Letters to a Savage

2

Forgive me for intruding upon your thoughts, my lady, for I did not intend to be rude. My name is Diego Morales, and I am a dead man. I imagine this is not displeasing to you, though, judging by the sins I have committed against you and your people. I do not write you this letter of the mind to ask for your forgiveness. My transgressions are far too egregious for that. Instead, I only wish to write to you about my best friend…the young boy I grew up with…the boy who became a man…the man you fell in love with…Rodrigo Diaz.

I will keep this brief, Atzi, for you likely have little interest in my words.

I hope it is alright if I call you by your name, my lady.

I assure you…the hatred that you must have for me is only rivaled by the hatred I have for myself. I fear that when I finish this letter, I will be denied a seat at my Father’s table, and the penance for my sins will be eternal damnation. In any case, my last act on this mortal plain will be to write this inkless letter to you, and hopefully, at the very least, it will be worthy of recognition by you and Rodrigo.

As long as you’ve known him, Rodrigo has been not a boy, but a man…and a good one at that I presume. This would come as no shock to me, as I have witnessed his courage with my own eyes. However, I have known him since before this bravery struck his heart.

Two young boys orphaned at childhood and cast aside, my twin brother Antonio and I owe our lives and our gratitude to Rodrigo and his father, Emiliano Diaz. They took us in at a young age and kept us off the streets back in Spain. Rodrigo’s father was more than a good man…more than a great man. He was a man worthy to follow and follow him we did…all three of us. Though we did not have his blood in our veins, he was like a father to Antonio and me. Through the struggles of life as young boys in Spain to the foreign plains of unknown lands, we followed Emiliano to the ends of the world. Even on this very expedition to your lands, Atzi, he served as the top lieutenant to our commander, Hernan Cortes, a man who I once admired as much as it pains me to say now.

Emiliano’s passing saddens me even as death grips me as well in its tight embrace, though I hold onto a faint hope that I will see him in the afterlife. God deemed his time to be expired long before I did…long before anyone did. Killed in his sleep by an assassin with no honor, Emiliano was loved and mourned by his men and his family as news of his death echoed like a shockwave throughout the ranks of the Spanish conquistadors and the Tlaxcalan mercenaries that accompanied us. You would have loved him, my lady, just as you love his son.

Rodrigo naturally took his father’s death the hardest of anyone. Where he had previously sympathized to a fault with the struggle of all natives, Emiliano’s assassination, which was believed to be carried out by an Aztec blade, fueled Rodrigo’s motivation and lust for battle against your people. Unlike Antonio and I, who had fought against the native tribes of Cuba as well as the Tlaxcalans before Cortes formed an alliance with them, Rodrigo was yet to be blooded in the fires of combat despite his rigorous military training. He’s a year younger than my brother and me, and he had only recently stepped foot onto this land of the Mexica to join us before death found his father. Rodrigo’s bravery was merely a mask, brought on by his father’s killing. Inside of him, fear ran wild. I could see it on his face.

I was there, Atzi…the day Rodrigo, only nineteen years of age at the time, became a man. I was there the day he wet his sword for the first time…the day fear no longer controlled him. Before you met him on that riverbank…before you saved him and brought him back to life as a new man, Rodrigo clad himself in the full-plated armor of a Spanish conquistador…great warriors widely renowned in the western world for their courage and unmatched skill in combat. The conquistadors were pivotal in restoring the Christian faith to Spain and driving the Muslims out a mere thirty years earlier, and now, we aimed to conquer the people and wealth of the mighty Aztec Empire in this new world on the edge of the earth. Alongside myself, Antonio, and the hundreds of Spaniards at our side, Rodrigo stood ready yet fearful on the plains of Cholula…where we met the Aztecs, your people, in combat for the first time.

▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪

August 1519.

The hot Mexican sun beamed down upon the fields outside the city of Cholula. Our forces had heard tales about the bravery, bloodlust, and vastly superior numbers of the Aztec warriors, but our training and discipline kept us in line. The men yearned for battle along with the glory and gold that came with victory.

Rodrigo, however, had no desire for fame or riches. Revenge for his father’s death was his only motivation, and it led his heart to a hatred of the Aztecs. The fear of death still lingered within him, though, as it did with me as well. Rodrigo knew he must honor his father’s memory by showing courage on the battlefield. He had trained his whole life to wield a sword in the name of God and Spain, but the thought of battle pulled fiercely at his nerves. He tried his best to overcome this fear, but distress clouded his face and his actions.

“Battalion! Halt!” echoed the voice of Cortes, who spoke in Spanish and rode on horseback at the rear of the Spanish infantry column.

