When Montezuma Met Cortes

by Matthew Restall

  The fifth and final variant on the story is the only one that absolves the Aztecs and firmly points a finger either specifically at Cortés or at the other Spanish captains. Sometimes called “the Indian version,” this variant in fact goes back to the sixteenth century and is not solely or simply an indigenous or even quasi-indigenous version. In the quasi-indigenous Codex Ramírez, Montezuma and the other royal captives are all stabbed to death by Spaniards, a version that the friars Acosta and Durán followed. In an odd detail mentioned by the Jesuit Tovar, “there were those who said that in order for the wound not to be seen, they put a sword into his nether regions [parte baja],” which Ixtlilxochitl repeats (and Francis MacNutt translates as “his fundament”). No matter how delicately one puts it, there was clearly a story circulating many decades after the event in which conquistadors shoved a sword up Montezuma’s rear end (no doubt, as Belgian scholar Michel Graulich points out, seen as fitting for the emperor of habitual sodomites)—a distasteful symbol of how profoundly Montezuma’s reputation has been shafted for centuries. In other accounts, Spaniards beat the captive emperor to death, or “dash’d out his brains”; and in one quasi-indigenous version, Montezuma and Cacama (tlahtoani of Tetzcoco) were strangled “when the Spaniards fled the city at night.” The image of Montezuma on the balcony in the Codex Moctezuma is often taken to show him being strangled or stabbed by a Spaniard.11

  This fifth variant, a square verdict of Spanish homicide, was very much a minor one until the nineteenth century, when it gradually became predominant in Mexico. By 1892, Alfredo Chavero could claim that “it is not certain that Montezuma died from the stone: it is well proven that Cortés ordered him killed.” When, more than a half-century later, Mexican historian Ignacio Romerovargas Iturbide remarked that Montezuma “was assassinated by the Spaniards,” he was expressing the common view in the land that had been Montezuma’s.12

  There is one final twist to the tale: What happened to the emperor’s body? Spanish accounts devoted little attention to the topic, following the tone set by Cortés (he remarked that “Indian prisoners” took away the corpse “and I don’t know what they did with it”). But quasi-indigenous accounts offered revealing details. According to the Florentine Codex, the body was carried to Copulco and cremated there. Copulco was where the priests of the New Fire Ceremony lived; as the ceremony was held every fifty-two years, and Montezuma was fifty-two when he died, this might have been seen as a way to ritually inspire an Aztec rebirth or recovery in the midst of a difficult war (it also calls into question Montezuma’s birth date; was it adjusted posthumously to give him a fifty-two-year life?). In the Codex Tudela, the priests ate Montezuma’s ashes, a mark of reverence and also a ritual of rebirth and renewal. And in the account from the Annals of Cuauhtitlan, the body was processed through towns at the four cardinal directions prior to cremation. Presumably these variants were less local memories of the event and more early colonial ideas on how the burial of a huey tlahtoani would or should have been conducted. Either way, they consistently convey one key point: the burial was one of ritualized respect and reverence, not the irreverent disposal of a corpse by its murderers.13

  There was another possible twist to how Christianized Nahuas, decades later, understood that burial. Mexican art historian Diana Magaloni has pointed out that the illustration in the Florentine Codex of two Mexica men lifting Montezuma’s body out of the lake (where Spaniards had thrown it) echoed imagery of the Descent from the Cross (it is included in “Burned” in the Gallery). The theme, showing Christ being cradled as he was taken down from the cross, was popular in European religious art throughout the late medieval and early modern centuries, and would have been seen in sixteenth-century Mexican churches. The same illustration then shows the emperor’s body being cremated in the same pose. (By contrast, another frame shows the body of the murdered ruler of Tlatelolco, Itzquauhtzin, taken by canoe and cremated in a more traditional Nahua bundled pose.) Did the same Mexica who scapegoated Montezuma for the war’s defeat also emphasize the Christlike reverence with which he was buried? This speculative but persuasive idea suggests a deep-rooted memory of an emperor who was never scorned—let alone murdered—by his own people.14

  Amid the competing claims and contradictory accusations over Montezuma’s death, everybody who testified or offered opinions—Spanish and quasi-indigenous—consistently adopted the same set of four positions: they did not kill him; they lamented his death; they were quick to point fingers at who did it; yet they were also willing to blame him for the outcome of the war, to judge him as a weak leader, effectively making Montezuma himself the guilty party. For now, the mystery of his murder shall remain unsolved (until the chapter’s end); for that solution only makes sense if we first clarify why the mystery and its many contradictory accounts existed in the first place. After all, there is little doubt that the Spaniards burned alive the Taíno ruler, Hatuey, on Hispaniola; that they garroted the Inca ruler, Atahuallpa, in Peru; and that they tortured to death the Muisca ruler, Sagipa, in Colombia.15 What happened in Mexico that made for a more ambiguous outcome?

