The old Franciscan ended, “As we carry the might of Spain to far lands and our religion to strange people, it would be a good thing to remember Abu Walid of Toledo. He died a Muslim, devout in the will of the Prophet, but he also died a Christian saint, because he had taught us charity.”
“Did Abu Walid become a Christian?” Antonio asked.
“We made him one,” the old priest equivocated.
“My father used to speak in exactly the same way,” Antonio laughed.
“Did he know Abu Walid?” the old priest asked.
“No. He was speaking of merchants. He maintained that they did God’s work and must be brought within the family of God. He often argued about this with his fellow professors.”
“What was your father’s name?”
“Palafox, of Salamanca,” Fray Antonio replied.
A shadow fell across the face of the older priest and after a moment he said, “When you reach Seville you should write your father and advise him to use more caution in his reasoning. At the cardinal’s palace there have been inquiries about him.”
“Is that true?” Antonio asked. “But if you were able to absorb a Muslim into your faith, surely you can absorb—”
“Ah, yes, but that was five centuries ago. Today, with schismatics everywhere, well …” The old man shrugged his shoulders. “We must be more cautious. Jews, Arabs, followers of Luther, usurers … I doubt if the Church was ever so beset by enemies.”
On the following day Fray Antonio was summoned by the captain of the troop to a private residence behind whose iron-studded doors and grilled windows waited a gentleman who was to be of considerable importance to the Palafoxes and whose descendants were also to play a significant role in my life. He was the sixty-six-year-old marquis of Guadalquivir, one of the heroes in the expulsion of the Muslims from Spain. King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Aragon had given him the responsibility of trapping the last Moorish army in Granada and destroying it, and in 1492 he had done so with some brilliance. He gained as a reward his title plus vast lands along the river after which he was named. He was tall, black-haired and with a mustache that fell past the corners of his mouth. When he rose from his leather chair to greet Fray Antonio, he bounded forward and grasped the younger man’s hand with a powerful grip.
He came to the point: “You are determined to go to Mexico?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I have letters for Captain Cortés dealing with the salvation of Indian souls. Carry them with you to ensure safe transit.”
“I would be honored,” the priest said quietly, and the marquis noted his look of authority and thought: I like priests who act like soldiers. Because of this favorable opinion he launched into a much fuller discussion of state affairs than he had intended.
“The king has asked me to work out a plan to bring the Indians into the Church. It’s rather difficult to talk with the king. He speaks no Spanish and I no German. But we’ve decided on a system. Indians will be kept on the land and the man who owns the land will own the Indians, but their spiritual lives—that’s for you priests to handle, of course. You see any reason why this plan won’t work?”
“None at all,” Fray Antonio replied enthusiastically. “The men who supervise the Indians will be devout Catholics and will naturally have uppermost in their minds the welfare of their charges, and the priests will be able to halt any chance excesses that arise. In this way we shall win the natives from barbarism on the one hand and from idolatry on the other.”
“It won’t be that simple,” the marquis warned, and thus began a stimulating series of conversations between Guadalquivir and the young priest, during whose stay in Toledo the marquis discussed all particulars of the Mexican mission. The more Antonio saw of the powerful soldier the more he understood why Spain led the world.
It was in the marquis’s fortified home that Antonio saw his first dispatch from Captain Cortés, a soldierly report of expeditions to the west and south plus a hopeful report of the riches to be found throughout the new nation. At one point the marquis threw the soiled sheets on his leather-covered table and cried, “From what he says, they don’t sound like savages. Father, what if we are dealing with civilized people to be embraced as equals and not the barbarians you speak of as children in darkness?”
“You’ve read the accounts of their gods,” Antonio replied, and this truth snuffed out the glimmering possibility that the marquis had seen flickering through the Cortés report.
Nevertheless, the wily old campaigner came back to the subject many times. “Father, only two things matter. Winning souls to Jesus Christ and establishing a rich commonwealth. When you speak with Captain Cortés, remind him of this. When I conquered the Muslims, the first thing I did was assure them that Spain needed them. When we reach Córdoba I’ll show you how we won the Arabs over.”
“Does that mean you’re riding with us to Seville?” Antonio asked with an excitement that pleased the soldier.
“My home is in Seville. My daughters are there. And the ranch the king gave me bestrides the Guadalquivir, hence my title. The ride south’ll give me a chance to know you better, and I could profit from that.” Antonio accepted this compliment with dignity, whereupon the soldier clapped him on the shoulder and said, “When you come back from Mexico, you must work close to the king. He needs men like you.”
“When I come back,” Antonio replied, “I should like to work close to you,” at which the general grunted.
The caravan that struggled out of the pinnacled city of Toledo some days later was entirely different from the one that had left the university city of Salamanca, for the road ahead was not an insecure trail over mountains but a major highway between the capital of Spain and its principal commercial port. The soldiers now numbered an even ninety, of whom more than half were mounted; all had an air of gallantry and the powerful dignity of the Spanish court. A convoy of sixteen carts creaked along, bearing large quantities of goods for Mexico, while in the middle of the convoy, well protected by soldiers, a private carriage bounced up and down on its leather hinges. It carried on each door a blue-and-gold armorial crest and was sufficiently commodious for the marquis, his secretary and young Fray Antonio Palafox, who sat day after day absorbing the older soldier’s theory of governing new dominions.