We stopped our march on a slightly elevated hillside that overlooked the vast plains ahead of us. Rodrigo, Antonio, and I were positioned on the front line of our regiment, which made up the central vanguard of the entire army. Antonio may have been my twin brother, but he towered over Rodrigo and me. He was the largest and most fearsome man I had ever known, sporting a bushy, menacing beard across his thick jaw line. This contrasted my smooth, hairless face and boyish figure. Rodrigo, although donning a small beard of his own, still lacked in masculinity when compared to the hulking physicality of Antonio. While all three of us had always been close, Rodrigo and I formed a bond of friendship unmatched by most others.    

Sweat poured down our foreheads in the blistering heat, and the weight of our heavy steel chest plates, helmets, grieves, bracers, swords, and shields did not help with the discomfort. To my right stood Rodrigo…and to my left, Antonio. I took comfort in my brother and my best friend marching beside me, and I know the two of them shared in this comfort.

Rodrigo’s gaze veered in front of me and down the left flank towards our new Tlaxcalan allies who were eager to collect the heads of their bitter Aztec enemies. When we first arrived, we came into conflict with the Tlaxcalan tribes and defeated them many times in battle. Antonio and I killed many of their warriors under the tutelage of Emiliano Diaz…before his death. Cortes soon learned of the riches that were said to be possessed by the Aztecs, who were constantly at war with the Tlaxcalans. To strike a blow to the powerful Aztecs, Cortes allied the Spanish with the Tlaxcalans under the guise of avenging the death of Emiliano. The Spanish-Tlaxcalan coalition was born, though most Spaniards, including myself and my brothers, still did not trust the heathen Tlaxcalans…nor did they trust us. Regardless, though, this was a moot point. The Tlaxcalans were here, and we needed them as much as they needed us. The combined Spanish and Tlaxcalan armies numbered just over two thousand troops in total, yet we all knew the opposing Aztec force would vastly outnumber us.

A quick and sudden silence came over our forces. In the distance and in the direction of the city of Cholula, the beating of drums hastened and became louder with each passing moment. The adjacent hillside still blocked the Aztec army from our view, but they announced their approach to all that could hear them. The sounds of what we perceived to be flutes accompanied the Aztec drums. This intimidating combination created a majestic song of war…beautiful and terrifying. We had heard nothing but tales of savagery about your people, Atzi, but in that moment, this savage tune was quite soothing to the senses…much to my surprise.

The calm feeling within me quickly passed, though, as a banner that perched atop a large wooden pole slowly emerged over the hillside. Then, another banner…and another. Before long, Aztec battle standards presented themselves across our entire line of sight. I peered at Rodrigo’s face as he gazed upon the hundreds of feathered and plumed banners emerging from behind the hill on the other side of the plain. Fear gripped him. Judging by the concerned expression on his face, there was no doubt his guts had turned to mush…no doubt the hairs on his arms stood tall. Even I, who had witnessed the sight of an approaching enemy army several times, stood in awe at the vast number of Aztec banners. I had never before been faced with this many foes, and fear crept into my bowels as well. Still, I was better than Rodrigo at hiding my fear.

“Steady, my friend,” I said to him with a nervous grin. Rodrigo did not respond. He continued to keep his eyes fixed across the plain.

As soon as I turned my attention back to the enemy, the front line of the massive Aztec force appeared over the hillside. None of us, especially Rodrigo, had ever seen anything quite like it before. Thousands upon thousands of Aztec warriors, along with many warriors from lesser tribes that fought alongside the Aztecs, marched into our view. The enemy line seemed to stretch as far as our eyes could see, and dark-complected men continued to pour onto the plain as if an anthill had violently erupted. The Aztecs looked more like beasts than men, though. Many of them adorned themselves with colorful garments and animal skins. Most of them wore headdresses that made them look like jaguars, eagles, and other animals. They carried spears and clubs with blades made from obsidian. This differed drastically from our armor and weaponry, which was comprised of steel swords, daggers, and muskets.

“Do you see now why we call them savages, Rodrigo?” Antonio’s deep voice rang out down the line while he kept his focus on the field.

Rodrigo turned his head in our direction. I maintained my calm and collected outward demeanor, knowing that I must remain composed if Rodrigo was to do the same. Beside me, Antonio held the same serious and alert disposition since we stepped on the field of battle. His eyes glared across the plain. Antonio was ready to fight. I was ready to fight, despite my hidden fear. Rodrigo saw the courage on our faces. Our bravery would be his guiding hand in the events to follow. Rodrigo lowered his head and closed his eyes. I know he made his peace with God right there on the plains of Cholula, accepting his fate and the fate of his friends.