  To answer that, we must pick up the story of the invasion where we left it—on the Gulf coast in August 1519—and then approach the Spanish-Aztec War, through to Montezuma’s death ten months later, with a perspective very different from that of the traditional narrative.

  * * *

  Quauhpopocatl was an Aztec nobleman, a Mexica from Tenochtitlan. His name was more properly Quauhpopocatzin, with the -tzin suffix to reflect his high rank. He himself was distantly related to the royal family, and his wife was the great-granddaughter of Huitzilihuitl, the second Aztec king (ruled 1391–1415). Quauhpopocatl was sufficiently valued and trusted by Montezuma that in the summer of 1519—as the invading foreigners marched and sailed up and down the Gulf coast, fighting local townspeople and each other—the emperor sent him to the coast to meet them.

  Under Montezuma’s orders, Quauhpopocatl welcomed the invaders at Vera Cruz, then

  brought, guided, and protected the Marqués [Cortés] and the Christians [the Spaniards] along all roads on which they came, until they entered this city of Mexico, using various means and much astuteness so that the townspeople along those roads, who were disturbed by the arrival of the Christians, would not kill them.

  This, at least, was according to Quauhpopocatl’s son. A boy during the war, the son witnessed both the 235 days of the Spanish sojourn in Tenochtitlan and the Noche Triste battle that killed his father. The boy survived the siege of the city and saw his elder brother—who had succeeded as tlahtoani of Coyohuacan (Coyoacan)—leave on the Cortés-led expedition to Honduras, along with four hundred of the town’s warriors, never to return. In 1526, now in his teens and with the hybrid Christian-Nahua name of don Juan de Guzmán Itztlolinqui, he himself assumed the governorship of Coyohuacan. He would rule it until his death in 1569. Reinforcing that astonishing continuity of local rulership, don Juan, already Mexica royalty, married into the Tetzcoco side of the Aztec royal dynasty—his wife was doña Mencia de la Cruz, one of the granddaughters of Nezahualpilli (ruled 1473–1515)—just as his royal ancestors had been doing for generations.

  Don Juan de Guzmán Itztlolinqui was one of three rulers of Nahua towns in the former Aztec heartland who rode beside Viceroy Mendoza in the Mixton War of 1540–41 (a campaign northward against “rebel” Chichimecas that was yet another violent episode in the protracted Spanish invasion). In 1551, the king granted Itztlolinqui his own coat of arms—making him Spanish, as well as Nahua, nobility. Five years later he was one of thirteen royal or noble Nahua lords who wrote to Carlos V “humbly begging” him “to appoint the bishop of Chiapas, fray Bartolomé de Las Casas, to take on the position of our Protector”—an official judicial post in Spanish American provinces—“against the many grievances and abuses that we receive from the Spaniards, for them being amongst us and we being amongst them.”16

  Clearly Itztlolinqui was a successful Aztec politician in New Spain’s earlies
t decades; that characterization is slightly anachronistic (“Aztec” was an imperial entity that ended in 1521, and “New Spain” existed mostly in name only when Itztlolinqui became ruler of his hometown), but it conveys his ability to navigate the hybrid Aztec-Spanish imperial system that was Mexico in his lifetime. He had learned to write Spanish and Latin from the first Franciscans in Mexico, and had a fine grasp of the new legal system. He was educated, informed, and connected.

  This context helps us to read the forty-page brief Itztlolinqui filed in Tenochtitlan/Mexico City in 1536. Addressed to the king, it outlined the sacrifices and services of don Juan’s father, Quauhpopocatl (such as that quoted previously), as just reason for the king ordering local Spaniards to stop treating the people of Coyohuacan “like slaves.” Showing a mastery both of Nahua oratorical tradition and the Spanish petitionary language of the era, Itztlolinqui argued that despite being loyal Christians, his subjects were “hit, kicked, beaten with sticks, thrown in jail, put in stocks and chains like the worst prisoners in the world.” Their tribute burden was so onerous that people were fleeing into the hills, where they had no access to the sacraments of Christianity.17

  Thus Itztlolinqui’s very brief narrative of the moment in the war to which we now turn (the march of August–November 1519, from Vera Cruz to Tenochtitlan) was in service of a particular political agenda. Itztlolinqui was not alone in his goal or his chosen tactic; towns and noble families across Mesoamerica (from the Nahuas to the Mayas) claimed after the war that they welcomed and aided the Christian invaders from the very beginning (as discussed in Chapter 2). Because the evidence shows it was untrue in many cases, it is tempting to ignore Itztlolinqui’s claim. Indeed, historians have done just that.

