Captain Bernardino de Loayza was to leave with Vela Núñez, for he had tried to raise men for the king in Huánuco and when his efforts came to naught, he had no other recourse save to take refuge in the Franciscan monastery. In those days there was no beating around the bush, and anyone who became involved in politics knew that he was risking his neck by so doing.
Everything was now ready for the escape, but on the morning of the appointed day Gonzalo learned of all the details of their plan, and... farewell money paid for the escape! The two had fallen out of the frying pan into the fire.
II
Captain Juan de Latorre y Villegas, known by his nickname of El Madrileño,3was one of those heartless victors who had desecrated the dead body of the viceroy. In his ferocity, El Madrileño went so far as to pull hairs out of the dead man’s beard and mustache and adorn the upturned brim of his hat with them. Thus bedecked, he swaggered through the streets of Quito, and later on the streets of Lima.
This scoundrel had had the good luck to discover a rich huaca4in the ruins of Pachacamac, from which he extracted a treasure in gold and silver and precious stones, estimated to be worth 80,000 duros. In the name of the crown, Gonzalo Pizarro claimed one–fifth of that sum, but El Madrileño refused to pay up, and brought suit before the pretense of a Tribunal that was sitting at the time. As the saying goes, everything whets the whale’s appetite but nothing satisfies it.
Captain Villegas was a good friend of the caretaker of San Francisco, and went to him one day to ask his advice on how to flee Lima and take his treasure with him. The Reverend Father, after making him swear to keep it secret, told him of Vela Núñez’s plan, adding that there couldn’t be a better opportunity for him, since in Vela Núñez he would have someone at the royal court to speak on his behalf so that the monarch would not punish him for his rebellion and his desecration of the dead body of the viceroy.
But when the Franciscan met with Vela Núñez and proposed that El Madrileño escape with him, the general exclaimed, in proud indignation:
“Joining up with a traitor of his sort! Before I’d do a thing like that I’d call for the executioner to come and behead me!”
This Juan de Latorre y Villegas was the son of one of the thirteen famous comrades of Pizarro’s on the Isla del Gallo, on whom Queen Juana bestowed the title of Knights of the Golden Spur. Four months after Gonzalo Pizarro met his death, Latorre was found hiding in a cave, and La Gasca ordered him hanged. On receiving the news of the unfortunate end of the young rebel, his father, the elderly man from the Isla del Gallo, celebrated his death by appearing in the streets of Arequipa muffled in a red cape. For the men of that century, that is what was meant by loyalty to their king.
III
However much the caretaker tried to sugarcoat the pill, Villegas realized that Vela Núñez refused to be associated with him, so he went to the palace and betrayed the latter’s plan to escape, blaming his own complicity on the fact that, in the interest of the revolutionary cause, he had laid a trap for the prisoner to see how well he was keeping his promise. It is undoubtedly true that he who isn’t up to playing the part of Saint Michael can play the devil at the saint’s feet instead.
Cepeda the judge, Gaspar Mejía, a captain, and Antonio de Robles, the chief bailiff, were with Gonzalo when he heard the news. Pizarro was furious, and turning to Cepeda he said to him:
“Go to Montenegro’s house and seize that villainous Vela Núñez and throw him in the royal jail.”
The infamous Cepeda, that man who was like a coin with two sides, both of them false, didn’t wait to have the order repeated, and hurried out of the room, followed by Robles.
Gonzalo then turned to Mejía:
“Don Gaspar, take the men of my guard, and go to San Francisco. If the friars resist arrest, have them hanged and bring me Loayza.”
The captain left the palace, followed by pikemen and harquebusiers, when at that moment a cleric appeared, mounted on a fine mule.
It was Baltasar de Loayza, who had been an enthusiastic supporter of the viceroy and had always occupied himself with mundane affairs and politics rather than with his churchly duties. The captain did not know the other Loayza, and since by a fateful coincidence the cleric also lived in a cell of San Francisco, Mejía thought that the order to imprison Loayza referred to this cleric. So it was that when he spied him coming from around a corner he exclaimed:
“What a piece of luck! We’ve saved ourselves time and trouble.”
