Ines of My Soul: A Novel

by Isabel Allende

  When the desert lay behind us, I counted up the days and found that it had been nearly five months since we left Cuzco. Valdivia decided to make camp and wait, for he had word that his closest friend, Francisco de Aguirre, might be in the area. Hostile Indians kept watch from a distance, but they did not approach us. Once again I could set up the elegant tent Pizarro had given us. I covered the ground with Peruvian mantles and cushions, took my china tableware from the trunks—I did not want to keep eating off wood trenchers—and had a clay oven built so I could cook the way one is supposed to; we had been eating nothing but grains and dried meat. In the large room of the tent, which Valdivia used as his general headquarters, audience hall, and court to dispense justice, I placed his large chair and a few leather taborets for the visitors who showed up at all hours. Catalina spent her days wandering around the camp like a wraith, gathering news. Nothing happened among the Spaniards or the Yanaconas that I did not know. The captains who often came to have a meal tended to be unpleasantly surprised that Valdivia invited me to sit at table with them. It is possible that none of them had ever eaten with a woman in his lifetime; that was not done in Spain, but here customs are more relaxed. For light we burned candles and oil lamps, and we heated the tent with two large Peruvian braziers because it was cold at night. González de Marmolejo, who in addition to being a priest was something of a scholar, explained to us that the seasons were reversed here, and when it was winter in Spain, it was summer in Chile, and vice versa. No one could understand, however, and we continued to think that the laws of nature were erratic in the New World.

  In the other room of the tent, Pedro and I had our bed, a writing desk, my altar, our trunks, and the tub for bathing, which had not been used in a long time. Pedro’s fear of bathing had waned, and from time to time he agreed to get into the tub and let me soap and wash him, but he preferred a half bath with a wet cloth. Those were good days in which we were once again the lovers we had been in Cuzco. Before we made love, he liked to read me his favorite books. He had no idea, because I wanted to surprise him, that González de Marmolejo was teaching me to read and write.

  Some days later, Pedro left with a handful of his men to ride over the region and look for Francisco de Aguirre, and also to see if it was possible to parley with the Indians. He was the only one who thought it might be possible to make an agreement with them. One night while he was gone, I bathed and washed my hair with quillay, a Chilean tree bark that kills fleas and keeps one’s hair silky black to the tomb. I did not receive that last benefit; I have used quillay forever and my hair is white, but at least I am not half bald, like so many persons my age. The long trek, walking and riding, had hurt my back somehow, and one of my Indian girls had rubbed it down with a peumo balm Catalina had prepared. I felt much better when I went to bed, and Baltasar lay at my feet. The dog was ten months old now, and still puppyish, but he had grown to a good size and I could see he was going to make a guard dog. For once I was not tormented by insomnia, and fell fast asleep.

  Baltasar’s quiet growling woke me after midnight. I sat up in bed, with one hand feeling in the dark for a shawl to throw around me, and holding the dog with the other. Then I heard a faint noise in the other room, and had no doubt that someone was there. My first thought was that Pedro had come back, because the sentinels at the door would not have let anyone else in, but the dog’s behavior put me on the alert. There wasn’t time to light a lamp.

  “Who is it!” I shouted, alarmed.

  After a tense pause, out of the dark someone called for Pedro de Valdivia.

  “He is not here. Who wants him?” I asked, now with irritation.

  “Forgive me, señora, it is Sancho de la Hoz, loyal servant of the captain general. It has taken me a long time to get here, and I want to give him my greetings.”

  “Sancho de la Hoz? How dare you, caballero, come into my tent in the middle of the night!” I exclaimed.

  By then Baltasar was barking madly, alerting the guards. In a matter of minutes, Don Benito, Quiroga, Juan Gómez, and others came running with lights and drawn swords to find in my quarters not only the insolent de la Hoz but another four men as well. The first reaction of my companions was to arrest them immediately, but I convinced them that it was all a misunderstanding. I begged them to leave, and as I quickly dressed ordered Catalina to concoct something for the new arrivals to eat. I poured them wine by my own hand, and served them food with the proper hospitality, eager to hear anything they wanted to tell me of the hardships of their voyage.

