Chapter Eleven: Noble Men
Part 6 – The Battle of Tlatelolco
Events unfolded with astonishing rapidity after that. The Aztec Empire ended all diplomatic contact with Rome, its envoys withdrawing from open borders negotiations, and Aztec military units were seen gathering on the border. Rome responded by pre-emptively declaring war. The Fourteenth Legion marched north out of Madrid with six other Legions, accompanied by protective pike and mace units. As with Japan and Spain in centuries past, however, it was the Legions that would do the bulk of the fighting.
The invasion force camped in a wooded area south of a bridge over the river the Spanish called the Rio Bravo and the Aztecs had named Xaltocan. On the opposite bank of the river stood the Aztec city of Tlatelolco. Montezuma responded to the Roman incursion by sending several units out of the city to attack the Roman force. However, the Romans had the dual advantage of being located on the far side of a river and being located in good defensive terrain. The Aztec attacks were thwarted.
“It appears
Fortuna has smiled upon us,” Caesar observed to his senior legates in the command tent that night, making reference to the ancient Roman goddess of luck. “Montezuma’s premature attack has weakened Tlatelolco’s defensive garrison. Tomorrow, our most accurate catapults will batter a breach in the city’s fortifications from this side of the river. They’ll remain here along with the wounded, protected by one legion, while the bulk of our force proceeds across the river to attack the city.”
“Wouldn’t it be faster to just attack across the river?” one of his legates asked. “It’s pretty shallow along this stretch.”
“Of course it would,” Caesar answered patiently, reminding himself that few in his army, from the senior legates on down to the mere rankers, had much experience with actual combat; fortunately, their training was second-to-none. “However, the men would be fighting with the river at their backs, leaving them little room to manoeuvre. Attacking from the opposite side of the river may be less expedient, but it will preserve more lives. This will be a long campaign; we’re going to need every soldier.”
“Which legion will stay behind to guard the catapults and the wounded men?” This from Catullus Senior, whom Caesar regarded as the most able of his current crop of senior legates.
“The Fourteenth,” Caesar answered immediately. “They’re the youngest legion with the fewest experienced centurions. And their military tribune is the son of that useless fop, Gaius Phillippus Cinna. Best to keep them safely out of it on this side of the river. They’ll get their chance for glory later in the war.”
Of course the Fourteenth grumbled when they learned of their assignment.
“Baby-sitting the artillery!” complained Marcus Phillippus Cinna to anyone within earshot. “A fine fate for a commander of my mettle!”
This induced mixed emotions as well as some heavy eye-rolling amongst his troops. Though they were disappointed in not seeing any action, none of them were anxious to head into battle with Cinna leading them.
The next day, the long-range accuracy catapults did their work, opening breaches in the city walls. Then the bulk of the Roman force crossed the bridge over the Texcoco. Roman catapults specializing in city attack and collateral damage lumbered across the bridge and were slowly hauled into position, the artillery troops adjusting every cable and gear on their fearsome machines. They were accompanied by protective units: pikes to counter mounted units, maces to ward off melee units such as the Aztecs’ colourful Jaguar warriors. The bulk of the troops, however, were the Legions, whose main job would be taking the city once the catapults had weakened its defenders.
The troops deployed in a calm, orderly fashion outside the shut gates of the city. Despite their lack of recent experience in war, their confidence and morale was high. They were Roman legions, after all, the best trained, best equipped, and most successful fighting force in the known world. Caesar and his senior legates casually rode their horses across the bridge, glancing at the walls, chatting easily with the men. To the casual observer, the Roman army appeared to be preparing for mere war games rather than an actual battle. As they deployed, the Romans could hear rumblings from the ramparts of Tlatelolco. The Aztecs were nervous, but were also growing impatient.
Inside Tlatelolco, watching from one of the ramparts, Montezuma had had enough. “Look at them! So confident! They look as though they’re on holiday, not going to war!” He turned to his own generals, who withered beneath his gaze. “We should have slaughtered them yesterday when we attacked them in the woods,” he growled at them.
The Aztec generals glanced at one another uncertainly, looking to see which of their number would attempt to explain their understandable failure to their volatile king. Just then, a messenger came running up to the collected Aztec commanders, and they were all thankful for the interruption.
Montezuma read the brief dispatch and then smiled wolfishly. “One of our scouts reports that the Romans have left several of their prized catapults on the other side of the river, in the woods, protected by a novice legion and a bunch of wounded men.” He laughed loudly. “Apparently Caesar thinks I’ll keep my forces inside the city to defend it rather than snatching at this easy prize.”
