It started at sunrise.
One after another, messengers and scribes from Tlaxcala, Texcoco, Huexotzinco, Chalco, and even the distant Totonac lands arrived with the same plea masked as polite diplomacy:
"Señor Cortés… this Ehecatl threatens not just the Spaniards, but all of us. He chants No Caxtilteca today, but we know what that truly means: no ally. No collaborator. No us."
Each letter echoed the same themes:
• Reports of fanaticism from Ehecatl's camps.
• Psychological warfare (the burned crosses, the mutilated patrols, the whispers of "Malinalli" and "Ixtilxochitl").
• Sightings of Mexica banners with a strange symbol—nothing like the Mexica of before. These are of a tricolor of green, white, and red with an eagle perched on a cactus eating a snake right in the middle of the white color. A new language of rebellion, or perhaps a language of renewal. After-all it's known that the Mexica say that Huitzilopochtli gave them a sign of when they see that Eagle perched on a cactus eating a snake that it's to be their new home.
Texcoco's envoy was blunt:
"Your Excellency, your allies are no longer safe. We request permission to wield arquebuses, horses, and to have religious protection before Ehecatl sends his monsters here next."
Tlaxcala's high lord went even further:
"If you cannot control this boy, perhaps the Castilian king should send someone who can."
Cortés gave them all the same calm, noble reply—flanked by priests and dressed in the finest armor his stolen gold could polish:
"Rest assured, noble lords. This Ehecatl is nothing more than a fugitive heretic. We will crush his cult soon. I have dispatched fresh patrols, and we are already building a counter-raid plan. All is under control."
…
…
…
Inside the Conqueror's Mind: Cortés' Cracking Psyche
But the moment the envoys left, the door slammed, and the armor came off—Cortés collapsed into his chair, sweat-drenched, head pounding.
He was losing control.
"Sold your soul to the Devil."
That was the phrase the friars kept whispering behind his back, and sometimes not even behind it.
• One of his own lieutenants had joined a monastery after Ehecatl's last speech, muttering "I have seen hell, and it stares with cold dark eyes."
• Several of his native allies had gone missing, later found ritually hung with cactli (sandals) in their mouths—a clear message from the rebels:
For being a bootlicker
Worse, his own men were whispering at night, clutching crosses tighter, some demanding mass twice a day now. They weren't soldiers of the Kingdom Of Castile And Leon (the Spanish Kingdom) anymore—they were scared pilgrims in a haunted land.
His Problems Were Now Multiplied:
• Supplies low. The ships hadn't arrived. Veracruz was swamped in bureaucracy.
• The Crown? Hadn't responded in months.
• The priests? Hounding him to "purify the valley" or risk eternal damnation.
• The Soldiers? Reluctant to commit more men until "Ehecatl's exact position" could be confirmed.
• And now the allies, the very people who helped bring Tenochtitlan to its knees, were beginning to turn on him if he didn't act.
"Damn them all," he muttered. "Damn the priests, damn the Indio nobles, and damn the fucking boy."
He couldn't send too many men after Ehecatl. That would look like weakness. But if he did nothing? These native lords might pull back their tribute… or worse—turn rebel themselves.
And with Mexico City still being carved from the ruins of Tenochtitlan, it was all still sand and dirt under his boots. Not stone.
…
…
…
Inside the Spanish war camp, in the heart of Tenochtitlan, early morning. Tension lingers in the air like smoke after a cannon's roar. A makeshift war tent flaps violently in the wind as Spanish captains argue, Tlaxcalan envoys await outside, and Cortés in his tent stares into the middle distance—haunted.
Captain Alonso Ruiz De Salazar whispers to a few trusted men
"We're not staying. Not another fucking night."
One of them tense says
"What are you saying? Cortés will hang you."
"Let him try. You saw what Ehecatl did. Our patrols vanish. The dogs won't even bark anymore. And the locals—our 'allies'? They whisper when we pass, like they know something we don't."
Another, nervously asks
"What about the gold?"
Ruiz responds cold and furious
"What about the fucking gold? Cortes sold his and our souls to the devil, and now the devil has come to collect!!! We are losing! Those who come back from patrols whether they be our allies or our fellow Castilians come back looking like the india bitches we have fuck. Do you want to eventually end up like that? I sure as fuck don't."
