or; a piece of speculative fiction.
The setting sun burned blood red in the sky, shining down over Tenochtitlán as Rodrigo slowly stepped up the sides of the temple, making his way slowly to the top. Some sort of commotion was developing on the pyramid, and the rest of his small battalion was still out searching for news concerning the fighting force of Velázquez and whether or not he had truly come to punish Cortés for his insubordinance.
Rodrigo heard the heavy sounds of the native speech, that foreign tongue of Nahuatl, and he longed for Doña María to be there, and explain what was occurring. He saw the high priest - easily identifiable by his proud plumage and intricate headdress - hands held upright, beckoning towards the heavens with a bombastic voice echoing forth through the valley from atop the pyramid, issuing forth from the temple of Huitzilopochtli. He arrived atop the huge edifice as the other priests brought forward a young man. He was a warrior of the Mixtecas; his people had been locked in ritualistic war with the Aztecas for hundreds of years, and he had been captured in their last battle.
Rodrigo watched the scene unfold before him with piqued interest. He stepped to the side, staring through the crowd that had enveloped the top of the pyramid. In the midst of the people, the huge Azteca calendar was prominently displayed, pointing towards the sky. The young warrior was placed upon the stone tablet, and the high priest continued his evocations.
Suddenly, an obsidian knife leaped into the priest's hand. Rodrigo's heart jumped into his throat as he saw what they were doing – they were about to kill the Mixteca soldier, hardly more than a boy. Outnumbered, Rodrigo could do nothing but watch as the priest, and the apex of his bellowing, plunged the dark stone blade into the other man's chest. Blood flowed like rivers from the open cavity, and as the priest solemnly pulled the warrior's still-warm heart from his chest, rivulets of red rain ran down his naked arms.
The Spaniard watched this deeply religious ceremony with disgust, his stomach knotting up, short of breath.
Savages, Rodrigo thought. Complete barbarians to take a life like that.
----------------------------------------------------------------
The sun hung high in the sky, beating down its yellow rays upon the crusted soil that August afternoon, as Mixbalá, son of the Azteca emperors, followed the procession of individuals into the town commons. Usually the marketplace would be bustling with activity – the friendly sounds of commerce. But there was a certain sense of dread that seemed to hang over Madrid like a thick veil of apprehension.
Mixbalá heard the slippery language of the Spaniards, lost in this moment without his comrades who could translate the foreign tongue for him. He saw the bishop – easily identifiable with his broad hat, long robes of red, and his stern visage – hands held upright, beckoning towards the people with a ringing voice that swept through the crowd, issuing forth from the steps of the cathedral. He arrived to a place where he could see well right as two brothers from the Santa Hermandad brought forth an old man. He had advocated for the translation of the Bible into Spanish, and had been captured and found heretical by the courts of the Holy Inquisition.
Mixbalá watched the scene unfold before him with piqued interest. He edged his way through the crowd, careful not to be noticed, for fear that the common people would find his intrusion deplorable. In the center of the huddled people, a pyre had been constructed, with a heavy pylon sticking out of a maze of tinder. The old man was strapped to the thick stake, much of his clothes stripped away, as the bishop continued his tirade.
Suddenly a torch appeared in the hand of one of the lesser priests. Mixbalá's heart leaped into his throat as he realized what he was seeing – they were about to burn the old man alive at the stake. Outnumbered, Mixbalá watched in absolute terror as the bishop held forth his hand, and the younger priest thrust the flames into the waiting pyre. Flames grew like monsters around the sweating, solemn man – and as the bishops face contorted in convoluted satisfaction, the stench of burning flesh began to rise in the town square.
The Azteca watched this deeply religious ceremony with disgust, his stomach knotting up, short of breath.
Savages, Mixbalá thought. Complete barbarians to take a life like that.