Pedro de Valdivia grew up in a timeworn stone house in Castuera, the land of poor hidalgos, more or less three days’ march south of Plasencia. I regret that we did not meet in our youth, when he was a handsome lieutenant passing through my city on his way back from some military campaign. We may have walked its twisting streets the same day. He was already a man wearing the colorful uniform of the king’s cavalry, and with a sword at his belt, and I still a girl with braided red hair—which color it was then, although later it grew darker. We might have passed each other in the church. His hand could have brushed mine at the holy water font, and we could have exchanged glances without recognizing each other. Neither that sturdy soldier, hardened by worldly travails, nor I, a young seamstress, could have divined all that fate held in store for us.
Pedro came from a family of military men, noble but without means, whose exploits went back as far as battles against the Roman army in the years before Christ, continued for seven hundred years against the Saracens, and kept producing males of great character for the endless wars among Christian monarchs. His ancestors had come down from the mountains to settle in Extremadura. He grew up listening to his mother tell of the feats of the seven brothers of the Valle de Ibia, the Valdivias, who once engaged an awesome monster in bloody combat. According to this inspired señora, it was not an ordinary dragon—body of a lizard, wings of a bat, and two or three serpents’ heads—like the one Saint George slayed. This was a beast ten times larger and more ferocious, an ancient of centuries, which embodied all the evil of the enemies of Spain, from Romans and Arabs to the fiendish French, who in recent times had dared dispute the rights of our sovereign.
“Imagine, son! Us speaking French!” the good woman always interposed in her tale.
One by one the brothers Valdivia fell, scorched by the flames the monster spewed from its gaping jaws, or mauled by its tiger claws. When six of the clan had perished and the battle was lost, the youngest of the brothers, the only one left standing, cut a heavy branch from a tree, sharpened it on both ends, and drove it into the beast’s maws. The dragon began to thrash about, mad with pain, and its formidable tail split the earth, raising a cloud of dust that reached to Africa. Then the hero took his sword in both hands and drove it into the dragon’s heart, thus liberating Spain.
Pedro was descended in a direct maternal line from that youth, valiant among valiants, and as proof had two trophies: the sword, which had remained in the family, and the coat of arms on which two serpents on a field of gold were biting a tree trunk. The family motto was A Death Less Feared Gives More Life. With such ancestors, it was only natural that Pedro answered the call to arms at an early age. His mother squandered what remained of her dowry to outfit him for the undertaking: coat of mail and complete armor, a caballero’s weapons, a page, and two horses. The legendary sword of the Valdivias was a length of oxidized iron, heavy as a club, its only value decorative and historical, so she bought Pedro another of fine Toledo steel, flexible and light. With that sword, Pedro would fight in the armies of Spain under the banners of Carlos V; with it he would conquer the most remote kingdom in the New World; and with it, broken and bloody, he would die.
Young Pedro de Valdivia, brought up by a doting mother, among books, went off to war with the enthusiasm of one who has seen nothing more gory than hogs butchered in the plaza, a brutal spectacle that attracted the entire town. His innocence lasted about as long as the brand-new pennant bearing his family coat of arms, which was shredded in the first battle.
Among the tercios of Spain, Spain’s legendary infantry regiments, was another daring hidalgo, Francisco de Aguirre, who immediately became Pedro’s best friend. The former was as blustering and bellicose as the second was serious, although both were equally courageous. Francisco’s family was Basque in origin, but they had settled in Talavera de la Reina, near Toledo. From his earliest years, the young man showed signs of a suicidal boldness. He sought danger because he felt he was protected by his mother’s gold cross, which he wore around his neck. Hanging from the same thin chain he wore a reliquary containing a lock of chestnut hair belonging to the young beauty he had loved since childhood, a love that was forbidden because they were first cousins. Since he could not marry his true love, Francisco had sworn to remain celibate, but that did not keep him from enjoying the favors of any female within reach of his fiery temperament. Tall, handsome, with an easy laugh and a ringing tenor voice that enlivened taverns and enchanted women, there was no one who could resist him. Pedro always warned him to be cautious, because the French illness did not exempt Moors, Jews, or Christians, but Aguirre had faith in his mother’s cross. If it had been an infallible protection in battle, surely it would shield him against the consequences of lust.
