not even knowing the language of the nation he was going to protect and rule over. He was the regent until Charles came of age, but that wouldn't last long. Then Spain would be under this foreign influence. Of people who gave the Flemish nobility too many privileges. No, that couldn't happen, he said to himself. He was still in time to keep Spain under the protection of the Trastámara family.

Thus, Ferdinand took Germana de Foix, niece of France's king, as his wife. She was eighteen and he, fifty-three. He was still capable of engendering and she was as fertile as she could be. That way he made sure Spain would enjoy Naples, belonging to Foix, and, most of all, engender an heir in whose hands he would feel comfortable to leave Spain with. A boy was born, but he only lived a few hours.

Ferdinand became obsessed with that woman. He gave her all titles and dignities she could ever hope for, was so jealous that vice-chancellor of Aragon ended up imprisoned for falling in love with her. She was incredibly beautiful and had a great lineage, he needed an heir from her. He started taking substances to improve his performance in bed. All kinds of herbs, liquids and hocus pocus, some of them frowned upon by the Church surely.

One night, Foix ran out of their chamber screaming for help. When Spain arrived, Ferdinand was already dead.

Ferdinand was dead and the worst scenario for him became true: now Charles was in charge of Spain's well-being. The boy who knew no Spanish, who had been educated by Austria himself.

Foix and Charles became friends...Maybe more than any step-grandmother and step-grandson had ever been. Incapable of conceiving an heir for Ferdinand, Foix suddenly found herself with a daughter called Isabel. On the other hand, Spain couldn't have felt more alone. The family he had grown in had disappeared. Maria and Catherine were abroad, with their spouses. Joanna and her children were imprisoned in Tordesillas. Charles would only come home to be crowned king, and it seemed he had better things to do but mind about the nation he was going to inherit.

Since he had no one left, and no one to retain him there, he followed the group of men who traveled to the New World to explore the jungle, and claim it for the crown.

He had to be by their side. He had to meet his new subjects. He wanted to see new things and escape from the humans and their intrigues.

He had heard stories about those men and women, but he had to see it for himself to believe it. Indian empires with an extraordinary and particular beauty, and fierce too. After all, they had survived in such an hostile environment for a reason.

"And by royal decree, these lands are now property of the kingdom of Spain and their people shall be from now on subjects to the crown."

All eyes were on him. Nobody really paid attention to what he was saying, because it was unlikely they even knew Spanish. No, they were looking at him. At his pale skin. His features. His clothes. They had never seem something like it and they were convinced it was supernatural.

Those eyes. Oh, those eyes staring at him, so hard, so proud. Spain understood at that moment why many of those who had come into those faraway lands never wanted to leave. Why many married the Indian women. Why Ferdinand had ended up signing a decree blessing these mixed-raced unions, ending up an avalanche of bastard children, not white or Indian.

1519

After a brief war, Tlaxcaltec soon became an ally for Spain. It seemed he admired his strength. He was almost impatient to learn his language without intermediaries. As soon as Spain's coming was announced, he demanded to meet him. He was a grave man in spite of his short height, which he compensated with a bandana decorated with feathers and a cape, under which he only wore a short skirt and sandals. Spain's armor fascinated him and Spain took note to ask his artisans to make him one. He was someone one could trust.

"They say you came from the skies. You came with shining attires, sticks that spit fire, and creatures we have never seen before..."

Tlaxcaltec paused. He had offered Spain various treats growing in his land that the Spanish were fascinated about, like a dark grain they usually drank called 'xocoalt' or what immediately called Spain's attention: a red, round thing they called 'tomatl', but his somber expression soon distracted them from these fascinating and delicious discoveries.

"We need your help. Only you can match the witch with your technology."

"Witch?" Spain asked.

"We are permanently at war. She always wants more, like bad weed which tries to spread. I am strong and I can resist, but many like you and me have succumbed..."

"Who is this witch?"

"They call her Mexica."

A priest joined the group, carrying a parchment, which he unrolled before the Spanish.

Nor Spain nor Cortés, Estrada or any of the men around knew their language, but there were pictures...And they were nightmare fuel. Of human figures lying on a bed of stone, held by horrible people armed with a knife. Bodies split open, lying on the stairs of a temple. Hearts being offered to the god of the Sun.

"That is what my people have been victims of since the world is world." Tlaxcaltec said in a sotto voice. "We have resisted. Just...resisted. But you have come, and really feel like a gift from the skies."

Tlaxcaltec did a gesture with his hand and a woman, barely dressed—with simple accessories her kind considered 'dressing'—, approached.

"This is the daughter of my cacique. She is young and fertile. More will be yours for your men to take as wives. I have heard you like gold. Take as much as you want. I will accept Jesus as my savior—since he has proved to be a strong god. Anything you ask for."

