Civilizations

by Laurent Binet

  Thomas More to Erasmus of Rotterdam, greetings.

  I received your letter belatedly as I was not present at the address to which it was sent, and I beg you to excuse the delay in my response.

  I wish I could share your joy and enthusiasm for the course of recent events, but alas, here in England, things have not gone as we might have hoped.

  As I told you in my previous letter, King Henry has promulgated a law decreeing that he is, like your new friend the chancellor of Spain, son of the Sun.

  Throughout the kingdom of England, he is replacing the monasteries and abbeys with Temples of the Sun, which are nothing more nor less than brothels run by what the most indulgent call vestal virgins but the more lucid among us call what they are: whores.

  And if all this were not enough to make us ashamed and most greatly afflicted, he has demanded that all his subjects take an oath swearing that their king truly is, by the grace of God, the son of the Sun.

  And that is why I am writing to you today from the Tower of London, where I am presently imprisoned, awaiting my trial and probable death sentence, having refused, as you can readily imagine, to swear that oath and lend my support to this unimaginable heresy, crowned for all the world by these incredible blasphemies.

  To you, Erasmus of Rotterdam, farewell.

  From London, 15 August 1534,

  Thomas More

  35. Letter from Erasmus to Thomas More

  Dear Thomas, my beloved brother,

  When I mentioned Socrates in my previous letter, it was not my intention that you should model your conduct on his by going voluntarily to your death.

  I beg you, in the name of our old friendship and for the love that you bear Alice, Margaret and all your children, to swear your king’s oath and say whatever else he demands that you say. What does it matter if he imagines he is the Great Turk or even God himself? You know, and we know, deep within our hearts, God’s truth as it was delivered by the message of the Gospel.

  What matters now is your loved ones, and the tasks that you still have to complete, and the goodness that you can still spread across this earth. These things are more important than the childish games of a capricious monarch, don’t you think? I beg you, my old friend, to save your life. What is the value of an oath sworn under penalty of death? What meaning could it have before God and your conscience?

  Let me remind you of a story. It happened not so long ago, and perhaps you have not forgotten it, although you were but a young man at the time. When King Louis XII, upon acceding to the throne, demanded to divorce his wife, the daughter of Louis XI, many good people were displeased, among them Jan Standonck and his student Thomas. In their sermons, however, they said nothing, other than that everyone must pray to God that He send inspiration to the king. Louis contented himself with exiling them and allowing them back into France once the divorce had been accomplished. Now, let me ask you a question: if the formidable Standonck could accommodate himself to a situation that offended his conscience, could not the good More do likewise? Beware, my friend, the demon of vanity. Have you advised your wife, your children, your friends, to follow the same path that you have followed, by refusing to swear the oath? No, of course not, because you do not want them to die, and also because you know that this oath will not imperil the salvation of their souls. Why, then, should what is good enough for them not be good enough for you? What is this vocation of martyr that has you in its talons?

  I pray that God will bring you back to reason and greater humility, and I am going to write a letter to King Henry now, pleading with him to spare you.

  In the meantime, God keep you, my friend, and my prayers go with you.

  From Friburg, 5 September 1534,

  Erasmus

  36. Letter from Erasmus to King Henry VIII

  To the invincible king of England, Henry VIII, greetings from Erasmus of Rotterdam.

  Your wisdom is without equal, and hence I have no doubt that you will divine, O great king, the purpose of this letter. I pick up my quill today to beg Your Majesty to spare the life of our great mutual friend, the distinguished Sir Thomas More.

  May I remind you that it is not so long ago that you showered him with honours, and that was not by chance. You see him today as a traitor, a faithless friend, but did he betray you when he voluntarily resigned the task you had given him? Would a deceitful conspirator really have renounced the highest office in England next to your own?

  You know, O king, that our More is incapable of doing anything to harm Your Majesty, because of the love he bears you.

  It is true that, where religion is concerned, his piety can be somewhat irritating due to his naivety and tendency to superstition. But cannot a grown son forgive his father as his father once forgave that son? What does the oath of a poor, powerless man matter to one so great as you?

