Hello!
I'm something of a newbie to the forums, but I'm a long-time lurker and AAR fan. After devouring the fantastic work of @volksmarschall and @Groogy some time ago, I experimented with writing a Wales AAR on my Facebook page. That went pretty well, so now I think it's time I gave it a go on the forums.
A few notes on the game and general style before I start off:
And so, without further ado:
Lake Texcoco, 1325. Through the morning mist, a host of canoes slip silently across the water. At their head, an older man stops paddling for a moment and surveys the boats behind him. In the boats alongside him sit the priests, almost unrecognisable as such from this close up, without their ceremonial headdresses. The warriors are behind them, scores of young men with obsidian-edged mācuahuitl held tight alongside them. They in particular are restless. The rest follow on behind, carrying whatever possessions they own in their boats. With such a large group, progress is painfully slow.
Just a few days ago it had been so different. The Mexica tribe had been loyal servants to the altepetl of Culhuacan. Their soldiers had won acclaim in battle, their leaders had stood at the right hand of tlatoani Huehue Acamapichtli himself. But the Mexica were destined by the gods for greater things than as some prince’s lackey. When Huehue had sent his sister to govern the affairs of the Mexica, the priests had learned of the Gods displeasure, and Xipe-Totec, the farming god, had demanded her sacrifice. So said the priests, at any rate. When they presented her flayed skin to Xipe-Totec, his favourite form of offering, the omens improved- but Huehue found out. He had sent his men to attack them- the warriors had fought as well as they could, but the tribe had been forced to retreat. Ever since then, they had been travelling northwards. Every day prayers were sent to their patron god, Huītzilōpōchtli, but they had no sacrifices to offer him. The future seems bleak.
The old man sighs, and begins paddling again. He didn’t sleep yesterday, watching the boats; his muscles and brain alike feel slow and exhausted. Then, suddenly, a shape moves through the mist- a dark silhouette, flying across the lake. His eyes catch it, follow it quickly. Off over the water, to the west, he sees it settle on another dark shape, an island of some kind. His eyes strain to make it out, but then the mist clears. The shadowy form of the island, thick with vegetation, seems to rise out of the water in front of him- but then he sees it. On a promontary to the south of the island, a great eagle stands framed against the sky, its feet lost amidst the bulbs of a large, spreading cactus. Silhouetted amidst the yellow hue of the morning, there is something transcendant about its still form. For a moment, time seems to stand still- just the man and the eagle. Then, he sees it raise its wings. Another patch of mist rolls by, and it disappears from view.
“Did you see that?”, he asks. The priest, sat behind him in the canoe, stirs.
“See what?”
“The eagle. That island, over there- an eagle, sat on a cactus.”
Suddenly, the priest is on his feet, eyes blazing. He stares in the direction of the island’s shadowy form, shaded from view once again. He takes up his paddle, and begins to thrust the canoe towards it, propelling it through the water with powerful strokes. In a few minutes, they land on the muddy beach, and the priest stumbles onto it. He turns around to face the bewildered fleet.
“Brothers, sisters! Huītzilōpōchtli has sent us a sign! Here shall be our home! From here shall the Mexica rule!”
Tenochtitlan, 1418. The past century has been a busy one for the Mexica. On that lonely island in Lake Texcoco, they founded their city Tenochtitlan, dedicated to Huītzilōpōchtli. Theirs is one more among hundreds of city-states across the region, from the valleys and highlands of the north to the jungles of Guatemala to the south. But in their swampy home, the Mexica have done great things. They have built their first temples, great pyramids on which to glory the gods and send them their sacrifices. They have built canals, both throughout the city and connecting them to the mainland, through which goods, trade and captives flow. They now have a ruler, their Tlatoani Chimalpopoca, descended from the line of the Culhuacan rulers, and so too have risen the noble class of pipiltzin around him. But more than that, they have redefined what it means to be Mexica. And that means war.
