Relating Continents: Coloniality and Global Encounters in Romance Literary and Cultural History 9783110796308, 9783110796193

Table of contents :
Contents
Tales of the World
Between America, Asia, and Africa
Literate Circulations between India and Brazil in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries
Enemigos encubiertos
Inflection Points of the Colonial Necropolitical Machine
The Development of Modern Racial Discourse in Alonso de Sandoval’s De instauranda Aethiopum salute
Transcontinental Writing
Speculative Encounters in the New World
Trading Goods, Trading Souls between Seville and las Indias
Founders, Discoverers, and Conquistadors in the 1577 Relaciones geográficas of Colonial Mexico
Native Agencies
Encounters between Indigenous Communities and Vásquez de Coronado’s Expedition to the Northern Part of New Spain according to Pedro Castañeda Nájera’s Relación de la Jornada de Cibola
The Crossroads of the World
Tiahuanaco and Sacsayhuamán
Contemplative Devotions in Colonial Mexico
Index

Citation preview

Relating Continents

Latin American Literatures in the World Literaturas Latinoamericanas en el Mundo Edited by / Editado por Gesine Müller Editorial Board Ana Gallego (Granada) Gustavo Guerrero (Paris) Héctor Hoyos (Stanford) Ignacio Sánchez Prado (St. Louis) Mariano Siskind (Harvard) Patricia Trujillo (Bogotá)

Volume 17 / Volumen 17

Relating Continents Coloniality and Global Encounters in Romance Literary and Cultural History Edited by Romana Radlwimmer

Funded by the Excellence Initiative of the University of Tübingen, Platform 4 Global Encounters

ISBN 978-3-11-079619-3 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-079630-8 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-079642-1 ISSN 2513-0757 Library of Congress Control Number: 2023937581 Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2023 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Typesetting: Integra Software Services Pvt. Ltd. Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck www.degruyter.com

Contents Romana Radlwimmer (Goethe-University of Frankfurt) Tales of the World 1

Between America, Asia, and Africa Adma Muhana (University of São Paulo) Literate Circulations between India and Brazil in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries 27 Clayton McCarl (University of North Florida) Enemigos encubiertos 49 Luis Fernando Restrepo (University of Arkansas) Inflection Points of the Colonial Necropolitical Machine

71

Monica Styles (Howard University) The Development of Modern Racial Discourse in Alonso de Sandoval’s De instauranda Aethiopum salute 93

Transcontinental Writing Pablo García Loaeza (West Virginia University) Speculative Encounters in the New World

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Marlen Bidwell-Steiner (University of Vienna) Trading Goods, Trading Souls between Seville and las Indias Victoria Ríos Castaño (Coventry University) Founders, Discoverers, and Conquistadors in the 1577 Relaciones geográficas of Colonial Mexico 159

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Native Agencies Rubén Sánchez-Godoy (Southern Methodist University) Encounters between Indigenous Communities and Vásquez de Coronado’s Expedition to the Northern Part of New Spain according to Pedro Castañeda Nájera’s Relación de la Jornada de Cibola 181 Allison Bigelow (University of Virginia) The Crossroads of the World 205 Juan Carlos G. Mantilla (Columbia University) Tiahuanaco and Sacsayhuamán 225 David Tavárez (Vassar College) Contemplative Devotions in Colonial Mexico Index

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Tales of the World Imagining Globally during Early Modern Romance Expansionism

Encountering the World Is there one world, or are there many worlds? Inca Garcilaso’s celebrated 1609 Comentarios Reales [Royal Commentaries] begin with an intriguing invitation to think globally. He asks “si hay muchos mundos”, whether many worlds exist, pondering how to conceive that round surface situated beneath wide skies and inhabited by humans and other species. He inquires how the globe dramatically changed when it was divided into two, the New World and the Old, and how its different zones are connected to each other (Inca Garcilaso 1985: 9–10). Five-hundred years later, in a global system shaped by the long shadows of colonialism – or “coloniality”, to use Aníbal Quijano’s term (Quijano 2008) – which excluded a plurality of world views, Inca Garcilaso’s questions still resonate. They direct the gaze towards the transcontinental emplotments (White 2014 [1973]; Ricœur 1984 [1983]), that is, the imaginary-narrative composition of historical representation, during early modern Romance expansionism. They stimulate further explorations: in which ways do the early modern Spanish and Portuguese Americas, which Inca Garcilaso referred to, participate in an emerging global literary system, and how do they coin it? How do they reflect on their contemporary world order, and how do they produce it? In Romance literary and cultural history, colonial and global expansion form much-debated reciprocal relations. Globalization is often seen as a process triggered by early modern colonialism’s massive mobilization of technical and financial resources, when soldiers, clergymen, merchants, writers, and editors systematically expanded awareness about intercontinentally travelled routes to new possessions and modes of production (Wallerstein 2011 [1974]; Braudel 1979; Gruzinski 2012; Hausberger 2018). The Spanish and Portuguese constitution of America served as a structural model for later colonial endeavors; together, they produced coloniality’s centuries-long cultural legacies of worldwide impact. In this panorama, the designation “encounter” has been exhaustively employed as a synonym for the global ramifications of conquest and has evoked equally much critical scholarship. The “encounter between Old World and New” became a main component of the discourse of discovery, generating alterity and excitement, and covering up the clashes and wars lying at the origin of coloniality’s hybrid practices (Todorov 1987 [1982]; Greenblatt 1991; Verdesio 2002). Building on these debates, this anthology dismisses the semantics of “encounter” which, in the https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110796308-001

