Chapter 21
The Siege Begins
While the Aztec were, as a whole, not familiar with siege warfare in the European sense, they were not fools. They well remembered what had happened in their war with the Romans and Purépecha. Furthermore, it would have been impossible to not understand the concept of defense in the face of overwhelming odds. It should, as such, come as no real surprise that the Aztec were quite prepared when the army of the Spanish and Tlaxcala arrived before Tenochtitlan. The grand city, faded from its peak or not, would not fall so easily as that. Men had already burned the causeways and cast aside all connections to the mainland, leaving the city completely isolated. It was only possible to reach Tenochtitlan by means of boat, and the Aztec were quite competent warriors on their lake. Indeed, it was a defense that would prevent many an assault, even if it lacked the visual grandeur of Constantinople's grand walls.
If there could be said to be any weakness in this defense, it was the aqueducts supplying water and the fact that there was not enough land to grow food. Nor, even as the Aztec had frantically brought food stores in from outside, enough food stockpiled to feed the- decimated by disease or not -population. Weaknesses common to any city under siege, of course, yet still worth noting.
It was these weaknesses that Yiorgos, at the least, would have relied on. His Spanish comrades, however, were well aware of the limited time they possessed. Cortés knew that the Governor of Cuba would send men to drag him back, though he made no mention of this to his erstwhile allies. It was part of what fed his choice to attempt 'parley' with the Aztec leadership. Cortés was on a ticking clock and was very well aware of that fact. It is likely, at least, that this is what pushed him to make as many reckless choices as he had. It was take risks or accept certain failure, if he were unable to convince whomever was sent after him to support his campaign.
And so, instead of laying down a protracted siege, Hernan Cortés would attempt to take the Aztec by subterfuge...
- From 'The Rise and Fall of the Spanish Empire', originally aired, 1987
It is said, in local traditions to this day, that when the joint Spanish and Tlaxcalan force arrived at Tenochtitlan, the Spanish were struck dumb by what they beheld. To the Tlaxcala, what they saw was- in of itself -nothing new. While relatively few of them had ever had cause to get so close to the home of their hated enemy, it was still something they
knew of. That they were somewhat prepared for, by those few who
had glimpsed the city, from a distance or in the great market. Even Yiorgos, who had never seen the city, was more bemused by the reaction of his erstwhile allies than awed by the city. It is true that, at the time, it eclipsed the still recovering Constantinople. But it was still, in raw grandeur, something he was at least familiar with.
The Spanish could not make the same claim.
Tenochtitlan was larger than the great capitals of Europe, in many ways.
[1] This size, in concert with the riot of color and the grand causeways and canals, struck an imposing sight to eyes unfamiliar with it. Spanish soldiers familiar with the city of Venice could not help but make comparisons between that ancient city and what they saw before them, and Venice was found...wanting. The sheer scale of Tenochtitlan, in comparison, boggled the mind. As did the temples at the heart of the city, rising high into the sky and obscuring the view of many buildings around them. The temple with the red and blue structures atop it, in particular, drew the eye of many a man.
Perhaps the only man unaffected, among the Spanish, was Cortés himself. The man was not
entirely immune to what his men felt. Yet, from oral recounting made by those present, it seemed that Cortés was fixed in a different direction. He spoke to Yiorgos of the
wealth it must have taken to build so impressive a capital. Of how rich these Aztec must truly have been. He imagined the amount of gold and silver in the coffers of the city's court and knew it would be a grand gift to his King to claim it for Spain. The Roman, understanding by now the motivations of the Spaniards, went along with Cortés. It was possible, even then, that he was making plans within plans.
Certainly he was clearly aware of the fact that the Spanish leader had become blinded by what he saw before him. Nor was he the only one. Legends make mention of Spanish soldiers, wary of entering the city, knowing that they would be outnumbered. Knowing that, whether they believed Yiorgos' tales or not, the Aztec were already mistrusting of white men. It was difficult to forget how
violently they had been greeted upon coming ashore. Or how the Tlaxcala had known exactly who they were, even if not that they were Spanish, not 'Roman'.
These worries would, no matter their validity, go unanswered by Hernando Cortés.
"You have every intention to continue with this plan, I see."