  I implore you, O wise and invincible king, to put down your mighty sword and spare the head of our good More. By sparing a man of such remarkable piety and erudition that immortality is already within his grasp, the king of England will have burnished his own glory. If you truly wish to punish him, then exile him from your kingdom, O most dazzling of monarchs, and in that way demonstrate both your power and your mercy.

  As for myself, I do not doubt that these words will touch the heart of he whom I taught Plutarch when he was still a most promising child, and who now, a full-grown man, has fulfilled those promises beyond all measure.

  Friburg, 25 September 1534,

  Erasmus of Rotterdam

  37. Elizabeth

  The Seville Edict swept like a hurricane throughout all of Europe (as their world was called before it became the Fifth Quarter).

  In Spain, it was logical and reasonable that the Moriscos and conversos should be the first to salute the new law, because they were its most immediate beneficiaries. Atahualpa knew that the edict made them loyal to him, though he was vigilant not to take this loyalty for granted, for he knew people and their changing moods.

  In Germany, in France, in England (as the preceding documents show), even in Switzerland, wherever Lutheranism was a growing influence, wherever its followers were persecuted, wherever they fought to replace their old religion with a new, rejuvenated one (albeit fairly close to the old one in truth, recognising the same gods but wishing to pay tribute to them in different ways), the Seville Edict was greeted as a glimmer of hope in the darkness. If the dream of a world without the Inquisition was taking shape in Spain, perhaps everything could become, if not possible, then at least imaginable, including peace and harmony.

  Unable to approve of it, Luther said nothing about the religion of the Sun.

  The king of France, fresh from his first indulgence, did not wish to make peace with these insolent Lutherans; in fact, he felt more inclined to burn them alive.

  But others, weary of massacres, called for laws similar to the Seville Edict.

  Awful tales were told of men quartered alive, roasted, and eaten, in the manner of the Chirihuanas, a tribe who revolted the Quitonians. A letter from Marguerite of Navarre reported that in France, a Lutheran had his heart ripped out and devoured by a crowd of crazed Catholics, and the account of this crime, which the queen herself described as ‘execrable butchery’, circulated in the Alcazar, making the Incas shudder. To them, these vile acts were the consequence of an incomprehensible belief: during the rites that they carried out in their temples, the Levantines were invited by their priest to eat a small white wafer and to drink a mouthful of the black drink. But, with a contortion of the imagination that Quitonians found almost inconceivable, the upholders of the old religion believed that this was actually the blood (because the black drink looked red in the light) and the body of their god, which they thereby drank and ate.

  Those of the newer religion did not want to believe this, yet they seemed to commit just as many crimes. They, too, burned men alive.

  The son of the Sun did not cease to be amazed that such disputes, caused by frankly incredible beliefs, c
ould degenerate into mortal conflicts, sometimes even within families or ayllus.

  In Germany, particularly, these divisions raged, and their echoes reached as far as Seville.

  A princess who had converted to Lutheranism had left her husband, the Catholic Margrave of Brandenburg, and taken refuge with her uncle, the Landgrave of Thuringia, whom she urged to promulgate the same religious liberty that was now commonplace in Europe. She sent a fine, passionate letter to Chancellor Atahualpa, expressing her admiration for his actions and thanking him for the prospect of peace that he had brought to the north (she herself came from a small country that the Quitonians had never before heard anyone mention: Denmark). Chalco Chimac suggested that his master propose marriage to her, with a view to future alliances. Coya Asarpay had to remind the general of the matrimonial rules of the New World, which even princes had to obey (with the notable exception, henceforth, of the king of England): Elizabeth of Denmark was already married, and as long as her husband remained alive, she was not free to marry anyone else, despite the fact that they were separated and their relationship broken beyond repair. In fact, what she asked for was not marriage, but troops to defend herself. She begged the chancellor to give her his protection. Since Charles’s death, the shadow of Ferdinand stretched over Europe and everyone feared his wrath. Or, rather, everyone, knowing that it would inevitably strike someone down, prayed that it would be his neighbour, not himself. Elizabeth of Denmark mentioned a Schmalkaldic League, an alliance of small Lutheran countries, but this league did not have the strength to face up to the imperial army. Ferdinand, king of the Romans and successor to his brother Charles as the head of the Empire, would soon be crowned in Aix-la-Chapelle. Elizabeth begged Atahualpa to prevent this coronation, which would be a disaster for everyone.