For the Mexica are blessed by Huītzilōpōchtli, a god of war and death. He drives the Mexica in battle, no warriors are fiercer: but in return, his blessing must be used to serve him. All the gods demand sacrifice, be it in blood, animals or executed captives, but Huītzilōpōchtli is thirstier than them all. When the Mexica take the field, they are not so messy as to leave their foes rotting on the battlefield- a true warrior instead acquires captives, hundreds of them, to be laid upon the temple dais and have their still-beating heart offered up to Huītzilōpōchtli. Only by this constant feeding will he ensure that the sun survives each age, and continue to act as patron of the Mexica. So feed him they have, and through his blessings have the Mexica grown strong.
But others are stronger. Like his forefathers before him, Chimalpopoca has to deal with the mightiest altepetl of the Anahuac valley, the nation that first forced their ancestors to seek a home in Culhuacan: the Tepanec city of Azcapotzalco, and their mighty ruler Tezozomoc. Tezozomoc is an imposing man- despite being well into his nineties and travelling frequently in a fur-swaddled litter, his booming voice and powerful figure still demand the attention of all who share a room with him. His rage is legendary, but so too is his ferocity and cunning. And, through diplomacy and war, the shores of Lake Texcoco have become his. Trade and tribute flow through Azcapozalco like water; thousands bend the knee to him. But one altepetl refuses. In the ancient fortress of Texcoco, on the far banks of the lake that shares its name, the Chichimec ruler Ixtlixochitl still holds out defiantly against Tepanec dominion. Tezozomoc will suffer their insolence no longer, and calls his men to war.
The fight proves hard. Texcoco is in an excellent position; nestled against the marshy lake shore, with thick jungle and rugged terrain on all sides. Time after time Tepanec forces throw themselves against its walls and armies, and every time are forced back to lick their wounds. After a summer of besieging the city, Tezozomoc is all but ready to retreat and lick his wounds. But the Mexica have other ideas; the lake is their home, and they know it better than anyone. One night in September, a forest of canoes slip silently away from Tenochtitlan, heading east. They paddle their canoes into the thick swamps west of Texcoco, and unload their men; hundreds of soldiers, their mācuahuitl gleaming in the moonlight. Shortly after midnight, the Texcoco are awoken like a thunderbolt- hundreds of Mexica soldiers running through the streets, laying the torch to building after building and making their way towards the royal palace.
Some Texcoco soldiers attempt to fight the Mexica- but the Mexica reputation proceeds them. From the lowliest mācehualtin commoner to the noblest pipiltzin, every Mexica boy from the age of fifteen has been taught to fight, and their zealous dedication to Huītzilōpōchtli is unwavering. Fighting is how a Mexica proves himself, how he advances socially, how he shoes his dedication to the gods; war is everything to the Mexica. The Texcoco never stand a chance. By dawn, the royal palace has been gutted by flames, and Ixtlilxochitl’s corpse is offered up to Tezozomoc.
Tezozomoc is ecstatic, and lavish in his praise of Chimalpopoca’s warriors. Indeed, he goes so far is to give him a gift; the altepetl of Texcoco will now serve as a tributary of Tenochtitlan rather than Azcapozalco directly. The Mexica star is rising.
Azcapozalco, 1426. Tezozomoc the Great lies dying. Around his bedside stand a few of his closest family and allies. Now over a hundred, few can say he was not favoured by the gods, but it is still a shock for many to see such a legendary figure so close to death. As they watch, a feeble hand rises from the bedding, and reaches out towards his favourite son, Tayatzin. Tayatzin grasps his hand, and leans forward to hear the great man’s dying words:
“Azca… yours. Rule well”
Tayatzin nods, once.
Tayatzin is coronated quickly, and shortly afterwards departs for Tenochtitlan alongside his friend and ally Chimalpopoca. But trouble is browing. Tayatzin’s half-brother, Maxtla, ruler of the altepetl of Coyoacán, is quick to hear of his father’s death, and marches his men to Azcapozaltco to seize the throne. Tayatzin and Chimalpopoca are both publicly furious, and relations rapidly break down between the two cities. Tenochtitlan stops paying tribute, and bitter insults begin crossing the narrow lake straits.