Yiorgos crossed his arms, his battered armor shifting with the movement, as he raised a graying eyebrow. Cortés gave no outward sign of caring for the Roman's disapproval, merely saddling his prized horse and staring at the distant city. His bearded face twisted into a deep frown, as his brilliant mind went over every potential way he could escape or infiltrate the city. Making guesses as to how long he would need to spend, starving it out, should it come to that.
What never entered his mind, was the thought that he would fail.
"I see no reason to. Nor any cause for changing my mind," Cortés finally spoke, tugging on his saddle before looking at Yiorgos. His suntanned face twisted into a confident smirk, now. "From what La Malinche has told me, the Aztec have a sense of...
honor." He practically spat the word, his opinion on the honor of 'devil worshippers' clear. Yiorgos knew that, as he had mentioned before that the Aztec had a twisted sense of honor. "A tradition of
hospitality. They will not attack first if we parley. You should be familiar with this, yes?"
He is not incorrect. I cannot deny that. Yiorgos bit back a sigh, remembering what his Prince had spoken of. The Cappelli Expedition had been greeted with open arms and given great honor, before it became apparent who they were being greeted by.
Even so...he may find that the current 'Emperor' is less than pleased by our kind. Perhaps Cortés may survive, perhaps not. I cannot dissuade him from this course, so I can only hope he sells his life well.
Yiorgos truly had little faith in his erstwhile ally surviving, if he were truly honest.
"You are not wrong, no, though it is worth considering that the Aztec are already...far from fond of us. You take a great risk, my friend." Was all he could say, knowing that any argument was pointless in the moment.
Cortés merely shook his head and clambered atop his steed, "Bah! I have no want nor desire for them to be
fond of me. Remember, my Roman friend, that I have no intention of being their tool or lapdog. They will be
mine." His smirk turned predatory. "Even if I must rule through the sword pointed at their 'Emperor's back. In the name of my own King."
In a different time, perhaps, Cortés would have contented himself with robbing the Aztec blind. Yiorgos would never know. In the moment, he could only watch as the Spanish leader galloped off with most of
his men. Leaving a bare handful of nervous Spanish with the Tlaxcalans, the comradery of the previous night replaced with the kind of unease that only a minority in an unfamiliar location could feel. Yiorgos actually knew it well, from his own time amongst his Prince's new people. Though...at least then there had been the sense of gratitude that the Tlaxcala had yet to feel for the Spanish.
Well, he had no intention of killing these men, and ultimately, the Tlaxcalans still looked to him for leadership. Even if that was sometimes shaky, as the burning image of Cholula refused to leave his mind.
At any rate, Cortés was blinded by what he saw as the perfect chance to strike. The Aztec were on the backfoot, surely, and he could take advantage. Worm his way into their good graces and use his 'aid' to subvert them to his own rule. He was a man who certainly did not lack for ambition, and there was no denying that. Even if Yiorgos did consider him something of a fool for it, considering his multitude of warnings. Nothing for it. Either he would live or die and it was out of the Roman's hands now.
"What shall we do while we wait for the fool?" That was the same war leader who had first met the Spanish, now serving as Yiorgos' second in command. He had sidled up to the Roman, sending a disdainful glance in the direction that Cortés had gone, as well as a pitying look at the nervous handful of Spaniards left behind. "You don't intend to leave us with nothing to do after all this time? The men would not like that. We came here to destroy our enemy."
Yiorgos just gave a minute shrug, looking down at his equally battered armor and sword. What to do, indeed...
"Set up the camps. We will raid the outlying settlements." Yiorgos chuckled, darkly, at how the Spanish had their eyes widen. They couldn't understand him, not really. Only a couple had bothered learning any Greek or Nahuatl. But they could see his
feeling in his words and the evil grins on the Tlaxcala. "Cortés can have his parley, but we did
not come all this way for nothing. If we do absolutely nothing else, I intend to remind the Aztec why they have a price on my head."
Bringing his head up, the Roman sent a significant look at
his people. They did not always agree on everything, but he would value each and every one of them more than any European. For how else could he feel, after living among them for so many years? He may always stand apart on some level, but he still considered them dear friends.
[2]
"For that matter,
we will remind them why they should feel the Tlaxcala! Even if we must wait to take their City, we will make them
bleed!"