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politics of naming, euphemistically substitutes invasive violence; however, it invests in the notion’s dimension as a junction where literary, cultural, historical, and social relations are enacted (Bachmann-Medick 2016). At such dynamic meeting grounds, early modern literatures, cultures, and histories emerge which relate continents in priorly unimagined ways. From the perspective of Spanish and Portuguese American literature, culture, and history, Relating Continents: Coloniality and Global Encounters in Romance Literary and Cultural History revisits colonial and global encounters’, reencounters’ or misencounters’ relating of continents: encounters happened or hindered, public or private, desired or avoided; encounters resulting in alliances and attachments, or confrontation and frustration; encounters merging regional and transcontinental aspects to “glocal” constellations (Robertson 1995). Critically sounding out these associating or separating forces of colonialism and coloniality, the volume is methodologically oriented by historic and current debates on relationality. While non-Western ontologies have long seen all expressions of the cosmos as interconnected (Skousen/Buchanan 2015), more recent concepts from the humanities, cultural studies and social sciences have investigated the qualities and dynamics of relations, and the power they exercise. The imaginary, narrative, and geopolitical practice of relating becomes visible, for instance, as translation – as the ongoing linguistic and cultural transfer process characteristic for the global age (Bassnett/Trivedi 1999: 2; Cronin 2003: 2). The relating of continents appears also in contact zones, or in those “highly asymmetrical relations of domination and subordination” forged by colonialism (Pratt 2008: 7). Latour proposes to think in terms of networks of discursive, cultural, literary, technical, or material entities to contemplate what happens between points of contacts (Latour 2005). Furthermore, “assemblages” designate heterogeneous groups of materials and bodies which affect others, generating new assemblages (Deleuze/Guattari 1987 [1980]; DeLanda 2006; Harris 2012). According to Édouard Glissant, the world is always constructed through relations, or acts of connecting through listening, comprehending, or telling (Glissant 1990). Sanjay Subrahmanyam talks about early modern “connected histories” to comprehend the transcultural relations of regions, archives, and stories which had been treated usually as individual phenomena (Subrahmanyam 2022 [2004]). All these notions propose paths to comprehend relationality and can thus illuminate the early modern literatures, cultures, and histories which were shaped through transcontinental encounters. A transcontinental literary-historical genre par excellence are the Relaciones de Indias [Relations of the Indies]. These accounts of conquest and colonization have been meticulously subdivided into relaciones [relations], historias [histories], cartas [letters], or crónicas [chronicles], each with their specific generic characteristics (Mignolo 1982). Relaciones can be described as a shorter, more immediate, and official genre; historias as long, expanding, detailed overviews which covered and

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were frequently composed over long periods of time; cartas count as first-hand observations, often sent to the Iberian authorities; crónicas as elaborate reports on specific subjects. In sixteenth- and seventeenth-century letters, however, these designations were not always stable, but were at times used synonymously or even confounded. While a generic classification can be a useful orientation, a rigid understanding of it would not do justice to the monumental and multifaceted enterprise colonial writing produced. Rereading the writing of the early Spanish and Portuguese Americas, the anthology touches upon the traditional fascination for meetings between Europeans and Natives and its valid denouncing of colonial inequality, recognizable, for instance, in the globally impactful conversation of Moteuczoma [Montezuma] pleading with Hernán Cortés to remain open to all religious beliefs: Señor Malinche, muy bien tengo entendido vuestras pláticas [. . .] de la cruz [. . .]. No os hemos respondido a cosa ninguna dellas porque desde ab enicio acá adoramos nuestros dioses y los tenemos por buenos. Ansí deben ser los vuestros, e no curéis más al presente nos hablar dellos. (Díaz del Castillo 2015 [1632]: 318, original emphasis) [Lord Malinche [Cortés], I have understood your talk about the cross very well. We have not responded to any of these things because ab initio, we adore our gods here and we hold them in high esteem. Yours are certainly like this, and for now, please do not seek to talk about them anymore1].