For almost a year, neither side makes a move. But then, on a dark April night in 1427, a single canoe drifts out of the harbour at Azcapozaltco. Quietly it enters the canals of Tenochtitlan, and a single figure emerges near the royal palace. It carries no weapons but a small obsidian knife. When morning breaks, the assassin’s work is done. Tayatzin’s throat has been cut while he slept.
A week later, Chimalpopoca is restless; with the tlatoani dead, his prospects for a continued alliance with Azcapozaltco are drastically thinned. To fight the Azcapozaltco alone is daunting, almost suicidal. Bowing to Maxtla is almost as risky after such public opposition. He has asked the gods for answers, but the priests have yet to provide him with answers.
Chimalpopoca looks up. His uncle, Itzcoatl, one of his closest advisors, stands in the doorway to his chamber. A small group of pipitzlin are with him. Itzcoatl bows, and crosses the room to join Chimalpopoca.
“Have you decided yet? How shall we respond to the Tepanec dogs?”
“Not yet,” replies Chimalpopoca. “Not until the omens have been determined. I cannot make a decision until then.”
Itzcoatl nods sagely. “Maybe not. But I can.”
With that, his arm swings round, his hands clasped around a rope. Before Chimalpopoca can realise what’s happening, Itzcoatl is behind him, pulling the rope tight around his neck. Chimalpopoca falls to his need, scrabbling at his throat, gasping for air as the room slowly fades around him. After a minute, he falls limp. Itzcoatl holds on for another thirty seconds, before letting him drop to the floor. He looks up at the pipitzlin who have now entered the room.
“Another assassin. Tepanec scum. We shall not suffer their kind to rule again.”
Tenochtitlan, 1427. Itzcoatl is tlatoani now, and he is not interested in laying down. He calls a meeting with Nezahualcoyotl, tlatoani of Texcoco and a former ward of Tenochtitlan. He too is a firm enemy of Maxtla and has returned to Tenochtitlan with an idea. Nezahualcoyotl is more than just a king; he is a poet, a philosopher, a theologian, but also a diplomat with a bold vision. The Tepanec rule almost all the cities in the Anahuac valley, and neither Texcoco nor Tenochtitlan can fight them alone; but they are not the only atlepetl dissatisfied with Tepanec dominion. He proposes a grand alliance, a coalition of city-states to overthrow their rule. Itzcoatl agrees, and sends out envoys. The coalition is joined by the cities of Tlacopan and Huexotzinco, as well as some smaller powers: and now the war is on.
Maxtla isn’t unready. No sooner does he hear of an army on the move from Texcoco, he rallies his forces, and marches towards Tenochtitlan. He hopes to be able to cut off the head of the rebellion quickly, before troops from Texcoco arrived, and initially it seems that he had moved well. After facing initially stern resistance, Maxtla’s larger force is eventually able to gain control of the Tenochtitlan supply canals, and he begins moving his troops across. But he has underestimated Itzcoatl’s diplomacy. During the siege, thousands of coalition troops under Nezahualcoyotl rampaged through the lands around Texcoco, and at the crucial hour they arrive to save Tenochtitlan. They surround the Tepanec from the landward side, whilst Mexica warriors face them from Tenochtitlan, and the battle turns into a bloodbath. Thousands are cut down or captured, and Maxtla himself flees with the coalition army hot on his heels. By March, it is all over. Azcapozaltco is sacked, reduced to a shadow of its former self, and Maxtla is taken prisoner. Nezahualcoyotl sacrifices Maxtla himself on the altar of Quetzocoatl.
Let's all just agree to ignore the Spanish writing at the top and pretend this is in-universe...
But the war has got the tlatoani thinking. Through little more than some well-chosen words, they have overthrown the greatest power their world has ever known. Through unity, there clearly lies great strength. Nezahualcoyotl’s mind whirs, and his envoys are dispatched.
Six months later, three men stand in Tenochtitlan: Nezahualcoyotl, Itzcoatl, and the tlatoani of Tlacopan, Totoquihuaztli. Together, they form the Triple Alliance; a promise, that their cities and people shall fight together and divide the spoils of conquest between them. From now on, they will not be Mexica or Tepanec or Acolhua, but united by a tighter bond of friendship and heritage. Together, they are Aztec.
