Ehecatl lay in the dim glow of his chamber that night, the reed mats soft beneath him, the air still warm from the day's lingering heat and the faint scent of herbs wafting from Xochiquetzal's corner alcove. Malinalli curled against his side, her swelling belly pressed to him, her breathing steady in sleep, while Catalina rested on his other arm, her gentle form a quiet anchor. Tecuelhuetzin had retired to a guest space for now, her presence a new thread in the household's weave, but his mind raced too fast for rest. The alliance with Tlaxcala was sealed, "This Thing Of Ours" binding them in blood and oath, a clever mask for what was essentially a tributary state. They'd supply manpower and resources, while the Mexica offered market access and shared glory, making them feel equal without the label. A win, he thought, smug satisfaction curling in his chest.
The Michhuaque threat loomed next, but with one flank secure, he could focus west to crush the Michhuaque like Germany should've to avoid a two-front folly. But his thoughts drifted to the 20 Castilians languishing in cells, Olid among them, their handover a key concession from Tlaxcala. It hit him then, a wave of reflection crashing over the smugness. He'd seriously dropped the ball on Cortes and Malinalli. With Cortes, it had been too personal, a petty humiliation. The staged trial where he'd branded him a terrorist and coward, the "Illegals in My Yard" song a childish jab, sentencing him to hard labor without a thorough accounting of charges, no real evidence presented, no defense allowed, just a spectacle to sate the crowd's bloodlust. He'd called it justice, but it was vengeance, sloppy and emotional, the kind that left loose ends.
And Malinalli… gods, that was a mess. She'd seduced him in a fit of rage and lust, her body a weapon he'd fallen for, digging into her guts with rough thrusts that night, now she lived in his home, pregnant with his child, integrated as if nothing happened. The Mexica had no framework for such things, no concept of accountability beyond the god's whims, so they'd let it slide, viewing her as his sex slave, a prize like the others. Sure, he'd done alright on Cortes in the end, keeping him alive to suffer, but he should've done more, held it to the standards of his old 21st-century life. A life of fair trials, evidence, no personal bias. Most didn't bat an eye at Malinalli's fate, but it gnawed at him now, a loose thread in his "Sixth Sun" vision.
For these 20 Castilians, he wouldn't drop the ball. This trial would be smoother, more professional with no spectacles, just justice laid bare, charges clear and evidence stacked, setting a standard for the empire's new era. With that resolve firm, he pulled Malinalli closer in sleep, his hand resting on her belly, the future stirring under his touch as the night deepened.
…
…
…
In the morning, Ehecatl woke with a single-minded focus burning in his mind, the kind that locked him into a task like a warrior in the heat of battle, everything else fading to the background. The courtyard's sounds filtered in softly with Malinalli's sharp laugh echoing from the comal as she warmed tlaxcalli, Catalina's gentle hum as she tended to chores, and Xochiquetzal's broom sweeping in rhythmic strokes. But he barely registered them, his thoughts already consumed by the trial ahead. He rose from the reed mats, and secluded himself in his alcove, bark-paper ledgers spread before him like a battlefield map.
Pausing a moment, he tapped into his cheat, the mental archive that functioned like an endless well of knowledge. AI precision fused with Google's vast reach, answering any query with pinpoint accuracy. "Define war crimes in detail." he thought, and the information flooded in. Acts like murder of civilians, torture, rape, enslavement, destruction of cultural sites. Concepts from distant times and places, like the Geneva accords or Nuremberg trials, where victors judged the vanquished for atrocities against humanity. He delved deeper, querying "international law on occupation and conquest." absorbing ideas of proportionality, distinction between combatants and innocents, prohibitions on pillage and forced labor.
"Examples of religious persecution in war." brought tales of crusades and inquisitions, mirroring the Castilians' forced baptisms and temple burnings. The knowledge settled in him instantly, transforming him into an expert, his mind sharpened like obsidian for the charges to come.