The volume analyzes how Romance expansionism variously combated, erased, integrated, or encouraged non-European practices, while local actors correspondingly resisted, accepted, or subverted such endeavors, actively shaping the global encounters imposed on them, or generating such meeting points themselves. How did Native knowledges inform European thought, starting, but not ending with those conquerors who rejoined other conquerors’ armies after years immersed in local cultures? Jerónimo Aguilar in Mexico, Juan Ortiz in Florida, or João Ramalho in Brazil became prolific interpreters and mediators for the Spanish and Portuguese (Díaz del Castillo 2015: 113; Inca Garcilaso 1986: 308; Nóbrega 1956: 498); contrary to Gonzalo Guerrero who, married in Yucatán, bluntly rejected Cortés’ invitation to see him, and certainly did not accompany his men to seize Mexico (Díaz del Castillo 2015: 107). Considering such specific moments, Relating Continents also captures larger dispositions of encounters. How did literary, cultural, religious, or political tensions, transferred to other regions, replay and complicate encounters? The founding of a Huguenot haven in the Timucua territory renamed La Floride, for example, gave rise to conflicts between the French Crown and the

 All translations are mine, unless otherwise specified.

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Spanish colonizers, which were portrayed by the French painter Jacques Le Moyne de Morgues in his picture-book and published in Latin by the editorial magnate Theodore de Bry (Le Moyne/De Bry 1591; Lestringant 1990). And yet, the anthology takes the query for early modern global encounters beyond the common transatlantic axis, inserting them into the (narrations of) worldwide, multidirectional fusions and gatherings of people, goods, texts, artifacts, ideas, senses of belonging, and epistemologies. Relating Continents assesses the impact of global encounters on shifting hemispheric Native networks, as when in the 1530s, Tlaxcaltecan author Diego Muñoz Camargo received the Seminoles arriving with Cabeza de Vaca to Mexico City (Cabeza de Vaca 2018 [1542]: 201–202; Gibson 1950: 200; Costilla/Ramírez 2019: 12); or thirty years later, when Sahagún’s team of Nahua writers interviewed the Mexica elders to record the pre-Hispanic past, resulting in the censuring of the transcultural Códice Florentino in Spain (Sahagún 1993; Adorno 1988: 62; Spagnesi 1993; Castro-Klaren 2017; Terraciano 2019: 2). The volume further examines literary, cultural, and historical relations between America, Africa, and Asia, as in Jesuit accounts of the smallpoxcarrying European slave ship which in 1562 arrived from Europe via Africa to Brazil, causing the death of a massive number of Tupi slaves and triggering the debut of the large-scale African slave trade to Bahia (Anchieta 1933: 238; Alden/ Miller 1987; Crosby 2015 [1986]; Vainfas 2020); or as in the manifold literary and artistic circulations and ethic and aesthetic transplants between the Americas and Asia in the sixteenth to eighteenth centuries. In the 1540s, conquerors still envisioned America as part of Asia, or India Extra Gangum [India outside the Ganges] (Flint/Flint 2019: 21–23; Vallen 2019: 154). In April 1543, Emperor Charles gave the Instrucciones para neotéricos descubrimientos [Instructions for Neoteric Discoveries] to Bartolomé de las Casas in Barcelona, who handed them to the Archbishop of Mexico, Juan de Zumárraga. The archbishop, together with other influential Dominicans like Domingo de Betanzos, imagined new missionary projects in Japan and China, which they believed strategically accessible through New Mexico (Pérez-Amador 2011: 129–130). Even though Rome did not allow Zumárraga to step back from his duties, the Instrucciones exemplify the early endeavors to relate America with other continents.

Relating as Narrating and Connecting Relating Continents understands the practice of relating in a double sense, as connecting and as narrating, and investigates both the colonial relationships formed between continents and the transcultural hi/stories told in the process. Inca

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Garcilaso’s before-mentioned Comentarios Reales reflect an acute awareness of the practice of relating as connecting and narrating. The author sees America as intrinsically linked to other continents. He speculates whether the diverse people, languages, and traditions of the New World have come from over the sea or if they traveled there by land. Only by considering the entire world does he feel entitled to speak about the New World. He reaffirms the earth’s roundness and the movements between its different zones and refutes theories of inhabitability in the hot middle and cold extremes. Inca Garcilaso recounts his own experiences of living in the torrid center of the earth during his youth in Cuzco, and his travels between the continents – from the Tropic of Capricorn to Charcas in the South, through the world’s cold North, and to the Iberian Peninsula, where he claims to write his account. Besides the regions of desert and eternal ice, the world is made for humans to inhabit, because it would not make sense for God to create large zones of the world without purpose or people (Inca Garcilaso 1985: 9–10). As El Inca responds to some ardent philosophical and cosmographical European debates on the nature of the world – what does it encompass, what are the relations between continents, and whom do they serve (Portuondo 2009: 1; Buisseret 1992: 2–3) –, he also confronts them with divergent Native cosmovisions on what the world is. In his recapitulation of an Inca myth of the origin of the world, a powerful man appears in Cuzco – the city whose name means “navel” or “center” – shortly after a natural catastrophe which Inca Garcilaso interprets as the biblical Flood. The man divides the world into four parts and gives them to four kings: Manco Cápac receives the north, Colla the south, Tócay the east, and Pinahua, the west. The story situates the Inca Empire at the source of a world whose distribution happens only after the establishment of the Inca realm: from then on, the mighty Inca sun always shined onto all parts of the world (Inca Garcilaso 1985: 38; 42). Instead of simply reiterating Inca conceptions of the world, Inca Garcilaso’s text turns into a meta-reflection on how their sphere is narrated. He qualifies the “fábula” or fable, as he calls it, as just one possible version, and shows how early seventeenth-century actors participate in constructing a narrative bundle about the world’s functioning: Apretando a los indios sobre qué hicieron aquellos [. . .] primeros Reyes, dicen mil disparates, y no hallando mejor salida, alegorizan la fábula [. . .]. Y aun esto dicen por tantos enredos, tan sin orden y concierto, que más se saca por conjeturas de lo querrán decir que por el discurso y orden de sus palabras. Solo se afirman en que Manco Cápac fue el primer Rey y que de él descienden los demás Reyes. De manera que por todas [. . .] vías hacen principio y origen [. . .], antes por la vía alegórica los deshacen [. . .]. Algunos españoles curiosos quieren decir, oyendo estos cuentos, que aquellos indios tuvieron la noticia de la historia de Noé [. . .], y que el hombre poderoso que la [. . .] fábula dice que [. . .] repartió el mundo [. . .],