Spain turned to his men. María Estrada, of course, had a husband and avoided looking at this woman. Pedro de Alvarado seemed to like the offering. By Cortés' side was the one that had been baptized as Marina, formerly Malinalli, also a former slave Cortés had chosen for her knowledge of those lands and wisdom, and was now his wife.

They were open to the idea, and it was not surprising for Spain. The natives were fascinating, had a kind of beauty he could have never imagined.

If Spain had learned something from Isabella and Ferdinand, it was that marriage was a great way to make a deal.

He looked at the horrifying pictures again. How monstrous. That was utterly Satanic, wrong, sickening...All adjectives he could come up with fell short. Of course it felt like a duty to help these people against such abominable creature. Someone who fed on human blood to please the gods...He had permission from the Pope, after all, to make war against those who carried out sacrileges like these, who did abominable acts and adored these idols. It was an act of generosity, freeing the natives from empires of terror like these.

"Where can I find this Mexica?"

For what Tlaxcaltec had told him, he was facing a nation with an extraordinary power, several hundred times bigger than everything he had been able to bring. Spain didn't want to lie: he felt intimidated. There was a good chance that this could go wrong.

But he was lucky that this Mexica was so cruel, because he gathered a good number of allies. Tlaxcaltec reunited a good number of little nations under his cause; all of them survivors of Mexica's tyranny. All of them willing to get their longed revenge.

And he didn't know, but he was also lucky that Mexica's superstitions were on his side. Because the year 'one cane' and the day 'nine wind', the exiled god Quetzalcoatl would return, dressed in black, to afflict them terrible punishments.

The 22nd of April was Good Friday, and therefore Spain and his men stepped on Mexican territory wearing black.

The woman received Spain personally. She wore a headdress made with long feathers, almost making her look like the sun crowned by rays. Half of her face was painted with a dark shade of blue, with several red dots. She wore a long loincloth and a crop top, both decorated with golden and colorful stones.

He had never seen a nation like this in the entire world...And that seemed to be Mexica's exact same impression.

It was not difficult to earn her trust.

"Agua."

"...Agua."

"Planta."

"Ple...Planta."

"Tierra."

Mexica didn't repeat this time. Instead, she gazed at Spain and he smiled at her. In her hand was one of those rolls with dry plants, which she had lit, and now sucked, expelling smoke. A custom Spain found strange, even stupid, until he tried it and found—after coughing his lungs out the first time—that it was very pleasurable.

"You are making a great progress." He said. She continued to stare at him, and Spain ended up giggling. "What are you looking at?"

She then caressed his chin with the tip of her fingers.

"They say you are not a god. Only a messiah from them. But you are still a good-looking one."

"If you want to make me blush, you are doing fine." Spain chuckled. "But there is just one God, my dear. Don't worry, I shall explain the whole matter to you and-"

She was smirking. Of course she clang onto her Pagan ideas. That would mean a lot of work, but her disbelief seemed so charming at that moment...

"Your power, I heard, has no rival. Just like a god's."

There was a rival indeed. That thick-eyebrowed friend of his called England, and the bearded imbecile known as France. But he had a reputation to maintain. He couldn't let Mexica know there were more people like them, rivals to his power.

"And I admire that. I like men who are strong. Who are not afraid. Who can keep up with me."

He saw her smile. And what a smile. Mexica was fierce, he heard, but her smile was so hypnotizing—it would haunt him for centuries.

"Will you stay? And rule this land with me? Tell me your pretty words are not just that, pretty words."

Rule that land...As her consort?

"When will you attack? Why are you mingling with her, sharing a bed, accepting her gifts? You promised..."

...Patience...That was what he said to Tlaxcaltec and the others, what he said to his men...

Wait...You have to feed the pig before you kill it...Earn its trust...

She was too powerful. He still had to find a weak spot. Something to work with...

He caressed her hair, her cheeks, then kissed her lips.

He didn't regret the intimate times he spent with her, though. It felt like he was betraying her sometimes. Maybe there was a way to do things the nice way. Back at home, when a nation conquered another, it didn't necessarily mean their annihilation. Take Romano, Holland, Belgium...He had sent a letter to Charles in which he expressed his will to marry her when he subdued her, just like he wanted to marry Tlaxcaltec. Her and the other nations they had found. He was sure he would accept. That ensured the Spanish would have full control over the land, the Indians—and the gold. Surely the Pope could give them a bull allowing polygamy between nations.

But then all plans, all the comradeship, crumbled.

Their 'little games', as his men euphemistically said, were interrupted by the death of seven of his own, including captain Juan de Escalante, by the Mexicas, in a dispute between Indian tribes. Spain never got to know the details. Cortés was outraged and took Mexica's leader, Moctezuma II as his prisoner. Then things got ugly.

"Release him this instant!" Mexica yelled.