Aguirre, amiable and gallant in society, became an uncontrolled beast in battle, in contrast to Valdivia, who was always calm and chivalrous, even in the face of gravest danger. Both young men knew how to read and write; they had studied, and they were more cultivated than the majority of hidalgos. Pedro had received a very thorough education from a priest, his mother’s uncle, with whom he had lived in his youth, and who, it was whispered, was Pedro’s true father, though he had never had the courage to ask. It would have been an insult to his mother.
Another thing Aguirre and Valdivia had in common was that they had come into the world in the year 1500, the same year as Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, monarch of Spain, Germany, Austria, Flanders, the West Indies, part of Africa, and an ever greater part of the world. The young men were not superstitious, but they were proud to have been born under the same star as the king and, therefore, destined for similar military triumphs. They believed that there was no better proposition in this life than to be soldiers under such a gallant leader. They admired the king’s Titanic stature, his indomitable courage, his skill as a horseman and swordsman, his talent as a strategist in war and a scholar in peace. Pedro and Francisco were grateful for their good fortune in being Catholics, which guar anteed the salvation of their souls, and Spanish, that is, superior to the rest of humankind. They were hidalgos of Spain, sovereign over all the wide and beckoning world, more powerful than the ancient Roman Empire, chosen by God to discover, conquer, Christianize, found, and populate the most remote corners of the earth. They were twenty years old when they went off to fight in Flanders, and then the campaigns in Italy, where they learned that in war cruelty is a virtue and, given that death is a constant companion, that it is best to keep one’s soul in a state of grace.
The two young soldiers served under the command of an extraordinary general, the marqués de Pescara, whose somewhat effeminate appearance could be deceptive, since beneath the gold armor and the pearl-embroidered silk finery he wore on the field of battle was a rare military genius, his acumen demonstrated a thousand times over. In 1524, in the midst of the war between France and Spain, disputing control of the Italian cities, the marqués and two thousand of the best Spanish soldiers disappeared in a mysterious manner, swallowed up by the winter fog. Word spread that they had deserted, and mocking couplets were circulated accusing them of treason and cowardice, while they, hidden away in a castle, were, in fact, part of a plan that hinged on great stealth.
It was November, and the cold turned to ice the souls of the hapless soldiers quartered in the courtyard. They did not understand why they were spending time there, numb and anxious, instead of being led to fight against the French. The marqués de Pescara was in no hurry; he was waiting for the right moment with the patience of an experienced hunter. Finally, after several weeks had passed, he sent word to his officers to ready the troops for action. Pedro de Valdivia ordered the men in his battalion to don their armor over wool undergarments, a difficult task since when they touched the icy metal it stuck to their fingers, and then he handed out sheets to use as covering. So, like white ghosts, they had marched the whole night in silence, shivering with cold, and by dawn had reached the enemy fortress. Lookouts in the merlons noticed some kind of movement on the
snow but thought it was shadows from trees bending in the wind. Until the last moment before the attack was launched, they had not seen the Spanish soldiers pulling themselves forward in white waves across the snow-covered ground. Taken by surprise, the French were overwhelmed. That striking victory made the marqués de Pescara the most famous military man of his time.
One year later, Valdivia and Aguirre were in the battle of Pavía, the beautiful city of a hundred towers; there, too, the French had been defeated. The king of France, who was fighting desperately alongside his troops, was taken prisoner by a soldier in Pedro de Valdivia’s company. He had tumbled the monarch from his horse and, not knowing who he was, had nearly slit his throat, ignoring proper protocol. Valdivia’s timely intervention prevented that slaughter, thus changing the course of history.
