The Fat Chief and His Tears

Cortés turned to Marina. His breath was short, his face dark with fury. “Doña Marina, tell these chiefs that their idols must come down immediately. At this very moment. Either they do it, or we will.”

Marina hesitated. She was nervous, concerned about pushing the matter. She finally turned to the Fat Chief to give him the message.

“Now, be prepared to fight if they attempt to stop us,” Cortés said to Alvarado and the rest of his captains.

When the caciques heard the demand from Cortés they grew visibly irate. They quickly began giving commands for their armed guards to rush up the pyramid steps towards the temple. They would protect their precious idols to the death. It was a stance that suited Cortés just fine.

“I want soldiers up those steps now!” ordered Cortés, his raging voice loud and bellicose like an uncoiled dragon. “Don’t let a single Indian stand in your way!”

Alvarado and Ordaz called several foot soldiers to attention. Some of the men had been lounging around the courtyard, sipping wine to help digestion. Even in a relaxed setting, however, Cortés always made sure the men were clothed and armed and ready for any attack. Most even slept in their boots and armor which didn’t help their already rank body odor.

Within seconds, a pack of nearly two dozen infantry men and most of Cortés’s top lieutenants, Alvarado, Leon and Olid among them, were huffing their way up the temple steps.

“Zammie, get back here!” yelled out Aguilar when he saw me wandering too close to the temple.

“You should stay down here, Zammie,” said Bernal Díaz . He was a few steps ahead looking down at me. “This could be dangerous.”

“I just wanna watch,” I said.

“Listen to Father Aguilar. This is a soldier’s business.”

I knew he was right, but I was anxious to see up close what the Spaniards would do with those blood-soaked statues. I backed away from the foot of the pyramid, craning my neck as I watched the soldiers lumbering their way to the summit, climbing higher into the evening sky.

By that time there were growing crowds of apprehensive Cempoallans gathering in the streets that surrounded the temple. Some were crying out for us to stop. Some were simply crying. I imagined myself in their position. How would I or my parents react if we saw a band of outsiders running through the nave of our church threatening to smash the altar and tear up the chancel? I glanced at Father Olmedo. A look of anguish covered his face that let me know his thoughts were probably something similar.

“Why do you want to destroy our gods?” I heard The Trembler ask Cortés. He was trying to be strong, showing signs of anger towards the Spaniard, but tears were falling from his eyes that reminded me of a sad child. I suddenly imagined him as a little boy, a little fat boy who pouted when he didn’t get his way. “If your men desecrate our gods then our entire people will perish! We will all be dead! What good will that do you?”

Cortés watched his men making their steep ascension while Marina translated the chief’s message. He grew stern towards the Fat Chief, showing no sign of fear or uncertainty in his expression. “Tell him that if he does not order his men to bring down those idols at once, I will order my men to roll them off the edge!”

Marina translated the message to the Fat Chief. Cortés looked over at me with a questioning nod as Marina spoke. Her translation sounded fair to me so I nodded to the General. She also embellished a line about Moctezuma returning to punish the Cempoallans which was a nice added touch. That really made the Fat Chief think deeply about which path he would choose.

Cortés was only curious about Marina’s translations when it dealt with religious teaching or political tension. Otherwise he seemed to trust her without having to check in with me. In general, his trust of her had been growing over the past several days. The more Spanish she spoke, the more he seemed to trust her. Olmedo and Aguilar had been working with her constantly for a few weeks now doing total immersion lessons. She was a bright woman and was picking up on it quickly. She once told me she believed Spanish to be the language of love. I asked her then if that was simply because Cortés spoke Spanish. She smiled and looked away which pretty much confirmed my answer.

“We can no longer consider you our friends and brothers,” continued Cortés. “Instead you will become our mortal enemies. We have given you true advice and you have spurned it. I see your own men now armed with clubs. This is stubborn behavior, Chief Chicomacatl, and your people will pay for their stubbornness with their lives unless you command them to stand down.”  

Cortés wasn’t about to relent. He knew he had the advantage. The Indian men were at the top of the temple already. They had the high ground and were armed with their clubs spiked with obsidian, but the Toledo steel knew no equal in this part of the world. The superior position of the Indians would be quickly surmounted by the Spaniards once they reached the top. Alvarado halted the soldiers once they were close to the platform at the summit. He looked back towards Cortés, some sixty feet down, awaiting his final order.

“We are unworthy to approach our gods in the manner you ask,” said the Fat Chief. The anger he had shown earlier had melted away like butter in the sun. It had been replaced with panic and distress. His face turned a dark red. I was afraid his rising blood pressure was about to kill him by causing his own heart to explode. The other chiefs advising him were even less decisive on what to do. “And it’s true we cannot challenge you,” he continued, “so if you are to overthrow our gods understand it will be done without our consent.”

Marina translated the concession to Cortés. One of the Fat Chief’s servants yelled up the side of the temple ordering the Indian soldiers to stand down and allow the Spaniards to complete their blasphemous work. Within seconds there were nearly fifty Spanish soldiers running along the top level of the temple. They pushed over every one of the squat stone idols they could find.

The idols had been carved out of thick rocks in the frightening images of their many gods. They stood anywhere from two to ten feet tall, both male and female. Some had the heads of dragons or snakes and some looked like hideous half-man half-dog creatures. It made no difference to our soldiers. They pushed the statues over where they stood, rolled them to the edge of the temple landing and then over the side. The statues began tumbling down the stairs or rolling down the steep inclines that led up to the temple peak. When they hit the stone floor at the foot of the temple they smashed into a thousand pieces, some exploding on impact like busted China.

The Fat Chief could barely stand to see it happen. I saw fresh tears rolling down his chubby cheeks like leaking oil. Some of the other chiefs standing with him wept as well. Others moaned in prayer asking the gods for forgiveness, beseeching their compassion.

-- from Conquest of Mexico: To Follow the Cross

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