Ines of My Soul

  Cecilia, the Inca princess, had a long and difficult birth; her baby had not turned in her womb. If a child survives a breech birth, the midwives say that it will be blessed. Cecilia’s baby was pulled and tugged from her and came out purple, but healthy and crying lustily. It was a very good augury that the first Chilean mestizo was born on his feet.

  Catalina was waiting for Juan Gómez at the door of our tent while the captains deliberated over the fate of the conspirators. That man, who had suffered worse tribulations than any of his stalwart companions—in the desert he had yielded his ration of water to his wife, he had walked and given her his horse when her mule foundered, and he had acted as her shield during Indian attacks—burst into tears when Catalina placed his son in his arms.

  “His name will be Pedro, in honor of our gobernador,” Gómez announced amid sobs.

  Everyone celebrated the decision, except Pedro de Valdivia.

  “I am not your gobernador, only the lieutenant, the representative of Marqués Pizarro and his majesty,” Pedro sharply reminded us.

  “We are in the territory that was assigned to you to conquer, Captain General, and we are all content in this valley. Why not found our city here?” Gómez suggested.

  “Good idea,” seconded Jerónimo de Alderete, who had not yet recovered from jungle fever and was exhausted by the mere prospect of moving on. “And Pedrito Gómez will be the first child baptized in the city.”

  But I knew that Pedro wanted to continue south, as far south and as far away from Peru as possible. His idea was to establish the first city where the long arms of the marqués gobernador, the Inquisition, and all the shit-eating pen pushers—as he privately called the mean-minded employees of the Crown who did everything they could to complicate things in the New World—could not reach.

  “No, señores. We will go on to the valley of Mapocho. That is the perfect site for our colony. Don Benito, who was there with the Adelantado Diego de Almagro, has assured me of that.”

  “How many leagues is that from here?” Alderete persisted.

  “Many, but fewer than we have already traveled,” Don Benito explained.

  As for the battered Cecilia, first we treated her with infusions of huella leaves, until she finally expelled the afterbirth, then stopped the hemorrhaging with a liquor prepared from oreja de zorro root, a Chilean elixir Catalina had just learned about and which gave immediate results. All during the times our soldiers were engaged in a number of skirmishes with Indians, Catalina was calmly leaving the camp to mingle with the Chilean women and exchange remedies. I have no idea how she got past the sentinels without being seen, or how she managed friendly exchanges with the enemy without having her skull crushed. The only bad thing was that all the curative herbs dried up Cecilia’s milk, so tiny Pedro Gómez was raised on llama milk. Had he been born a few months later, he could have counted on any number of wet nurses, for there were many pregnant Indians. The llama milk gave him a sweetness that would be a serious impediment in his future, since it was his fate to live and fight in Chile, which is no place for men with tender hearts.

  And now I must recount a different episode that has no significance except to a poor young man named Escobar, but it serves to illuminate the character of Pedro de Valdivia. My lover was a generous man with splendid ideas, solid Catholic principles, and well-proved courage—all good reasons to admire him—but he also had defects, some of which were quite grave, and over the years they had changed his character. The worst was surely his excessive hunger for fame, which in the end cost him, and many others, their lives. The most difficult trait for me to endure, however, was his jealousy. He knew that I was incapable of being unfaithful; it is not in my nature, and I loved him too much. So why did he doubt me? Perhaps he doubted himself.

  The soldiers took as many Indian women as they wanted, some by force and others who were willing, but surely they must have missed words of love whispered in Spanish. Men want what they do not have. I was the only Spanish woman on the expedition, the captain general’s concubine, visible, present, untouchable, and therefore desired. I have asked myself sometimes whether I was responsible for how Sebastián Romero, Lieutenant Núñez, and that boy Escobar behaved. I find no fault in myself other than being a woman, but it seems that is crime enough. We are blamed for men’s lust, but does the sin not belong to the one who commits it? Why must I pay for another’s lapse?

  At the beginning of the expedition, I dressed as I always had in Plasencia—underskirts, corset, blouse, long skirts, head covering, shawl, dress shoes—but very soon I had to adapt to the circumstances. You cannot ride a thousand leagues sidesaddle without breaking your back; I had to straddle my horse. I obtained some men’s breeches and boots, put aside the whalebone corset that no woman can abide, and soon abandoned my head covering and braided my hair the way Indian women do; it was too heavy on my neck. I did not ever, however, wear a low-cut blouse or allow familiarities from the soldiers. During encounters with bellicose Indians, I put on a helmet and a light leather breastplate and leg protectors Pedro had ordered made for me. Otherwise, I would have died of arrow wounds in the first portion of the journey. If that inflamed the desire of Escobar and other men on the expedition, I cannot understand how the male mind functions. I have heard Francisco de Aguirre say that males think only of eating, fornicating, and killing—it was one of his favorite sayings, although in the case of the human animal that is not the whole truth: they also think of power. I refuse to agree with Aguirre, despite the many weaknesses I have observed in men. They are not all alike.

