I dare not address you as my dearest or my beloved, for the rules of my life and my chosen occupation forbid that. But in the night watches aboard ship, in the steamy fastness of the jungle, and when the great volcanoes gleam down at me like guideposts, I am tormented by our nights together. In a saner moment this morning, as I saw the new land opening ahead of me, now that the jungle is gone, I had the wild thought that Mexico needs women like you, women with grace and courage, women capable of building a new nation in a new land, and my heart called out “She should be here.” If you were, even though we could not be wed, I would feel extraordinary strength. In my imagination you are in Mexico.
It was on the fourteenth day of his travel that Fray Antonio received impressions that would never fade from his memory during the fifty-six years that he was to labor in Mexico, for toward noon his troop approached the enormous lake across which lay the shimmering City of Mexico. Even though its highest pagan towers had already been pulled down by the conquerors, it still presented an imposing face to the newcomers, who were enthralled by its grandeur.
Its general aspect, seen from across the lake, was a light gold broken by the greenery of many trees. Its houses and public buildings were of uneven height, which lent the city a kind of rippling quality well fitted to a metropolis surrounded by water. About its shores there was a constant movement of boats whose passengers, wearing bright garments and the plumage of brilliant birds, could occasionally be seen. But what principally characterized the city was its sense of extreme solidity and efficient operation, an impression that grew stronger with each step the Spaniards took along the causeway that led across the lake.
The soldiers who were seeing the great city for the first time thought: It has already been looted. How fortunate the first ones must have been. But Antonio, renewing the sense of dedication that had possessed him in Salamanca, thought, What an admirable city to win for God, and as specific houses began to take shape and as he saw the physical beauty of what the Aztecs had accomplished, the conviction grew that here was a prize worth any effort required for its salvation.
He was now in the area where small boats abounded, and he could see their cargo—the fish, the myriad strange fruits, the corn, the woven cloth, the threads of gold and the brilliance of the feathers—and it occurred to him that not even in Salamanca had he seen such riches. He entertained for the first time the suspicion that this rude, violent land of Mexico with its towering volcanoes would one day be more powerful than Spain. Spiritual battles of greater significance would be fought here, and in generations to come, Mexico would loom larger in the world than its mother country. “I must send for Timoteo quickly,” he decided. “He’s the kind of man this country needs.”
He had now reached the portals to the city itself, and from the watchtowers friendly Spaniards called down greetings to the new troops; Captain Cortés, hearing the news of their arrival, hurried to greet them at the gateway. With marked deference the conqueror first welcomed the priest and found to his pleasure that Antonio was from Salamanca. Then he quickly passed on to soldiers to ascertain how many and how worthy they were, for he was already engaged in vast new conquests that had carried the flag of Spain to Guatemala and was planning others that would in later years consolidate all the territory between the City of Mexico and what would later be called California.
When he had satisfied himself that the troops were able, he returned to Antonio and led him by the arm into the heart of the city, where for three years the able young priest served the conqueror in an administrative capacity.
Two significant events occurred during Antonio’s service in the capital, the second deriving its importance from the first. In 1525, after he had worked in Mexico for less than a year, he received an anguished letter from his brother, Timoteo, advising him that their father, the Salamanca professor, had been arrested by the Holy Inquisition on charges of heresy:
After you left, Antonio, Father kept repeating in his lectures that with the discovery of great riches in Peru and Mexico and with the costs of developing them so exorbitant, new ways of financing the industries must be found, and although he was always careful to add that the new ideas he was proposing would have to be developed with the teaching of the Church, many interpreted his words as justifying usury, so that Maestro Mateo, his relentless Dominican adversary, was able to bring the charge of heresy against him in a public accusation. The Inquisition hauled him away to their dungeons, where I was allowed to see him and I found him in good spirits, even though his right arm had been broken during the torture. He thinks he will escape with lashes and a reprimand, but there are others who fear he may be imprisoned for life or even executed. If you can think of anyone to whom we can apply for help, please do so at once, for you and I are in danger, too.