"He is a traitor!" Spain replied. "It's his fault my soldiers got killed!"

"Our enemies did it! Those you call friends..."

"Tell your people we are staying."

She glared at him. Spain broke the distance between them to glare at her.

"Tell them we are going nowhere."

"Indeed you are. You are going to release Moctezuma and leave my domains now!"

Spain only got to grab her arm. With the quickness and lethality of a venomous snake, Mexica, with a knife she had to have hidden somewhere in her dress, stabbed him in a side. He saw her just moments before her tribe came to take her somewhere safe. As if she needed saving. Even at that moment, with flaming eyes, she was hauntingly beautiful.

"RETREAT! RETREAT!" Cortés commanded his soldiers.

There were Indians everywhere, wielding weapons against the Spanish. Overwhelmed, their only way to get out alive from this was fleeing. Spain was mounted on a horse and galloped away. Many of his men were not that lucky. Several fell to the canal and drowned—a few of them, foolish, had tried to take some of Mexican's gold inside their armors and that only dragged them to their watery grave. The others were killed by their spears, knives and arrows.

After what seemed like an eternity, the group could finally rest under a big tree the natives called ahuehuete.

"...No one else is coming?" Pedro de Alvarado asked in little more than a mutter.

Tears started falling from Spain's eyes. He covered his face with sorrow, shook his head with great affliction. All those good men they left behind...

"Let's go...We can do nothing for them.." Sobbing, he stood up soon. "We've got to make up a plan."

"Rest, milady. You've gone through enough." Cortés said to María Estrada.

"No. I will follow my nation till the end. The Indians will see how courageous he is that even his women know how to fight." She replied, standing up from the floor with great dignity.

She turned proudly towards Spain, and he tried to offer her a smile. But his heart was so full of grief...

1521

Spain watched himself in the mirror, half-naked, to watch the wound inflicted by Mexica. He usually healed in a matter of minutes, even severe injuries, but months had passed and the scar was still there. Had he lost his gift? No, impossible. It was Mexica. Nothing hurt a nation like another nation.

Sighing, he put his shirt on and walked to the desk, where some letters awaited him, just brought in the ship that had arrived that morning.

The first one was Austria's.

'Spain.

I understand you have duties you must take care of in America but you must be informed about the situation here. King Charles has inherited great power but also great problems. Your aristocracy is very concerned about his crowning, because you know he has been raised in Flanders and, as you know, he barely speaks Spanish. I wish language was the only problem: for what has reached my ears, the main problem is that he has brought his advisers and these proud noblemen are not very happy about the idea of losing their privileges to some foreigners. They say it is obscene that Charles is using the money you send from the Americas to pay for his candidature to the throne of Holy Roman Empire. It is a very good investment, as you know. They are trying to make Joanna queen at all costs. The leaders of this movement, Padilla, Bravo and Maldonado, have even held a meeting with her at Tordesillas. I don't know what Joanna said to them, if she gave them her support. I don't think so, but I don't want to take anything for granted.

You should come as soon as you can to talk to your people and tell them they've got nothing to fear. They've got to subject to their rightful king.

Your people are not the only ones who look at our monarch with suspicion. I am sorry to say we didn't wait for your approval but we, including England in this equation, are now at war against Veneciano and France. Veneciano is just a teenager, but he is under the influence of France, who has already tried to steal Holland and considers you have too much power. He has been recurring to very nasty tricks. Both him and Italy are starting to spread nasty rumors about you; in fact, I am hearing numerous voices accusing you of ignominious crimes. His Majesty and I are taking care of everything, but I must be sure we can count on you.

No great power comes without a price. I know your merry and trusting character, and I do believe it can bring you trouble, because you want to be everybody's friend, you are so eager to please, see the good in everyone in your path, and it is not until you have a knife in your back that you realize you have trusted the wrong person. You are my husband, my destiny is tied to yours, for the good and the bad, I appreciate you, so allow me a piece of advice: do not give the Indians the chance to use your affections against you. It is better to be feared and hated than to be loved, for love is just a form of manipulation.'

Spain took some time to digest what he had just read and then opened the other letter. Charles'.

'My dear Spain.

Allow me to write to you as a friend rather than your king. You have raised my mother, and my grandparents, since the beginning of my dynasty. They have brought me up to respect you and love you, and I certainly do, not guided by the opinion of others but moved by your affections. I have always come to you for advice, and you have been frank to me. This time, it is I the one who wants to warn you.

I have been hearing you are certainly enjoying your stay in America. I know your lust for thrill and I do suppose you are glad you have been given the permission to go claim those uncharted lands yourself. However, rumors say you are enjoying a bit too much.