His generals once again exchanged wary glances; that would, certainly, be the most prudent course of action. They gazed nervously over the ramparts at the massive Roman force deploying in preparation to invade the city, and knew that every available man would be needed within its gates if it was to remain out of Roman hands.
Montezuma cast an appraising eye at his generals, reading their reluctance now matter how hard they tried to hide it.
“You all think such an action would be foolhardy,” Montezuma said with a sneer. “Well,
you’re the fools! And bunch of women besides! I’ll cut off his supply lines, and his avenue of retreat and reinforcement as well. Then we’ll slaughter his stranded army before the gates of the city, and I shall take his head and his empire. Chimalli!”
One of his generals stepped forward. “Sire!”
“Take a force of horse archers and charioteers out to annihilate Caesar’s precious catapults and his legion of children! At once!”
“Yes, sire!” the man said, bowing low.
As he turned to go, Montezuma caught him by the arm. “Do not fail me, Chimalli,” he growled, his face close to his subordinate’s. “Remember well the fate of Yaotl.”
Chimalli swallowed hard. Yaotl had been the general leading the foray across the river the previous day. In truth, he’d really only made one mistake: returning to the city to face Montezuma rather than dying in the attack with his men. None of the senior staff had been able to sleep last night, not with Yaotl’s screams echoing throughout the palace.
“You can count on me, sire,” Chimalli said, proud that he had been able to keep any sign of fear from his voice. He turned to walk away and personally lead the Aztec forces into battle.
Moments later, the south-western gates within Tlatelolco’s city walls opened, and a seemingly endless stream of horse archers and chariots came galloping out, their guttural battle cries shattering what had been a peaceful morning. On nearly the opposite side of the city, the entire Roman force brought themselves to full attention, fully expecting the Aztecs to come out of the city to attack them at any moment.
“What the hell is that madman up to?” Caesar muttered to himself when the city gates facing him remained closed and no attackers issued forth from them or from the many breaches in the city walls. He gave his horse a nudge in the ribs and rode south towards the river in hopes of determining where the Aztec units the Romans could hear were coming from and where they were going.
“Merda!” Caesar swore when he saw the riders and chariots dashing down to a distant ford in the river near the southwest corner of the city. They could only have one target in mind. Caesar turned his horse and rode back quickly to his command base. There, he rode up to one of the young cavalry troopers assigned to bear messages between the various Roman commanders.
“Get across the river on the double,” he told the surprised trooper. “Tell Cinna he’s about to come under attack. Wait.,” he said, pausing a moment to think of an able man within that legion. “Make sure you inform Titius Ahenobarbus as well. Then ride on to Madrid and warn the garrison there, just in case the Aztecs are heading further south. Go!”
The messenger ran to his horse and sped off at a gallop across the bridge. He rode through the woods on the other side and found Cinna and Ahenobarbus together a few minutes later. He relayed his message to them and then turned to ride on to Madrid.
“Time for you men to prove your mettle!” Ahenobarbus shouted to the men around him. “The Aztecs should be attacking our left flank within minutes. Let’s make sure we’re ready for them!” The men began to move immediately, Lucius Rutullus among them, following the lead of their veteran
primus pilus.
“This is my legion to command, Titius Ahenobarbus!” Cinna announced loudly. “Round up the men. We’ll march out of these woods and meet them on open ground.” That way, Cinna reasoned, Caesar and the senior legates would see him ably leading a legion in battle.
Ahenobarbus looked horrified. “What? Leave defensive ground for the open field? Against
cavalry? Are you mad?”
“I am not mad, I am your commanding officer!” Cinna shouted, rounding on him. “Either you obey my direct orders or I’ll have you up on charges!”
“Fellator,” Ahenobarbus grumbled once Cinna was out of earshot. Shaking his head, he nevertheless did as he was told. Within minutes, the Legion formed up and began to march out of the woods and its fortified position within them, leaving the catapults and the wounded behind with a few spearmen for protection. Since the Legion would be facing cavalry, they brought along their own spears, the
pila with their small, sharp, leaf-shaped iron tips.
“Looks like Ahenobarbus is going to be proved right,” Gnaeus Decumius mumbled to Lucius Rutullus, reminding them both of the primus pilus’ prediction of a few days before that the arrogant, inexperienced aristocrat would lead them into disaster.