His words set off a cascade of cheers from the Tlaxcala, as the Spanish contracted into a little group all their own. They couldn't, really, understand what was being said and feared they were the target of the bloodlust they saw in the eyes of those surrounding them. Yiorgos sighed a little, when he noticed that, and walked over with the war leader by his side. The two men were greeted by the old mercenary who had been interpreting all of his words for Cortés, left behind as 'not necessary' for dealing with the Aztec.
That old soldier gave them a wary look, his eyes drifting over the milling crowd of Tlaxcalan warriors, "You...do not intend to kill us, do you?"
His Greek still sounded...off, to Yiorgos' ears. Different. But perfectly intelligible, for the Roman, at the least. "At the moment, no, we are still allies. Friends."
"You will have to forgive me if I doubt that," still, the old mercenary gave a small smile. And a rueful shake of his head. "If all of
this-" he waved at the Tlaxcala warriors, preparing for war. "-is not for us, then what is it for? You do not intend to follow into the City yet, do you?"
Actually, Yiorgos dearly wished he could. It would finally end the Aztec in one fell-swoop. And while he was not foolish enough to believe the
Purépecha and Tlaxcala would ever be friends, he saw no reason his people and his Prince should come into conflict for a long, long time. Alas, that was not to be. At least not for the moment.
"No. Cortés has his chance to do this his way. We will leave a sizeable force here, to siege the city if necessary, while the rest of my force raids the outlying settlements. We have no peace with the Aztec and see no reason to limit ourselves. You would understand," Yiorgos gave a bitter smile, one that showed every year that had come upon him, since he had left home so many years ago. "If you had been fighting this war for as long as I have."
Nothing more was said on that subject. The Spanish elected to stay with the siege force, should they be needed, while Yiorgos lead raids on the other nearby cities and villages. It was a punitive thing, perhaps, but it was necessary to keep the Tlaxcala from storming Tenochtitlan out of rage and the chance to end their hated enemy.
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When Hernan Cortés rode at the head of his troops into the grand city of Tenochtitlan, he would find his path open across the causeway. A span that was described as 'wide enough for ten horses' was conspicuously empty. Indeed, it was such a striking sight that it would be little surprise had it made the Spanish- their leader aside -nervous. Were they wandering into a trap laid by the Aztec? Even the most ignorant of the Europeans was
certainly aware that the Aztec held no trust, nor love, for white men. Cortés, confident as ever, showed no outward signs of worry. What went on inside his head? We may never truly know.
What can be said, is that when the Spanish crossed the wooden bridges into Tenochtitlan proper, their leader would pull his men up short. A group of Aztec warriors, waving macuahuitl and tepoztopilli alike barred their path further into the city.
[3]
At the head of this group of warriors was the
tlatoani, the 'Emperor', himself. A tall and imposing man, his dark skin glistening in the light reflected from Texcoco's waters. He wore a beautifully woven cape on his shoulders, exquisitely detailed golden ornaments, and a feathered headdress far grander than any of his soldiers. Yet, what must have struck the Spanish the most, was that save for these marks of office...he wore what the rest of the men wore. Thick cotton armor, of admittedly greater quality, yet still the same as what his men wore. Here was a
warrior king, in all his grandeur and at the head of his men. Just as Cortés was at the head of his own men.
They even bore similar weapons. Where his men held traditional Aztec weaponry, their ruler had a girded belt and the distinctly metal and
European hilt of a longsword at his hip.
It is easy to imagine, though impossible to confirm, that this would have simultaneously set Cortés at ease- for he was speaking with a man much like himself -and worried him. For this was a man who would not be easily swayed nor captured. Even in the little conflict the Spanish had truly had with the Aztec, they knew well that their warriors were tenacious and incredibly skilled. What would that mean for a man who, in spite of being a warrior, had come into the position of 'Emperor'? Was he even more skilled than his greatest warriors?
On the Aztec side, the
tlatoani is recorded as interested by the Spanish, yet wary all the same. Reports had long-since arrived of marauding white men, but from the
East, instead of the
West. Alongside the Tlaxcala, not the
Purépecha. Men who wore similar garb to the hated Romans, and yet, bore drastically different weapons. Especially their hand-cannon, so different to the cannon the Romans had introduced to Mesoarcadia. Already primed to mistrust the white man, the
tlatoani and his advisors were horrified by the destruction visited upon Cholula. Where were the sacrifices? The honor? Was that city simply destroyed for the
sport?