And taking hold of the mule’s bride to halt it, he said to the cleric:
“Dismount this minute, even if it means using your mule’s ears to do so, you sly fox, and give yourself up.”
Baltasar de Loayza, who did not have a very clear conscience, tried to resist, but the men of the guard fell upon him, and threw him to the ground just under the balconies of the house of Ribera the Elder.
A crowd of onlookers milled about in defense of the priest, rocks were thrown, and one of them broke Father Baltasar’s head open.
Pizarro, who had witnessed this event from a balcony, dispatched one of his officials to the scene, who approached don Gaspar and said to him:
“His Lordship the governor says that your grace is clumsier than a hand without fingers, because you’ve got the order all wrong. It isn’t this man, but Bernardino de Loayza that you’re to nab.”
“I’m sorry,” Mejía murmured, “because this man is also a troublemaker who’s just begging to be hanged.”
Having been set free, Father Loayza was washing his head wound in a basin, and as Mejía was withdrawing with the men of the guard, he shouted prophetically:
“You captain of bandits! My blood has flowed here, and so will yours.”
“I’m laughing at your prophesying! That’s friar’s work!” the captain answered scornfully.
And he went on his way to San Francisco.
IV
Naturally, what with the delay and the threat of an uprising, Bernardino de Loayza had time to make his escape.
Three or four days later, on November 19, 1546, General Hernando Vela Núñez, as a man unfaithful to his word and a rebel of these realms, was brought to the Plaza Mayor, where his head was cut off and placed on the post.
As the hapless man was kneeling before he was executed, there entered the plaza, mounted on a spirited horse, the chief bailiff Antonio de Robles, one of Gonzalo’s favorites, who, perhaps to gain favor with him, made his mount caracole and knocked the doomed man over.
Fray Tomás de San Martín, a worthy officiant at the altar who was offering the last rites to the man about to be executed, was angered by such dastardly behavior, and said in a loud voice:
“You heartless wretch! I hope in God’s name that you’ll find yourself in the same spot some day.”
But that blackguard let out an insolent guffaw and wheeled his horse around, murmuring:
“Bah! Who pays attention to sermons? They’re friars’ work!”
V
But the truth is, and the chroniclers all tell the same story, that both prophecies were fulfilled to the letter.
On the eve of Corpus Christi in the year 1547, Diego Centeno appeared with his army just a mile away from Cuzco. The city was defended by double the usual force, headed by Antonio de Robles, whom Gonzalo Pizarro had sent from Lima to lead it.
On the stroke of midnight, Centeno proclaimed to his men and swore that the next day he would either oblige them to bury him or else he would carry one of the poles of the baldachin in the Corpus procession.
And he mounted such a bold attack that as day dawned victory was his.
At eight that morning the body of Robles was swaying back and forth on the gallows, and four hours later Diego Centeno—despite the fact that he had received two wounds in the battle—carried one of the poles of the baldachin in the procession of the Most Holy.
Some will say that in those days when tigers and wolves mercilessly devoured each other it was not difficult to predict to a warrior that he woul
d come to a disastrous end, for such was the fate of at least twothirds of the conquistadors. But what was really surprising was the death of Captain Gaspar Mejía.
A few minutes after Vela Núñez had been executed, don Gaspar was heading for the palace when, on passing below the balconies of Ribera the Elder, his horse reared and threw its carefree rider against a corner of the house.
By the time people ran to help him to his feet he was dead.
It was then that the cross we have referred to was set in place, following which some architect or mason of this progressive century that dislikes stale stories, being ignorant of the history related to this cross, was responsible for its disappearance. As we all know, we are not living in the year 1631, when, as Calancha5 relates, the Inquisition of Lima punished Sebastián Bogado for the crime of having removed several crosses in the calle de Malambo.