Tenochtitlan, 1444. More than 15 years later, and the Aztec triple alliance remains strong. Nezahualcoyotl has rebuilt his kingdom, and Texcoco is now home to some of the greatest temples, gardens, palaces and libraries in the land- a fitting home for the poet-king. Azcapozaltco has been reduced to a mere tributary of Tlacopan. But the heart of the alliance lies in Tenochtitlan; buoyed by gold pouring in from her tributaries, the city has boomed. Now home to more than 100,000 people, her canals are filled with a constant flow of traders, and great temples dot the skyline. Itzcoatl’s nephew, Moctezuma I, is now the effective ruler of an Aztec state greater even than the old Tepanec empire. Now, the great tlatoani’s mind turns to expansion. Soon, soldiers will once again march across the Anahuac valley…
I'm something of a newbie to the forums, but I'm a long-time lurker and AAR fan. After devouring the fantastic work of @volksmarschall and @Groogy some time ago, I experimented with writing a Wales AAR on my Facebook page. That went pretty well, so now I think it's time I gave it a go on the forums.
A few notes on the game and general style before I start off:
- I adore EUIV's ability to deliver narrative-historical gameplay, and that shall be the focus of this game. I'm not going for a WC or hyper-efficient blobbing, but rather trying to craft a character-centred historical narrative. As such, I will be RPing many of my in-game decisions (though I'm not immune to wanting to play a good game) and the AAR will be focusing less on the grand strategy of my nation, but more on how the significant figures of my nation's history influence its journey. I probably won't be including much artwork in my posts as others have done, partly because of the lack of relevant Mesoamerican artwork and also because I am lazy.
- I am playing with all the main DLCs except Rule Britannia and Third Rome, and a few scattered content packs. I buy DLC somewhat irregularly
- The game will be Aztecs, starting in 1444. I wanted something a little different from the usual European games I'd been playing recently, whilst still providing an interesting arc for my country to go through, and they fitted the bill. I must acknowledge my debt to the fantastic Kings and Generals YT channel, whose recent series on Mesoamerican history has been of huge inspiration and guidance.
- To add a little to the flavour and immersion, I will be trying to reflect the language of the Aztec in my posts. I don't speak Nahuatl, so am relying on whatever patchy dictionaries and translators I can find online. It won't be perfect, but it's better than nothing I think. On the subject of which, the title of this thread translates, roughly, to "History of the Mexica" (the Mexica being the tribal people who founded Tenochtitlan and formed the core of the Aztec triple alliance).
- For general clarity, I shall be sticking to dates in the traditional AD/CE system and English month names rather than the Aztec’s own calendar system. Trying to explain the conversion between “year of the 12th reed” is more effort than I think is necessary.
- The prologue contained in this post is probably going to be more detailed than the rest of the AAR will be, both to set the context of the rest of the playthrough and to tell the story of the early Aztec rise to power (I don’t claim to be an expert on this, and much of the history is debated, so feel free to challenge me on any of what I write during this bit!). During the early game, I probably won’t go into detail about all the wars I’m fighting, because early Aztec warfare is defined by the kind of near-constant conflict and vassal/tributary relationships that gets complicated and kinda boring rather quickly. We’ll figure it out as we go…
- Advice and feedback greatly appreciated!
And so, without further ado:
Prologue: Children of Huitzilopochtli (1325-1444)
Lake Texcoco, 1325. Through the morning mist, a host of canoes slip silently across the water. At their head, an older man stops paddling for a moment and surveys the boats behind him. In the boats alongside him sit the priests, almost unrecognisable as such from this close up, without their ceremonial headdresses. The warriors are behind them, scores of young men with obsidian-edged mācuahuitl held tight alongside them. They in particular are restless. The rest follow on behind, carrying whatever possessions they own in their boats. With such a large group, progress is painfully slow.