They formed up to the west of the woods, just in time to see the Aztec mounted units appear a little over a hundred yards away, the horses’ flanks still wet from fording the river, which made the dust they churned up on the flood plain stick to the short hairs on their legs. The Aztec general Chimalli could see scout’s report had been true. He was facing fresh troops—but too fresh, he noted, able to discern their youth and inexperience from how they moved and held themselves.
“Mere children,” he said contemptuously. They’d even foolishly left the defensive terrain of the forest! For a moment, he pitied them. But only for a moment. He bellowed to his troopers, his voice and then several trumpets rallying them around him, and he shouted out fresh orders.
“Look at that!” Cinna said confidently, watching the Aztec horsemen riding back from his front line with obvious glee. “They’re afraid of us!”
Nearby, however, Lucius Rutullus Lepidus strained to hear the shouted orders of the Aztec general. “No,” he said, “they’re gathering for a charge. Brace yourselves!”
Titius Ahenobarbus, one of the few veterans in the ranks, didn’t need Lucius’s interpretation to tell him what was about to happen. “SPEARS IN FRONT!” he shouted, and the legionaries, leaving their short swords in the scabbards at their hips, grasped their iron-tipped spears and thrust them forward, the base of each on planted firmly in the earth. The front line and flanks of the Fourteenth now bristled with sharp, extended spear points, capable of warding off a cavalry charge—provided the men held their ground.
“They wouldn’t dare charge us!” Cinna said confidently. “We’ll cut them to ribbons! We’re Roman troops, the best in the world! We…”
But Cinna’s speech on the virtues of the Roman legion was cut off by the blood-curdling war cry of nearly a hundred thousand Aztec horse archers as they shouldered their bows, drew their sabres, and prepared to charge. A moment later, the sound of a all those horse’s hoofs pounding and tearing the earth filled the air.
“Edepol,” Cinna said quietly, his eyes wide as he watched what appeared to be every horse in the entire world riding down upon him. Their pounding hooves sounded like rolling, unending thunder. And then Marcus Phillippus Cinna, grandson of Cinna the Censor, and son of Cinna the Consul, promptly shat himself and fainted.
“Oh, bloody hell!” Ahenobarbus cursed as the stench reached his nostrils and he turned to see his Legion’s commander laying on the ground, surrounded by his own filth. He shouted to two legionaries behind him. “Drag his stinking carcass out of here! Useless over-bred git! We’re better off without him! Now listen—“
But the Fourteenth Legion’s
primus pilus never delivered his next set of orders, for a horse archer’s arrow had lodged itself in his throat. He glanced at Lucius, standing beside him, with a puzzled look on his face that would have been comical were the situation not so dire. He put his hand to his throat, saw the blood upon it when he drew it away, then fell to the dusty floodplain without a further sound.
It suddenly seemed to Lucius as if time had slowed to a crawl. He looked forward and saw the Aztec horsemen, screaming and thundering towards them, less than a hundred yards away now. He glanced at his comrades and saw one thing in their faces: fear. It filled the air and even their nostrils, carried by the sweat of each man’s growing panic, augmented by the stench of their cowardly commanding officer’s body waste. And it was filling their hearts, like poison.
Across the river, Caesar’s face had gone as white as the toga he wore in the Senate. He recognized all too well the sight of men at arms about to break in a panic, but he had never seen it in his own troops before. Mercilessly, he chastised and blamed himself; the Fourteenth were too young, too inexperienced, he should never have left them to cover the rear by themselves.
At that same moment, Lucius Rutullus, standing in the front rank in the face of the cavalry charge, saw exactly the same thing Caesar did, in a flash, in his mind’s eye. They would break, the entire Legion, they were a heartbeat away from doing so. Even the Centurions were wavering, fear discernable in their voices as they tried to rally the troops. But they would fail, Lucius saw in an instant. The Legion would discard their heavy weapons and armour so they could run faster, but it would only make them more defenseless. They would scatter within the woods in a panic, and the Aztecs would fall upon them mercilessly and cut them down to a man. They would die. Every last one of them. Then the catapults and their few protective spears would die, and Caesar’s would be cut off from retreat or reinforcement.
In that moment, that critical moment, two words flashed into his mind. Two words that embodied a promise he had made twice over.
Stay alive.
And in that moment, in less time than it would have taken him to think about it, for he had no time to think, he knew what he had to do. And he also knew, again without thinking about it, knew it in his bones, that everything in his life had somehow, presciently, prepared him for this.
Lucius drew a deep breath, turned his body, and roared in his most powerful stage voice over the growing din of the horse archer’s hooves.