  I suggest, however, that we can learn something from Itztlolinqui—for several reasons. First, the Spanish conquistador and chronicler accounts that underpin the traditional narrative are no less partisan or agenda-driven; they have the benefits of repetition and availability, but not that of objectivity (or, as we shall see, believability). Second, there is no doubt that the Aztecs were tracking the Spanish ships along the coast, and that multiple Aztec embassies traveled to meet, observe, and accompany the company from the moment they landed. Such contacts are mentioned in dozens of Spanish and indigenous accounts, along with the detailed evidence (written and material) of Montezuma’s gifts. The names assigned to Aztec ambassadors, however, are inconsistent and incomplete, so there is no reason why Quauhpopocatl could not have been among them—performing or contributing to the task given to him by Montezuma. Multiple sources state that Cacama (the tlahtoani of Tetzcoco) traveled east to meet the Spaniards, a story entirely compatible with Itztlolinqui’s. The Tetzcoca chronicler Alva Ixtlilxochitl claimed that it was actually his namesake (and one of Cacama’s brothers) who made the trip—and made it as far as Vera Cruz.18

  Third, Itztlolinqui brought witnesses to corroborate his story. They had their own obvious reasons to support their tlahtoani, but the details they offer are worth our attention. Pedro Tlilantzin, for example, testified that he himself went halfway from Tenochtitlan to Vera Cruz, joining Quauhpopocatl en route to the capital; that “he knows they were put safely in this city of Mexico without any danger or risk, because he saw it.” Pedro Atenpenecatl added that he too made that journey, with his own father, going as far as Amaquemecan (Amecameca), “which is half way between Vera Cruz and this city,” and thus he saw how Quauhpopocatl “brought the Christians by good roads and protected them until putting them safely in this city.” Andrés Mecateca said he was with Quauhpopocatl in Coyohuacan (in the service of the tlahtoani) when Montezuma’s messenger arrived calling him to Tenochtitlan; they were told to bring food to the Spaniards and guide them to the city; this they did, catching up with them at Amaquemecan. Martín Hueytecotzin was also with Quauhpopocatl when he was called to see Montezuma, but he added the detail that they brought from Coyohuacan “many flowers” which “they threw on the floor before” the emperor. Finally, don Diego Cuitecotle said he was “present at the conversation” between Montezuma and Quauhpopocatl, who then ordered Cuitecotle to take a canoe back to Coyohuacan to fetch “his blankets,” join him at the lake, and go welcome the Christians; Cuitecotle thought it was at Chalco where they met Cortés, who in recognition of Quauhpopocatl’s status gave him “a necklace of pearls.”19

  Obviously this is not a story that can be swallowed whole, any more than any such recollections can, be they by Castilians or Coyohuacan Nahuas. We do not know if the details of flowers and blankets lend credibility or are mere imagination; if Quauhpopocatl led his men as far as Vera Cruz or only to nearby Chalco. Nonetheless, I think that Itztlolinqui’s story offers us a glimpse of what really happened (and did not). Montezuma and the Aztecs responded to the arrival of the Spaniards in an intelligent and pragmatic manner. They were neither terrified nor overwhelmed with superstitious foreboding. They neither took the Spaniards to be gods, nor viewed them as a racial Other; even the perception of the newcomers in quasi-ethnic terms—with hitherto-unknown language, customs, and material culture—was muted by the predominance in the Nahua world of altepetl identity. The altepetl of the Spaniards (who more often called themselves Castilians) was Caxtillan, making them Caxtilteca, with Cortés as their tlahtoani (as capitán was taken to mean). From the start, the Aztec leadership sought contact, communication, and information; they wanted to understand Caxtilteca intentions, strengths and weaknesses, their capacity to hurt or help the Aztec Empire. Quauhpopocatl thus represents one of scores, if not hundreds, of Aztecs who brought word back to Tenochtitlan, as the invaders were queried, tested, and lured with one set of gifts after another into the capital.20

  The traditional narrative tells a different story—indeed, there are three other versions of the march to Tenochtitlan, each as well established and misleading as the other. The Cortesian version predictably placed Cortés in almost total control, winning one indigenous ally after another, gaining first the Totonacs and then the Tlaxcalteca. Initial Tlaxcalteca hostility and the outbreak of a deadly eighteen-day war were downplayed as a Spanish victory, a precursor to the winning of another ally.

