The Dutch Golden Age Remade by the Nahuatl Reformation

Today, I strolled along the bustling canals of Amsterdam—if one can even call them that in this timeline, though they seem more a series of 'sacred waters' to me, crisscrossed with priests performing quiet rituals in flowing feathered robes at every lock and bridge. This timeline’s Dutch Republic rose to power much as it did in my home timeline, its ships still dominating trade routes from the Americas to Asia. Yet, somehow, a radical twist of fate has left the Protestant Reformation completely eclipsed by what can only be called… the Nahuatl Reformation.

Apparently, in this parallel timeline, when Moctezuma II and other Aztec leaders were initially confronted by Hernán Cortés, the Spaniards failed spectacularly—partially hindered by a rather regrettable outbreak of dysentery among the conquistadors and partially because Cortés’ translator, La Malinche, decided she could do better with the paychecks offered by the empire. The Aztec worldview, so rich in ritual and celestial symbolism, didn’t crumble but rather amalgamated with European Christianity. By the early 1600s, Nahuatl-Catholicism swept into Europe alongside potatoes and syphilis and became the dominant spiritual framework, its concept of divine reciprocity replacing much of the old Catholic guilt economy.

Today, the Dutch wear their new faith lightly but conspicuously—like those tall lace ruffs they drape around their necks. Churches have been rebranded into vast templos, their spires transformed into stylized representations of obsidian knives and soaring eagles. Every sermon begins with a moment of gratitude to Huitzilopochtli for victories (though, one presumes, by now a rather less bloodthirsty version of him), followed by a long-winded invocation of Quetzalcoatl, who appears to have taken on the 'Prince of Peace' branding. The Dutch, I must admit, do seem amused that, of all nations, Spain—staunchly Catholic in my home timeline—was the first major European power to redefine Christ’s Passion in terms of the Aztec myth of divine sacrifice. One wealthy merchant I spoke to boasted that 'even the Spanish Inquisition couldn’t burn all the codices, apparently.'

Of course, in typical Dutch fashion, they’ve found a way to monetize it all marvelously. This morning I witnessed a religious parade, carried out in honor of Tlaloc, the rain god. Children hurled cacao beans—now considered sacred currency, of course—into the crowd like confetti while masked performers reenacted the Spanish Armada’s defeat as an allegorical sun-and-moon battle. Cleverly, merchants lined the roads selling tulip bulbs painted with Nahuatl glyphs. One vendor offered me a bulb guaranteed to bring 'plague immunity and a bountiful herring season,' which really made me regret that my immune system is too stabilized by time travel enhancements to appreciate innovations in magical botany.

What is especially striking here is the power dynamics this mingling of religions has reinvigorated. European kings, who in my timeline derived much of their divine right from warring Christian theologies, now must pay homage at seasonal ceremonies (usually organized by accountants because this *is* the Dutch Golden Age, after all). Unsurprisingly, there is a certain performative piety among the merchant classes, but there’s a distinct competition regarding whose offerings make it to the pyramid-top altars most swiftly. Entire family fortunes are spent building fleets destined to deliver sacrificial chocolate to Yucatan temples, lest their patrons fall out of favor. Honestly, had the Spanish invaded Belgium instead, we would all be shoveling sacred pralines into Cancun by now.

One does have to admire the redirection of human creativity here. Without the Protestant work ethic, the Dutch have balanced this strange new faith with an unabashed embrace of life—as symbolized elegantly by an enormous painting commissioned by the city council. In it, wine, trade maps, and sacrificial flint knives sit side-by-side on a glorious banquet table, while the gods look on approvingly from the clouds. I did notice, however, that in the corner of this painting, there’s a small pile of untouched Bibles… as if even in this timeline they remain too dense to bother with.

Tomorrow, I’ll board a Nahuatl-decorated galleon bound for the East Indies. The local sailors have assured me that their captain has prayed to the gods for favorable winds—and sprinkled crushed chili peppers on the anchor to ward off storms. Personally, I expect calamity.