“STAND FAST!!” he shouted, his certainty erasing any trace of fear from his voice, and he saw a ripple pass through the Legion, with himself at the epicentre. “STAND FAST, YOU
CUNNI!” he shouted again, saw them wavering between giving in to the fear that would kill them and obedience to the order that would save them. But obey him they would, he was determined, even if all the authority he had was the sheer force of his own will. “FIRST RANK! GET THOSE SPEARS BACK OUT! HOLD THEM FIRM!” he commanded.
The men blinked in momentary surprise. Then, as one, the front rank planted their right feet behind them and thrust their spears out beside their shields to ward off the horses. The butts of the wooden spears they dug into the ground for leverage, should it become necessary.
“SECOND RANK!” Lucius ordered, “SPEARS AT THE READY!” And the second rank obeyed, changing the grip on their spears, lifting them over their shoulders and preparing to throw them. “JAVELIN DRILL!”
Lucius saw some of them grin, for they were soldiers, even if they were new to it, and they had been drilled and drilled and drilled again, mercilessly on the Campus Martius just outside of Rome and on the training ground in Madrid, day after day, to prepare them for just such a moment as this. They all knew what to do: the first rank would protect the rank immediately to its rear as they stepped forward and launched their spears. Then that rank would step back and retreat through the lines, and the third rank would step forward, and so on, until all the spears were thrown and the enemy lay dead in heaps and the Legion retreated back within the forest so they could laugh at the poor bastards from within their fortifications. All they’d needed was a strong voice in command, telling them precisely what to do, and they would do it. For they were Roman legionaries, the best soldiers in the world. They’d just needed somebody to remind them of it.
“WAIT FOR IT…” Lucius steadied the second rank. The horses were forty yards away now, closing fast; but Lucius wanted the spears to strike with maximum and deadly effect. “NOW!”
To the charging Aztec horsemen, it seemed as though the Legion before them was bristling like a porcupine which then coiled and suddenly shot its quills. The sky filled with flying bolts of wood and iron, and the air then filled with the screams of men and horses as the Roman spears found their mark. Man and beast alike found themselves impaled; some spears even pierced both rider and mount, joining the two together in an obscene mockery of the bond between horse and rider. Many horses fell, others went mad in their death throes and crashed into others, breaking the flesh and bone of man and beast alike.
“SECOND RANK BACK! NEXT RANK FORWARD!” Lucius bellowed. The men were in position in an instant. “THROW!”
Again the air filled with spears, and again more Aztec riders and horses died. They fell in vast numbers, those in the front first, where they became a barrier of flesh and blood to those behind them. Healthy mounts crashed into dying ones, stumbled over them, slipped on ground suddenly slick with blood, and the horses in turn threw their riders or became easy marks for more Roman spears.
“REARWARD MARCH!” Lucius ordered, and the Legion began to back away towards the woods and safety. But they maintained their defensive formation, for the supply of Aztec troopers seemed inexhaustible. “NEXT RANK!” Lucius shouted again. “THROW!”
What had initially been the second rank had now reached the rear and marched into the woods in an orderly fashion, but on the double. Meanwhile, the Aztec cavalry were hopelessly snarled now amongst the growing pile of their own dead and dying horses and riders. Roman spears still rained down upon them, though from a further distance and with slightly less effect. The horse archers had to settle for unslinging their bows and firing scores of arrows at the retreating Legion.
“Head south!” Chimalli shouted to his riders. “We’ll outflank them! We…”
Then his men heard a rumbling noise, and felt the ground shaking beneath their horses’ hooves. A huge dust cloud hung over to the road to the south. They heard the unmistakable trumpeting of an elephant, and every rider shuddered.
“War elephants!’ Chimalli cried, his face going pale. Horsemen everywhere dreaded the huge, lumbering beasts that gored horse and rider alike on their long, dangerous tusks, and crushed those unlucky enough to fall beneath their huge feet.
The garrison commander of Madrid, Rodrigo Diaz, was a most able and capable man. When he’d been advised of Caesar’s battle plan to take the city of Tlatelolco, Diaz had taken the precaution of moving a force of War Elephants and catapults up the road towards the border. For he had lived all his life in the shadow of the Aztec threat just a few miles to the north; he had interacted with Aztecs frequently, respected them as warriors, and was well aware of their appetite for unpredictable, even suicidal tactics.
He’d also brought along some catapults, just to soften up any Aztec bold enough to venture south towards his beloved city. Thus, Caesar’s messenger had not had to ride all the way to Madrid to alert its garrison commander regarding the Aztec incursion south of the river; he met him on the road half-way there. The news delighted Diaz. What a glorious day this would be! He would show that Spaniards could fight just as well as their Roman brothers. And he got to kill some of those accursed Aztecs in the bargain. A glorious day indeed!