It is no question that the Aztec leader was quite intent on not falling prey to the Spanish. What, exactly, he believed of Cortés' intentions is hard to say. Only that, upon greeting the Spanish, he did not immediately put them to the sword. He greeted them upon the causeway and welcomed them into his city. Translation between the Aztec and the Spanish told the latter that they were welcome as guests. However, should they do anything to prove hostile intentions towards the Mexica, they would be thrown out. There was no mercy to be expected to such duplicitous men.
So spoke Cuitláhuac,
tlatoani of Tenochtitlan and the Triple Alliance as a whole.
[4]
Hernando Cortés was not a man given to patience. He was a man of action, who acted first, damn the consequences. He preferred to move first instead of waiting on others to move for him. It was why he had acted so...perhaps rashly...to come on this expedition in the first place. Even as he had known that there was
no option but for success. Failure would see him killed either by these heathen devil worshippers, or by his own King for acting without authorization. Victory and glory were the only option if he wanted to live. And he had no intention of dying in this Godforsaken land.
Yet, here he stood, pacing in an admittedly luxurious room. The finest living quarters he had ever been graced with, in fact. Far grander than anything in Cuba and outstripping what the Tlaxcala had given him by leagues.
It could all be mine, of course. Not something given to an honored guest. Mine.
Cortés bit back an annoyed sigh, turning to face his men. In particular, Pedro de Alvarado, his deputy. That man, with his finely trimmed facial hair, rose an eyebrow at Cortés' sigh and clearly frustrated expression.
"We are prisoners of the men we intended to take prisoner," Cortés spoke without much preamble. His words filled with bitterness at the situation. "Oh, they treat us as guests, but a fool could tell that we are here only at the sufferance of their ruler. And I am no such fool."
Alvarado had the intuition to not say that they were in this room because of Cortés' own ideas, knowing that would only inflame tensions. Instead, he simply said, "Perhaps, then, we should march on the palace. We would have little issue brushing aside their resistance. Many of the men I observed were clearly unhealthy."
"Disease. The Roman
did say that the natives of this land were particularly vulnerable to smallpox and the like," Cortés wouldn't have believed it, had he not seen the same signs as his subordinate had. Many of the Aztec were clearly in ill-health, and a city that should have rivaled Madrid seemed...empty. In comparison to what it should have been.
"Indeed," Alvarado agreed, with a look out at the milling crowds surrounding the 'white men' in their own palace. "Though, I do wonder if these...animals...truly understand how to deal with such diseases. Even if we were vulnerable as they are, we would not have seen so many deaths."
The man's disdain for the natives was well-known, as was his cruelty. It had been Alvarado who spoke the most against allying with the Tlaxcala and the most for just using their superior weapons and tactics to roll over the natives. This man and Yiorgos had constantly been arguing with one another, even though both men had a similar adventurous spirit and inability to stay in one place. Perhaps the similarities between them only emphasized the differences.
Regardless, that was a distraction from the current situation.
"Nonetheless, they clearly suspect treachery. To move rashly would be to die." Cortés was a man who
hated to say those words. Yet he was no fool, and he could see that the Aztec expected such a move. No. "Much as it galls me to say, we should wait for the moment. Ingratiate ourselves with our...esteemed friends. As I told the Roman, I doubt they would say anything against white men offering to help them fight other white men."
"The irony is palpable." Alvarado gave a dramatic swirl of his cape, holding a hand to his head as he looked out to the West. "If you believe the
hijo de puta about his people, they would be a threat we could use to our advantage." He snorted and gave a dismissive wave at the Aztec crowds, his handsome face twisted into something...ugly. "The very
idea of aiding such terrible people disgusts me."
Cortés was given to far less grandstanding than his subordinate, simply giving a shrug and stroking his greying beard. "You and I are both aware I have no intention of truly aiding the devil worshippers. Still, this does provide us a chance to convince them we
will do so. And that is all that matters."