  Our soldiers talked about women a lot, especially when we had to camp for a few days and they had nothing to do but stand their turn at guard, and wait. They exchanged impressions about the Indian women, boasted of their conquests—rapes—and enviously recounted the exploits of the mythic Aguirre. Unfortunately, my name frequently appeared in those conversations; it was said that I was insatiable, that I rode like a man so I would be excited by the horse, and that I always wore trousers beneath my skirts. That last part was true; I could not ride astride with naked thighs.

  The youngest soldier on the expedition, this young Escobar—only eighteen, having arrived in Peru as a cabin boy while still a child, really—was offended by the men’s gossip. He had not been hardened by the violence of war, and had formed a romantic idea of me. He was at the age when one is in love with love. He got it in his head that I was an angel who had been dragged into perversion by Valdivia’s appetites, forced to service him like a common whore. I learned this through my Indian servants, the way I have always kept informed about what is going on around me. There are no secrets from them because men do not guard what they say in front of women any more than they do in front of their horses or dogs. They assume we do not understand what we hear. Quietly, I observed the boy’s behavior and confirmed that he was always somewhere nearby, whether using the excuse of teaching tricks to Baltasar, who was never far from my side, or asking me to change the bandage on his injured arm, or teach him to make corn stew since his two Indian girls were very poor cooks.

  Pedro de Valdivia considered Escobar to be little more than a boy, and I don’t think he was concerned about him at all until the soldiers began to make jokes. As soon as the other men realized that Escobar’s interest in me was more romantic than sexual, they would not leave him alone, teasing him until they drew tears of humiliation. It was inevitable that sooner or later their jokes would reach the ears of Valdivia, who began to ask me insidious questions. Then he began to spy on me, and set traps for me. He would send Escobar to help me in chores that were ordinarily performed by servants, and that he, instead of objecting to the order, as any other soldier would have done, would hurry to obey. I often found Escobar in my tent because Pedro had sent him to look for something when he knew I was alone. I suppose I should have confronted Pedro at the beginning, but I didn’t dare; his jealousy turned him into a monster and he would have thought that I had hidden motives for protecting Escobar.


  This satanic game, which began shortly after we left Tarapacá, had been forgotten during the ordeal of the desert, where no one had the spirit for foolishness, but it was renewed with greater intensity in the quiet valley of Copiapó. Escobar’s slight arm wound became infected, even though we had cauterized it, and frequently I had to treat it and put on a new bandage. I came to fear that we would have to take a drastic step, but Catalina pointed out that the flesh had not putrefied and the boy did not have a fever. “He is just clawing it, then señorayy, you do not see?” she hinted. I refused to believe that Escobar would dig into his wound just to have reason to see me, but I understood that the moment had come to speak with him.

  Dusk was the hour when one began to hear music in the camp: the soldiers’ vihuelas and flutes, the mournful reed flutes the Indians called quenas, the work bosses’ African drums. That evening I could hear Francisco de Aguirre’s warm tenor voice lifted in a risqué song. The delicious aroma of the one meal of the day floated on the air: roast meat, corn, warm tortillas. Catalina had disappeared, as she often did at nightfall, and I was in my tent with Escobar, whose wound I had just dressed, and my dog, Baltasar, who had taken a liking to the boy.

  “If this doesn’t get better soon, I’m afraid we will have to cut off the arm,” I told him straight out.

  “But a one-armed soldier is not good for anything, Doña Inés,” he murmured, pale with fright.

  “A dead soldier is worth even less.”

  I offered him a glass of prickly pear chicha to ease his fright and give me time to think how to broach the subject. Finally I opted for frankness.

  “I am aware that you seek me out, Escobar, and as this could be extremely unpleasant for both of us, from now on Catalina will tend to your arm.”

  And then, as if he had been waiting for someone to open the door of his heart, Escobar poured out a string of confessions mixed with declarations and promises of love. I tried to remind him whom he was speaking to, but he would not listen. He threw himself on me, and bad luck would have it that as I stepped back I tripped over Baltasar and crashed to the ground with Escobar on top of me. Had anyone else attacked me that way, the dog would have mangled him, but he knew the youth well, thought it was a game, and instead of pouncing on him, he leaped about us, barking happily. I am strong, and I had no doubt I could defend myself, and for that reason I didn’t scream. Only a waxed cloth separated us from people outside, and the last thing I wanted was to create a scandal. With his wounded arm, Escobar was holding me tight against his chest, while with his free hand he gripped the nape of my neck, and his kisses, wet with saliva and tears, rained over my neck and face. I invoked Nuestra Señora del Socorro, and gathered my strength to knee him in the groin, but it was too late: at that moment Pedro appeared, sword in hand. He had been there the whole time, spying from the other room.

  “Noooo!” I screamed, horrified when I saw him ready to run the wretched young soldier through.

  Making a desperate effort, I rolled over and covered Escobar, now beneath me, with my own body, trying to protect him from the naked sword, as well as from the dog, which by then had assumed his role as my guardian and was trying to sink his teeth into him.