  Between servings of wine, I stepped outside to tell Don Benito to send a messenger to look for Pedro de Valdivia. The situation was very delicate, for de la Hoz had a number of supporters among the slackers and malcontents in our expedition. A few of them had criticized Valdivia for having usurped the right to conquer Chile from the envoy of the Crown, arguing that Sancho de la Hoz’s royal documents had more authority than the permission granted by Pizarro. De la Hoz, nevertheless, had no economic backing; he had squandered in Spain the fortune that was his part of Atahualpa’s ransom, and had not raised funds or outfitted ships or soldiers for the enterprise. His word was worth so little that he had been imprisoned in Peru over debts and swindling. I suspected that he intended to get rid of Valdivia, take over the expedition, and continue the conquest of Chile alone.

  I had decided to treat the five inopportune visitors with the greatest consideration, so that they would feel confident and lower their guard until Pedro got back. For the time being, I stuffed them full of food and put enough sleeping powders in the wine jug to fell an ox. I did not want any uproar in the camp. The last thing we needed was to have the men divided into two bands, as could happen if de la Hoz established any doubt about Valdivia’s legitimacy. When they found me so amenable, I suppose those contemptible men must have laughed behind my back, satisfied that they had put one over on a stupid woman. Before an hour had passed, however, they were so drunk and drugged that when Don Benito and the guards came to take them away, they did not offer the least resistance. When they were searched, it was discovered that each of them carried a dagger with an elaborate silver handle—all alike. That left no doubt that they had hatched a theatrical plot to assassinate Valdivia. The identical daggers could only be the idea of the cowardly de la Hoz, who in that way distributed responsibility for the crime among all five. Our captains wanted to judge them then and there, but I convinced them that only Valdivia could make such a serious decision. It took wit and firmness to prevent Don Benito from stringing up de la Hoz in the nearest tree.

  Pedro returned three days later, already informed about the conspiracy. The news, however, did not seem to squelch his good spirits; he had found his friend Francisco de Aguirre, who had been waiting for several weeks and had, in addition, brought fifteen horsemen, ten harquebusiers, a large number of Indians, and enough food for several days. With them our contingent swelled to one hundred and thirty-some soldiers, if I remember correctly. That was a greater miracle than Virgin’s Spring.

  Before discussing the matter of Sancho de la Hoz with his captains, Pedro took me aside to hear my version of what had happened. It was often said that I had Pedro bewitched with my spells and aphrodisiac potions, that I beguiled him in bed with Turkish abominations, that I drained his potency, annulled his will, and one way or other did whatever I pleased with him. Nothing further from the truth. Pedro was stubborn, and knew exactly what he wanted. No one could make him change direction with magic or a courtesan’s arts, only with reason. He was not a man to seek counsel overtly, least of all from a woman, but in our private moments, pacing around the room, he held his tongue and listened until I got to the point of offering my opinion. I tried to give it in a subtle way, so that in the end he believed the decision was his. This system always worked well for me. A man does what he can; a woman does what a man cannot. I did not think it was a good idea to sentence Sancho de la Hoz. He obviously deserved it, but he had the protection of the king’s documents, and he had connect
ions at court in Madrid who could accuse Valdivia of sedition. My duty was to prevent my lover from ending up on the rack or the gallows.

  “What do I do with a traitor like that?” Pedro fumed, striding around like a gamecock.

  “You have always told me that it is good to keep one’s enemies nearby, where they can be watched. . . .”

  Instead of immediately judging the accused, Pedro Valdivia decided to take a little time to find out what the mood was among his soldiers, collect proof of the conspiracy, and unmask the accomplices hidden among us. To everyone’s surprise, he gave Don Benito orders to break camp and continue south, leading the prisoners, who were still in chains and filled with dread—all except the featherbrained Sancho de la Hoz, who thought he was above the law and who, despite his chains, continued his campaign to win over followers to his cause and to array himself as if he were at court. He demanded an Indian serving girl to starch his neckpiece, iron his breeches, curl his hair, spray him with perfume, and buff his fingernails.