Just a few days ago it had been so different. The Mexica tribe had been loyal servants to the altepetl of Culhuacan. Their soldiers had won acclaim in battle, their leaders had stood at the right hand of tlatoani Huehue Acamapichtli himself. But the Mexica were destined by the gods for greater things than as some prince’s lackey. When Huehue had sent his sister to govern the affairs of the Mexica, the priests had learned of the Gods displeasure, and Xipe-Totec, the farming god, had demanded her sacrifice. So said the priests, at any rate. When they presented her flayed skin to Xipe-Totec, his favourite form of offering, the omens improved- but Huehue found out. He had sent his men to attack them- the warriors had fought as well as they could, but the tribe had been forced to retreat. Ever since then, they had been travelling northwards. Every day prayers were sent to their patron god, Huītzilōpōchtli, but they had no sacrifices to offer him. The future seems bleak.
The old man sighs, and begins paddling again. He didn’t sleep yesterday, watching the boats; his muscles and brain alike feel slow and exhausted. Then, suddenly, a shape moves through the mist- a dark silhouette, flying across the lake. His eyes catch it, follow it quickly. Off over the water, to the west, he sees it settle on another dark shape, an island of some kind. His eyes strain to make it out, but then the mist clears. The shadowy form of the island, thick with vegetation, seems to rise out of the water in front of him- but then he sees it. On a promontary to the south of the island, a great eagle stands framed against the sky, its feet lost amidst the bulbs of a large, spreading cactus. Silhouetted amidst the yellow hue of the morning, there is something transcendant about its still form. For a moment, time seems to stand still- just the man and the eagle. Then, he sees it raise its wings. Another patch of mist rolls by, and it disappears from view.
“Did you see that?”, he asks. The priest, sat behind him in the canoe, stirs.
“See what?”
“The eagle. That island, over there- an eagle, sat on a cactus.”
Suddenly, the priest is on his feet, eyes blazing. He stares in the direction of the island’s shadowy form, shaded from view once again. He takes up his paddle, and begins to thrust the canoe towards it, propelling it through the water with powerful strokes. In a few minutes, they land on the muddy beach, and the priest stumbles onto it. He turns around to face the bewildered fleet.
“Brothers, sisters! Huītzilōpōchtli has sent us a sign! Here shall be our home! From here shall the Mexica rule!”
Tenochtitlan, 1418. The past century has been a busy one for the Mexica. On that lonely island in Lake Texcoco, they founded their city Tenochtitlan, dedicated to Huītzilōpōchtli. Theirs is one more among hundreds of city-states across the region, from the valleys and highlands of the north to the jungles of Guatemala to the south. But in their swampy home, the Mexica have done great things. They have built their first temples, great pyramids on which to glory the gods and send them their sacrifices. They have built canals, both throughout the city and connecting them to the mainland, through which goods, trade and captives flow. They now have a ruler, their Tlatoani Chimalpopoca, descended from the line of the Culhuacan rulers, and so too have risen the noble class of pipiltzin around him. But more than that, they have redefined what it means to be Mexica. And that means war.
For the Mexica are blessed by Huītzilōpōchtli, a god of war and death. He drives the Mexica in battle, no warriors are fiercer: but in return, his blessing must be used to serve him. All the gods demand sacrifice, be it in blood, animals or executed captives, but Huītzilōpōchtli is thirstier than them all. When the Mexica take the field, they are not so messy as to leave their foes rotting on the battlefield- a true warrior instead acquires captives, hundreds of them, to be laid upon the temple dais and have their still-beating heart offered up to Huītzilōpōchtli. Only by this constant feeding will he ensure that the sun survives each age, and continue to act as patron of the Mexica. So feed him they have, and through his blessings have the Mexica grown strong.