  Predominant for centuries, the Cortesian version was given a boost by the increasing popularity of the Tlatelolca-Franciscan version in the Florentine Codex (as it began to be published and translated, starting in the late nineteenth century). This variant imagines the dithering, unnerved Montezuma described earlier, as part of a trifecta of invented notions about the emperor: a set of eight omens that presage the invasion and Aztec defeat; Montezuma’s reaction; and the Surrender at the Meeting. Although this detracts a tad from Cortés’s control (Montezuma’s weakness makes it easier for Cortés to prevail), the two versions are clearly compatible.

  The third version is the Tlaxcalteca one, in which the eighteen-day war is downplayed or erased, in order to emphasize the role of Tlaxcallan as the first and most important convert to the Spanish and Christian cause. In this version, Tlaxcalteca leaders and warriors save the Spanish company from an ambush in Cholollan, from total annihilation during the Noche Triste, and from permanent retreat in the summer of 1520; the fall of Tenochtitlan and the spread of the true faith to New Spain are made possible by the Tlaxcalteca.

  We cannot embrace Tlaxcalteca partisanship any more than we can accept Cortesian mythistory, but it—like the Itztlolinqui story—contains a crucial kernel of truth. For if we weigh the likelihood of Cortesian control against that of indigenous control, the latter is far heavier. Cortés was doubly removed from the total control of which he later boasted; first, by the captains who decided for themselves where and when to fight or not, and second, by the fact that the company was forced to react at every turn to initiatives taken by the Aztec and Tlaxcaltec leadership. As one historian has noted, “The relentless march on Mexico impresses, until one asks just what Cortés intended once he had got there.”21

  THE FIRST MAJOR TEST of the Caxtilteca engineered by the Aztecs was a trap set for them by the
Totonacs of Cempohuallan—who led the company straight into Tlaxcalteca territory. Tired and hungry after two weeks’ travel, the company was led right to the eastern defensive wall of the Tlaxcalteca. The Totonac ambassador-guides went ahead to procure a friendly welcome; instead, they delivered the invaders to the Tlaxcalteca, who began a series of ambushes and major assaults. The Totonacs were hedging their bets, hoping to achieve greater autonomy by sending the invaders west to battle one or both of the regional powers (the Aztecs and the Tlaxcalteca). But they surely calculated that the Aztecs were most likely to prevail, and thus they did what the Aztecs wanted—for the empire benefited from the death of every Tlaxcalteca warrior and every Spanish conquistador, from the weakening of both sides.

  The eighteen-day war was punishing to both sides. The Tlaxcalteca warriors attacked the Spanish camp at dawn, and kept up the assault all day. At night, the Spanish captains rode out to nearby hamlets and villages, burning the houses and killing everyone they found. The next day, the pattern was repeated. After several days, the Tlaxcalteca sent an embassy of fifty men to discuss a treaty; according to Cortés’s account, one of them revealed under questioning (in other words, torture) that while the elder tlahtoani, Xicotencatl, genuinely wished for peace, his son (of the same name) intended to trick the Spaniards into letting down their guard. Cortés then ordered a hand to be severed from all fifty emissaries (or so he claimed); thus continued the Tlaxcalteca attacks and the conquistador raids on unarmed villages.

  The Tlaxcalteca warriors were well trained and organized professionals, “skilled beyond any the Spaniards had yet encountered in Mesoamerica”—indeed, in the Americas. The conquistadors fought mostly on the defensive, and while their weapons (especially steel swords) allowed them to kill many more of the enemy than the Tlaxcalteca could, their numbers steadily fell; by the second week, they had lost half the horses (the rest all wounded) and a fifth of the Spaniards had died or taken wounds that would prove fatal. The company was outnumbered by its porters—some two hundred Totonacs, several hundred Taíno slaves, and scores of African and other indigenous slaves and servants. They were vital for transporting artillery, food, and other supplies; but with supplies dwindling, they became a liability. Totonac porters surely began to slip away back to the coast, but the Taínos—who had already begun to die from cold and hunger on the march into Tlaxcalteca territory—suffered greatly. The strategy of the captains (we should not blame Cortés if we are also to deny him credit), if it can even be called such, was a disaster. If the Tlaxcalteca had persisted, the invaders would have been killed to a man.