  The men were not happy with the order to break up camp; they were comfortable there, it was cool, and there was water and trees. Don Benito dressed them down, reminding them that the decisions of their leader were not to be questioned. Valdivia had brought them this far with a minimum of losses; they had successfully crossed the desert, and had lost only three soldiers, six horses, one dog, and thirteen llamas. The missing Yanaconas didn’t count, but according to Catalina probably thirty or forty had died.

  When I met Francisco de Aguirre I immediately trusted him despite his intimidating appearance. Over time I learned to fear his cruelty. He was a huge, extravagant man, loud, tall, strong, and always ready with a boisterous laugh. He drank and ate for three, and, according to what Pedro told me, he was capable of impregnating ten Indians in one night and another ten the next. The years have gone by, and now Aguirre is an old man without a conscience or a grudge; he is still lucid and healthy despite having spent years in the pestilential dungeons of the Inquisition and the king. He lives well, thanks to the land my deceased husband granted him.

  It would be difficult to find two persons more different than my generous, noble husband, Rodrigo, and that undisciplined Francisco de Aguirre, but they loved each other as soldiers in war and as friends in peace. Rodrigo was not going to let his companion in life’s adventures end up as a beggar because of the ingratitude of the Crown and the Church, which is why he protected him until his own death carried him off. Aguirre, whose battle scars covered every portion of his body, is spending his last days watching the maize grow on his small estate, at the side of his wife, whose love brought her from Spain to join him, and his children and grandchildren. At eighty, he is not defeated; he continues to imagine adventures and to sing the risqué songs of his youth. In addition to his five legitimate children, he engendered more than a hundred known bastards, and there must be hundreds more that have not been recorded. He had the notion that the best way to serve his majesty in the Americas was to people it with mestizos. He went so far as to say that the solution to the Indian problem was to kill all males older than twelve, sequester the children, and patiently and methodically rape the women. Pedro always thought that his friend was joking, but I know that he meant it. Despite that outlandish taste for fornication, the one love of his life was his first cousin, whom he married thanks to a special dispensation from the pope . . . but I believe I have already told you that.

  Be patient with me, Isabel; at the age of seventy, I tend to repeat myself.

  After several days’ march, we reached the valley of Copiapó, the beginning of the territory Pedro de Valdivia was to govern. A yell of jubilation rose from the Spaniards: we had arrived. Pedro de Valdivia called his men together, surrounded himself with his captains, called me to his side, and with great solemnity planted the standard of Spain and took possession of the land. He gave it the name Nueva Extremadura, the new Extremadura, since he, Pizarro, most of the hidalgos on the expedition—and I—had all come from there. Our chaplain, González de Marmolejo, immediately set up an altar with his crucifix, his gold goblet—the only gold we had glimpsed for months—and the small statue of Nuestra Señora del Socorro, whom we had adopted as our patron saint after the aid she lent us in the desert. The cleric celebrated an emotional high mass, and all of us took communion, our souls swollen with gratitude.

  The valley was inhabited by a number of different tribes, all subjects of the Inca empire, though they were so far from Peru that the Inca’s influence was not oppressive. Their curacas came out to receive us with modest gifts of food and welcoming greetings the interpreters we called “tongues” translated for us, but they were not pleased with our presence. Their houses were made of clay and straw, more solid and better arranged than the dwellings we had seen before. These people, too, had the custom of living with their dead ancestors, but this time the soldiers carefully avoided despoiling the mummies. We also discovered some recently abandoned villages belonging to the hostile Indians under the command of a Chief Michimalonko.

  Don Benito oversaw setting up the camp in a strategic location; he feared that the natives would become more bellicose once they learned that we had no intention of returning to Peru, as Almagro’s expedition had done six years before. Even though we needed foodstuffs, Valdivia forbade sacking the inhabited villages or molesting their dwellers, keeping in view the possibility of winning them as allies. Don Benito had captured other chasquis, who when questioned repeated what we already knew: the Inca had ordered all the populations to escape with their families to the mountains, and to hide or destroy their food, something most of the natives had done. Don Benito reasoned that the Chileans—as he called the inhabitants of the territory of Chile without distinction among tribes—must have hidden their food in sand, where it was easier to dig. He sent all his soldiers, except for the guard, to scour the area and search by thrusting swords and lances into the ground until they found the buried provisions. Following those directions, they found maize, potatoes, beans, and even some gourds containing fermented chicha, which I appropriated because it would help the wounded endure the brutality of cauterizations.