As Rodrigo’s prayer ended and he raised his head, the Aztec forces abruptly stopped their march. The entire field, which now held several thousand warriors, lay utterly silent. Then, all at once, the Aztecs let out a deafening battle cry, beating mercilessly on their chests. The ground almost felt as if it shook beneath our feet as the combined shouts of the Aztec warriors engulfed the field. They seemed as though they did not fear death, but instead welcomed it.

When the battle cry ended and the Aztec drums and flutes ceased, a small contingent of Aztec warriors separated from the main force and marched towards the center of the field between the two armies. Simultaneously, Cortes and his bodyguards rode out to meet them to discuss terms. Also next to Cortes rode his sniveling snake of a nephew, Francisco, along with Francisco’s sycophantic hound dog, an ugly brute named Javier. Both men sucked up to Cortes at every turn, and it was no secret they and us were no friends of each other. They often joked and gestured about Emiliano’s assassination around us, leading to many quarrels and scuffles between our two groups. Wearing the steel plates of a conquistador was the only similarity we shared with them. I suspected that Cortes would keep that weasel Francisco at the back of the line and out of danger. Javier, on the other hand, possessed skill with a blade despite his obsequious nature to Cortes and Francisco. Javier commanded a mounted cavalry battalion, though, so his talents were much needed to us, as much as I hated to admit it.

I looked upon the two opposing contingents of leaders…and sycophants…that approached each other. Cortes, mounted on horseback, reached the center of the field slightly before his Aztec counterparts, who were on foot. Any horse that stepped foot on this field was brought from the sea when we arrived, as I’m sure you know, and the Aztec chieftains had no knowledge of their utilization in combat before that day.

When the Aztecs reached Cortes, a single man emerged from their unit to meet with him. Tall and broad like Antonio, the Aztec leader wore a large, feathered headdress that distinguished himself from the rest of his men. If Cortes had dismounted from his horse, the Aztec chief would have towered over him. However, Cortes did not dismount, and the two men began exchanging words that we could not hear at that distance.

“Why did he stay on his horse?” one of my countrymen, a young conquistador named Juan, asked in Spanish a few rows back from where we stood at the front of the line.

Another unknown voice chimed in to respond. “Because we are superior to them, and they must be reminded of that.”

While these were not my words or the words of my brothers, we too felt a sense of superiority to who we saw as backwards, barbaric people who made human sacrifices to their gods and tore the hearts from the poor bastards’ chests, or so we had heard. Antonio, like myself, had been trained from the time we arrived to dehumanize your people, and dehumanize them we did.

“They worship a snake with feathers who’s supposed to return and save them one day,” another Spanish voice echoed, laughing with others around him and mocking the Aztec gods.

 Rodrigo, who now hated the Aztecs just as much as any of us, still knew more about your gods than most Spaniards, studying them and learning the ways of your people during his time in Havana and Veracruz. Rodrigo usually kept quiet and to himself, but this time, he spoke over the conquistadors’ laughter.

“His name is Quetzalcoatl,” Rodrigo interrupted, referring to the god the other Spaniard had mentioned. “He is the feathered serpent god of the Aztec savages. The prophesy states that he will return to save his people and reclaim his throne in their capital city of Tenochtitlan. Their emperor, Montezuma, has two sons…Cuitlahuac and Cuauhtémoc. Whichever savage sits on the throne will step down and allow Quetzalcoatl to rule when the time comes.”

The other Spaniards around him chuckled once more at this prophesy, but Rodrigo did not laugh with them.

“How is it you know so much about these people?” a young conquistador named Juan asked to Rodrigo.

“I read…and I listen,” responded Rodrigo while keeping his eyes on the battlefield. “According to the texts, Tenochtitlan is the capital of their empire and the center of their world. It sits upon a giant island further inland from the coast in the middle of Lake Texcoco. If Tenochtitlan falls, Emperor Montezuma and the Aztec Empire will fall with it.”

Rodrigo’s knowledge impressed the other conquistadors, including Antonio and me. His words inspired the men who heard him, motivating them to holler and gesture in approval of this goal. It was the first time I had seen the other soldiers follow Rodrigo’s words, and I swear I saw a glimmer of his father’s leadership in him at that moment.

Cortes, who had ridden his horse in circles disrespectfully around the Aztec chiefs as the leader spoke to him, peeled off from the meeting and rode back to the Spanish and Tlaxcalan lines with Francisco and Javier tight on his heels. When it appeared as though he prepared his subordinates for battle instead of ordering a retreat, a surreal feeling rushed through my mind and body. The time had come. Victory would not be achieved from negotiations. There would be no surrender. There would be no retreat. Battle would now decide who takes the glory from the plains of Cholula.