Fray Antonio was shaken by his brother’s letter, for he knew how unlikely it was that a man charged with intellectual heresy could ever clear himself, and he could visualize the extreme tortures to which his father was being subjected in the attempt to force his admission of sin. Walking through the streets of the New World, Antonio thought constantly of the Old and caught himself wishing that his father had been less outspoken on matters that were of no real concern but which nevertheless put him at odds with the teachings of the Church. Why did he have to speculate on such matters? he asked himself again and again.
In response to his brother’s plea for help, Antonio drafted a long letter of supplication to the marquis of Guadalquivir—the letter still exists in our family files—but he did not send it, realizing that on the one hand the marquis would be powerless and on the other that this particular nobleman was not an appropriate one to appeal to, since he was himself probably suspected by the Inquisition, so that any intervention from him might work to Professor Palafox’s detriment. There was nothing Antonio could do to help his father but wait for the infrequent ships that reached Veracruz with dispatches from Spain.
He did, however, have to consider what might happen to him and his brother if their father was convicted of major heresy and his yellow robe of shame hung in the cathedral of Salamanca as an evidence of proscription. Since he, Antonio, was already a priest he could not be disbarred from the clergy, but his advancement would be forever halted and he would be looked upon with suspicion. But the case of Timoteo was more serious: he had not yet taken orders, nor had he joined the army, and if his father was convicted by the Inquisition, he would be permanently shut off from either career. It therefore seemed essential to get Timoteo established quickly, and this matter preoccupied Antonio as he worked.
It was in this frame of mind, beset by uncertainties and apprehensive over his father’s fate, that Antonio was walking one day near the palace in which Cortés lived and happened to come upon an Altomec Indian who had hiked in from the west carrying some raw silver, the metal that had helped place Professor Palafox in a dungeon and his younger son in jeopardy. Asking the Indian if he could examine the silver, Antonio weighed it in his hand. “Father was right,” he muttered to himself. “This is the real power, and he’s in jail because he spoke in defense of it. Well, I will get this power for myself.”
In that moment, standing by a canal in the City of Mexico, Fray Antonio Palafox was seized by the conviction that to possess silver was to possess authority and power. He knew instinctively that somewhere in the west, probably in the unconquered area around City-of-the-Pyramid, there must be silver mines of magnitude, and he believed that if his family could gain control of those mines, it would be in a position to fight back against whatever judgment the Inquisition might dictate against his father.
That night he dispatched a letter, which is still retained by the Palafox family, addressed to his brother, who had remained at his classes at the University of Salamanca:
My dearest brother Timoteo,
This day I have satisfied myself that certain rumors that have been whispered are true. Keep this letter private on pain of condemnation, but somewhere in the west the Altomec Indians
possess a secret that could be of great importance to our family. Enlist at once in the service of Captain Cortés and meet me in Mexico, where I shall share with you what I already know.
Your brother, Antonio.
He hoped that Timoteo would appreciate the importance of getting into the army before the Inquisition handed down its judgment, but on this matter he was apprehensive, for he knew that his brother’s great love for his father might prevent him from leaving Salamanca while the professor’s fate was still uncertain.
Decisions of the Holy Inquisition were never reached in a hurry, and it was not unusual for trials to drag on through three or four years, for although the Dominicans were remorseless once heresy was proved to their satisfaction, they were not arbitrary in finding guilt where none had been proved, so with dogged dedication they might devote years to following leads that would either condemn or acquit. Of course, during those years whoever they were investigating languished in prison to be brought out for periodic torture at the hands of the Dominicans, who sought to clarify some obscure point in the testimony. Complete acquittal was unheard of, but there were hundreds of instances each year in which the accused were let off with four or five sessions of torture, stiff fines and public humiliation, after which they were welcomed back into normal citizenship. Such an outcome was prayed for in the case of Professor Palafox during the four years from 1525 to 1529 that he lay in the dungeon.