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quieren los curiosos que sea Dios, que mandó a Noé y a sus tres hijos que poblasen el mundo. Otros pasos de la [. . .] fábula [. . .] quieren semejar a la Santa Historia [. . .]. A semejanza de las fábulas que hemos dicho de los Incas, inventan las demás naciones del Perú otra infinidad de ellas, del origen y principio [del mundo] [. . .], diferenciándose unos de otros [. . .]. Que no se tiene por honrado el indio que no desciende de fuente, río o lago, [. . .] de la mar o de animales fieros, [. . .] o de sierras, montes, riscos o cavernas, cada uno como se le antoja, para su mayor loa y blasón. (Inca Garcilaso 1985: 43–44) [Pressing the Indians about what these first kings did, they say a thousand things without sense, and not finding a better excuse, they allegorize the fable. And they tell these things with so many knots and ties, and so messy and without method, that our speculations of what they might want to say tell us more than the discourse and order of their words. They only coincide in that Manco Cápac was the first king and from him, all other kings descend. This way, they invent the beginning and the origin in many ways, before unwinding them allegorically. Some nosy Spaniards who hear these stories tend to say that the Indians had heard Noah’s story, and of the man of which the fable says that he distributed the world, these inquisitive persons wish to think that he was God, who sent Noah and his sons to populate the world. They say that other passages of the fable resemble Holy History. Similar to the fables of the Incas I have told, other nations of Peru invent an infinity of stories about the world’s origin and beginning, and they are all different. An Indian does not feel honorable if he does not descend from a source, a river, or a lake, from the sea or wild animals, from valleys, mountains, crags, or caves, each one as he likes, for his own praise and glory.]

In this account, early modern worldviews are created through storytelling. Instead of seeing the different renderings as historic truths, Inca Garcilaso reveals their narrative construction and the power they exercise, whether told by the Incas, by other Natives, or interpreted by the Europeans. Inca Garcilaso explains in detail the Native ways of narrating the world as a semantically open practice. He highlights the multifaceted narrative entanglements they offer, which give him the difficult task to reconstruct their meaning himself. The fact that his Indigenous informants do not tell him willingly about their cosmovisions, but must be forced to do so, might play a role in the hermetical nature Inca Garcilaso perceives in their world relations. The brilliantly ironic quality of his meta-reflections on narrating the world is one of the salient features of Inca Garcilaso’s writing in general. In the quoted paragraph, none of the narrators can be trusted. They all represent their respective cultural framework, which reduces their ability to comprehend the world beyond their social conditioning. The Spaniards fail to understand Native mythologies beyond biblical stories; the Natives reproduce the narrative patterns of flora and fauna available to them. All of them are storytellers, but none seems a capable one in the critical eyes of Inca Garcilaso, who mocks not only the conqueror’s limited worldview, but also those Native origin accounts which conveniently construct the world as interrelated place, stripping it of an original spiritual meaning and serving the interests of the respective storyteller.