But others are stronger. Like his forefathers before him, Chimalpopoca has to deal with the mightiest altepetl of the Anahuac valley, the nation that first forced their ancestors to seek a home in Culhuacan: the Tepanec city of Azcapotzalco, and their mighty ruler Tezozomoc. Tezozomoc is an imposing man- despite being well into his nineties and travelling frequently in a fur-swaddled litter, his booming voice and powerful figure still demand the attention of all who share a room with him. His rage is legendary, but so too is his ferocity and cunning. And, through diplomacy and war, the shores of Lake Texcoco have become his. Trade and tribute flow through Azcapozalco like water; thousands bend the knee to him. But one altepetl refuses. In the ancient fortress of Texcoco, on the far banks of the lake that shares its name, the Chichimec ruler Ixtlixochitl still holds out defiantly against Tepanec dominion. Tezozomoc will suffer their insolence no longer, and calls his men to war.
The fight proves hard. Texcoco is in an excellent position; nestled against the marshy lake shore, with thick jungle and rugged terrain on all sides. Time after time Tepanec forces throw themselves against its walls and armies, and every time are forced back to lick their wounds. After a summer of besieging the city, Tezozomoc is all but ready to retreat and lick his wounds. But the Mexica have other ideas; the lake is their home, and they know it better than anyone. One night in September, a forest of canoes slip silently away from Tenochtitlan, heading east. They paddle their canoes into the thick swamps west of Texcoco, and unload their men; hundreds of soldiers, their mācuahuitl gleaming in the moonlight. Shortly after midnight, the Texcoco are awoken like a thunderbolt- hundreds of Mexica soldiers running through the streets, laying the torch to building after building and making their way towards the royal palace.
Some Texcoco soldiers attempt to fight the Mexica- but the Mexica reputation proceeds them. From the lowliest mācehualtin commoner to the noblest pipiltzin, every Mexica boy from the age of fifteen has been taught to fight, and their zealous dedication to Huītzilōpōchtli is unwavering. Fighting is how a Mexica proves himself, how he advances socially, how he shoes his dedication to the gods; war is everything to the Mexica. The Texcoco never stand a chance. By dawn, the royal palace has been gutted by flames, and Ixtlilxochitl’s corpse is offered up to Tezozomoc.
Tezozomoc is ecstatic, and lavish in his praise of Chimalpopoca’s warriors. Indeed, he goes so far is to give him a gift; the altepetl of Texcoco will now serve as a tributary of Tenochtitlan rather than Azcapozalco directly. The Mexica star is rising.
Azcapozalco, 1426. Tezozomoc the Great lies dying. Around his bedside stand a few of his closest family and allies. Now over a hundred, few can say he was not favoured by the gods, but it is still a shock for many to see such a legendary figure so close to death. As they watch, a feeble hand rises from the bedding, and reaches out towards his favourite son, Tayatzin. Tayatzin grasps his hand, and leans forward to hear the great man’s dying words:
“Azca… yours. Rule well”
Tayatzin nods, once.
Tayatzin is coronated quickly, and shortly afterwards departs for Tenochtitlan alongside his friend and ally Chimalpopoca. But trouble is browing. Tayatzin’s half-brother, Maxtla, ruler of the altepetl of Coyoacán, is quick to hear of his father’s death, and marches his men to Azcapozaltco to seize the throne. Tayatzin and Chimalpopoca are both publicly furious, and relations rapidly break down between the two cities. Tenochtitlan stops paying tribute, and bitter insults begin crossing the narrow lake straits.
For almost a year, neither side makes a move. But then, on a dark April night in 1427, a single canoe drifts out of the harbour at Azcapozaltco. Quietly it enters the canals of Tenochtitlan, and a single figure emerges near the royal palace. It carries no weapons but a small obsidian knife. When morning breaks, the assassin’s work is done. Tayatzin’s throat has been cut while he slept.
A week later, Chimalpopoca is restless; with the tlatoani dead, his prospects for a continued alliance with Azcapozaltco are drastically thinned. To fight the Azcapozaltco alone is daunting, almost suicidal. Bowing to Maxtla is almost as risky after such public opposition. He has asked the gods for answers, but the priests have yet to provide him with answers.
Chimalpopoca looks up. His uncle, Itzcoatl, one of his closest advisors, stands in the doorway to his chamber. A small group of pipitzlin are with him. Itzcoatl bows, and crosses the room to join Chimalpopoca.
“Have you decided yet? How shall we respond to the Tepanec dogs?”
