Sancho took a deep breath, stretching his aching arms out to his sides. The salty sea breeze, while something he’d endured for 2 months, filled him with an incomparable exhilaration. It was no different than the air he’d breathed the day before, nor that of two days prior, nor that of a single day since he departed from Valencia. What made this scent special was not that it was any different than what he was used to, but that it was different from what he was soon to experience. Indeed, land had been sighted, and with good fortune, this would be the last day he would be at sea.

Sancho Velázquez de Oviedo was born in 1509 to aristocratic parents, his father being a minor viscount and his mother being a daughter of the Duke of Badajoz, perhaps the most important man in the Spanish Kingdoms when the emperor was absent. Despite his high birth, Sancho was never set to have grand prospects, being the fourth and last of his brothers, who were set to inherit all that his father held. He grew up in an era of uncertainty and excitement, regaled with tales of the exploits of conquistadores forging a path through the untamed wilds of the New World. Hernán Cortés, Vasco Núñez de Balboa, Juan Ponce de León, all names that inspired his dreams and drove him onwards. Even in boyhood, Sancho knew that his destiny awaited him in the New World. He studied dutifully, worked hard, and by the age of 17 had graduated from the University of Valladolid. It was only a few months later when Sancho’s father passed away, whereupon his brothers almost immediately began squabbling over his estates. Sancho had no interest in fighting for a few acres of land, instead scrounging together what little money he could and purchasing a small caravel. For the next two years, Sancho worked in the spice trade, sailing personally to the Indies and in doing so making a name for himself as an esteemed businessman and explorer. It was in the mild winter of 1528 that Sancho heard news that would change his life forever. Charles V, King of Spain among other titles, was searching for experienced and learned navigators to lead an expedition into the land known as Oaxaca, to subjugate the pagans residing within and claim the land for the Spanish crown. Sancho sought a position in the expedition almost immediately, selling his business for a small fortune and investing in a galleon fit to cross the Atlantic. Sancho was surprised when he was summoned not to the royal court in Toledo, but instead to the ducal palace in Badajoz, the very estate where he grew up.

Sancho was surprised and somewhat afraid when he was received by his eldest brother, Alonso. Sancho’s relationship with Alonso had been strained at best after their father’s passing, with Alonso seeking to consolidate all of his father’s holdings by denying his brothers their due inheritance. Alonso, despite being the eldest, ultimately lost his claim to his father’s estate through papal intervention, with a cardinal barring Alonso from inheriting due to his sinful ways. It was no secret that Alonso was a debaucher, and Sancho was shocked to see that Alonso somehow managed to stake his claim to the Duchy of Badajoz, a title far more prestigious and lucrative than their father’s viscounty. The Duke often acted in the King’s interests when the King himself was absent, receiving guests, or otherwise occupied, making him one of the most influential men in Spain. Much to Sancho’s delight, Alonso was happy to see Sancho once again, making no mention of the past and treating Sancho to a grand feast. Unbeknownst to Sancho, Alonso was delighted at an opportunity to send his brother to the New World, thus removing a potential future rival and claimant. It was with this in mind that Alonso granted Sancho the role of expedition leader, financing his journey and providing him with enough authority to recruit a sizable company to spearhead the conquest of the pagan indios. Finally, Sancho would be awarded with the title of marquess, along with a portion of any land he took for the Spanish crown. It was with dreams of unparalleled riches and daring adventure that Sancho sailed off to the New World, elated with the knowledge that he was to tread in the same mystical lands as some of his country’s greatest heroes had only years before.

2 months of seafaring later, Sancho had arrived at the coast of Veracruz, not with his galleon and hired crew as he had imagined, but with a fleet carrying a small army at his back. He had been granted the rank of captain-general for the duration of the expedition, and while he was excited to explore, Sancho was afraid to face the pagan natives in battle. He had stories of them as well, stories just as vivid as those about the conquistadores. They had sharpened clubs that could cut the head off of a horse and deadly stone knives that were sharper than steel. They built great stone pyramids that ran red with the blood of those they sacrificed to their devil gods. They had bolt throwers that hurled sharpened sticks with enough force to run a man through. Sancho had studied military strategy in Valladolid, but he knew there was a great difference between the study of warfare and the practice of warfare. It was not in an entirely lighthearted mood that Sancho disembarked at Veracruz, a small military colony on the New World’s coast. 

“Captain, what are we to do after we disembark at Puerto de Veracruz? I don’t think such a small settlement can house a company as long as ours for long, but the men will surely be disgruntled if we start campaigning immediately.”