As soon as Diaz’ advanced scouts spotted the Aztec horsemen, he deployed the catapults and had them launch their missiles at the Aztecs. Heavy rocks now rained down upon the horse archers and chariots, much to the delight of the beleaguered Fourteenth Legion. The Aztecs were now caught between the unexpectedly formidable Legion before them, the approaching War Elephants on their right flank, and the river on their left. They could retreat to the west, but to what end? To survive only to face Montezuma’s wrath?
“We’re as good as dead,” Chimalli said, then nodded in acceptance. Better to die on the battlefield than in Montezuma’s dungeons, he decided. He rallied his men for one last charge at the Romans. The few remaining chariots he left behind; those cumbersome vehicles would be unable to manoeuvre past the fallen men and horses. The War Elephants would, of course, tear them to pieces. The general could not concern himself with that.
Most of the Fourteenth Legion had retreated back into the woods, save for the men in the front rank, including Lucius. He remained there, shouting orders, holding forth the last spears in the Legion’s possession as a few dozen Aztec horse archers managed to struggle past their fallen comrades and make one last, bedraggled attempt to charge the remaining legionaries.
“HOLD ON TO THOSE SPEARS!” he shouted, well aware that they couldn’t ward off cavalry with their short stabbing swords and daggers. He remembered a recommended tactic from his training. “Wait until the horses are close, then thrust at their mouths!”
The horse archers came in close, so close the legionaries could see the whites of the horses’ eyes. As the horses drew near to the line of infantry, they began to balk. The horses could see the sharp spikes pointing towards them, and their instinct for self-preservation conflicted with their martial training. The Legionaries took advantage of the beasts’ sudden hesitation, thrusting their spear tips at the horse’s sensitive mouths exactly as Lucius had told them to do. The horses drew up instinctively in fear, many in pain. Their riders were suddenly unable to control them. The Aztec general Chimalli struggled to control his mount, the horse twisting to its right to avoid the sharp tip of Lucius’ spear—which exposed its masters’ undefended left side.
Lucius did not hesitate. He changed targets from mount to rider and thrust his spear deep into the Aztec’s ribs. The man bellowed and then fell from the saddle, the spear still stuck in his side. His horse bolted away in a panic. The other horse archers shared a similar fate, and within a moment, the front rank of the Fourteenth Legion found themselves facing nothing but dead or dying opponents. To a man, their bodies suddenly sagged in both exhaustion and relief.
Only then, with the battle over and his hand free of the spear he’d held for what had seemed an eternity, did Lucius notice that his arm was covered in blood. He looked and saw that his other arm was blood-soaked as well. Which struck him as curious, since the rider had not drawn near enough, he was sure, to shed so much blood upon him. Thus, he calmly deduced, the blood must be his own. Then he saw the arrows, one embedded in his right shoulder, another in his left bicep, two in each of his legs, though how any of them had gotten past his shield, and why he hadn’t noticed them before, he couldn’t imagine. Other arrows had not found their marks directly, but had passed close enough to cut him numerous times on his legs, his arms, his shoulders, and even on his face despite his helmet with its cheek-guards.
Well, that explains all the blood, Lucius thought with detachment as he took a step backwards and stumbled awkwardly, his body weakened by blood loss. He would have fallen flat on his back, but his comrades caught him, dragging him back to safety within the cool woods to their rear.
His next hazy thoughts were ones of disappointment, because he realized that he’d failed. He knew that the Legion had survived, but he also knew, as his head swam and he felt his body growing numb, that he had failed to keep the promise to his beloved and to obey the order of his Commander-in-Chief. Stay alive, they’d both told him, but he had not.
“S-sorry,” Lucius muttered weakly, though no one heard him. The sun dazzled his increasingly unfocused eyes as it shone through the high tree branches that swayed in the breeze. As his comrades carried him deeper into the forest, though, the trees blocked out the sun, and it grew darker. But he quickly realized the impending darkness had nothing to do with trees and everything to do with the wounds he had received.
He realized, just before he lost consciousness, that it was all right. Claudia was married advantageously, not a love match, but few Roman marriages were; and Caesar’s best catapults were safe, and his supply lines and avenue of retreat—not that he’d need it—were safe as well. They’d be fine without him, just fine.
That thought was in his head as the darkness took him, and it left a weak smile upon his face that filled his comrades, gazing upon him, with a wonder that tempered their sorrow.