…
…
…
Meanwhile, in the Tent of Cortés…
Tlaxcalan scouts speaking fast, overlapping
• "—saw him kill three men without lifting a weapon—"
• "—a beast in the night, red eyes like fire—"
• "—the ruins screamed, Señor Cortés—"
• "—they say Ehecatl walks without leaving footprints—"
• "—the horses refuse to enter his territory now—"
Cortés smiling falsely, raising his hands, and says "My friends, I understand your fear, but let us not fall into superstition. We are God's chosen, and that includes you as well my fellow friends. This Ehecatl is just a Mexica trickster."
He gestures to Father Olmedo to support the lie. The priest hesitates.
Father Olmedo quietly says "If he is a trickster, he is one from Hell."
The tent goes silent.
Meanwhile outside the camp, Captain Alonso Ruiz de Salazar is already mobilizing. A handful of soldiers quietly gather horses, supplies, and weapon caches.
…
…
…
Later on at Midnight
A Tlaxcalan messenger rushes into Cortés's command tent, as he speaks to Marina who in turn translates to Cortés:
"Your Caxtilteca are leaving. The ones stationed near the eastern edge. They're marching, toward Tlaxcala's road."
Cortés jumps up "What?! WHO?"
"The one called Alonso leads them. He said… he said:
'Let the devil-boy and the devil-capitán tear each other apart. I came here for gold, glory, land, and women, not whatever the fuck those two are doing.'"
Cortés — enraged, but composed.
His smile is the kind a man wears right before stabbing someone.
Cortés (to his inner circle):
"Captain Alonso Ruiz De Salazar will be declared a traitor. Mark his name. Strip his family of land and titles. If we survive this siege, he dies. If we don't—then may the devils he ran from find him."
He turns to the Tlaxcalans, tone shifting.
Cortés (publicly):
"Let none mistake the weak for the righteous. Ruiz fled not out of insight, but cowardice. He abandoned God, he abandoned Castile."
The Tlaxcalan messenger says dry and sarcastically "Or perhaps he did not wish to abandon his soul." Cortés's eyes narrow.
…
…
…
The next morning:
Ehecatl watches from a ruined rooftop, blood still fresh on his hands.
He's perched above the shattered remains of a patrol he wiped out, as apparently this patrol wasn't after him, but of a captain who defected. Beside him, the body of a Spanish hound lies motionless—jaw snapped. Ehecatl stands, wiping the blood from his knife.
"So… one of you ran."
He flicks his blade clean.
"Capitán Alonso Ruiz De Salazar… was it?"
He pauses. Not out of mercy. Out of irritation.
"Tch. The one fucking night we dial down our hit and run raids is the same night we missed a defected Spanish captain. *sigh* No further use in complaining now, he too will be put in the dirt soon enough."
He turns to his men and says
"Let him build his little camp, and breathe for a few nights. Give em false hope to him and those still under cortés, so when we do attack the fear spreads twice as far."
…
…
..
And thus you have two men, and one Hate
For Cortés, he's Humiliated by internal fracture. Ruiz's desertion publicly confirms that not all Castilians trust their leader—or the campaign. Now the native allies whisper: "If even his men flee him…" For Ehecatl he's missed out on an easy opportunity. Furious not because Ruiz escaped, but because he wasn't the one who broke him. Now he's a loose end. One that must be handled… creatively.
…
…
…
3 days after Ruiz's desertion
Grim skies, exhausted men, the smell of gunpowder and fear.
Ruiz's Camp Setup
Captain Alonso Ruiz De Salazar paces through a half-finished palisade. His men—about 40 deserters, including some wounded and a few native carriers—are building as best they can.
Key Features of the Camp:
• Makeshift chapel using Spanish standards and broken carts, doubling as a watchtower.
• Crude walls of wood and looted stone, with sharpened pikes in the mud.
• A singular cannon salvaged, mounted on a wheeled cart and aimed towards the ruined city.
• Three dogs for night patrol, Ruiz made sure they were trained not to panic at native cries or animal noises.
• A fire pit, never unlit, and guards posted 24/7, even if they doze.
Ruiz's State of Mind
He's alive. But haunted.
Ruiz gruffly, to his second-in-command
"We'll hold. We'll survive, and pretty soon we'll take off for tlaxcala lands. Better a coward among the living than a hero among the eaten."
His 2nd-In-Command hesitantly asks
"You don't think he'll come for us? The boy?"