1This cross is now in the Museo Nacional and is known as the cross of those who died on the scaffold. It was previously preserved in the Biblioteca de Lima [Author’s note].
2Angered by the curtailment of the privileges of the conquistadors, Gonzalo Pizarro revolted against the crown. In 1546, Pizarro defeated Blasco Núñez de Vela, Peru’s first viceroy, at the Battle of Iñaquito, and ordered the viceroy’s execution.—Ed.
3The man from Madrid.
4In native Andean belief, a sacred site or object, natural or man–made. In this context, a sacred burial site containing treasure.—Ed.
5Friar Antonio de la Calancha (1584–1654) was born in Chuquisaca (Bolivia) and wrote the Crónica moralizada del Orden de San Agustín en el Perú, con sucesos egemplares en esta Monarquía. (1638).—Ed.
Saint Thomas’s Sandal
If you take to reading Brazilian chroniclers and historians, you can’t help firmly believing that Saint Thomas traveled all over South America preaching the gospel. The facts and documents on which these gentlemen base their belief are so authentic that there is no weak point into which to sink one’s teeth.
In Ceará, in San Luis de Maranhao in Pernambuco, and in other provinces of the empire next to us a number of proofs of the apostolic visit exist.
In Belén del Pará the one who is writing these lines was shown a boulder, highly venerated, on which the disciple of Christ had stood. Whether this is true or not requires verification that I want nothing to do with, for God did not make me to be an investigating magistrate.
The matter, moreover, is not a dogma to be taken on faith nor has anyone put my neck in a noose to make me believe or burst.
We Peruvians could not be left behind when it came to the evangelical visit. It would have been all we needed if, had Saint Thomas attended a social gathering in the vicinity, he had turned up his nose at cutting loose in the house that is his1 in Peru or affected reluctance to do so!
In Calango, 16 leagues from Lima and near Mala, there exists on a hillside a very smooth, polished white boulder. I have not laid eyes on it, but someone who has seen it and run his hand over it told me about it. On it, as though imprinted in soft wax, there can be seen the outline of a size 14 foot, and around it Greek and Hebrew characters. In his Crónica Agustina Father Calancha2 says that he examined this rock in 1615, and that ten years later the bachelor–at–law Duarte Fernández, touring the diocese on a mission from the Archbishop don Gonzalo de Ocampo, ordered the letters destroyed, because the idolatrous Indians attributed a diabolical meaning to them. A great shame, say I!
Since it is but a short distance from Calango to Lima and the road not at all rough, it is safe to say that one day we had as our guest who drank water from the Rimac3 one of the 12 beloved disciples of the Savior. And if this is not a great honor for Lima, as were the recent visits of the duke of Genoa and don Carlos de Borbón, never mind.
“But, señor collector of traditions, how did Saint Thomas get from Galilee to Lima?”
“How should I know? Go to heaven and ask him. It might have been by hot air balloon, by swimming, or pedibus andando.4 What I assert, and along with me eminent writers, both sacred and profane, is that His Grace turned up in these parts. That’s all there is to it, and there’s no use pestering me with impertinent questions.”
But there is something more to say. Other towns in Peru lay claim to the same good fortune.
In Frías, in the district of Piura, there is a rock on which there is preserved the outline of the apostle’s foot. In Cajatambo another like it came be seen, and when Saint Toribio visited Chachapoyas His Grace granted indulgences to those who prayed before a certain boulder, for he was convinced that this distinguished personage had stood on top of it to preach.
Many people marveled at how gigantic the footprint was, for the foot of the sinning sons of Adam isn’t 14 inches long or, in other words, a size 14. But a religious chronicler sententiously replies that a size 14 isn’t all that large for such a great man.
I’ll be damned! And what a foot!