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And yet, the often-excluded Native cosmovisions of the world occupy a prominent place in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century global imagination in and about the Americas. Rooted in specific localities, Native notions of the world widen the panorama of early modern expansionist narratives. In their centurieslong oral tradition, the Tikuna of the Amazon, for instance, relate themselves to all other parts of the world. According to their origin myth, Yoí, a wise and sensible creator god, fishes the Tikuna people from the sacred stream Ewara, while his hyperactive and creative brother Ípi, who always wants to know what is beyond his horizon, fishes all other people of the world. Yoí fishes with a yuca, which gives the Tikuna their color, but Ípi uses a huito [Genipa americana] fruit, which gives other people of the world a much darker skin. Ordering the cosmos, the two brothers soon separate from each other different parts of the world, which are still deeply connected through a holy flow of waters. In Tikuna understanding, however, the world is not only horizontally interlaced, on the earth’s surface between oceans and from continent to continent, but also vertically. Ngerüütágüane, the water world, emerges below the capsula mundi and connects to Ngeetütáane, the world without eyes, ruled by the boa Noratù, and to Mḛchitágüane, the world of the dwarves, who feed themselves from the waters of the mortals. The next layer of this interconnected system is Yunatügüane, the world of all mortals and rivers such as the Amazon. Above, there is the Ẽchatagüane, the world of the condors with their own rivers, which still lies below the Ẽtagüane, the world of the stars, where the cosmos flows (Santos 2010: 303–309). Even though the Tikuna imagine the world as being composed by several worlds, as Inca Garcilaso relates it, they maintain a sense for geopolitical power structures in the world of the human. One day, at the beginning of the Tikuna era, the two godly creatorbrothers climb an açai palm tree at a beach and foresee the future: they visualize strange, light people coming from the sea with the intention to destroy their world (Krenak 2020: 36). Was the element of imperial relations between continents added to the Tikuna narrative right after conquest, during colonization, or much later, in contexts of coloniality? In an oral environment, the exact timeline of narration might be less relevant than its cultural impact. Native writer and activist Ailton Krenak describes the engagement of Indigenous Brazilians with this type of world as “queimada”, as a kind of burning: “Talvez por isso também algumas tribus prefiram viver isoladas [. . .] [e] observer esse mundo que queimava” [“Maybe this is why some tribes prefer to live isolated and to observe that burning world”] (Krenak 2020: 27). The imposed intercontinental relations lead not only to new relations, formations, and circulations, but also to separation and division: to the effort to cut contact with the world and its narrations.

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The World in a Book Early modern Romance imaginations of the world frequently conceal the “queimadas”, the metaphorical and concrete “burning” of other worldviews, to tell their own dynamic tales of global encounters. Steven Greenblatt sees the authors of Relaciones as frequent, cunning, yet unsystematic liars, “so that we cannot have the hermeneutic satisfaction to strip away their false representations” but “find ourselves groping uneasily among the mass of textual traces” (Greenblatt 1991: 7). Their narrative uncertainty and vagueness, characteristic for literary expression in general, and their plots in exotic geographies presenting “the world not in a harmonious order but in a succession of brief encounters” (Greenblatt 1991: 2), reveal the way in which Relaciones de Indias participate in the global constitution of early modern literatures. On the tip of the tongue, the term “world literature”, however, does not sound quite right for the colonial Spanish and Portuguese Americas. Jorge Téllez detects a primordial problem in the modern conception of “literature” which lies at the base of world literature theory, and which does not coincide with the ways of “doing literature” in chronicles of the Indies (Téllez 2021: 9). One might add that neither does a post-nineteenth-century comprehension encompass the historical semantics of the “world” in the Relaciones de Indias, which strive to go beyond ancient and medieval imaginations, such as mappae mundi compositions. The Renaissance world has ceased to be a geocentric, linear construction hierarchically favoring places like Jerusalem or the Mediterranean; it now extends geometrically as a homogenous, quantifiable, recognizable mass, and the sky and its planets serve as units of measurement (Lestringant 1989: 49). Yet, the post/modern configuration of world literature connects to early modern Romance expansionist narratives as it structurally reproduces their universalizing gesture towards the world. World literature “has a distinctly, if not exclusively, European provenance. [. . .] With Columbus’s voyage [. . .] and the Portuguese seafarers’ establishment of the Cape route to India, European colonialism became a global affair, culminating in [. . .] asymmetrical transcultural encounters [. . .] [and] literary cultures” (Helgesson/Rosendahl Thomsen 2020: 6–8). From the perspective of non-European literatures, these parameters have nudged the contestation of “the naturalization of the object of world literature” (Sánchez Prado 2021: 1) to “think beyond, otherwise, post or against conventional, inherited definitions of their signifying inscriptions” (Müller/Siskind 2019: 1–2). The articulated need to reevaluate the scope and functions of world literature certainly bears a historical dimension; regarding early modernity, it is open to further explorations and necessarily differs from approaches concerned with later periods. What kind of books seeked to comprehend the world in early modern Romance literary and cultural history? The ambiguous genre of the cosmography,