Sancho turned around and faced Marcos, his functioning second-in-command. Marcos was a veteran of the Italian wars, having participated in battles against French, Navarrese, and Swiss forces. Sancho chose him as the second captain on account of his firsthand knowledge of warfare. Sancho had never before managed a company of soldiers, in or out of battle, and knew that his strategic knowledge would be useless if he could not effectively command his men. He knew that a fellow soldier would command the respect of his men, and would be able to help everyone, Sancho himself included, understand his place in the battlefield.

“I have an imperial edict. They can house our men for one night, no? I need to find a few guides and translators regardless, and we will reside in the settlement however long it takes for me to do such. Food is plentiful, and surely this lush land holds enough water for us all. Tell the men that they may relax and make merry after we finish disembarking. I would like to have them in high spirits for tomorrow’s foray into the heart of the Indians’ lands.”

Marcos nodded compliantly and stepped away from the ship’s helm. He was glad to see that Sancho was already showing the makings of a good commander.

It didn’t take too long for Sancho and his men to get settled in the empty barracks of Villa Rica de la Vera Cruz, the first settlement founded by Hernán Cortés himself. Cortés himself had seized the city of the indios, and left the military colony he had founded little more than a desolate outpost only meant to house newcomers to the New World. Those who did inhabit the colony consisted mostly of converted indios, likely the families of those tribes who allied with Cortés in the war against the region’s conquerors, the Aztecs. A handful of Aztecs also dwelled in the colony, working as little more than slaves. Save for the indios, the only inhabitants were a handful of Franciscan missionaries responsible for converting the natives, a band of soldiers responsible for keeping order, and the governor-general of Veracruz, Francisco de Montejo, one of the men who accompanied Cortés on his fateful expedition nearly a decade ago. Montejo happily agreed to furnish Sancho and his men with whatever they needed in accordance with the imperial edict held by the latter. When night fell, Sancho’s men made merry, celebrating their landfall with food and drink aplenty. Sancho himself declined all offers to join the festivities, instead heading to the settlement’s shoddy church. The drafty building was the largest in the settlement, being the home of all the priests. As Sancho entered, he was greeted by the prior, a portly man with a ruddy face and a warm smile.

“Greetings, brother. Are you not the one who leads this noble expedition that has brought so much life to our quiet town?”

“Indeed I am, sir.” Sancho said, bowing his head in deference, “I hope I do not intrude. I know the hour is late, but I have a favor I must ask you.”

“We would be happy to assist one such as yourself in the spread of the Gospel, brother. Ask, and I shall do what I can.” the prior responded, beckoning for Sancho to follow him into the church.

No more than twenty priests and friars were inside, sitting at roughly hewn pews, heads bowed in prayer. The vast room was lit only dimly by dribbling candles, a luxury item this far from the Old World. At the back of the church hung a great cross of reddish wood, under which was a door to what Sancho assumed were the priests’ quarters.

“Well, sir, our party is large, but we still lack a translator. I have heard that you priests know more of the pagan languages of the indios than any other, being men of letters and mindful theologians such as you are.”

“Ah, so you seek one who can speak their tongue? Of course, my friend, it can be done. Estevan?”

One of the priests turned away from his prayer, walking over to the prior’s side and joining him, looking silently upon Sancho.

“This is Sancho… er, forgive me, brother, but I have only heard of your first name! I am Gonzalo Almiára of Calatayud, and at my side stands Estevan de León, perhaps the most learned among us in the ways and tongues of the natives. May I ask your name, brother?

“Sancho Velázquez de Oviedo, sir, captain-general of his Majesty Charles the Fifth’s Oaxacan expedition. Though I am no humble and worthy servant of God such as yourselves, I hope to make my mark on the world, though perhaps in a more worldly fashion.”

“Nonsense, my friend! You seem to be a good man, Sancho, and if Estevan finds it agreeable, he shall join you on your travels.” the prior said, looking Estevan’s way.

“Your mission seems as noble as your personage, Sancho.” Estevan affirmed, “I would be honored to accompany you.”

Sancho bowed to Gonzalo and Estevan alike, the former of whom chuckled heartily. His chuckling paused only momentarily as a gunshot rang out from the barracks, where Sancho’s men were engaged in revelry.

“Well, Sancho, it seems that your commanding presence is perhaps needed elsewhere! I hope that we can meet again, with you bringing me news of a grand success. Fare ye well, Sancho.”

