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Early in the fall of 1519, a small band of bearded, dirty, exhausted Spanish conquistadors stood at the doorstep of the Aztec capital, staring in disbelief at the sight before them. Rising from the center of the lake was a magnificent island city, shining chalk white in the sun. Stretching over the lake were long walkways crawling with travelers to and from the metropolis. Tenochtitlán was its name, the capital of the Aztec empire, now known as Mexico City.
The Spaniards, under the command of Hernán Cortés, were fresh from the wars during the conquest of the Caribbean. Tough and ruthless men, number fewer than four hundred1, they had fought their way up from the eastern tropical coast of Mexico where they had founded a colony named Vera Cruz. Many had been wounded or killed in battles with hostile Indians on the long march2. Possibly all would have died if it weren’t for their small cavalry of fifteen horses, which the Aztecs thought the animals were gods3, and the aid of a small army of Tlaxcala allies, who were enemies of the Aztecs.

The Aztec capital across the water seemed to promise the Spaniards the riches that had eluded them all their lives. One of them, Bernal Diaz del Castillo, later wrote: "To many of us it appeared doubtful whether we were asleep or awake . . . never yet did man see, hear, or dream of anything equal to our eyes this day."4 For the Spaniards, it was their dream come true. Slightly more than a year and a half later, in 1521, they had a glimpse of hell. Again the Spaniards found themselves on the lakeshore, looking toward the great capital, but this time they had just been driven back from the city by the Aztec army. Sixty-two of their companions had been captured; Cortés and the other survivors helplessly watched a procession being enacted miles away across the water on one of the major temple-pyramids of the city. As Bernal Diaz later described it:
"The dismal drum of Huichilobos sounded again,...