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for instance, wished to capture the earth’s position in the universe within the limited space of a cover and its pages. Cosmographies built on medieval thought traditions; they appeared in various forms, as historical or geographical treaties, as encyclopedias or world maps. Such Renaissance imagines mundi blended diverse formats, images, and sources to a heterogeneous conglomerate. Inserting legends and stories, they often diverged from the pure scientific discourse which they promised to offer (Cattaneo 2016: 36; Lestringant 1989: 51). These histories of the world frequently were ardently interested or even participated in the forging of imperial expansion. In 1556, Guillaume Le Testu authored the elaborate, colorfully illustrated nautical atlas and hand-written manuscript Cosmographie universelle, selon les navigateurs tant anciens que modernes. The folio volume of 56 plates starts with six world maps in different projections and then presents 50 further maps zooming into all parts of the earth, already including a hypothetical, yet precisely designed Terre Australe. To designate the diverse zones of the earth, Testu uses Portuguese terminology, which he slightly adapts to French. In his own global adventures, as they were propagated by Royal cosmographer André Thevet, Le Testu travelled from France to Brazil and died in 1573, supposedly while attacking the Spanish in Panamá together with the buccaneer Sir Francis Drake (Lestringant 1994: 2–5; Lestringant 2013: 93). Nearly two decades later, in 1575, two other universal cosmographies were published in Paris. The first one was François de Belleforest’s Cosmographie universelle de tout le monde, consisting of Belleforest’s French translation of Sebastian Münster’s 1544 Cosmographia, which he significantly expanded, abundantly using other sources, into a book of several thousand pages (the first two of the five volumes alone have more than two-thousand pages). Invoking Holy Letters and Moses, Belleforest’s work paints the beginning of the world as a unified surface of water: “[L]a terre au commencement de la creation estoit toute couuerte & enclose de l’estendüe des eaux” [sic] [“In the beginning of creation, the earth was all covered and enclosed by the extension of water”] (Belleforest 1575: 6). He goes on to describe how the earth had been divided into three parts – Europe, Africa, and Asia – and how the different regions of these continents were related to each other. He does not mention America in this paragraph but says that “[o]n met Indie auec l’Asie” [sic] [“India is part of Asia”] (Belleforest 1575: 6), leaving open which India, or Indies, he refers to as part of Asia. The first tome is concerned with Europe, but in the second tome, Belleforest starts in the Mediterranean and then informs about Asia, Africa, and lastly America, from Cuzco and Mexico to the Caribbean. He also identifies islands which do not seem to specifically belong to America or Asia: “Des iles, qui sont és Indes Occidentales, tant en la mer Pacifique” [“Of islands which are as much in the West Indies as in the Pacific ocean”] (Belleforest 1575: n. p.).

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The second world cosmographic book printed in 1575 was André Thevet’s La cosmographie universelle of nearly thousand pages. In 1558, Thévet had already published his Singularités de la France antarctique about the French occupation of Brazil. Now, Thevet envisioned his Cosmographie to be a description of the entire world: “Cosmographie n’est autre chose, qu’une description du Monde (ou Adonia en lãgue Ethiopienne) [. . .]. Or tout cest vniuers est de figure ronde & spherique, embelly de plusieurs parties” [sic] (Thevet 1575: 2r, original emphasis) [“A cosmography is nothing but a description of the world (or Adonia in [the] Ethiopian language). [. . .] And yet, this universe has a round and spheric form, embellished by several parts”]. Thevet’s Cosmographie especially focuses on Africa and Asia but frequently mentions these continents’ relations to America to situate them in a global context. He compares the Arabian Gulf with the green waters of the ocean off of Perú, or the Indian town Calicut’s riches with American mines (Thevet 1575: 121v; 397r–v). Besides cosmographies, other short or lengthy Romance texts related continents. In 1608, Manoel de Figueiredo’s Hidrographia, exame de pilotos [Hydrography, A Pilots’ Exam] was published in Lisbon and included, as the subtitle informs, [. . .] os roteiros de Portugal pera o Brasil, Rio da Prata, Guinè, S. Thomé, Angolla, & Indias de Portugla [sic], & Castella [sic] [the intineraries from Portugal to Brazil, the Platine River, Guinea, São Thomé, Angola & Portuguese Indies & Castille]. This book, which had several editions, was a concise – some four-hundred pages long – and practical navigational guide to traverse the globe’s oceans from Portugal and back, enabling seafarers to understand and sail “as derrotas pera todo o Orbe” [sic] [“the paths around the whole globe”] (Figueiredo 1625 [1608]: 13). Figueiredo was educated in a climate of global discussions. He was a disciple of the Portuguese Royal cosmographer Pero Nunes, who translated and annotated Ptolemy’s Geography and in 1537, the Parisian Ioannes de Sacro Bosco’s De sphaera mundi (1230), a medieval heliocentric discussion of the world, as Tratado da sphera (Nunes 1537). Another book of enormous breadth, the Histoiria general del mundo [sic] [General History of the World], by the Spanish Royal Chronicler of the Indies and Castille, Antonio de Herrera y Tordesilla, staged Philip II of Spain as the main protagonist and focal point of the global Iberian Empire. The first two volumes of this world history, covering the time from Philip’s coronation in 1554 to 1585, were published in Madrid in 1601; in 1612, a third volume followed for the period from 1585 to 1598, the year of Philip’s death. The Histoiria was not ordered spatially, continent by continent, like the cosmographies or nautical atlases, but temporally, and therefore interlaced the stories that happened in all known continents of the world into a transcontinental textual entity. Chapters about events in Spain, Portugal, or Flanders are interrupted or complemented by other chapters about events in Japan, Turkey, Morocco, Mexico, or Peru. In