“And to you the same, brother Gonzalo.” Sancho reciprocated, hastily rushing back to the barracks to find the cause of the discharge. He returned just in time to see one of his men firing an arquebus at a flock of seabirds sailing over the water, his drunken aim proving fruitless at hitting any of them.

“What are you doing?!” Sancho exclaimed, stalking forth and ripping the man’s gun from his hands.

“Oh, well, sir, I was just figuring I could poach a few or two or even maybe three of those birds for a quick meal, sir!” the soldier slurred, obviously drunk.

“Poach them? And how would you get them if your inebriated eye managed to somehow hit its mark, hmm? They’re a ship’s length out over the water, you fool!”

“Well there’s nothing wrong with a bit of sport hunting, is there now, captain? It keeps my aim sharp, if anything. You should be thanking me for my practice!” the soldier quipped, drawing laughter from his comrades.

“It’s a waste of powder, a resource we need to conserve lest your guns become little more than cumbersome clubs. Your aim will fare no better from drunken foolery.”

The soldier grumbled as Sancho took his gun back to the cache, but made no more protests. Sancho turned to Estevan.

“My apologies. This is my first time as a commander of any sort, and I am unsure if my men truly respect my authority. We leave early tomorrow morn, so I’m going to go get my rest now. I advise you do the same.”

Estevan nodded, and without a word returned to the church. Sancho found himself a room in the barracks, lie down on the patchy cot within, and drifted off to sleep.

~

“Listen, and listen well, tlatoani… the Caxtiltecatlin come this way. Do not think for even a moment that they will be satisfied with Tenochtitlan. Yes, the Caxtiltecatlindrove the Mexica from our lands, but they are far, far more dangerous than the Mexica have ever been. They command flame and thunder, and great beasts from Mictlan upon which they move swift as the wind. Oh, tlatoani, I beseech of you, listen well, lest we fall alongside the Nahua, the Mexica, the Zapotec, and all those others who have already been subjugated under the heel of these foreign invaders.”

The old and wizened priest addressed the tlatoani from amidst a group of his subjects, stepping forth only after he had finished with his short speech. The tlatoani’s guards stepped forth to subdue the impetuous old sage, but the tlatoani himself raised a hand. He recognized the old man as perhaps the most influential priest of their people.

“I listen to your words, tlamacazqui. Speak while I still give you audience.”

“The Caxtiltecatlin come, tlatoani, and they come for us. Xolotl has granted them fell beasts and his flame and thunder. We cannot resist them alone, for they have the favor of that fell god. It is only with the favor of a god ourselves that we can triumph over them!” the priest said, his grating voice hoarse with panic and excitement.

“The favor of the gods? Do we not already build them monuments and offer them sacrifices? How is it that the invaders are favored over the devout?”

“We must offer to a new god, tlatoani, and must offer more than beasts and slaves. In my last dream,  I heard a message, an offer, from Huitzilopochtli.”

The observers around the priest stirred and murmured. The old tlamacazqui was a soothsayer of great renown, having been known to predict famines and plagues. Sometimes, along with his predictions came a remedy, and so too were these remedies famed to never fail. Even the tlatoani knew of his clairvoyant nature, and had a mind to follow him… but Huitzilopochtli was no Mixtec god.

“Do you suggest that we make an offering to that patron god of the Mexica? Was it not his name that they screamed when they made war upon us in their droves? Was it not to him that hundreds of our own were sacrificed atop Tlaxcala’s bloodstained monuments? Was it not him who saw the Nahua conquer us just as you claim the Caxtiltecatlin intend to?” the tlatoani growled, remembering keenly the terrible prowess of the Nahua warriors that once threatened to extirpate his people.

“If Huitzilopochtli truly was a god of the Mexica alone, then he would have defended them from the Caxtiltecatlin. Though this kingdom is that of the Mixtec people, it has become a haven for the Mexica, the Zapotec, the Tototenec, and many others drive from their homes by the Caxtiltecatlin. The clans, nations, and empires that we knew of are gone. It is time for a new empire to rule over this land, tlatoani, and Huitzilopochtli would see that it is our people who take on the mantle of the Mexica, if we prove ourselves obeisant and devout.” the tlamacazqui said, drawing a few murmurs of wonder from the onlookers he had so rapidly entranced.

“Well, tlamacazqui, I would have my doubts were it not for your wisdom having never been wrong in my memory… so how do we win the favor of Huitzilopochtli? I trust you well, and will see to it that whatever it takes is done, so that our people may be preserved.”