But since the apostle left traces even in Bolivia and Tucumán, as is proved by a book in which there is a lengthy discussion of the cross of Carabuco venerated as an object belonging to the blessed traveler, we Peruvians wanted something more; and when the volcano of Omate or Huaina–Putina felt like playing one of its tricks, the Dominican fathers of a monastery in Parinacochas found, among the ashes or lava, nothing less than one of Saint Thomas’s sandals.
The chronicles did not say whether it was for a right foot or a left, an unforgivable oversight on the part of such intelligent writers.
The sandal was made of a material never used by either Indians or Spaniards, which proves that it came directly from the shop of Ashaverus or Juan Waiting–for–God (the Wandering Jew), a famous shoemaker in Jerusalem, the Fasinetti of our day, so to speak.
Friar Alonso de Ovalle, the superior of the monastery, placed it with great ceremony in a rosewood box with gold fittings, and around the year 1603, approximately, brought it to Lima, where it was received in procession beneath a canopy and with great festivities attended by the Viceroy Marqués de Salinas.
Erudite authors of that century say that the blessed sandal wrought many, a great many, miracles in Lima, and that it was highly revered by the Dominicans.
Calancha states that, once the curiosity of the inhabitants of Lima was satisfied, Father Ovalle returned to Parinacochas with the relic, but others maintain that the sandal never left Lima.
The truth remains in the place where it belongs. I neither add nor subtract, neither alter nor comment, neither deny or assert.
I simply note down the tradition, taking the matter under advisement, with some saying white and others red.
1A traditional welcoming greeting.
2See “Friars’ Work!” note 5.—Ed.
3The river that traverses Lima.—Ed.
4By walking [Latin].
The Black Mass
One of Granny’s Stories
(To My Children Clemente and Angélica Palma)
Go buy me a handkerchief
to drool into.
In the shop opposite
they sell them by the yard.1
(POPULAR REFAIN)
O nce upon a time. The air for the birds, the water for fish, the fire for the wicked, the earth for the good, and heaven for the best; and the best are the two of you, little angels of my choir, and may His Divine Majesty make you saints and watch over you by night as by day.
Well, children, in 1802, under the rule of Aviles,2 who was a viceroy as good as hot buns, I made the acquaintance of ña San Diego. I met her many times at nine o’clock Mass, in the church of Santo Domingo, and it warmed my heart to see her so contrite, and how she went to the altar to take communion, so carried away that her feet never appeared to touch the floor. I thought of her as blessed, but as you will see in a moment, it was all nothing but cunning and the devil’s tricks and lies.
Mother San Diego was probably around 50 then. She would go from house to house curing the sick, and receiving alms in return for this act of charity. She did not use the sorts of
remedies to be found in an apothecary’s shop, but rather, relics and prayers, and by putting the cord of her habit over the stomach of a sick person, she could make the most stubborn cramps go away, as though she could touch their insides with her hand. She cured me of a toothache just by praying by herself for an hour and holding a little bone to my jaw. I don’t know whether it was a bone of Saint Fausto, Saint Saturnino, Saint Theophilus, Saint Julian, Saint Adrian, or Saint Sebastian, for the Pope sent a shipment of the bones of all these saints as a gift to the Lima Cathedral. Ask His Reverence the archbishop or the canon Cucaracha when you’ve grown up, and they’ll tell you I’m not making it up. It was not, then, the pious ña San Diego who cured me, but the Devil, God forgive me, for if I sinned it was out of ignorance. Make a nice sign of the cross, without curling your fingers, and then cross yourselves again, little angels of the Lord.
She lived—it’s as though I can still see her—in a little room on the callejón de la Toma, on the way to La Luna baths, turning off to your right.
At the point when the people of Lima were most taken in by ña San Diego’s piety, the Inquisition began to keep an eye on her and trail her. An inquisitor, a godfearing man as gentle as a dove, with whom I was on as familiar terms as I am with my hands, was given orders to keep watch on her one Saturday night, and what do you think he saw on the stroke of midnight? He saw ña San Diego, who had turned into an owl, children, and was flying out the window of her room.
Peruvian Traditions Page 18