Ten thousand dead littered the field of combat; for weeks the air was swarming with flies and the land with rats. They say that still today you can find splintered bones between the leaves of the cabbages and cauliflowers of the region. Valdivia realized that for the first time it was not the cavalry that had been essential to their triumph but, rather, two new weapons: the harquebus, complicated to load but long in range, and the bronze cannon, lighter and more mobile than the old ones of forged iron. Another decisive element had been the thousands of mercenaries, Swiss, and German Landsknechts, famous for their brutality, which Valdivia disdained. For him, war, like everything else in life, was governed by honor. The battle of Pavía left him pondering the importance of strategy and modern arms. The demented courage of men like Francisco de Aguirre was no longer enough. War was a science that required study and logic.
After the battle of Pavía, exhausted and limping from a lance wound in his hip that had been treated with boiling oil but tended to open with the least movement, Pedro de Valdivia returned to his home in Castuera. He was of an age to marry, to carry on the family name and take charge of his lands, which were barren following his long absence and lack of attention—as his mother never tired of reminding him. Ideal would be a bride with a substantial dowry, since the Valdivias’ impoverished estate greatly needed replenishing. The family and the priest had lined up a number of candidates—all with money and a good name—whom he would meet during his convalescence, but plans did not work out as expected. Instead, Pedro’s eye fell on Marina Ortiz de Gaete in the one place he had opportunity to meet her in public: on the way out of mass. Marina was thirteen and still dressed in the starched crinolines of childhood. She was accompanied by her duenna and a slave girl who held a parasol over her mistress’s head even though it was a cloudy day: a direct ray of sun had never touched the girl’s translucent skin. She had the face of an angel, gleaming blond hair, the unsteady walk of someone burdened with too many petticoats, and such an air of innocence that on the spot Pedro forgot his intention of improving the family fortunes. He was not a man of base calculations; he was honestly seduced by the girl’s beauty and virtue. She had no fortune, and her dowry was far below her worth, but he began to court her the minute he learned she was not promised to another.
The Ortiz de Gaete family had themselves hoped for a union with monetary advantages but they could not reject a caballero with such an illustrious name, and proven valor as Pedro de Valdivia. Their only condition was that the pair wait to marry until the girl turned fourteen. In the meantime, though shy as a fawn, Marina accepted the attentions of her betrothed, and she let him know that she, too, was counting the days till they were married. Pedro was at the apogee of his virility; he was tall, well proportioned, and broad chested, with noble features: a prominent nose, an authoritative chin, and very expressive blue eyes. At the time, he wore his hair combed back and caught into a short pigtail at the nape of his neck. He shaved his cheeks, waxed his mustache, and wore a narrow little beard that would characterize him throughout his life. He dressed with elegance, acted unambiguously, spoke deliberately, evoked respect and conveyed certainty, but he could also be gallant and tender. Marina wondered, with awe, why a man with such great pride and courage had chosen her. The next year, after the girl had begun to menstruate, they married and moved into the modest property belonging to the Valdivias.
Marina entered the married state with the best of intentions, but she was very young, and that man of serious and studious temperament frightened her. They had nothing to talk about. She was embarrassed and upset when he suggested books to read, not daring to confess that she could barely handle basic sentences and signed her name with a squiggle. Her family had protected her from contact with the world, and wanted her to stay that way; her husband’s perorations on politics or geography intimidated her. Her interests were prayer and embroidering ceremonial vestments for priests. She had no experience in managing a household, and the servants ignored the orders she issued in her baby voice. As a result, her mother-in-law continued to run the house, while Marina was treated like the child she was. She set about learning the boring household tasks, coached by the older women in the family, but there was no one whom she could ask about the other aspect of married life, one more important than planning meals or keeping books.