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the process, the Histoiria also unwillingly becomes a world literary history, in chapters like the one about Santa Teresa de Jesús: [A]ntes que la Madre muriese, quedaron fundados otros diez [monasterios], y como se ha dicho han crecido hasta las Indias. Estos fueron las obras desta santa Madre, que tuvo espíritu de profecia, y escriuio libros espirituales con grandes auisos para la oración, [. . .] enseñando la [. . .] estrecha amistad con Dios, descubriendo los pasos por donde se llega a tanto bien, [. . .] con tanta facilidad y dulçura, [. . .] con palabras tan viuas, que todos los espirituales hallan en ellos gran provecho. (Herrera 1601: 820) [Before the Mother died, ten more monasteries were founded, and it is said that they grew until the Indies. These were the works of this holy Mother, who had a prophet’s spirit and wrote spiritual books with great advice for oration, teaching the close friendship with God, showing the steps which lead to much good, and she did so with so much ease and sweetness, and such lively words, that all spiritual seekers find them very fruitful.]

Herrera y Tordesillas portrays the writer as a great wordsmith whose influence stretches from Ávila across the ocean to the New World. Even if he specifically refers to Santa Teresa’s outreach in a material sense, in the founding of new monasteries of her order in the Indies, he quickly adds the impact of her lively writing on readers the world over, who enjoyed her books which connected the path of the self to the divine world.

Early Modern Literary Global Encounters In literary production of the sixteenth to eighteenth century, a myriad of works imagines globally, greatly impacting literary imagination. Antonio Pigafetta’s account of the globe circumnavigation from 1519 to 1522 inaugurates those expansionist accounts relating – connecting and narrating – the entire world, that is, all continents except Australia. The Italian Pigafetta accompanied the Portuguese captain of a Spanish fleet, Ferdinand Magellan, to Asia via America, and travelled, after Magellan’s death in the Philippines in 1521, with his successor Juan Sebastián Elcano from Asia via Africa back to the Iberian Peninsula. As McCarl notes, Pigafetta wrote his one Italian manuscript (housed at the Ambrosiana Library in Milan) and three French manuscripts between 1522 and 1524. Pigafetta’s account was first published in Paris in 1525 as Le voyage et nauigation, faict par les Espaignolz es Isles de Mollucques [sic] [The voyage and navigation undertaken by the Spanish to the Maluku Islands]. The French print version was shortened and retranslated into Italian to appear in the volume Il Viaggio fatto dagli Spagnivoli [sic] [The voyage undertaken by the Spanish] in 1536, and in Ramusio’s Navigationi et Viaggi [Navigations and voyages] of 1550 and later editions. This Italian version was translated into

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English and printed in London by Richard Eden in his Decades of the New World (1555), and by Purchas in his Pilgrimage: or Relations of the World in 1625–26. A German translation from the Italian version by M. C. Sprengel followed in 1784 (McCarl 2019: 86–87). The “international” history of the account was as common in early modern Europe as the practice of translating translations; while many manuscripts, unavailable to the Renaissance public, were stored away in archives, other chronicles of Romance conquest were translated all over Europe – bestsellers satisfying the literate population’s curiosity about distant territories (Burke 2005: 25; Valdeón 2014, 2019; Gruzinski 2008). It was only in 1800, however, at a time when the term “world literature” had already been in use for about thirty years (D’haen 2012: 5), that Carlo Amoretti titled his new edition of Pigafetta’s original Italian manuscript as Primo Viaggio intorno al globo terracqueo [. . .] alle Indie occidentale per la via d’ Occidente. In 1874, Lord Stanley of Alderley translated this title for the Hakluyt Society as The First Voyage round the World. The title is taken from Pigafetta’s own words, in instances when he exhibits his geographical knowledge – “Se nell’uscire dallo Stretto avessimo tenuto sempre la via di ponente, avremmo fato l’interio giro della Terra” (Pigafetta 1800: 46) [“When we left that strait, if we had sailed continuously westward, we would have circumnavigated the world” (Pigafetta 2007: 25)] –, or when glorifying Magellan’s virtues “senza che nessuno gliene avesse dato l’exemplo, tentare il giro del Globo terraqueo” (Pigafetta 1800: 100–101) [“for no other had had so much [. . .] knowledge to sail around the world, as he had almost already accomplished” (Pigafetta 2007: 58)]. The earth’s circumnavigation became a successful label for an account that is today considered to be an early instance of worldliterary eruption (Malato 2019). Indeed, even if this journey relating continents was not priorly planned as such, it impacted imperial world history, and its literatures, in various ways. Pigafetta’s America, an enchanting place with Patagonian giants, was a pathway to the East, and thus, opened a new, fabulous perspective onto a world which could not be explored without the favorable South American geography. Such literary imagination soon entered European writing. In 1572, Luis Vaz de Camões, a poet who traveled extensively from Portugal to Asia and Africa and sings about his own worldwide travels in his verses (White 2008: 3–7), remembers the Magellan episode in Canto X of his Os Lusíadas. According to Camões, the disloyal Portuguese captain departs from Brazil to an unknown world, sailing the Strait through giant’s land and the Antarctic pole until he reaches the Austral seas (Camões 1572). Pigafetta’s writing became the proof that the American continent was circumnavigable just like Africa; that the earth’s circumference was larger than any geographer since Ptolemy had ever believed; that all – already commonly accepted – theories of the earth’s roundness were true; and that by travelling the earth continent by continent, from West to East with the movement of the sun, one day was won (Roditi