Ruiz gritting teeth
"He doesn't care about us. He cares about the city. And Cortés."
A beat.
"…But set the traps anyway. If Ehecatl shows his face—we'll be ready."
A long silence. Crows caw above them. A dog begins to bark at something unseen in the direction of the city.
…
…
…
The Patrol's Discovery
Three Spaniards and two Tlaxcalans are returning from a scouting mission of Ruiz's camp. One of the younger soldiers—Cristóbal García, barely 20—notices something hanging from a cross above the reeds.
"¿Qué coño…? Is that—?"
They freeze.
The body is unmistakably Spanish. Face painted in yellow, wearing nothing but a Huipil, painted lips, flowers twined into the hair, and worst of all?
A dagger between the legs, right into the area where the sun don't shine.
"They dressed him like a woman," one whispers. "Like a fucking whore."
Cristóbal vomits. One Tlaxcalan whispers a prayer.
But the eldest Spaniard? He snaps. Screaming, flailing at the body with his sword—
"Fucking demons!! What kind of savages DO THIS?!"
They drag him back to camp, but the damage is done.
…
…
…
Cortés's Boiling Point
The patrol's report spreads like wildfire. Cristóbal stammers through it in front of Cortés himself.
"They… they dressed him like one of their women, general. They painted his face and… they hung something… between his legs."
Cortés's knuckles go white on the hilt of his sword.
"Was it Mexica who did it? Or was it that traitorous filth Alonso trying to frighten us?"
"I-I don't know sir. It—it didn't look like anything Alonso would do."
Cortés explodes.
"Then FIND OUT!! If one more patrol returns with stories of painted corpses I will have ten men strung up myself. Let's see how their priests like that display!"
The room goes dead silent.
Even his own inner circle exchange looks—this isn't leadership anymore. It's madness.
…
…
…
Further Headaches
Inside the Spanish armory, night
Gaspar Díaz, a grizzled veteran who fought in Cuba, vents loudly while sharpening a sword.
"We should've gone with Ruiz."
Several younger soldiers tense.
"Shut your mouth, Gaspar."
"No. No, you shut your mouth. You see what they did to Javier? Stripped him and painted him like a whore? That's gonna be you next time, unless we're smart enough to leave this god-damned island."
A few nod. Others look around nervously.
"This isn't a siege. It's a fucking slow death. It's like we ain't even fighting men anymore—we're swinging swords, and shooting at shadows."
One of Cortés's loyalists steps forward.
"Say that to his face."
"I will," Gaspar growls.
"Only a madman stays here while his men are butchered and mocked. If the capitán-general doesn't plan to leave soon… maybe he needs reminding who made this army what it is."
Silence.
But it's done.
The first open challenge to Cortés's leadership has been spoken. Just loud enough for the city to hear.
…
…
…
An hour later at a abandoned storage hut near the southeastern wall of the Spanish quarter
The room stinks of mildew and gunpowder. One sputtering candle flickers in the corner, illuminating seven men, all hardened but weary—Gaspar Díaz at the center, arms crossed, eyes cold.
"Let's be clear—this ain't about fear," he says flatly.
"It's about sense. That bastard capitán-general got us sitting ducks, surrounded by ghosts with knives. We die for him, and for what?"
A few nod.
Sgt. Alvaro Morales, younger, still clutching some naive loyalty, whispers:
"But if we leave… we're deserters. Traitors."
Gaspar scoffs.
"To who? Castile? The same Castile that ain't sent us food in months? The same crown that lets Cortés bury men and burn letters?"
He slams a wine bottle down.
"The only traitor here is the man keeping us penned in while the Mexica crucify our brothers on crosses and put flowers in their hair."
A beat.
Captain Hernando Vera, older, noble-born but jaded, finally speaks.
"And Ruiz? You trust that lad?"
Gaspar smirks.
"I don't have to trust him. I just have to not die. Ruiz's men eat, sleep, and ain't hanging from crosses. That's enough for now."
Diego Gómez, a young arbalester, shifts nervously.
"If we go, we take weapons?"
"Everything. Guns, powder, blades. Horses too. Quietly. No glory. Just gone."
Morales still hesitates.
"And if we're caught?"
"Then Cortés kills us, aye. But stay, and we still die—bit by bit. At least with Ruiz we've got a damn chance."
The room goes still.
