Twisted Timeline

Unraveling history's alternate timelines

Field Notes

Guns and Gold: Miners' Unlikely Union

In this version of the Aztec Empire, mining has become an even greater obsession, driven by the need for sulfur, saltpeter, and metals for crafting firearms. Outside Tenochtitlan, I visited a mining community where workers proudly showcased a deep pit they insisted was blessed by Tlaloc, though I mostly saw sweaty miners dodging pistols misfiring in the caverns. Gold and silver are still symbols of power, but ironhandsmithing dominates, with blacksmiths being regarded as semi-sacred for their contributions to warfare.

The Firelock Cults of Calmecac

Shadow societies have emerged in the priestly class to preserve pre-gunpowder traditions, fearing firearms dilute the gods’ blessings on warriors. I managed a brief chat with a nervous initiate, who suggested these cults sabotage muskets during rituals to prove divine intervention is superior to machinery. How they reconcile their secrecy while continuing their priestly duties is a mystery—perhaps divine cunning?

Smoke, Ash, and Storms

The smokier climate brought by rampant use of gunpowder has led to strange local weather. I observed a mid-morning downpour that seemed charged with volcanic-smelling raindrops, possibly influenced by increased sulfur particulates. One elder warned me this imbalance would anger Tlaloc. Humid, smog-laden air clings to the streets, which adds an eerie drama during festivals—but makes walking downright miserable.

Curious Journeys to Distant Shores

Despite superior firearms, the Aztecs seem uninterested in exploring beyond their borders. I overheard traders gossiping of daring canoe captains who returned with tales of unknown islands brimming with strange animals, though locals mock these tales as exaggerated and unworthy of attention. How is it that gun-toting jaguar warriors are so pragmatic about conquest yet dismissive of the ocean’s possibilities?

Portents on Smoking Skies

Priests obsessed with interpreting celestial events seem deeply troubled by the black powder clouds from battlefield skirmishes. This morning, one elder screamed about omens of Quetzalcoatl’s return being visible in the 'artificial plumes.' They’ve taken to holding ceremonies to 'cleanse' the skies, using incense—ironically more smoke—to appease the gods. I almost wish they'd declare a no-gunpowder day to test their theories.

My trek through Tenochtitlan in 1518 as documented on Apr 20, 2025

Jaguar Warriors Take Up Muskets as Aztec Firepower Rewrites Rituals of War

It is with some mild embarrassment that I admit to being startled upon my arrival here in Tenochtitlan, not by its famed floating gardens (magnificent, as usual), nor its sublime turquoise mosaics gleaming under the sun like fragments of the heavens themselves, but rather by the faint shimmer of bronze-tinted sunlight bouncing off a jaguar warrior’s…rifle. Yes, I seem to have stumbled into one of *those* timelines.

"Huitzilopochtli blessed the land with ash-powder,"

In this particular iteration of history, the otherwise immaculate Aztec inventiveness has extended not just to towering temples or neatly terraced chinampas but into the domain of muskets, flintlock pistols, and—though this might be overstating the case slightly—the occasional cannon. The Aztecs developed rudimentary gunpowder technology in the late 1200s, a full century before the Europeans began tinkering with fire lances. As one rather enthusiastic scribe explained to me, this innovation came after "Huitzilopochtli blessed the land with ash-powder," though I strongly suspect they just stumbled on a fortunate deposit of sulfur, saltpeter, and charcoal in a convenient location. Whatever the explanation, I find myself staring down the snout of what looks like an eagle-shaped arquebus.

There’s something absurdly disconcerting about watching the elegance of Mesoamerican warfare evolve into chaotic skirmishes of gunpowder and smoke. The flower wars, which were once ritualized battles meant to gather sacrificial captives, now feel oddly industrial. While there’s still colorful headdresses and plenty of feathers, the addition of synchronized firearm volleys seems to rob the battles of their poetic grandeur. The flower wars now look more like military training exercises, and at one such event, I saw rows of jaguar warriors crouch, reload, and fire their muskets with an effectiveness that would surely give a Renaissance-era infantryman pause. The spectacle of feathered headdresses and musket balls flying in unison would almost be inspiring if it weren’t so loud.

The cultural shift prompted by the introduction of firearms is fascinating. Sacrifices to the gods still happen—it wouldn’t be the Aztec Empire otherwise—but these days, prisoners are brought forth with far more injuries. Bullet wounds, I am told, make it inconvenient for priests tasked with removing tactically placed captives’ hearts, and I sense the clergy here may hold some passive-aggressive resentment toward the firearms enthusiasts. Public executions are now the preferred method of appeasement when injured prisoners become too “unsightly.” There’s no denying the practicality of this, but the changes in sacrificial tradition have garnered some whispers of discontent from more conservative priests who view this new efficiency as spiritual laziness.

What’s more fascinating is how firearms have become integrated into daily civilian life. During one market trip, I saw farmers openly carrying small pistols, allegedly for protection against jaguars—the animal kind, this time. Shieldmakers have adapted to the new threats as well: several noblewomen passed me proudly displaying brass-plated shields, lightweight enough to protect against musket balls yet fashionable enough to match their ceremonial turquoise jewelry. I even stumbled into a children’s group playing what I can only describe as dodgeball, except instead of balls, they were flinging small gunpowder charges from slings. I declined their invitation to join.

Despite this military edge, the familiar strains of Aztec hubris loom large. The rulers I spoke to dismissively waved off any rumors of foreign threats—even ones that involve mysterious ships off the coast—believing their “fire-breathing cannon” (nicknamed the “Divine Smoking Tree”) is more than enough to intimidate any outsider. In truth, the cannon is more of a clunky oversized musket, prone to letting off a disgruntled wheeze of dense smoke and sparks. Though I can’t fault them for their confidence, I am curious how they’ll respond if a few less-savory visitors from Europe arrive, bringing foreign disease along with better firearms. I might have stayed longer to find out if I wasn’t still slightly terrified of the dodgeball children.

While Tenochtitlan in this timeline maintains its overwhelming grandeur, the application of early firearms has turned many of its formerly poetic traditions into something more pragmatic, loud, and occasionally ridiculous. And yet, in spite of the bizarre adaptations, the Aztecs maintain their singular determination. After all, they reason, warfare is a gift to the gods—whether you deliver it with a maquahuitl or a flintlock rifle.

The timeline, however, cannot help but feel slightly askew: jaguar warriors cleaning arquebuses, farmers gushing over shooter barrel customization, and markets where gunpowder is as common as chili peppers. As usual, history marches on—awkwardly, noisily, and covered in feathers. I suppose this odd yet enthralling anomaly is just another Tuesday for me. Meanwhile, I’ve resolved to avoid open-air festivals with musket demonstrations; there’s only so much “ritual smoke” my lungs can handle.