"We will not have to fight the Greeks, will we?" A younger soldier, nerves clearly frayed by the chanting of the Aztec in their barbaric language, spoke up. Out of turn in a way that he would never normally do, if the way he winced but plowed on was any indication. "I did not come here to fight fellow Christians, even heretics."
"As I said, I have no intention of aiding the devil worshippers." Cortés repeated himself, though there was a thoughtful glint to his hard eyes. "However, we may find ourselves in conflict with the 'Romans' in the end. They will not give up a prize such as this city easily. We may well be in conflict, the moment they become aware of us."
The Spanish shared looks at that, and at the continuing noise of the crowds, that the only understood a few words of. A few of the Spainards remained in full armor, standing at every entrance into the palace. A few others wandered the room, looking at the intricately carved frescoes and the colorful walls, heretical as they may be. Others sat or lounged upon furniture made of cloth and cotton, deciding to enjoy what they had.
It was an almost
domestic scene, considering the alienness of the room.
"Let them come, if they dare. We will take this city and its riches and return them to our King." Alvarado smirked, clenching his fist tight against his armored chest, and punching down softly. His smirk turned dangerous, as he continued, "Our King will send many more men and many more weapons. We will defeat any who try to take our prize from us!"
Ragged cheers answered that, as Cortés sat on one of the cushions, an almost...pensive expression crossing his face. Victory or death.
Nothing has truly changed. I will find my glory or die trying. Roman, Aztec, Tlaxcala. It matters not. I will not let them stand in my way. Never.
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In a different, newer, palace, the Aztec leadership had their own discussions to make. Sitting upon his throne, still clad in his armor and with his captured Roman sword laid across his lap, Cuitláhuac frowned deeply.
"Do you believe these...Spanish...to be any more truthful than the hated Romans were?" That was a voice from his right, a noble who had escaped the destruction wrought upon holy Cholula. His face bore the scars of that massacre, and he was the most outspoken against cooperating with
any white man. "They have sought alliance with the Tlaxcala, who even now are continuing to bleed our cities! Take our food and water and tribute!"
Another man, wearing armor and standing tall and proud in spite of his advanced age, gave a soft chuckle of amusement. "Regardless of what they have done to us, I can say that the Romans are at least
honest in their dealings with us. I fought them, until I became too old to fight on the front. Their warriors, their Prince, fight as
warriors. They do not attempt to deceive us in our own homes."
"Precisely! Can we say the same of these Spanish? When their allies continue to assault our holdings, even as they grow fat on
our wealth?" Yet a third man agreed, stamping his sandalled foot into the hard stonework of the palace floor.
Such were the back and forth arguments, all continuing apace as Cuitláhuac observed and pondered. He was a warrior. He had never been intended as a ruler of this sort, and he knew that more than anyone. Diplomacy. Diplomacy with
white men, especially, struck him as utterly foreign. Yet he was expected to do so. It was Mexica tradition that he treat his enemy with respect, even as he hated them. He would not be the first to break that tradition.
He would not be the one to lure someone into his home, knife hidden behind his back, to kill them at their weakest.
Even so, I do not trust these white men. I do not care for the Romans at all, but it is correct to say they do not...try and hide their intentions. They are open of that, at the least. These Spanish? Cuitláhuac tapped his sword, a prize he had taken from the hands of one of the '500' as the Romans called themselves.
These men come into our home under 'parley', as they call it. To talk they claim. Yet I cannot help but notice the Tlaxcalans are not present.
Cuitláhuac wondered at that. Who was using whom, in this alliance? The Roman, he knew, was a canny soldier. He had nearly crossed blades with the man many times in his youth, yet he always escaped. He was different to his kin. And the Spanish, well, he knew precious little of them.
"We gave them gifts, just as you are now, Lord!" That was the noble from Cholula again, his scarred face twisted with righteous anger. Here was a man who had suffered greatly and bore absolutely no trust for their 'guests'. "We made no hostile actions. We followed all of our traditions and gave them gifts and treated them with honor. What did that gain us?" He spat at the floor of the palace, only a hand from Cuitláhuac keeping his guards in place. "Death. Fire and death! They burnt our temples to the ground! Slaughtered our priests! Tore children from their mothers!"