  There was no trial, no explanation. Pedro de Valdivia simply summoned Don Benito and ordered him to hang Escobar on the morning of the next day, after mass, before the entire camp. Don Benito took the trembling youth by one arm and left him in one of the tents, under guard, but not chained. Escobar was limp as a rag, not from fear of dying, but from the pain of a broken heart. Pedro de Valdivia went to Francisco de Aguirre’s tent, where he stayed till dawn, playing cards with the other captains. He did not give me a chance to talk with him, and even if he had, I think that for once I would not have found any way to make him change his mind. He was possessed with jealousy.

  In the meantime, González de Marmolejo tried to console me, saying that what had happened was not my fault but Escobar’s, for desiring another man’s wife—or some such nonsense.

  “I hope you are not going to sit here twiddling your thumbs, Padre. You must convince Pedro that he is committing a grave injustice,” I demanded.

  “The captain general must maintain order among his men, child, he cannot allow this kind of offense.”

  “Pedro allows his men to rape and beat other men’s women, but woe to them if they touch his!”

  “He cannot retract it now. An order is an order.”

  “Of course he can retract it! That young man does not deserve to be hanged, you know that as well as I do. Go talk to Pedro!”

  “I will go, Inés, but I warn you in advance that he will not change his mind.”

  “You can threaten him with excommunication . . .”

  “That threat cannot be made lightly!” the priest exclaimed with horror.

  “But Pedro can have a man’s death on his conscience—lightly—and that is all right?” I replied.

  “Inés, you lack humility. This is not your problem, it is in the hands of God.”

  González de Marmolejo went off to speak with Valdivia. He did so in front of the captains who were playing cards with him, thinking they would help convince Valdivia to pardon Escobar. He was wrong on both counts. Valdivia could not afford to have his arm twisted before witnesses, and besides, his companions thought he was right; they would have done the same in his place.

  In the meantime, I had gone to the tent of Juan Gómez and Cecilia, using the excuse of visiting the newborn. The Inca princess was more beautiful that ever, lying on a soft pallet and surrounded by servants. One Indian girl was rubbing her feet, another was combing her coal black hair, and a third was squeezing llama milk from a cloth into the baby’s mouth. Juan Gómez, enthralled, was watching as if he were standing before the manger of the baby Jesus. I felt a tug of envy; I would have given half my life to be in Cecilia’s place. After congratulating the young mother, and kissing the babe, I took the father by the arm and led him outside. I told him what had happened and asked him to help.

  “You are our constable, Don Juan. Do something, please,” I begged.

  “I can’t go against Don Pedro de Valdivia’s order,” he answered, his eyes wide with alarm.

  “I am embarrassed to remind you of this, Don Juan, but you owe me a favor. . . .”

  “Señora, are you asking this because you have a special interest in the soldier Escobar?” he asked.

  “How can you think that! I would ask the same for any man in this camp. I cannot allow Don Pedro to commit this sin. And don’t tell me that this is a matter of military discipline, because we both know it is nothing but pure jealousy.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “The chaplain says that this in the hands of God. What would you think if we helped the divine hand along a little?”

  The next day, after mass, Don Benito convoked a gathering in the central plaza of the camp; the gallows had already been used to execute the hapless Ruiz, and it was waiting with a new rope. That was my first time to attend a hanging, because up until then I had managed to avoid witnessing tortures or executions. The violence of the battles and the suffering of the wounded and ill I was responsible for were enough. I carried Nuestra Señora del Socorro in my arms where everyone could see her. The captains stood in front in a rectangular formation, then the soldiers, and behind them the work bosses and the throngs of Yanaconas, the Indian serving girls, and the concubines. The chaplain had spent the night praying, after having failed in his mission with Valdivia. His skin was sallow and there were dark circles under his eyes, as was often the case when he flagellated himself. His penance made the Indian girls laugh; they knew too well what a real lashing was.

  The execution was announced by a town crier and a drumroll. Juan Gómez, in his role as constable, read the sentence: the soldier Escobar was guilty of a serious infraction of discipline; he had entered the tent of the captain general with malicious intent to stain his honor. No further explanations were needed; no one doubted that the youth would
pay for his puppy love with his life. The two blacks charged with executions escorted the criminal into the plaza. Escobar was not chained; he walked head up, tranquil, eyes straight ahead, as if he were sleepwalking. He had asked to be allowed to bathe, shave, and put on clean clothing. He knelt, and the chaplain gave him extreme unction, blessed him, and handed him the holy cross to kiss. The blacks led him to the gallows, tied his hands behind his back and bound his ankles, then looped the noose around his neck. Escobar refused a hood. I think he wanted to die looking at me, to defy Pedro de Valdivia. I held his gaze, trying to console him.

  At the second drumroll, the blacks pulled the support from beneath the prisoner’s feet and he dropped a short distance, hanging in the air. The camp was as silent as the tomb, the only sound the drums. For a time that seemed eternal, Escobar’s body swung from the gibbet as I prayed desperately, clutching the statue of the Virgin to my chest. And then the miracle happened: the rope parted and the youth fell to the ground, where he lay as if dead. There was a collective gasp of surprise. Pedro de Valdivia took three steps forward, pale as an altar candle, unable to believe what had happened. Before he could give an order to the hangmen, the chaplain came forward, carrying the holy cross on high, as dumbfounded as everyone else.