After giving his orders to the regiment commanders, Cortes ordered his nephew to the rear as I knew he would. Cortes then moved his way to the front of the line and stopped his horse about thirty feet from where we stood. A brief silence filled the air around the battle lines as every Spanish and Tlaxcalan ear awaited the words from our leader.

Cortes then slowly moved his horse parallel down the line and addressed us with the passion and fervor of a mighty commander.

“Spaniards! Look upon this field! Look upon your enemy! Their leaders have brought all the slaves and beggars from every corner of their pitiful empire! They know they have no chance of defeating us man for man! They know they have no hope of besting brave and noble warriors like us! We will win a mighty victory on this day! Our horses will trample over them! Our muskets will rip through them! They will taste the cold steel of our blades! You men are warriors of Spain! You are warriors of God! He will guide us to victory! Do not fear these men! They are not worthy of your fear! They are not worthy of your respect! They have come in hordes, and they will die in hordes! Trust in your commanders! Trust in the men next to you! Trust in yourselves, my brave soldiers! It is an honor to fight alongside each and every one of you! We live together, and we die together! For the glory of Spain! God be with us!”

He raised his sword in the air and bolted his horse down the line as a thunderous roar emitted from the Spanish and Tlaxcalan armies. Rodrigo, Antonio, and I all joined in as the entire force erupted into a battle cry that rivaled that which the Aztec force had let out upon entering the field. Spanish swordsmen, musketeers, and cavalrymen all synchronized their voices with the Tlaxcalan battle cries and yelled at the top of their lungs.

Across the field, the Aztec commander had just finished the speech to his men, and they too now exploded into yet another violent outburst. For about fifteen long seconds, the battle cries of both sides combined to form what sounded like a harmonic symphony of warrior poets. It was as if thousands of lions had gathered on the plains of Cholula that day, and all of us roared as loud as we could.

When the noise level finally lowered enough to hear commands, Cortes went to work.

“Muskets to the front!” he yelled in Spanish. “Javier, take your cavalry to the right flank! Gonzalo, move your cavalry to the left flank and reinforce the Tlaxcalans!”

Our unit commander then issued an order. “Regiment! Loose formation!” This meant that the swordsmen had to spread out so the musketeers could get by them. This formation was also beneficial in reducing casualties from enemy arrow volleys.

The musketeers passed through the line and stopped just beyond the melee units.

“Battalion! Advance!” Cortes shouted. All at once, our entire force marched ahead towards the Aztec front line.

As I marched forward with my brother and best friend by my side, many thoughts raced through my mind. I knew the same thoughts ran through Rodrigo’s mind as well. He had anticipated this moment for most of his life. He knew from a young age that he would one day experience battle. It was now here. It was now either kill or be killed. Take life or be extinguished of it.

The two lines closed in and came within range of each other’s missile troops.

“Battalion! Halt!” barked Cortes. “Muskets at the ready!”

We then stopped, and the musketeers at the front of the line took their weapons off their shoulders. The Aztec commander then ordered his men to stop their advance and prepared his archers to fire.

Cortes continued with his orders. “Take aim!”

The hundreds of musketeers raised their guns and pointed them at the Aztec line. Cortes waited a moment for every Spanish musket to be aimed at an Aztec warrior, and with one ominous word, the Battle of Cholula began.

“Fire!”

The riflemen unleashed a murderous volley of musket balls that sailed through the air and ripped into the Aztec front line like a hot knife through butter. Hundreds of Aztecs fell to their knees and hit the ground. Blood sprayed violently from their bodies as the screams of dying men echoed across the line.

“Reload!” Cortes ordered when the volley finished. The process of reloading these weapons was long and difficult, which gave the Aztecs time to replenish their front line.

I looked at Rodrigo as he gazed upon the sight of falling Aztecs with horror and relief. He had never seen a man die, let alone hundreds of them at once. I could see on his face he felt sympathy for the men who were being cut down rapidly by the Spanish muskets. At the same time, though, every dead Aztec brought us closer to victory, so we all took solace in seeing their numbers deplete.

Fear quickly replaced this comfort as the Aztec archers let loose their arrows. They sailed indiscriminately towards our troops in large numbers.

“Shields up!” yelled Cortes from behind the line.

Rodrigo, Antonio, I, and the rest of the Spanish infantry raised our shields above our heads and crouched low to the ground to make us smaller targets. While this worked well for the most part, not everyone evaded the arrows. They tore through many Spanish and Tlaxcalan soldiers, with the shield-less musketeers and armor-less Tlaxcalans bearing the worst of the barrage. While many arrows successfully hit their targets, the thick armor we Spaniards wore prevented many of these attacks from being lethal. Still, cries of pain and agony rang out from our forces.