Throughout the first two years of this anxious period Fray Antonio worked diligently to convince Captain Cortés of his dedication to Church and emperor, so that the ruler of Mexico assured him, “No matter what happens to your father, your future in Mexico is secure,” and he gave his young assistant additional responsibilities. As soon as Antonio felt safe under Cortés, he started quietly suggesting that he, Palafox, be sent to subdue the Altomecs. At first Cortés replied that those Indians were the most dangerous remaining enemy in Mexico, and he refused to hear of Antonio’s marching against them, saying, “I have no captain whom I can spare to accompany you.”
“I could serve as captain,” Antonio replied and Cortés laughed.
“You’d do better than the fools we send, but you remain my priest.”
In 1527, Cortés finally acceded to Antonio’s request and the expedition was authorized. It was as a kind of soldier-priest that the first Palafox approached the high valley, for although a captain of minor category had been sent along to command the troops, Cortés knew that in the field young Fray Antonio would quickly establish and exercise superior authority. Of his first view of the Altomec capital, the soldier-priest wrote:
The idea of building a great new city in Mexico had possessed me ever since my vision of Toledo in Spain, and when I first saw the City of Mexico I was pleased to discover that my new land could provide the bricks, the masons and the artists required for building a city. But I had always imagined myself starting from nothing, on an empty plain filled with cactus and maguey, and when I asked men who had explored for Cortés “Where is the wild land that no one wants?” they all said “The land of the Altomecs. It’s as wild as its owners.” It was with this destination in mind that I led my donkey along rough Indian trails, assuring the soldiers who accompanied me, “Soon we’ll be there.” And then one morning as we climbed a hilly pass that carried us into a high valley we saw with astonishment that we were looking down upon a fine Altomec city with a towering pyramid, temples beyond counting, gardens and substantial homes, a metropolis requiring only a cathedral and a name. I asked the captain to halt the troops, and from our summit I proclaimed, “This shall be the city of Toledo,” whereupon we fell upon our knees to give thanks to God, and we were in this position when the Altomecs attacked.
The conquest of City-of-the-Pyramid required fifteen weeks of uninterrupted fighting, during which the incompetent captain of the troops several times lost heart and would have abandoned the siege had not Fray Antonio forbidden him to do so. The Altomecs were terrifying enemies, who charged with feather headdresses and the faces of eagles. Neither horses nor bullets nor Spanish bravery discouraged them, and they seemed not to care how many warriors they lost in their counterattacks. Their defense of City-of-the-Pyramid became one of the highlights of Mexican history, for in the end neither side won. An honorable truce was arranged on the Altomec principle that “this could go on forever, and that would be foolish, for we are both strong peoples.” The peace treaty was later represented in murals by Indian artists, such as Rivera and Orozco, who took pride in this siege as proof of their ancestors’ courage. Several times in my father’s book, The Pyramid and the Cathedral, he referred proudly to the fact that, alone of the Mexican tribes, the Altomecs had never been defeated by the Spaniards, and as a child he taught me to be proud of my Altomec blood, for it was the blood of heroes.
At the same time my Palafox uncles took care to teach me, “Never forget, Norman, that it was a Palafox who took control of this city. When the others were afraid and would have run back to Mexico City, Fray Antonio stood fast. Read what he wrote about the battle.”