With the framework solid, he began setting charges against the main notable figures among the 20 Castilians. For Cristobal de Olid was complicity in the siege of Tenochtitlan, aiding in the massacre of non-combatants, and the handover of Catalina as "appeasement" framing it as trafficking in women during occupation. Diego de Ordaz would be charged in the participation in the initial conquest raids, destruction of temples, and documented acts of looting cultural artifacts. Bernal Díaz del Castillo is different… the man was chronicling and justifying atrocities in his writings, which Ehecatl viewed as propaganda for war crimes, plus direct involvement in battles that targeted civilians. Fray Bartolomé de Olmedo is religious persecution, forced conversions at spearpoint, and blessing the desecration of sacred sites, twisting faith into a tool of terror.
For the remaining 16, lesser-known but no less culpable, he planned interrogations. Each one isolated in a dim cell, questioned relentlessly for confessions on specific acts of who raped during which raid, who burned homes, who enslaved children. He'd take notes meticulously, cross-referencing with survivor testimonies and his cheat's historical recall, building cases like a 21st-century prosecutor in a pre-colonial court. The goal wasn't just punishment, but precedent. Establishing the empire's "war crimes" framework to deter future horrors, and most importantly to make sure any European after Castilians could never claim the moral high ground and thus ensuring the Sixth Sun rose clean.
By midday, the plans were solidified on bark paper, and he emerged from the alcove. The household's scents of herbs and spices grounding him as he prepared for the day ahead, the trial a step toward justice in his reborn world.
Malinalli was stirring a pot on the comal, the scent of spiced tlaxcalli wafting through the air; Catalina as always with her gentle care, was assisting Malinalli, both their bellies a soft swell under their huipil; Xochiquetzal tending to her herb mixtures, her hands dusted with pollen as she ground petals.
Malinalli spotted him first, crossing her arms over her swelling form. Her voice laced with curiosity and impatience.
"Out of your cave at last, boy? What the hell have you been locked in there for? plotting to conquer the stars or just avoiding us?"
He chuckled, pulling her close by the waist for a deep kiss. "Close, my venom. Been prepping for the trial of those 20 Castilians. Charges for their leaders like Olid and that chronicler Díaz which said charges involve trafficking, massacres, temple burnings. I've got interrogations for the rest to drag out confessions. Can't drop the ball like with Cortes; this time, it's professional, evidence stacked high."
She nodded, "Sounds brutal. And the peace with Tlaxcala holding?"
He kissed Catalina tenderly next, his hand lingering on her belly. "For now. I'll be out awhile, meeting Cuauhtemoc to finalize it all." Turning to Xochiquetzal, he gave her a playful wink, his eyes lingering on her curves as she flushed. "Keep at it with those herbs, sweet cheeks." With a final round of goodbyes and a ass slap for Malinalli that left her laughing. He took off, striding through the streets toward the tecpan, the empire's weight on his shoulders but his step light with purpose.
…
…
…
Ehecatl strode into the tecpan under a midday sun that cast long shadows over the palace's lime-plastered walls, the air thick with the scent of copal from the morning rites. Guards in ichcahuipilli nodded him through, their spears tipped with fresh steel from the forges, a reminder of the empire's growing might. Cuauhtemoc awaited in the central chamber, seated on his icpalli throne amid murals of eagles and serpents, his turquoise diamond shaped tilmatli shimmering as he gestured for Ehecatl to sit. The Huey Tlatoani's face was a mask of curiosity, his eyes sharp as he noted the bundle of bark-paper under his Cihuacoatl's arm.
"Huey Tlatoani," Ehecatl began, his voice resonant and steady, unrolling the sketches and notes with deliberate care. "I've come to lay out the trial for the 20 Castilians. Last time with Cortes and Malinalli, it got too personal… I humiliated him with songs and spectacle, let her seduce her way out without proper judgment. We can't repeat that; this needs to be right, professional, with evidence and structure, setting a standard for the Sixth Sun's justice."
Cuauhtemoc leaned forward, his interest piqued. "Speak your plan."
