Imaginary interview with Hernán Cortés
by Charactorium · Hernán Cortés (1485 — 1547) · Military · Exploration · 5 min read
Two fifth-grade students on a school trip experience a day like no other. Before them stands Hernán Cortés, the famous conquistador from Spain. He invites them to sit down and promises to tell them everything — including what he is not proud of.
—How old were you when you left for the New World?
You know, my child, I was barely nineteen years old. I was born in Medellín, in Extremadura, a dry and poor land in Spain. My family was of minor nobility — we were called hidalgos. It means we bore a fine name but had little money. So imagine a young man dreaming of fortune... The sea calls him. In 1504, I set sail for an island called Hispaniola. The journey took weeks, seeing nothing but water and sky. I was afraid, yes. But above all, I hungered for something great. That's youth: you leave before you truly know where you're going.
—Why did you sink your own ships?
Ah, that... is perhaps the maddest decision of my life. In 1519, we had just landed on the coast of Mexico. I had founded a small town, Villa Rica de la Vera Cruz. But many of my men were afraid. Some wanted to get back on the ships and return to Cuba. So I did a terrible thing: I scuttled nearly the entire fleet. Scuttling means piercing the hull to sink a ship. Imagine the faces of my soldiers as they watched their vessels sink into the water! No return was possible anymore. We had to advance or die. Sometimes, my child, you only become brave when you have no choice.
You only become brave when you have no choice.
—How many of you were there against an entire empire?
Almost nothing, my child! About five hundred soldiers, sixteen horses, and a few cannons. And facing us? An empire of millions, with a capital, Tenochtitlan, larger than any city in Spain. How could you possibly win like that? Well, we had things they did not know. First, the horse: the warriors here had never seen one. Some believed that the rider and his mount were a single monstrous creature! Our Toledo steel swords cut better than their stone weapons. But I will be honest: by ourselves, we never would have prevailed. Numbers are not everything.
—What did the sound of the cannons do to the people here?
Imagine for a moment. You live in a world where no weapon spits fire. The only loud noise you know is the thunder from the sky. And suddenly, a metal tube vomits fire and smoke with a terrible roar. My arquebuses and cannons — those crude firearms — sowed terror. Many believed we commanded lightning. That was not true, of course. But fear, you see, is as powerful a weapon as steel. In my iron armor and helmet, the morion, I must have seemed almost supernatural to them. Yet underneath, I was just a man who trembled like the rest.
—Is it true that a woman helped you talk to the Aztecs?
Yes, and without her, I could have done nothing. She was called Malintzin, or La Malinche. She was a young woman given to me as a slave. But what a treasure! She spoke Nahuatl, the language of the Aztecs, and also Maya. Picture the scene: I spoke Spanish, another translated into Maya, and she turned Maya into Nahuatl. A real chain of voices to understand each other. Without her, not a single negotiation would have been possible. She became my advisor, and much more. You know, in a conquest, people remember the names of soldiers. But it is often a quiet voice that decides everything.
It is often a quiet voice that decides everything.
—Were all the peoples your enemies, or did you have friends there?
Good question! No, not all hated us. Many peoples suffered under Aztec domination. In Tlaxcala, we first fought very hard. Then the Tlaxcalans became my most valuable allies. They gave us thousands of warriors. Understand this: it was not a handful of Spaniards who brought down the empire. It was above all a huge army of natives weary of their masters. I say this frankly, because history must not lie. Without Tlaxcala, Tenochtitlan would never have fallen. People often think they win alone; in truth, you always win thanks to others.
—What was it like the first time you saw Emperor Moctezuma?
Unforgettable, my child. It was in November 1519. Moctezuma II came to meet me carried on a litter, under a canopy of green feathers, with gold and silver everywhere. He was supported by the arms, for no one was to see him walk alone. He bore the title Huey Tlatoani — the 'great speaker,' the supreme sovereign. I was dazzled by so much wealth and ceremony. And yet... a few days later, I did a terrible thing: I held him prisoner in his own palace. A guest who imprisons his host. You see, I am not proud of everything I have done.
—Did you ever cry during this adventure?
Yes. One night, I will never forget it. It is called the Noche Triste, the 'Sad Night.' It was June 30, 1520. The Aztecs had revolted and were driving us out of Tenochtitlan. That night, I lost nearly two-thirds of my men, drowned or killed on the causeways of the city built on water. They say I sat under a great tree, an ahuehuete, and wept. That is true. A leader also has the right to a heavy heart. But the next day, you must rise again. I dried my tears and began to prepare the return.
—What did you write in the evenings to the King of Spain?
In the evening, by candlelight, I dictated long letters to my emperor, Charles V. They are called the Cartas de Relación, the 'Letters of Relation.' I told everything: the cities, the battles, the peoples encountered. I wrote that Tenochtitlan was the most beautiful city ever seen, so admirable that it seemed almost impossible to believe. But I will not hide something from you: I also wrote to defend myself. I had left against the order of the governor of Cuba. I had to convince the king that I had acted rightly. Writing, my child, is not just telling. It is also justifying yourself.
—At the end of your life, were you happy with all of this?
Not really, my child. I died in 1547, near Seville, in Castilleja de la Cuesta, far from that New Spain I had conquered. I had built a new city, Mexico City, on the ruins of Tenochtitlan. I was rich, I had a title. And yet, the king had appointed other men to govern in my place. My former glory had faded. If I must leave you a lesson? Beware of glory: it shines very brightly, then quickly fades. And look carefully at the peoples my adventure made suffer. History is never a simple beautiful adventure. Remember all its voices, not just mine.
Beware of glory: it shines brightly, then quickly fades.
This imaginary interview was generated by artificial intelligence from sources documented in Hernán Cortés's profile. It dramatises what the figure might have said based on what we know about them, but does not constitute attested historical testimony. For primary sources and factual documentation, refer to the full profile.