“Not yet,” replies Chimalpopoca. “Not until the omens have been determined. I cannot make a decision until then.”
Itzcoatl nods sagely. “Maybe not. But I can.”
With that, his arm swings round, his hands clasped around a rope. Before Chimalpopoca can realise what’s happening, Itzcoatl is behind him, pulling the rope tight around his neck. Chimalpopoca falls to his need, scrabbling at his throat, gasping for air as the room slowly fades around him. After a minute, he falls limp. Itzcoatl holds on for another thirty seconds, before letting him drop to the floor. He looks up at the pipitzlin who have now entered the room.
“Another assassin. Tepanec scum. We shall not suffer their kind to rule again.”
Tenochtitlan, 1427. Itzcoatl is tlatoani now, and he is not interested in laying down. He calls a meeting with Nezahualcoyotl, tlatoani of Texcoco and a former ward of Tenochtitlan. He too is a firm enemy of Maxtla and has returned to Tenochtitlan with an idea. Nezahualcoyotl is more than just a king; he is a poet, a philosopher, a theologian, but also a diplomat with a bold vision. The Tepanec rule almost all the cities in the Anahuac valley, and neither Texcoco nor Tenochtitlan can fight them alone; but they are not the only atlepetl dissatisfied with Tepanec dominion. He proposes a grand alliance, a coalition of city-states to overthrow their rule. Itzcoatl agrees, and sends out envoys. The coalition is joined by the cities of Tlacopan and Huexotzinco, as well as some smaller powers: and now the war is on.
Maxtla isn’t unready. No sooner does he hear of an army on the move from Texcoco, he rallies his forces, and marches towards Tenochtitlan. He hopes to be able to cut off the head of the rebellion quickly, before troops from Texcoco arrived, and initially it seems that he had moved well. After facing initially stern resistance, Maxtla’s larger force is eventually able to gain control of the Tenochtitlan supply canals, and he begins moving his troops across. But he has underestimated Itzcoatl’s diplomacy. During the siege, thousands of coalition troops under Nezahualcoyotl rampaged through the lands around Texcoco, and at the crucial hour they arrive to save Tenochtitlan. They surround the Tepanec from the landward side, whilst Mexica warriors face them from Tenochtitlan, and the battle turns into a bloodbath. Thousands are cut down or captured, and Maxtla himself flees with the coalition army hot on his heels. By March, it is all over. Azcapozaltco is sacked, reduced to a shadow of its former self, and Maxtla is taken prisoner. Nezahualcoyotl sacrifices Maxtla himself on the altar of Quetzocoatl.
Let's all just agree to ignore the Spanish writing at the top and pretend this is in-universe...
But the war has got the tlatoani thinking. Through little more than some well-chosen words, they have overthrown the greatest power their world has ever known. Through unity, there clearly lies great strength. Nezahualcoyotl’s mind whirs, and his envoys are dispatched.
Six months later, three men stand in Tenochtitlan: Nezahualcoyotl, Itzcoatl, and the tlatoani of Tlacopan, Totoquihuaztli. Together, they form the Triple Alliance; a promise, that their cities and people shall fight together and divide the spoils of conquest between them. From now on, they will not be Mexica or Tepanec or Acolhua, but united by a tighter bond of friendship and heritage. Together, they are Aztec.
Tenochtitlan, 1444. More than 15 years later, and the Aztec triple alliance remains strong. Nezahualcoyotl has rebuilt his kingdom, and Texcoco is now home to some of the greatest temples, gardens, palaces and libraries in the land- a fitting home for the poet-king. Azcapozaltco has been reduced to a mere tributary of Tlacopan. But the heart of the alliance lies in Tenochtitlan; buoyed by gold pouring in from her tributaries, the city has boomed. Now home to more than 100,000 people, her canals are filled with a constant flow of traders, and great temples dot the skyline. Itzcoatl’s nephew, Moctezuma I, is now the effective ruler of an Aztec state greater even than the old Tepanec empire. Now, the great tlatoani’s mind turns to expansion. Soon, soldiers will once again march across the Anahuac valley…
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