Ehecatl nodded, explaining with charismatic precision. "We'll hold it in the main plaza for the people to see, but structured with no chaos. Charges clear such as war crimes like massacre of non-combatants, rape, enslavement, destruction of temples. Evidence from survivors, our scouts, even their own chronicler Díaz's writings if we seize them. Interrogations for confessions, no torture. Just isolation and questions to break them mentally."
He paused, laying out roles with firm assignment. "Yaotl, our southern warrior-chief, as prosecutor. He's seen the raids, the war, the siege, the occupation etc. His voice carries the fire of battle. The high priest of Huitzilopochtli to oversee the gods' justice, framing charges as offenses against the divine order. For scribes and records, call in the tlacuilo from Coatlichan, as their bilingual skills will note every word, no disputes later. And for defense… let one of their own, like Olmedo the friar, speak if they wish, to show our 'mercy' before the sentence."
Cuauhtemoc's eyes gleamed with approval, pounding his fist lightly on the throne's arm. "Wise, Cihuacoatl. Justice as a blade, not a blunt club. Proceed; the people need to see the Castilians broken properly this time."
Ehecatl bowed, the plan set, the trial a step toward purging the old shadows from the empire's new dawn.
…
…
…
With all that settled, he then makes note and writes the names of all the twenty Castilians, as he plans to interrogate each one tomorrow. The list flows from his quill with deliberate strokes, each name a reminder of the empire's scars: Cristobal de Olid at the top, his defiant glare from the assessment still fresh in Ehecatl's mind; Diego de Ordaz next, the raider whose temple burnings had fueled the charges; Bernal Diaz del Castillo, the chronicler clutching his journal like a shield; Fray Bartolome de Olmedo, the friar whose forced conversions twisted faith into terror. The remaining sixteen follow in quick succession, lesser names but no less culpable. Gonzalo de Sandoval's aides, scouts and foot soldiers alike whose faces blurred in the war's chaos but whose acts of rape and looting would be dragged into the light.
He sets the bark paper aside, the ink drying under the alcove's torchlight, his mind already mapping the interrogations. Isolation cells to break their spirits, questions honed, sharp and precise like obsidian to extract confessions, evidence stacked to ensure the trial's professionalism. No more personal vendettas like with Cortes; this would be justice, clean and unyielding, a foundation for the Sixth Sun's laws. With the list complete, he rises to join the household for the evening meal, the weight of tomorrow's reckonings settling like a mantle on his shoulders.
…
…
…
After the evening meal wrapped up in the courtyard. The air still warm with the scent of spiced tlaxcalli and roasted quail, the gourd vessels of pulque now empty. Ehecatl gathered the women around the low table, the torchlight casting flickering shadows across their faces. Malinalli lounged on a reed mat, her swelling belly prominent as she fanned herself lazily with a palm leaf, hinting at curiosity. Catalina sat nearby, her pale skin flushed from the meal's warmth. Tecuelhuetzin, the new addition, adjusted her striped huipil with poised grace, her dark eyes scanning the group as Xochiquetzal cleared the plates quietly in the background.
Ehecatl leaned forward, his voice steady and engaging as he unrolled a bark-paper list of names, the ink fresh from his earlier notes. "I've got the 20 Castilians in cells now, thanks to the Tlaxcalans' handover. I doubt you know much, Tecuelhuetzin, but it wouldn't hurt to ask. You were with Alvarado during the alliance. Catalina, Malinalli, you've been around them longer. Do these names ring any bells? What do you know about them?"
He read them off one by one, starting with the notables, his eyes flicking between the women for reactions.
"Cristobal de Olid."
Catalina's face paled slightly, her hand instinctively touching her belly as memories surfaced. "Olid… he was the one who gave me to you during the retreat. Cruel but calculating, always shaking after fights, like the violence haunted him. He led raids on villages, burning homes and taking women as 'gifts' for morale. I saw him beat a Mexica scout to death once, laughing about it later."