  Nevertheless, the Inca was not at that moment really all that interested in the countries of the north or in the new emperor, because his main preoccupation was to strengthen his position in Spain.

  38. Valencia

  Andalusia, it was true, had been completely pacified. Ruminahui had returned to Granada to set up a garrison there. Cadiz was building ships. A Temple of the Sun designed by Michelangelo was being constructed inside Córdoba’s cathedral. Seville grew richer every day, and its population multiplied, making it the greatest city in the New World. Jews flocked there, providing skilled manpower that increased the country’s prosperity. Young Philip had finally buried his father’s remains, transferred from the Alhambra to the splendid marble tomb built within the cathedral where he had married his wife, Isabella. As promised, Lorenzino had brought back a painter from Venice, one Titian, whose merits he vaunted, and who immediately got to work on a portrait of Atahualpa as the son of the Sun. And, as ever, crates of gold and silver were carried past barrels of the black drink on the rafts of the Guadalquivir.

  Despite all this, there were still two trouble spots elsewhere in the peninsula. The first was in Toledo, in Castile; the other in Valencia, in Aragon.

  Toledo was home to Charles Quint’s last remaining followers. Its position, perched on a rocky hillock, made the city difficult to capture. All the same, Toledo inspired only moderate anxiety in the Inca general staff: without outside aid, the rebels could not withstand a siege indefinitely.

  Valencia was something else altogether. This city was the gateway to Italy via the sea: ships left from there for Genoa, and from there to Naples and Sicily, which little Philip had inherited after his father’s death. Its position exposed it to the whims and constant attacks of Barbary pirates paid by the Turkish emperor, Suleiman. More than a third of Valencia’s inhabitants were Moriscos, accused by the old Christians of being in cahoots with their African brothers, with whom they shared a religion and a language and, almost certainly, the desire to return Spain to its former masters.

  It would be a lie to say that the Seville Edict had been greeted favourably throughout Spain, because nobody could fail to notice that its primary beneficiaries were the Jews and the Moriscos. Nevertheless, the end of the Inquisition had helped make the new laws more acceptable to the old Christians. Their attitudes were also softened by the elimination of the taxes that Charles had levied ceaselessly on his people to fund his voyages and wars. With the flow of gold and silver arriving from Tawantinsuyu, Atahualpa had no need for taxes. It was poverty that created disorder, and Spain was becoming more prosperous with each passing day.

  But fear, too, created disorder. In Valencia, more than elsewhere, the Moriscos had remained Moors, and while the Christians drove back the pirates’ assaults, they believed that they could feel the cold curved blade of Moorish daggers at their backs. And so a rebellious movement was born: a fraternity of old Christians sworn to resist the new laws. Curacas sent from Seville were assassinated.

  Atahualpa knew that the solution to the Valencia problem was not military but political, and it would require tact and cunning. Once again, he called upon the advice of the Florentine, Machiavelli.

  39. The Council

  Of all Titian’s portraits of Atahualpa, the most famous is probably that painted in the gardens of the Alcazar, which history has remembered under the title of The Council. The Inca is represented as the son of the Sun, in his scarlet crown, offering his best profile (the artist having taken care to conceal the ear that was wounded during the civil war with his brother), a blue parrot on his arm, a gold bracelet around his left wrist. He stands before a fountain, with baskets of oranges and avocados on its rim. A ginger cat sleeps at his feet. A snake is wound around his leg. In the background, palm trees rise to the sky, where the sun and the moon shine together, haloed in gold and silver. Embroidered in gold thread on the emperor’s alpaga tunic is his coat of arms: one can make out the castle of Castile, the red and yellow stripes of Aragon, a falcon between two trees, and a pale purple caravel silhouetted against a setting sun, representing his voyage from Cuba. In the centre, five puma heads under a rainbow surround a yellow fruit with red pips, the symbol of Granada and Andalusia.