The musketeers who had not been killed or wounded by the arrow barrage then recovered and finished reloading their weapons.

“Take aim!” Cortes frantically ordered for a second and last time.

Hundreds of muskets raised once more.

“Fire!”

The second musket volley seemed to do just as much damage as the first, tearing down a large portion of the front-line Aztecs. Their numbers were so great, however, that it appeared as though the Aztec reserves filled the gaps with no noticeable difference in their overall troop count.

“Swords to the front!” yelled Cortes.

The musketeers then retreated through the infantry lines to the relative safety of the rear. With the musketeers no longer acting as a buffer between us and the Aztec troops, we now stared down thousands of impetuous warriors that had a look of bloodlust in their eyes despite suffering heavy casualties.

A second arrow volley flew across the field towards the Spanish.

“Shields up!”

This barrage had the same impact as the first, killing and wounding many Spanish and Tlaxcalan troops. When the arrows stopped slamming into our shields, we rose to our feet and stared across the open plain at the enemy.

“Regiment! Tight formation!” ordered our unit commander.

We regrouped and packed ourselves closely together. This meant only one thing. The missile barrage was over. Close combat loomed as I readied my heart and my sword arm. We waited eagerly for the order to charge.

Rodrigo turned to look at Antonio and I, and we met his gaze with intensity in our eyes.

“Remember your training, Rodrigo!” I shouted over the commotion of the screams and warcries. “Your friends are with you! Together, we will cut down many savages on this day! God will deliver us from this evil!”

Rodrigo nodded and gritted his teeth as a veil of bravery…or perhaps anger…came over his face.

I turned back to look at Antonio. My brother and I locked eyes.

“We are lions, brother!” shouted Antonio. “Show them no mercy, for you shall receive none!”

“Draw swords!” Cortes ordered down the line.

All at once, our entire force unsheathed our swords and held them in the air, emitting one final roar. Rodrigo shouted and cursed louder than he ever had before. The adrenaline that no doubt pumped through his body filled him with courage and hid the fear in his heart, much like it did to mine.

Then, we saw it. The Aztec line surged forward and charged head on towards us. Our enemy stampeded towards us like a pack of hungry jaguars, yelling and screaming with all their might. Cortes, gazing upon the Aztec horde coming at us with full speed, muttered a single word to our units as loud as he could. The time had finally come.

“Charge!”

We and the Tlaxcalans thrust ourselves forward to meet the approaching Aztecs. Rodrigo, Antonio, and I put one foot in front of the other, and the assault commenced. As my comrades screamed and shouted around me, I imagine that Rodrigo and I had very similar thoughts entering our heads at the same time and at a rapid pace.

Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Just keep moving. Do not stop.

The two armies drew closer and closer to each other. In front of me, I could make out about ten potential warriors to charge into first. As we got closer, the number of targets dwindled. Eight men. Five. Three. Finally, we got close enough for me to pick out a target to strike…an Aztec warrior with average stature barreling straight towards Rodrigo. As I always worried about the safety of my best friend even more than I did my own brother’s safety, my first instinct was to help Rodrigo kill this man. My focus became one thing and one thing only. The Aztec warrior charging at Rodrigo had to die.

I could now make out some of the facial characteristics of this foe. Beneath the large eagle headdress that sat atop his head, the Aztec was young like Rodrigo and me. He looked to be around the same size as us, although the eagle head made him appear taller. The young man’s mouth was wide open as he shouted mercilessly. Rodrigo met his shout with one of his own.

I knew the thoughts flowing through Rodrigo’s head, just as they did in mine.

Swing low. No, swing high. You are faster than him. You are stronger than him. You are better than him in every way. Either you strike him down or he will end your life right here and now.

We were now only about thirty paces from each other. I could see three large scars extending down the right cheek of the Aztec from his eye to his jaw line. Time seemed to slow down…no more fear…no more courage. There was now only our swords and the obsidian-bladed clubs of the enemy.

We were now a mere fifteen paces from each other. Then, ten paces.

As the Aztec lifted his club in the air, I noticed an object fall out of the young man’s pocket. The Aztec noticed it, too. He diverted his eyes towards the falling object, but at the same time, my own eyes were distracted by another Aztec warrior who broke off from Antonio’s course and plunged straight towards me at the last moment. This new, unexpected foe caused me to leave Rodrigo by himself to face his opponent.

The moment was here.

Raise your sword, conquistador. Raise your sword.

Rodrigo and I raised our swords.