“When the Muslims ruled Spain from North Africa,” the crusty old warrior complained, “they sent their dregs to rule us. We’re doing the same in Mexico. The finest soldiers stay at home. Look at the captain of this troop. You ever see a better man? He won’t go to Mexico. And so far the nobility we’ve sent to help Cortés. What are they? Not a decent man among them.” Antonio sensed that the marquis, whose title dated only from 1492, felt irritated by the true grandees of Spain, some of whose titles went back to pre-Muslim times.
“The only group sending out first-class men”—the words sounded so impressive in Spanish: hombres de la primera categoría—“is the Church. When you get to Mexico, Antonio, you’ll find you’re smarter and more dedicated than the men you have to deal with. Therefore be shrewd. See to it that the land gets a good government.”
“In such matters what can a priest do?” Antonio asked.
The old general poked the young priest in the ribs and winked at his secretary. “What can a priest do!” the marquis teased. “When I was in charge of high-spirited troops … I hated to see priests come along because I knew they would try to discipline my men. Well, that’s wine that’s been drunk. But have you noticed, Fray Tomás, how every time on this trip we mention building new cities this young priest’s eyes light up like candles? What are you dreaming, Antonio? Are you going to build one long city across Mexico?”
“I am dreaming mostly of souls, now in darkness,” Antonio replied.
“Yesterday, when our carriage was bogged down, I was most impressed by the practical way you found stones as a fulcrum for our levers.” Almost unconsciously, the older soldier slipped into using the familiar form of the Spanish tú and from this time
on Guadalquivir spoke to the young priest as if he were his son.
“I have no sons,” the marquis observed at one point, “and that’s a pity, for I possess a name worthy of perpetuation. I do have daughters, and they’re providing grandsons, so all’s well.”
As they approached Córdoba, that burnished jewel of Muhammadan power in Spain, the old marquis observed, “Always remember this city as an example of how Spain governs. We fought the Moors in Córdoba for six hundred years. When we conquered them we preserved their city, their mosques, their language, their cooking. And the more of their life we absorbed, the stronger we became. In Mexico we must do the same.”
The old man spoke so forcefully on this somewhat unusual theme that Fray Antonio asked, “In the conquest of the Moors did you experience something—”
The general put his right hand on the priest’s knee and said, “At the conquest of Granada …, at the moment of victory …” He hesitated. “There was an insolent young Moor who had fought against us … very brave …” Again he paused. Twice he tried to continue his narration and twice he choked. Finally he managed to finish his account.
“A man does many things he regrets, priest. Those that involve women he’s able in time to forget, because men were made to war with women and that’s part of the fun of life. But the abuses he commits on other men haunt him. The older he grows, the more they haunt him.”
“What did you do to the young Moor?” Antonio asked.
“When we captured him, I had him garroted,” the general replied. “And ever since, I have wondered what this young leader might have accomplished in Spain. When we wanted to appoint a Muslim to govern the regions outside Granada, where was he? Where was this fiery, brave young man?”
The old general rubbed his hands, as if washing them and thereby erasing his memories.
Together the marquis and the priest hiked about the former imperial city of the Arabs, now a somnolent minor capital of the Spaniards, and as they progressed through the narrow streets the marquis pointed out hundreds of Moorish relics of a type not known in northern cities like Salamanca.
“One of the reasons why we rule the world,” the marquis reflected, “is that we absorb the best from everybody we conquer, yet we remain Spanish.”
“I should think that our grandeur came rather from our love of God and His Holy Church,” Antonio said simply.
Guadalquivir stared at the priest, then growled, “Maybe you’re right.”
At last the caravan re-formed for the five-day march into Seville, and on the evening of the final encampment Antonio said, “I shall deplore seeing the end of our pilgrimage.”
“Good trip,” the old man grunted, as if to dismiss the subject.
But Antonio, finding in the general the kind of solid human being that his father was, was reluctant to have their association end so abruptly, and added, “Riding with you, sir, has been like talking with my father again.”
The marquis replied, “None of my daughters has the least understanding of what we’ve been talking about.” Once more he spoke with such finality that the conversation seemed ended.
But again Antonio tried to reopen it: “I hope that when I reach Mexico I’ll be able to accomplish some of the things you spoke of.”
“You’ll be lucky if you accomplish anything,” the marquis growled, and since he rebuffed all efforts to maintain the conversation, Antonio watched the towers of Seville as they rose mysteriously across the flatlands that bordered the river Guadalquivir. The sight of one soaring tower that dominated the city tempted the old general to revert to his major theme: “It’s a Moorish tower, the best in Spain. When our priests decided to build a cathedral, they stuck it at the foot of the Moorish tower, sprinkled holy water on it, and claimed it for their own. Sensible people.”