  As soon as the camp was in order, Don Benito had a gallows built and Pedro de Valdivia announced that the next day he would judge Sancho de la Hoz and the other prisoners. That night, captains of proven loyalty sat around the table in our tent, each on his leather stool, and their leader in his armchair. To their general amazement, Valdivia called me and pointed to a chair at his side. I felt a little intimidated by the incredulous expressions of the captains, who had never seen a woman in a council of war. “She saved us from thirst in the desert, and from the conspiracy of the traitors. She, more than anyone, deserves to participate in this meeting,” said Valdivia, and no one dared contradict him. Juan Gómez, who was visibly nervous—Cecilia was actually giving birth at that moment—placed the five identical daggers on the table, explained what he had found out about the attempted plot, and named the soldiers whose loyalty was in doubt. There was especially a certain Ruiz, who had allowed the conspirators to enter camp, and had distracted the sentinels at our tent. The captains discussed for some time the risks involved in executing de la Hoz, and finally the opinion of Rodrigo de Quiroga, which coincided with mine, prevailed. I was very careful not to open my mouth; I did not want to be accused of being a virago who led Valdivia around by the ear. I saw that wine was in the cups, I paid attention, and I nodded meekly when Quiroga spoke. Valdivia had already made his decision, but he was waiting for someone else to propose it, so he would not seem to be worried about the documents the king had given Sancho de la Hoz.

  Just as announced, the trial was convened the following day in the prisoners’ tent. Valdivia was the sole judge, assisted by Rodrigo de Quiroga, the court recorder, and another military man who acted as secretary. This time I was not there, but it was no trouble at all to get the complete version of events. They had placed armed guards around the tent to keep the curious at a distance, and the three capta
ins sat behind a table, flanked by two Negro slaves who were expert in applying torture and conducting executions. The recorder opened his large books and readied his quill pen and inkwell as Rodrigo de Quiroga lined up the five daggers on the table. They had also brought one of my Peruvian braziers filled with red-hot coals, not so much to warm the air as to terrorize the prisoners, who were well aware that torture is part of any trial of that nature. Fire was used more with Indians than with hidalgos, but no one was sure what Valdivia might do.

  The accused, standing before the table, heavily chained, listened to the charges against them for more than an hour. They had no doubt that “the usurper,” as they had labeled Valdivia, knew every last detail of the conspiracy, including the complete list of Sancho de la Hoz’s loyalists in the expedition. There was nothing to allege. A long silence followed Valdivia’s pronouncement, while the secretary finished putting down notes in his book.

  “Do you have anything to say?” Rodrigo de Quiroga asked at last.

  At that point, Sancho de la Hoz’s aplomb dissipated and he fell to his knees, loudly confessing to everything he had been accused of—except the intention to assassinate the general, whom all five respected and admired, and would give up their lives to serve. The matter of the daggers was absurd; one look was all it took to understand they were not serious weapons. The other four followed his example, begging forgiveness and swearing eternal loyalty. Valdivia silenced them. Another unbearable hush followed, and finally the captain general stood and dictated his judgment, which to me seemed unjust, though I was very careful not to comment on it later. I supposed he must have had reason to do what he did.

  Three of the conspirators were sentenced to be exiled; they would have to undertake the return to Peru on foot, following the route through the desert with only a handful of auxiliary Indians and one llama. A fourth was set free without explanation. Sancho de la Hoz signed a written declaration—the first ever in Chile—that dissolved his partnership with Valdivia, and remained chained and a prisoner, with his sentence left for the moment in the limbo of uncertainty. Strangest of all that night was that Valdivia ordered Ruiz to be executed. He was the soldier who had acted as accomplice, but he had not been among the five who entered our tent with the famous daggers. Don Benito personally supervised the blacks who hanged and later quartered Ruiz. His head, and each hacked-apart quarter, were displayed on meat hooks at several points throughout the camp, to remind any who had not yet made up their minds how disloyalty to Valdivia was repaid. By the third day, the stench was so nauseating, and there were so many flies, that we had to burn the remains.