CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
The church bells slam into my skull like conquistador fists, which--funny thing--is exactly what they are. Spanish bells, Spanish schedule, Spanish boots stomping through what used to be my--Chel's--chambers. Now it's just another corner of stone floor I share with nineteen other women who've learned that the phrase "golden city" has a very different meaning when you're scrubbing golden artifacts before they're melted down for Spanish coins.
"¡LEVÁNTENSE, PUTAS SALVAJES!"
The morning greeting crashes through our quarters, delivered by Sister María Purísima de la Virgen de la Conquistadora de los Salvajes Paganos--or as we call her when she's not listening, "that bitch with the switch." She's built like a wine barrel that's discovered religion and weaponized it, her face permanently frozen in an expression that suggests she's smelling sin everywhere and it's giving her a migraine.
My body--this treacherous, curvaceous, utterly-impossible-to-hide body--protests as I roll off the thin mat that passes for bedding. Two weeks. Two weeks since Cortés rolled into El Dorado like death incarnate, and already my knees have memorized every stone in this floor. My back cracks like Spanish musket fire.
Great. Even my joints are collaborating.
"Faster, you lazy whores!" Sister María's switch whistles through the air, catching young Itzel across the shoulders. The girl doesn't even flinch anymore. None of us do. Flinching is a luxury we can't afford, like full meals or believing tomorrow will be better.
I struggle into the rough-spun tunic that's supposed to "modest-ify" me--Sister María's word, not mine--but there's only so much heavy fabric can do against these fucking tits. They are determined to exist in defiance of Spanish Catholic sensibilities, turning even this potato sack into something that makes the soldiers stare.
Chel could've been a flat-chested woman. A nice, invisible, A-cup woman who could blend into walls. But noooo...
"HAIR!" Sister María barks, and twenty pairs of hands fly to twenty heads, braiding with the efficiency of the condemned. The Spanish have decided that loose hair is the devil's fishing net or some shit, so every morning we transform ourselves into their vision of propriety. My hair--once Chel's pride, flowing to her waist--now barely touches my shoulders. Sister María had taken sheep shears to it the second day, declaring long hair "an invitation to sin."
Lady, have you SEEN these hips? My hair is the least of sin's invoices.
I manage something approximating a braid, though my fingers still fumble with the feminine ritual. Beside me, elderly Ixchel reaches for the jade plugs she's worn for sixty years--worn every day until--
"VANITY!" Sister María's switch cracks across Ixchel's knuckles, then her grabby sausage fingers rip the jade away. Blood trickles from Ixchel's ears. "You think God cares for your pagan decorations?"
Pretty sure God's got bigger concerns than ear jewelry, but what do I know? I'm just a fake woman in a real woman's body pretending to be a temple dancer who can't dance, trapped in a conquered city run by people who think bathing causes plague.
Sister María turns her attention to me, her piggy eyes narrowing as they travel down my figure. Despite the tent-like tunic, my body insists on exhibiting... dimensions.
"You," she spits in broken Mayan, then switches to Spanish, assuming I don't understand. "Puta presumida. Cover yourself better."
I duck my head, playing dumb while understanding every word.
Lady, I could wrap myself in a ship's sail and these curves would still show. That's not presumption, that's just physics. Terrible, bouncy, attention-grabbing physics.
We shuffle outside for morning prayers, and that's when we're all reminded of what two weeks of Spanish hospitality has done to El Dorado.
Where vibrant market stalls once displayed jade and feathers, Spanish soldiers now lounge beside piles of "inventory." The sacred pyramid, once gleaming with gold leaf, looks like a skeleton picked clean. Scaffolding crawls up its sides where natives--my people, Chel's people, fuck, I don't even know anymore--chip away centuries of artistry to feed Spanish furnaces.
The fountain that once bubbled with clear water has been replaced by a massive wooden cross, thirty feet of "fuck your culture" carved in oak. At its base, Franciscan monks force children to kneel on sharp stones while memorizing Latin prayers they don't understand.
But it's the center of the plaza that makes my empty stomach clench.
Three posts. Three bodies. Three fools who thought they were gods.
Miguel hangs from his wrists, shirtless, his back a roadmap of whip marks. A sign around his neck reads "FALSO PROFETA" in charming Spanish hospitality. His head lolls forward, and I think he's unconscious until--
"IS THAT THE BEST YOU CAN DO?" His voice cracks across the plaza, hoarse but unbroken. "MY GRANDMOTHER HIT HARDER! AND SHE HAD ARTHRITIS!"
A Spanish soldier storms over with a bucket.
SPLASH!
Miguel sputters awake fully, water streaming down his face. "Oh good, a bath! First one you've given me! No wonder you don't bathe--you're saving all the water for torture! Very economical!"
The soldier raises his whip.
"Joaquín!" A voice cuts through the morning air like a blade through silk. "Save your energy. We have gold to count."
Cortés.
The plaza goes silent the way mice go silent when a snake enters the room. Even the children stop their whimpering as Spain's most successful psychopath descends from what used to be the Chief's palace. He moves with the casual confidence of a man who's never met a situation he couldn't solve with superior firepower and a complete lack of conscience.
Two weeks have aged him well--conquest agrees with him like wine ages in a cellar, getting more complex notes of cruelty with each passing day. His black beard has been freshly trimmed. His burgundy doublet probably cost more than most Spanish villages see in a year. The gold crucifix hanging from his neck definitely isn't his--I recognize it as Chief Tannabok's ceremonial piece, re-purposed for Catholic intimidation.
He pauses at the prisoner platform, looking up at Miguel with the expression of a man examining produce at market.
"Still spirited, I see." His Spanish is cultured, almost gentle. "Good. Breaking you slowly is so much more... instructive for the natives."
He turns to the second post, where Chel--in my old body, my MALE body, and god, it's still weird seeing my own face twisted in pain--hangs with a fool's cap jingling mockingly in the morning breeze. The sign reads "ENGAÑADOR DE PAGANOS."
"And our quiet one. Tell me, does your tongue still work? Or have you finally learned the value of silence?"
Chel spits, achieving an impressive amount of distance. Right on Cortés's polished boots.
The plaza holds its breath.
Cortés looks down at his boots, then up at Chel, then smiles. It's the kind of smile that makes you want to check if all your internal organs are still where you left them.
"Delightful." He produces a handkerchief--because of course he does--and cleans his boot with theatrical precision. "Tzekel-Kan? Add another day to their sentence. And no water for this one until sunset."
Tzekel-Kan scurries forward from the shadows like the world's most eager-to-please rat. The past two weeks have transformed him from high priest to high collaborator, his new Spanish-gifted robes making him look like a bat that's discovered fashion but hasn't quite figured it out yet.
"Of course, my lord! The false gods must learn their place!" He literally wrings his hands. It's disgusting. "Perhaps we could also--"
"That's sufficient." Cortés cuts him off with the casual dismissal you'd use on a particularly annoying insect. "Chief Tannabok? How goes your morning recitation?"
And there, forced to kneel at the base of the platform in chains that are comedically too small for his massive frame, is Chief Tannabok. They've painted Spanish insults across his broad belly: "GORDO PAGANO" and "REY DE NADA" in white paint that stands out against his bronze skin.
"I..." The Chief's voice is barely a whisper. "I renounce my false authority. The Spanish crown is... is the only..."
"Louder." Cortés doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't need to.