"Catalina." he said, his voice low and inviting, pulling her closer so their knees brushed, "tell me more about Cristobal de Olid. I know what you've shared before. How he took you from your home in Hispaniola when you were twelve, but that's just the start. I'd like to hear what happened from the beginning of your time with him up until he gave you to me. The details, the truths, no holding back."
Catalina's face paled slightly, her hand tightening in his as memories flooded back, her voice trembling at first but gaining strength with each word, tears welling in her eyes as she spoke in a mix of Spanish and halting Nahuatl, "It started in Hispaniola, my lord… Father owned a tavern in Santo Domingo, a place of rum and fights, the air always thick with tobacco smoke and men's laughter. Mother died when I was six, fever taking her in a night of sweats and prayers. I helped in the tavern after that, serving ale to sailors and soldiers, dreaming of the convent's quiet walls, away from the groping hands and leers."
She paused, her breath catching as a tear slipped down her cheek, her free hand resting on her swelling belly for comfort. "Olid came one night, a tall man with a beard like fire, eyes cold as the sea. He was twenty-eight then, a captain under Velázquez, fresh from Cuba's conquests. He spotted me behind the bar, my dress stained from spills, and bartered with Father over rum and gold for my 'service.' Father sold me like a cask of wine, tears in his eyes but greed winning out. Olid took me that night in the tavern's back room, the wood rough against my back as he pushed me down, his beard scratching my face, thrusting hard and fast until I bled, my screams muffled by his hand, the pain like fire ripping through me. 'You're mine now, girl,' he grunted, spilling inside me as I sobbed."
Malinalli's expression carried the raw pain, her own voice cracking slightly when comforting Catalina, while Tecuelhuetzin shifted uncomfortably, her expression hardening with shared empathy. Catalina continued, her voice steadying as tears flowed freely. "He dragged me to Cuba first, then the mainland. Yucatán raids where he burned Maya villages, forcing me to watch as he and his men raped women in the ashes, their screams echoing my own. I was fourteen then, bleeding monthly soon after, terrified of carrying his child. He used me nightly. In Tenochtitlan's siege, I saw the horrors up close, Mexica bodies piled like logs, women dragged away as he laughed, 'Fresh meat for the men.' He dug into my past, mocked my nun dreams, called me 'his little whore' while thrusting in the camps, the mud sticking to my skin like shame."
She wiped her tears, her hand trembling on Ehecatl's. "When the retreat came, Olid gave me to you to appease your wrath. 'A gift for the devil-boy,' he said, shoving me forward like discarded baggage. I was terrified, expecting worse, but… you were different. Kind in ways he never was." Catalina finished speaking, her eyes softened, while the group sat in heavy silence, the weight of her story hanging like copal smoke, Ehecatl's grip tightening on her hand in quiet support.
Malinalli nodded, her smirk fading into a cold glare, her voice laced with venom. "Olid was Alvarado's shadow, but greedier. He looted temples for gold, raped priestesses in the ruins to 'break their spirits.' I heard him boast about Cholula, how he crucified survivors for sport. A coward at heart, pissed himself in fear during ambushes."
Tecuelhuetzin shifted uncomfortably, her expression guarded. "Olid… I didn't know him well, but he trained our warriors after the retreat from the first time when Motecuhzuma had died. Pushed for more raids, said 'the Mexica deserve it.' He eyed Tlaxcalan women too, but Alvarado kept him in check. At least when Alvarado was still alive."
Ehecatl leaned forward slightly in the courtyard alcove, the evening air still warm with the lingering spice of the meal, his eyes locking on Tecuelhuetzin with that intensity that made her feel seen yet exposed. He took a sip of pulque before speaking, his voice low and probing.
"Tecuelhuetzin, you've been with Alvarado during the alliance with the Castilians. What else do you know about Cristobal de Olid? He trained your men, was around the camps. Did he threaten the women, make disturbing comments, or look at them in ways that lingered too long? Any detail could help my case against him."