During the siege a strange event took place, from which each army seemed to derive strength to continue the fight. Each morning during the fifteen bitter weeks, about half an hour before dawn, atop the pyramid that commanded the city, a slack-headed drum began throbbing, sending its echoes throughout the city and across our encampment, which crowded the walls. And this drum exercised a spell on all who heard it, for to the Altomecs it was a summons by their horrible gods to offer fresh human sacrifices, which took place at sunrise atop the pyramid so that all of us could see, and we observed with horror that the condemned were apparently not slaves but the bravest warriors we had been fighting against in previous days, for at times we could recognize them, or thought we could. Nor did the condemned struggle or appear in any way to protest their fate, but marched gladly to the stone slab where their hearts were torn out by foul and bloodstained priests. To us Spaniards the drum was a command to new battles, and each time we heard it I summoned the leaders of our force and conducted prayers for the poor victims about to be sacrificed, and if our prayers had any power, some of those unfortunates gained heaven.
Through the first eight weeks the hatred of the Spaniards for the rites of human sacrifice that they were forced to observe was based simply on moral outrage, but early in the ninth week events occurred that stunned the Spaniards and left them grimly determined to humble this arrogant city and lay waste its evil pyramid. At dawn the drum had sent its echoes pulsating over the encampment and Fray Antonio had summoned his captain to prayer, when to his horror he discovered that the day’s living sacrifice was to be one of their own companions who had been captured along with several others some weeks before by the Indians. This time there was a violent struggle at the altar, and in the Spanish camp prayers ceased while in horrified fascination the soldiers watched the death throes of their friend.
From that moment on, the battle for City-of-the-Pyramid degenerated into barbaric ruthlessness, for each morning the Spaniards assembled in mute rage to watch the priests atop the pyramid cut out the heart of another comrade, and during the course of the day the invaders killed—not always quickly—any Indians they caught. But what provided the ultimate horror was an incident that occurred in the eleventh week: on the walls of the city in full sight of the Spaniards there was a small parade of feathered Altomecs accompanied by three Spanish soldiers, or so it seemed until it became apparent that the three were not alive—they had been skinned alive, with their heads left on, and Altomec priests had crawled into the white skins, pulling the heads down upon their own, so that the dead bodies walked and looked much as they had in life.
Groups of outraged Spaniards leaped toward the walls to avenge their comrades, but they were driven back, and that night Fray Antonio erased from the minds of his companions any thought of retreat from this dreadful city. “We are engaged with demons from hell,” he preached in the darkness, “and we have been chosen by God to humiliate this enemy, to d
estroy his temples, and to convert all we find to the love of Jesus Christ.” In the days that followed, it was Fray Antonio who led the troops, and his tall, stoop-shouldered body, dressed always in black, became a symbol of his men’s determination, but as the fifteenth week dawned the two armies remained in stalemate: the Altomecs showed no signs of irresolution and continued to sacrifice Spaniards at dawn or to flay them alive at midday, while the Fray’s Spaniards pressed the siege and engaged in their own tortures.
Then what is known in history as the Miracle of Toledo occurred, for at nine o’clock on Thursday morning, after what appeared to the Spaniards to have been a scuffle inside the city, a dignified woman of about fifty appeared at the principal gate leading a beautiful little girl, and the Spaniards saw, to their surprise, that the woman was carrying aloft a parchment banner showing the Holy Virgin and the Christ Child. A cry went up and fighting ceased; Fray Antonio and the captain were sent for. In great solemnity, as in numerous later reenactments of the event, the woman and the child approached the priest and the soldiers.
From the troops came the shout “It is a miracle!” And when the woman reached Fray Antonio, who had been wondering how long he could sustain the courage of his army, he knelt before the banner, bringing it down to his lips and kissing it, as each new governor of Toledo has been required to do for the past four hundred years.
The occupation of the city was arranged by interpreters, and the woman summoned from within the walls the military leaders, who ratified the arrangements not as a surrender, for they remained willing to fight, but as a decision between equals. Before noon that day Fray Antonio led his soldiers to the pyramid, which he and the woman climbed, accompanied by sixteen Spanish veterans and about fifty Altomec women. At the top of the pyramid the Spaniards and the Indians ransacked the temples, smashed the drum, and with the aid of long poles tumbled the hideous idols down the face of the pyramid.
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