As long as Marina’s relations with Pedro had consisted of sweet epistles and visits overseen by a duenna, she had been happy, but her enthusiasm evaporated when she found herself in bed with her new husband. She was completely innocent about what was to happen on her first night as a bride; no one had prepared her for the horrible surprise that lay in store. In her trousseau she had seen several ankle-length batiste nightgowns that tied at the neck and wrists with satin ribbons and had a cross-shaped opening in the front. It had never occurred to her to ask what purpose that keyholelike aperture served, and no one had explained that it was through it that she would have contact with her husband’s most intimate parts. She had never seen a naked man, and believed that the differences between men and women were facial hair and tone of voice. When in the dark she felt Pedro’s breath on her face and his large hands groping among the folds of her gown for that exquisitely embroidered opening, she kicked at him like a mule, jumped out of bed, and ran screaming down the corridors of the stone house.
Though he meant well, Pedro was not a thoughtful lover. His experience was limited to brief encounters with women of negotiable virtue, but he realized that he was going to need great patience. His wife was still a child, and her body was barely beginning to develop; it was not a good idea to force her. He tried to initiate her gradually, but soon Marina’s innocence, which had attracted him so strongly in the beginning, became an insurmountable obstacle. Nights were a frustration for him and a torment for her, yet neither of the two dared speak of their feelings in the light of day. Pedro turned to his studies, and to supervising his lands and his laborers, burning off energy in fencing and riding. In his heart he was preparing, and saying farewell. When the call of adventure became irresistible, he again enlisted under the standard of Charles V, with the secret dream of equaling the military glory of the marqués de Pescara.
In the late winter of 1527, the Spanish troops, under orders from Charles de Bourbon, constable of France, were at the walls of Rome. The Spanish, backed by fifteen companies of ferocious German mercenaries, were awaiting their opportunity to enter the city of the Caesars and make up for many months without pay. They were a horde of hungry, insubordinate soldiers ready to lay claim to the treasures of Rome and the Vatican. They were not all rogues and soldiers for pay, however. Among the tercios of Spain, for example, were a pair of officers, Pedro de Valdivia and Francisco de Aguirre, who had met again after two years of separation. They embraced like brothers and caught up on everything that had happened in each other’s lives. Valdivia showed his friend a medallion with a portrait of Marina painted by a Portuguese miniaturist, a converted Jew who had somehow escaped the Inquisition.
“We do not have children yet. Marina is very young, but there will be time for all that, if God wills it,” he commented.
“What you mean is, if we aren’t killed first!” his friend excl
aimed.
Francisco, in turn, confessed that nothing had changed in his secret Platonic love affair with his cousin, who had threatened to enter a nunnery if her father insisted on marrying her to another man. It was Valdivia’s opinion that that would not be such an outlandish idea. To many noblewomen the convent, where they could live with their full complement of servants, their own money, and all the luxuries they were accustomed to, was preferable to a forced marriage.
“In the case of my cousin, that would be a terrible waste, my friend,” Francisco said emphatically. “A girl so beautiful and bursting with health, a woman created for love and motherhood, should not bury herself in a habit for life. But you are right about one thing. I would rather see her a nun than married to another man. I could not allow it; we would have to end our lives together.”
“And condemn you both to the cauldrons of hell? I feel sure your cousin would choose the convent. And you? What plans do you have for the future?” Valdivia asked.
“I want to keep on soldiering as long as I can, and visit my cousin in her convent cell under cover of night,” laughed Francisco, touching the cross and reliquary on his chest.
Rome was badly defended by Pope Clement VII, a man more adept at political intrigue than at strategies of war. Just as the enemy hosts approached the city gates in the midst of a dense fog, the pontiff escaped from the Vatican through a secret passageway to the Sant’Angelo castle, bristling with cannon. He was accompanied by three thousand persons, among whom was the famous sculptor and goldsmith Benvenuto Cellini, known both for his art and for his horrendous disposition, the man to whom the pope had delegated all military decisions. Clement had decided that if he himself trembled before this imperious artist, surely de Bourbon’s armies would tremble as well.