One by one, six hands raise.
Gaspar nods grimly.
"Then we leave two nights from now. During the next temple watch rotation. No noise. No fire. No glory."
He steps closer, voice low and venomous.
"And if anyone snitches? Tlaxcalan or Castillian, doesn't matter… I'll carve their tongue out myself."
Two nights later
Gaspar spat into the dirt, rubbing a hand over the stock of his weather-worn arquebus. The crude matchlock mechanism hissed softly, the slow-burning matchcord already lit. Only one shot. That's all it would give. He'd make it count.
Around him, six other defectors — former Castilian footmen, a half-starved Genoese gunner, and two disillusioned horsemen now on foot — gathered in silence beneath the canopy of what remained of a collapsed wall. Each of them was armed, but barely.
"This is what we've become?" whispered Diego, eyes scanning their makeshift arsenal. "Two arquebuses, a few blades, one keg of powder between us, and a horse."
Gaspar didn't flinch.
"That gets us a place in Ruiz's camp. You think he's feeding fools with no powder?"
They all looked to the sack he motioned toward — a stolen keg of black powder swaddled in dirty linen. Highly unstable, and stolen right out of Cortés's own supply line two nights prior. It was their ticket out. Or their death sentence.
The Genoese gunner, Niccolo, inspected the wick of his portable powder flask, muttering to himself in Italian as he prepped a slow-fuse grenade. It looked more like a clay pot than a weapon, but the damage it could do in the right hands was undeniable.
"Once we're clear," Gaspar muttered, "we head out. No fire. No gunshots unless you want Mexica coming at us. We keep to the water's edge — Ruiz's scouts should find us."
One of the horsemen, still in cracked metal greaves, shifted uncomfortably.
"And what if they don't?"
Gaspar grinned, drawing a short sword.
"Then we die free. Not licking the boots of a bastard who thinks he's Caesar."
…
…
…
The torchlight at the southern gate had thinned. Cortés's patrols had gotten sloppy — too busy arguing with his Tlaxcalan allies, too tired to suspect Gaspar and the six others limping away with "supply duties."
They moved in silence along the broken outer canal. Not one dared speak until they reached the last ruined archway, where the shadows grew thicker and the only sound was their footsteps.
"We keep low," Gaspar whispered, his voice dry from biting smoke. "If they spot us—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Because by then… it was already too late.
Ehecatl's scouts had been waiting.
Not watching the main road. Not monitoring the trade paths. They were keeping track of roads leading to Ruiz's camp.
The lead scout — a wiry Mexica youth named Tochtli — raised two fingers and signaled with a bird call.
Then the lake swallowed the silence.
From the reeds, from beneath lily-covered canals, from ruined causeway stones — they emerged, barefoot, caked in mud, obsidian and steel blades clenched in their fists.
A scream — cut short.
Diego's matchlock fired blindly, kicking smoke — but his powder was damp. Click.
Gaspar raised his sword, caught a dart in the arm. Niccolo was tackled from behind. No formation, no time.
…
…
…
Hours later, Ehecatl stood before the remains of the ambush. His men had left one alive — gagged and tied to a broken cart, with a matchlock barrel shoved in his mouth.
The others?
• One was hung upside down, stripped and draped in noblewomen's huipil.
• Another had been dressed like a ahuiani.
• A third was nailed to a cross in a crucifixion pose, but upside down —mocked like their god.
Ehecatl didn't speak much. He just nodded.
"Scatter them," he said coldly. "Let Cortés's men find the pieces."
His goal wasn't just death. It was division. Demoralization. To make every Caxtiltecatl inside Tenochtitlan wonder if he'd be next — wearing a woman's dress, gagged with gun barrels, and left for flies.
…
…
…
Cortés's Rage
The wooden table splintered beneath his fist.
"Gaspar?!"
The soldiers present flinched. Cortés stood breathing hard, his beard soaked in sweat, his breastplate unbuckled at the neck.
"He took provisions. Powder. Shot. A horse. And now you tell me—he vanished!?"
"Yes, señor," Captain Andrade muttered, "six men with him. No Tlaxcalans. All Castilians."
"Cowards," Cortés spat. "Mutinous perros."
He turned, pacing fast. Then he paused—because the next messenger entered. Pale. Stumbling.
"We… we found them, sir."
Cortés looked up.
"Where?"