Tecuelhuetzin's expression darkened, her full lips pressing into a thin line as memories flooded back, her striped huipil shifting with her tense breath, the fabric clinging tighter to her curves. She met his gaze steadily, her voice cracking with raw bitterness as she spoke. "Olid… he was always there, like a shadow in the camps. Training our warriors by day, but at night, his eyes roamed the women like a jaguar stalking prey. I remember one evening, after a drill, he cornered a young Tlaxcalan girl. Barely fifteen, his hand gripping her arm hard enough to bruise, his beard close to her face as he whispered something that made her tremble. 'You'll warm my tent tonight, india,' he said loud enough for me to hear, his gaze stripping her bare right there. She pulled away, but he laughed, saying 'Run, little one. Makes the chase sweeter.' The way he looked at us, not as allies but as conquests waiting to happen… it chilled the blood."
Malinalli's face twisted in disgust, her hand clenching on her belly as if protecting her unborn child, tears welling in her eyes from shared rage.
"That bastard… same as the rest, eyes like knives cutting you open before they even touch."
Catalina's gentle features paled, her hand flying to her mouth as a sob escaped, her body trembling with the memory of her own traumas under Olid's command, whispering in Spanish, "He… he did that to me too, the looks, the threats."
Xochiquetzal froze, her broom dropping with a clatter, her eyes wide with horror as the words hit close to her family's fate, tears streaming down her face as she clutched her huipil, the group falling into a heavy silence broken only by soft sobs.
Ehecatl nodded grimly, his jaw tightening with cold fury, the details fueling his case like oil on a fire.
"Thank you, Tecuelhuetzin. This helps, his threats, his gaze like a predator… it'll bury him in the trial." The women's reactions hung in the air, a gut-wrenching reminder of the Castilians' cruelties, strengthening Ehecatl's resolve as the empire's justice loomed.
Ehecatl after noting it down, moved on.
"Diego de Ordaz."
Catalina shook her head. "Ordaz was a climber, always stuttering in fear during charges but brave in raids. He led temple burnings, forced conversions at swordpoint. I remember him whipping Mexica elders who refused baptism."
Malinalli snorted. "Ordaz, the stutterer. Cortes used him for dirty work, looting artifacts, enslaving children for labor. He raped a noblewoman in front of her family once, to 'teach submission.' Hated by all but feared."
Tecuelhuetzin frowned. "He came to our camps, trained in climbing pyramids for assaults. Boasted of scaling Popocatepetl, but I saw him beat a Tlaxcalan scout for questioning orders."
"Bernal Diaz del Castillo."
Catalina's eyes widened. "The chronicler. he wrote everything, justified the horrors as 'God's work.' Quiet but observant, looted books from temples, burned what he couldn't carry."
Malinalli's face darkened. "Diaz, the scribbler. Documented rapes and massacres like they were heroic tales. He participated too, claimed 'spoils' from raids, enslaved girls for his tent."
Tecuelhuetzin nodded. "He visited Alvarado, always scribbling. Questioned our gods, called them demons while forcing baptisms."
"Fray Bartolome de Olmedo."
Catalina sighed. "The friar preached endlessly, blessed the burnings, forced crosses on captives. Kind in words but cruel in deeds, baptized women before… the men took them."
Malinalli spat. "Olmedo, the holy hypocrite. Used faith as a whip, condemned our rites while ignoring the rapes his brothers committed. He 'saved' a girl once by baptizing her, then gave her to Ordaz."
Tecuelhuetzin's voice hardened. "He came to our temples, smashed idols, called camaxtli a devil. Forced conversions on our priests, burned sacred codices."
For the remaining 16 lesser names such as Gonzalo de Sandoval's aides, scouts and foot soldiers whose faces blurred in memory. The women offered fragments, "That one led village burnings," or "He raped during the looting," piecing together a tapestry of atrocities. Tecuelhuetzin knew a few from camp interactions, her accounts laced with bitterness; Malinalli recalled many from Cortes' inner circle, her voice raw with hate; Catalina provided details from the Castilian side, her tone soft but pained.
Ehecatl took notes meticulously, the women's insights sharpening his charges, the household's bond deepening amid the revelations, the trial's foundation laid in their shared memories.