The tlatoani was shaken when the priest hesitated. His lip trembled slightly, his frail hands shook, and he bowed his head down, clearly reluctant to answer the question.

“Speak, old priest. I have faith in your prophecies. I would take even my own life if that is what you asked.” the tlatoani said, trying to ease the priest’s concerns.

“It is not your life that he seeks, my tlatoani… not yours, but that of your daughter, Nayeli.”

Now it was the tlatoani who trembled silently. He had no reservations about self-sacrifice, but his daughter was the thing most dear to him, the spark of joy in his troublesome life, the greatest thing he intended to leave in the world after he passed to the afterlife. She was the only child of his line, and were she to be sacrificed, his clan would go extinct. Perhaps most importantly, she was his child, his blood, his ward and his responsibility. How could any father let their child die for even the most noble of causes? The tlatoani solemnly shook his head.

“That I cannot offer, tlamacazqui. She is all that I have.”

“I did not think you the kind to so easily cast away your kin, tlatoani. You are a good man with a kind heart, but know that a thousand others shall lose their sons and daughters if you cannot make the right choice here. I do not blame you for making the choice that you do, for I know that it is the choice most good men would make, but think deeply over this, tlatoani. The Caxtiltecatlin draw nearer with every passing day, and they will spare neither your children nor those of any other.”

“I have heard enough. If there is any other way, tell me now, but if not, leave me.”

The priest made his exit without another word, stepping away from the tlatoani’s procession. By the end of his exchange with the priest, the observing group had grown into a crowd which was now rife with whispers and gesticulation. Even more curious bystanders trickled into the throng, and the tlatoani knew that word of what he had said would spread like flame on a dry branch. With his head held high, the tlatoani directed his guards to move forward, and left the scene behind.

The tlatoani mused over what the priest had said for the rest of the day. He felt that he was making the wrong decision, but knew that he lacked the strength to go through with the alternative. Still, the priest’s last words echoed through his mind incessantly, and he could neither focus nor rest. He imagined the Caxtiltecatlin descending upon his city, sitting on the backs of great beasts from the underworld, laying waste to all in their path with flame and thunder.

When he returned to his home at the day’s end, the tlatoani was tired and anguished. He strolled through his courtyard as he pondered further the words of the priest, hoping the sights and smells of his garden would help ease his racing heart and soothe his frayed nerves. He was pleasantly surprised, though no less distracted from the ill omen at hand, when he saw none other than Nayeli sitting upon a slab of stone among the fruiting flowers. Luscious black hair cascaded down her shoulders, framing her beautiful aquiline face and soft brown eyes in a black darker than the starless night sky. She was beautiful almost beyond words, but with the fall of the other city-states to the Caxtiltecatlin, she remained unmarried, no suitors of equally noble birth seeking her hand amid the crisis.

“Father! Father, I have been waiting for you all day! It’s so late, and the attendants have been acting so strange…” she said, her voice soft as cotton.

“Hello, Nayeli. I didn’t mean to come this late, but I have had much on my mind… dark times seem to lie ahead for our people, but I cannot seem to help them.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out, Father. You swore that you would do everything in your power to protect our people, right? I know that you wouldn’t take such an oath in vain. You’ll figure out how to make things right, I’m sure of it!”

The tlatoani held back tears at these words. He bit his lip until he regained composure over himself, not wanting Nayeli to know that he was so upset.

“Even if I will find a way to protect us, it is a troubling thing to think about, so I threw myself into my work. It was dark ere I knew it. I am sorry to have kept you waiting, dear.”

“It’s no great issue, father! I’m just glad that you’re here now! Come, sit beside me!” she exclaimed, scooting over on the stone to make room for the tlatoani.

“Ah, I was fine standing, but if you ask, I guess I have no choice!” the tlatoani lightheartedly complained, slowly lowering himself into a seated position, “Now tell me, Nayeli, how have your attendants been acting strange? Ought I find you new ones?” the tlatoani asked, ready to exile anyone who dared tell Nayeli what the priest said.

“Calm down, father!” Nayeli reprimanded, “It’s really not that much of an issue. They just seemed more reserved than usual, that’s all. Nobody did anything wrong! I was just wondering if there was bad news afoot or the like. Maybe it has to do with those dark times you were talking about?”

“Perhaps, dear, perhaps. In any case, the sun has left us, Nayeli… you’d best be getting to sleep. Dangerous things skulk about in the dark, but they daren’t attack those shrouded in the midst of a dream.” the tlatoani said, ruffling Nayeli’s hair.