The torches lighting the throne room seemed to sputter, for just a moment, before returning to crackling life. The image of the temples of Cholula burning entered the minds of all present, along with a bitterness that they had previously only felt towards the Romans and the
Michhuahcān. Cuitláhuac sighed deeply, climbing to his feet and looking down upon his subjects and advisors. His throne, simpler than the one that had preceded it, fit his past as a warrior. The only concession to his lofty position was the extra height it gave him, over those whom he ruled. That extra height had all eyes on him, when he spoke at last.
"I do not trust these white men any more than you, my loyal subjects." His voice was rough, damaged from long use on the battlefield. He would never be a softspoken ruler. Could never be one. "I will still not be the one to betray our sacred trust. We will not attack first. We will not be the knife in the darkness. Should they do
anything to violate our trust, they will be sacrificed as the betrayers they are."
At the Cholulan noble, Cuitláhuac gave a significant glance, "I have not forgotten, nor forgiven, the suffering of your people, my friend. My heart burns with the same fire that consumed the Great Pyramid. The Tlaxcala will, no matter our dealings with the Spanish, never be forgiven. We will visit the same upon their own temples, upon their own people, when our armies allow it." A bitter smile crossed his bronzed face. "The sacrifices we take will pale in comparison to what they have done, yet it will be more than they would have ever seen, had they remained as they were."
As the
tlatoani fell silent, the aged warrior at the foot of his throne clapped his hands, slowly. He sent a significant look at the boy- the man -he had almost raised, on the battlefield. There was a reason this man was here, after all. Achcauhtli was an old man, but one who had the respect of Cuitláhuac until the day he died.
[5]
"I shall keep them under watch, my lord. We will not be surprised by treachery in our own home." Achcauhtli patted his armored chest and sent a small smile at his leader. "If they truly do desire to aid us against the Romans, then we will take full advantage. If not, we may at least learn better methods of killing white men, by practicing on the Spanish. We will learn something no matter what happens."
The noble from Cholula shook his head and threw his hands up. "We are mistaken to give them even this much trust. They will betray us."
"If they are foolish enough to do so, I will be the one to run my blade through the heart of their Cortés." Cuitláhuac drew his prized trophy, the iron- no, the steel -blade shining in the light of the torches. He cared for the blade, even as he knew he could not replicate it. It was precious. A symbol of his triumph, where his brother had failed. "A traitor's heart is not worthy of sacrifice. He will die in battle, and his soul will never see the heavens."
1. In raw land area, Tenochtitlan may not be as large as some capitals in Europe. However, the city had a population that would eclipse many of the great cities of that continent. When at its peak, prior to disease ravaging the population. Even with the mass death caused by the Roman diseases, the signs of the city's grand population remained.
2. As has previously been discussed, Yiorgos always stood somewhat apart from the Tlaxcala. He was a lord of their people, a valued friend, and a military leader. But he would always be 'the Roman'. He could never truly be Tlaxcalan.
3. The Aztec 'sword' and 'spear' respectively. These weapons were familiar to both the Romans and the Spanish by this point, though the latter had yet to truly experience what they could do wielded by truly skilled warriors. It was a foolish man who underestimated them for their supposed 'primitiveness' in being made of wood and glass. Obsidian could cut deeper than any steel, wielded properly. And the weight of the wood far outclassed the thin swords of the Spanish.
4. Cuitláhuac had only recently ascended to the throne. His brother Moctezuma had preceded him, responsible for many victories and reforms to the Aztec state, even as war with the Romans and Purépecha continued. It was only Moctezuma's death from a Roman disease that had seen his younger brother ascend to the throne. A man who had been a high-ranking war leader, but not one trained or prepared to rule. Even so, he would quickly stamp his own mark on the Empire through his own rulership style.
5. Achcauhtli was the man who taught Cuitláhuac much of what he knew of warfare. A much older man who had served in many battles against all the enemies of the Aztec Empire- including the Romans. His counsel was often the one that Cuitláhuac would turn to before any others, trusting his old mentor far more than the nobles surrounding them both.
AN: And there we are. Apologies for the delay, we've had a...rather hectic year. The last couple months, especially so. Hopefully the long narrative bit makes up for it, at least a little bit. We're still trying to emphasize that no one here is really an idiot. Flawed, yes, but an idiot? Not really.