  Further back, we can see Coya Asarpay cradling her newborn son in her arms (a New World custom that she decided to adopt), Higuénamota, naked and aloof, Quizquiz, Chalco Chimac, Manco Capac, Pedro Pizarro, Lorenzino de Medici.

  Absent from the painting are Ruminahui, Quispe Sisa, Cusi Rimay Ocllo, Philip II and Isabella.

  In fact, the genealogy of this picture enables us to retrace one of the most decisive turning points in the history of Spain and of the world.

  For it was true that Atahualpa had got into the habit of gathering his council while he posed for Titian.

  During one of these sessions, they decided on a series of measures that determined the fate, not only of a number of important individuals, but of entire countries too.

  At the time, Atahualpa was only the chancellor. It was not until he made the finishing touches to the painting that Titian added the blazons of Spain on the Inca’s tunic.

  Ruminahui was at the garrison in the Alhambra; Quispe Sisa and Cusi Rimay were playing somewhere in the gardens; but the absence of the young king and his mother was more significant. The truth is that they had not been summoned.

  After all, the Toledan rebels were supporters of Philip’s father. It made sense to be wary of the son and the widow.

  They resolved to send Quizquiz to lay siege to Toledo. The general was chosen for his military valour, but also to distance him from Philip; Quizquiz was very fond of the young king and had taken to teaching him to fence, using wooden swords.

  Lorenzino would travel to Genoa to find Admiral Doria. The admiral’s mission would be to assemble a fleet and take possession of the ports on the far side of the Inner Sea which served as the Barbary pirates’ bases. Isabella would be sent to Lisbon to ask her brother Joao for Portugal’s support. Higuénamota would go to Paris and seek the king of France’s backing.

  In parallel with this, Valencia’s Moriscos would be moved out of the city. Atahualpa thought these measures likely to calm the anger of the old Christians. />
  However, Higuénamota remarked that it was unwise to upset their allies, and that these measures did not send a good signal to the Moriscos. Chalco Chimac proposed dressing up the deportation as a valued mission: Valencia’s Moriscos would be dispatched to pacify the cannibalised German states, who were asking for our aid. They would travel through France and settle in the Netherlands, governed by Philip’s aunt, Mary, where they would first ensure that Spanish sovereignty had not been disturbed by Charles’s death. Manco Capac would lead them.

  They also had to settle Philip’s fate. Chalco Chimac’s spies had intercepted letters from Ferdinand: the new emperor swore to his nephew that the imperial army would invade Spain as soon as the war with the Turks allowed. Escape plans had already been hatched with moles inside the Alcazar. The question had to be asked once again: was it possible that a dead king could be more useful than a live king? Atahualpa had his sights on the throne, and his lieutenants had given up pretending that they weren’t aware of this.

  Coya Asarpay, who was breast-feeding little Charles, advocated a public execution, as an example to the others.

  But nobody knew how the Spanish would react to such an act. They had learned to love the father, and it was to be feared that they would support his son, particularly as the boy was not yet eight harvests old.

  Chalco Chimac proposed a more discreet form of elimination, which would appear accidental. This solution had the advantage of not causing conflict with the king of Portugal, who was Philip’s uncle, or his mother, or the people.

  Quizquiz, though, was fiercely opposed to the idea. ‘He’s only a child!’ he kept repeating.

  But Atahualpa, who until this point had remained silent, replied: ‘No, he is a king.’

  And so that famous scene was produced. Titian did not understand the subject of the discussion, as it was taking place in the Inca language, which Lorenzino and Pedro Pizarro had learned to speak. But, perhaps moved by some dark foreboding, his hand had trembled and he had dropped his paintbrush.