I am particularly worried about your relationship with the Indian nations. An unpleasant rumor says you have been caught fornicating with one or two of them. I know you well, your rectitude of character, so I am sure those are nothing but rumors, but I am still concerned, Spain. I too have heard about the power of seduction of those women, so different to what we have ever seen, understandable in such a place where very few Spanish women can go and men are subject to their carnal instincts. I want you to be careful and resist the siren songs. I encourage you to marry those civilizations as a way to ensure our control over the land and its resources. But beware. The Indians are treacherous by nature.

Our power, my dear Antonio, has no equal. I am not unaware of the hate my titles have earned me. In this world only the strongest survive. Now Greed and Envy lurk, and I want you to be strong, for both our sakes. You have a great heart, I know, and that is why those who meet you love you dearly—but kindness is often a sign of weakness. Do not be weak, Spain. Be Antonio, the bold. Do not let these vultures devour you. You know you are the chosen one, but you can't do great things if you do not have a great character.'

"My lord."

Spain turned his head to the door, interrupting his reading.

"We have news that the noblemen of Tenochtitlán who were willing to negotiate the siege of the city have been executed by their own people…"

'Did you cut them open yourself, Mexica?' Spain thought, his eyebrows burrowed. 'Did you offer their hearts to those feathered gods of yours?'

"What should we do now, sir?" The soldier asked him.

His God was the only one. And he required retribution too. She had spilled the blood of Christians and would have to give hers. 'He shall wash his feet in the blood of the wicked.'

Spain walked to the other side of the room to put his armor on, then grabbed his musket and sword. Without saying a word, he marched out to assemble his men and the Indians they could trust.

During what his men called The Night of Sorrows, around four hundred and fifty Spanish men and four thousand allies died when the Mexica Empire betrayed them. Some of them were captured alive and sacrificed to some Pagan deity in a gruesome ritual.

An eye for an eye. That was in the Scriptures. Spain would not let the death of his men be left unpunished.

After sixty days of siege, the city of Tenochtitlán was desperate, weak, vulnerable. It was then when Spain broke in and him and his men got their revenge.

Around him, his soldiers killed every barbarian in their path, robbed every piece of gold and silver that they considered rightfully theirs.

This was the end of Mexica.

Where was her beauty now? She looked withered like a rose which lost her scent and color. Her teeth were gritted like the snake she was. She still held her spear in her hand but had no strength left to use it. All she could do was speak her last words.

"Spain...Of course...I knew it...You are no god...Just a lackey...Brought here to steal what was rightfully ours, and give us sickness, slavery and death instead...You got what you wanted. This land is ours, and all its treasures and its people. My children—your new slaves. One day you shall look at them and fill their hearts with fear so they obey you, reminding them of how you killed their mother. You will describe to them how you killed her and everyone who got in your path. Because you are your god's hand. The great and powerful Spain...Mark my words: it will not last. All that power will turn against you one day, and then you shall feel the sting of a million knives in your back, one for each of your sins. May your god forgive you because mine will chase you for the rest of your days."

But even at that moment she still had fire in her eyes. Even when her pressed the musket against her temple. Even milliseconds before he pulled the trigger.

What was left of her after the detonation fell backwards and before Spain's eyes it rotted and turned into dust. Giving him victory. And such a shiver ran down his spine that the world seemed cold for a second.

All that was left of her were her garments and jewels. Someone stole them as a trophy and Spain didn't stop him. Where was Txlacaltec? It was evident the empire was gone and this land was rightfully theirs. They had a lot to talk about.

Then he heard those cries, inside of the temple which had been Mexica's shelter during the siege.

Spain came in. Nobody had pillaged it yet. Not that there was something that could interest all those mercenaries. There was only her.

He found her in a basket, in a corner. Was it an improvised cradle? Did Mexica plan to sneak her out of the city somehow?

An electrifying feeling made his body tremble when he saw her for the first time. Was that what Rome felt when he found him in the village? She was not just a child, not even one of those the Mexicas kept for sacrificing purposes. The crying baby was like him.

He held her in his arms. A baby girl, practically naked, with tan skin. She shook her tiny arms and let out a mewling sound. Spain whispered to her, rocked her softly, and she seemed to calm down a little.

"Sir!"

Cortés stopped when he saw Spain with the baby in his arms. The expression on his face.

"...It is done, sir. The city is ours."

Spain nodded. After a little while, he walked out of the temple with his commander and the baby in his arms.

"I want to get this child baptized as soon as possible." Spain finally said.

"Hm? Oh. Of course..."

The nation gazed at the girl once again. The screamings from the Indians still had her restless so he kept rocking her and whispering to her. Her eyes were golden. Like the treasure her mother Mexica kept. But she wouldn't grow up to be a savage just like her. He would make her the jewel of the crown, his biggest accomplishment. What Rome did for him back in the day, he would do it for her. He wouldn't let her repeat his mistakes.

Spain caressed her cheek with the tip of his finger with extreme delicacy.

"New Spain..."