"Not far past the southern causeway. The Mexica got to them."
"…When?"
"Likely last night."
The man dropped his gaze, then slowly unrolled a blood-stained cloth from his satchel. Inside: A piece of Gaspar's sash — stained, torn — wrapped around a severed trigger finger.
…
…
…
Cortés rode out himself. He had to see it. Had to confirm what the others whispered.
• One body was hung upside down, stripped of armor, dressed in Mexica noblewoman's attire.
• Another had make up, a flower in his hair, and wearing nothing but a skirt.
• Gaspar… or what was left of him… had been burned at the edges, crucified upside down, and mockingly blessed with Christian symbols carved into his flesh — inverted.
One of the soldiers vomited on the spot.
"This is madness," a sergeant whispered. "This… this is pure savagery."
"Indeed…" Cortés murmured. "It's that devil boy. Ehecatl."
He dismounted slowly. His eyes were sunken. For the first time in months, he looked afraid.
…
…
…
By nightfall, the camp was a whispering hive of anxiety.
• "They say Ehecatl has eyes in the reeds…"
• "He killed Ruiz's men too, they say — not just Gaspar."
• "No one leaves. No one enters. You even try to walk south, they'll hang you in a dress."
The Tlaxcalans grew agitated. One of their chiefs demanded a separate ration of food — "For our own protection," he said bluntly.
Andrade caught wind of a new group of Castilians — five of them — whispering in private, trading glances, slowly packing supplies. Another mutiny brewing.
"We're starving. Dying. Hunted like dogs. For what? For a city that no longer is afraid of us?" one muttered.
Even the clergy were silent. God, it seemed, no longer walked with them.
…
…
…
That night, Cortés sat alone in his quarters, staring at a flickering candle.
His journal lay open. The quill in his hand trembled.
"They fear Ehecatl more than they trust me…"
He looked up, haunted.
"If one more defect… I may not survive this city."
…
…
…
Cortés was mid-discussion with his captains when they arrived — four Tlaxcalteca leaders, but each with a visible Spanish sword sheathed at their side.
No one announced them. They simply entered.
"We demand a word," said Tlehuitzin, the eldest among them, eyes sharp as obsidian.
Cortés gestured to the guards, dismissing them.
"Speak."
One of the Tlaxcalan leaders spoke plainly.
"When we joined you, we were promised power. Respect. And arms. And yet…"
He let the silence linger.
"We still ride on foot while your kin hoard horses."
"Our warriors die under obsidian, while yours hide behind thunder weapons."
"And now—now—our men are being found stripped and humiliated… just like yours."
He dropped a blood-stained cloth. A Tlaxcalan headband — desecrated with a severed head and shot through the eye.
"We've heard the rumors. That the Mexica under this Ehecatl use living targets to train their gunners."
"And some of those targets were Tlaxcalteca."
Cortés's jaw tightened.
"Lies. Just another of their shock tactics."
"Then we must have equal arms to fight such tactics. Arquebuses. Horses. Powder. Now."
…
…
…
Another of the four leaders stepped forward, younger, more aggressive:
"If we're expected to die for you… then we deserve to die like you. With guns in hand. Not like animals being fed to Ehecatl's madness."
"Or would you rather let the boy keep practicing on us?"
A long silence.
Cortés didn't respond at first. But they saw it — the bead of sweat on his temple, the twitch in his eye. The fear behind his usual arrogance.
"I'll consider your request," he finally muttered.
"No."
"You'll do it. Or we walk, señor."
And with that… the four Tlaxcalan leaders walked out.
That evening, in the northern end of camp, a Spanish soldier received a report from some Indio trying to curry favor overheard two Tlaxcalans speaking in Nahuatl — "If Ehecatl has the mexica shoot just as well as the Caxtilteca then it's time to take a page from his amoxtli."
Someone else reported that Tlaxcalans were asking and bribing Castilians how arquebuses worked.
Even worse — rumors whispered that a Tlaxcalan was able to get a arquebus by giving a Castilian soldier gold, silver, and a beautiful woman.
…
…
…
Cortés sat alone once more, this time in the dark. He stared at the crates of powder behind him, guarded now by twice as many men.
They'll be coming for those next…
…
…
…
Tensions had simmered long enough.
Now they boiled.
Cortés was summoned to an emergency gathering. Dozens of Tlaxcalteca warriors stood together, organized and grim. Not as servants. As soldiers.