When at last the caravan drew up at the edge of the pleasing plaza that stretched out from the foot of the Moorish tower, the captain of the troop rode up to the marquis’s carriage, bowed and announced, “Sir, we are home,” whereupon the passengers alighted for Antonio’s first glimpse of the richest city in the world.
He was fascinated by the enormous new cathedral, finished only five years before, and spent some time inspecting how it had been put together. At his elbow the marquis mumbled, “When the priests wished to commemorate Seville’s redemption from the Moors they announced, ‘We shall build a church so big that all who come after us will cry, “They were insane.” ’ ” From a door the two men looked down a nave of such astonishing length that it seemed to end not in some distant wall but in the shadows of faith, and Antonio whispered, “If a man is going to honor God, his monument should be of insane size.” At this the marquis clapped him on the shoulder and muttered, “Poor Captain Cortés. Where will he find the money to pay for the follies you intend to commit?”
When the travelers had paid homage to the twin glories of Seville—the Moorish tower and its Christian cathedral—the attention of the marquis was directed to the huge wooden platform that filled one end of the plaza, and he growled, “What’s that for?” Since he was one of the senior magistrates of the city, several attendants hurried up to whisper their replies, whereupon his face grew grave and he took Antonio by the arm.
“Back to the carriage,” he said simply.
“I must recover my horse,” the priest explained, “and find the Franciscan monastery.”
“You’re living with me,” the marquis growled. “I have many horses.” And he dragged the surprised young man into the carriage, pulling away the curtains so that Antonio could see the imposing plaza and the formidable stone wall through which they passed into a quiet courtyard filled with orange trees. Footmen hurried to take charge of the horses and to welcome the hero of Granada.
The quiet residence they had entered was an astonishment to the young priest from the north, for he had not yet seen the subtle grandeur of Moorish architecture as applied to private homes. If I describe in some detail what he saw on that May evening in 1524 I do so only because on a March evening in 1932 I stood in the same courtyard, under similar orange trees, and gazed at those arabesque walls, those Moorish arches, and those paneled ceilings whose traceries were as intricate and alien to my background as they were to Antonio’s four centuries earlier.
The reception room was entered through arches of green-and-purple marble, across floors of rich orange tile, and past walls of shimmering black and white. The room itself was decorated with hundreds of thousands of minute tiles in many different colors, and the massive stone fountain that filled the central area was carved from African marble in the shape of lions and desert serpents. Three windows, high in the wall, admitted light through the most delicate marble tracery that Antonio had ever seen, and there were a dozen other ornate refinements.
“This isn’t a house,” the young priest whispered. “It’s a mirage.” Even more so was the young woman who now rushed in to greet her father.
“Leticia,” the marquis mumbled gravely by way of introduction. “And this one is Fray Antonio Palafox, of Salamanca. He’s heading for Mexico, and I wish I were going with him.”
As a young man early dedicated to the priesthood, Antonio had never known much about girls, and Leticia’s spirited entrance flustered him. As he watched her elfin pirouettes and the manner in which she tilted her head delightfully this way and that as she smiled at him, he felt dizzy. He was entranced by the way her silken dress accentuated the exquisite form of her body. But it was her smile, hesitant at times, then bubbling with warmth and enthusiasm that truly captivated him. He was in the presence of a girl destined to fill the dreams of young men, and although he had no realization of what was happening to him, she was instantly aware of her effect upon him. Despite her careful upbringing, she found pleasure in charming this young man, and the fact that he was a priest, and therefore a forbidden target for her wiles, she found to be an extra challenge. After greeting her father, she held out her hands toward Antonio and asked sweetly: “Do you wish to see the work so
far completed in our little garden?” Antonio stammered: “I’ve already seen the garden,” and he indicated the spacious courtyard with the orange trees. Mocking him gently, she said, “I’ve heard that in the north houses have one garden. In Seville that wouldn’t do,” and she led both Antonio and her father into an inner garden luxuriant with flowers and pillars rescued from Roman cities that had existed in the southern seacoast cities of Spain long before the days of Christ. The architecture of the garden, however, was Moorish and of an intricacy that excelled anything Antonio had so far seen. Looking at the ancient pillars, he said to the marquis, “This has a pagan quality.”
“It is pagan,” the marquis growled. He was about to expand on this when a knight arrived who bore a message from the governor.
“You and the priest intended for Mexico are invited to participate in the ceremonies tomorrow,” the messenger informed the marquis.
Apparently the ceremonies were involved with the structure in the plaza, for the general frowned and asked, “Is this a command?”
“Yes,” the messenger replied.
“At what time?” Guadalquivir asked.
“The governor’s party convenes at half after five in the morning,” the knight replied and the general snapped, “Agreed,” whereupon the messenger left.
“What are the ceremonies for?” Antonio asked.
Before the marquis could reply his daughter blurted: “They’re going to burn the heretics tomorrow.”
“Leticia!” the old man growled.
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