“But I’m not even tired!” Nayeli protested.

“Well, you will be in the morning! We’re both going to the court tomorrow, so you’re going to need to be up early, alright? If you wake up before me, I’ll let you have a sip of pulque the next time we hold a celebration. Deal?”

“Oh, in that case, deal!” Nayeli said, “I’ll be up at the break of dawn, just you wait!”

The tlatoani sighed heavily as Nayeli left the courtyard, leaving him alone in the solemn darkness. If word really spread this quickly of what the priest said, the people would be discontent if he continued to protect Nayeli. It was with a heavy heart and a troubled mind that the tlatoani fell asleep, his rest fitful and plagued with nightmares.

He awoke not to the light of the sun nor the calls of the morning birds, but instead to the trembling, tearful voice of Nayeli.

“I can’t believe you! You tell me nothing and leave me to find out from the courtiers?!”

The tlatoani groaned, his vision blurry and hearing dulled by sleep.

“Nayeli… I didn’t want you to be scared… I-”

“Scared!” Nayeli spat, “It is you who is scared! You are our tlatoani, father! It is not a title lightly taken! You made a pledge, a promise, to protect our people and our future at any cost, but the moment you need to make a personal sacrifice, you shirk your duty? You disgrace my name just as much as yours!”

“I am a father before I am a tlatoani, and I will protect you before any other. I know that my choice is selfish, and that it is wrong, but my choice is the only one that I could truly make. I could not surrender your life for any cause, no matter how righteous. No good father would do any differently than I.”

“Father… we will both die if the Caxtiltecatlin are left unchecked.” Nayeli said, tears running down her eyes, “We will die along with many others. Please father, let me do this. Let me give my life for this righteous cause. There is no greater gift in life than such an honorable end.”

“I forbid it!” the tlatoani belted, raising his voice to hide his fear, “I absolutely forbid it!”

“Then I will do it myself!” Nayeli shouted, running out of the room.

The tlatoani scrambled off of his reed mattress and leapt to his feet, chasing after Nayeli. By the time he caught sight of her again, she was darting outside, beginning to take off down the winding road leading to the city center. Bewildered and curious viewers watched as the tlatoani chased after her, in turn followed by a handful of concerned attendants. Nayeli made it to the entrance to the temple complex before the tlatoani caught her, seizing her wrist.

“Let me go!” Nayeli exclaimed, trying in vain to break away.

“You are my daughter, Nayeli! As long as I live, you are to do what I say!” the tlatoani growled, squaring his gaze with Nayeli’s.

“Let her do it, you selfish oaf!” someone in the crowd of spectators shouted.

“You are the only one in her way! She is a hero, but you a villain!” another said from the back, much to the chagrin of the tlatoani.

“Father, please…” Nayeli said, tears in her eyes, “You need to understand. This is all that I could ever ask for. I would rather see myself go to the afterlife surrounded by love than the ashen faces of the Caxtiltecatlinin. I just want to be happy.”

“Do not say that! We are not Mexica! You will not die, Nayeli, not at the hands of the Caxtiltecatlin nor at those of the priests!” the tlatoani said, his grip on Nayeli’s hand loosening.

“Let her go, tlatoani.”

The tlamacazqui stepped from the aperture of the temple complex into the street. 

“She is a woman now, no longer a girl. It is her choice to make, and we both know that she is making the right choice. Do not torment her any longer. Would you condemn her to a life laden by guilty conscience and constant fear of the Caxtiltecatlin? What you intend to see her do is far more harmful than a peaceful passage to the Thirteen Heavens. She will be remembered as a protector of Tilantongo, the Mixtec people, and all people from Tikal to Tlacopan. Greater glory will never be seen in our lifetimes, tlatoani.”

The tlatoani hesitated. He looked into Nayeli’s tearful eyes, feeling himself ready to explode into wails and cries at any moment.

“Is this… is this really what you want for yourself? Not for any other, but for you and you alone?”

Nayeli nodded. The tlatoani, with a heavy sigh, dropped her wrist.

“Then go with my blessing. Goodbye, Nayeli. I love you so much.”

The two embraced in a moment of tense silence. The tlatoani wished that this moment would last forever, that he would never have to let go of his beloved daughter. His wish was unfulfilled as Nayeli, with a deep breath, left his embrace and walked into the temple, followed by the priest.

He knew that she wasn’t to emerge again.