At their head stood Xochitecatl, an ambitious commander with scars on his chest and rage in his blood.
"No more excuses. If your people ride, so shall we."
"We demand a cavalry unit. Tlaxcalan-led. Tlaxcalan-mounted. Tlaxcalan-honored."
Cortés, stunned, scoffed. "There are no spare horses. No extra powder. No—"
"Then get some," Xochitecatl snapped. "Or we'll find them elsewhere."
That elsewhere hung in the air like a blade to the throat. Ehecatl.
Another Headache
The Spanish officers were already spread thin.
• Only 25 rideable horses remained, and most were reserved for officers.
• Powder and lead? Barely enough for one prolonged firefight.
• The last shipment from the coast had been ambushed by Ehecatl's scouts when they were arriving in the city, and no one knew if more was coming.
Now Cortés was being asked to arm, mount, and train dozens of Tlaxcalteca as cavalrymen?
"They've lost their minds," growled Sandoval, spitting into the dirt.
But another officer muttered:
"We might've pushed them too far."
Not all Castilians agreed with Cortés's defiance.
Some argued it was better to let them ride, even if it were with sticks and mules, if it kept them loyal.
Others, more paranoid, feared arming Tlaxcalans meant arming future enemies.
Meanwhile, the Tlaxcalteca began organizing their own drills — mimicking Spanish horse tactics without the horses. Hell, even that one Tlaxcalan who bribed his way to getting an arquebus was training, all of this just to prove a point.
"We've learned," said Xochitecatl.
"We've bled. We've earned it."
That night, Cortés wrote in his journal:
"The Mexica fight like demons…
…but it is our allies who may gut us from within."
He didn't sleep.
…
…
…
Cortés stood atop a raised platform with Marina by his side. Around him stood hundreds of restless Tlaxcalteca warriors, their eyes sharp, their pride bleeding.
To his side, trumpeters sounded a hollow fanfare as a scroll was unfurled.
"For his loyalty and valor," Cortés declared, "I hereby name Xochitecatl Caballero Honorario — Honorary Knight of the Crown of Castile."
The man did not bow.
He did not even blink.
A murmur rippled through the Tlaxcalan ranks.
Then a second name. A third. A fourth.
More ceremonial titles, more empty promises, more meaningless Spanish words.
Some were handed rusty breastplates or bent helmets scavenged from the dead.
Others were promised Spanish brides, plots of land, or future wealth from yet-unconquered provinces.
But every warrior had the same question on their mind:
"Where are the guns?"
"Where are the horses?"
"Where is the real power?"
They had seen the corpses.
Hung by Ehecatl's rebels.
Wearing looted Spanish cuirasses, swinging steel longswords, gripping arquebuses with practiced stance.
They'd seen captured fellow Tlaxcalans stripped, humiliated, or nailed to crosses.
"It used to mean something to wield a steel sword," one muttered,
"Now a Mexica peasant holds an arquebus and we hold promises."
Worse still — rumors spread that some Tlaxcalans quietly posing as Mexica had defected to Ehecatl's side after seeing the inequality of power.
Later that evening, Xochitecatl entered Cortés's tent, armor on, sword belted, voice low and thunderous.
"We are not your decorations. We are not your dogs."
"You hand us trinkets while the mexica have become equal to you when it comes to weaponry."
"We demanded cavalry. You gave us names. We demanded guns. You gave us flattery. We demanded dignity. You gave us a ceremony."
Cortés tried to answer — but Xochitecatl kept talking.
"If you want to keep us, give us what you give your own men."
"If not… you may find we fight elsewhere."
And with that, he left — not just the tent, but the entire command structure.
That night:
• Several Tlaxcalans refused patrol duty unless they were issued Spanish steel or arquebuses.
• One Spanish soldier was jumped and robbed of his powder horn and pistol.
• A secret training ring began forming — where Tlaxcalan warriors practiced riding stolen mules and packhorses as stand-ins for warhorses.
• And in the shadows, a whisper spread:
"If we treat the Caxtilteca the same way Ehecatl treats them… then maybe we too will be taken seriously."
Inside his quarters, after hearing reports of what the Tlaxcalans are up to Cortés smashed a plate against a wall and shouted to no one:
"They were supposed to fear us…"
Then quieter…
"…but they envy him."