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1989: 15). In Pigafetta’s understanding, the “world” is a concrete materiality, open to be experienced sea mile by sea mile; it is also a tool of measurement for Pigafetta’s superlatives: the Strait of Patagonia [Strait of Magellan] appears as the most beautiful strait of the entire world, and the Cape of Good Hope as the world’s most dangerous cape (Pigafetta 1800: 41; 181). The narrator even derives European superiority from his belief that Natives do not know about the continental interrelatedness: “Ai segni di maraviglia ch’ essi faceano, argumentammo che prima di veder noi essi credessero non esservi altri uomini al mundo for di loro” (Pigafetta 1800: 53) [“Those thieves thought, according to the signs that they made, that there were no other people in the world but themselves” (Pigafetta 2007: 28)]. As Pigafetta’s voyage around the globe starts and ends in Seville, he clearly locates the center of world (literary) thinking in the Iberian Peninsula and with Romance colonial forces. It would take almost another hundred years before America became the new confluence of world travel writing. By the turn of the seventeenth century, the narrative had changed in several ways. In 1606, another Italian’s account of his world travel no longer praises the earth as a discovery, but as imperial expansion’s material gain. Only published in 1701 in Florence, Francesco Carletti’s Ragionamenti di Francesco Carletti Fiorentino sopra le cose da lui vedute ne’ suoi viaggi si dell’ Indie Occidentali, e Orientali Come d’altri Paesi [Reasonings of Franscesco Carletti from Florence about the things he saw in his travels in the East and West Indies as well as in other lands] recounts his eight-year voyage to Africa, America, and Asia from 1594 to 1602. Carletti provides a story of profit and loss. He travels to Cape Verde to buy slaves for the West Indies, then to Cartagena de Indias (in today’s Colombia) and Peru to sell them in the silver mines, and finally to Mexico where he enters in the Asian spice and porcelain trade with the Philippines. From there, he goes on to Japan and Macau, where he wishes to return to Europe with his fortune, which he loses to buccaneers in the Dutch Southeast Pacific. Carletti returns home empty-handed and resumes that his journey was motivated “non tanto per curiosità di vedere il Mondo, quanto ancora per interesse di negozj, e particolarmente per comprare ivi Schiavi mori d’Etiopia” [“not so much out of curiosity to see the world, but much more for trade interest, especially to buy Moorish slaves from Ethiopia”] (Carletto 1701: 344–345). Carletti represents those masses of colonists whose behavior does not consider but stimulate the ongoing ethical and scientifical debates – for instance, the famous Disputa de Valladolid [Valladolid Debate] (Hanke 1994) – on how to act as an imperial force in a closely enlaced global scenario. Contrary to Pigafetta’s claims, Carletti does not travel to comprehend the extent of the world; rather he uses the now available cosmographic knowledge to enrich himself.

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Centering America from a Global Perspective A few years after Carletti’s account was first written, in 1614, Pedro Ordóñez de Ceballos’ Historia y viage del mundo [. . .] à las cinco partes de la Europa, Africa, Asia, America y Magalanica [History and Travel of the World to the Five Parts of Europe, Africa, Asia, America and Magalanica] was published in Madrid. Ordóñez de Ceballos’ world travel account was soon reedited and translated into Dutch (1621), Latin (1622), and French (1622) as well as English by Purchas in 1625 (Zugasti 2003: 83). It centers America, as the protagonist Ordóñez de Ceballos starts his travel to Asia and Africa from America. However, in a prequel to his world circumnavigation, the autobiographic narrator travels first from Spain to Tunisia and Morocco, and then back and forth two times between America, Europe, and Africa, where he captures slaves in Guinea to sell in Seville. The main storyline starts when he arrives in Cartagenas de Indias to travel all over Spanish and Portuguese America, from Chile to Mexico, where he sets sail in Acapulco in 1589. His plan is to go back to Quito, and not to the Philippines, but a storm leads him into the Pacific to the Mariana Islands. Over the next year Ordóñez de Ceballos visits Macao, Nagaski, and Cochinchina, that is, the south of Vietnam and eastern Cambodia, where the queen intends to marry him. As a clergyman he cannot accept and must flee. He travels westwards, to Sumatra, India, Ceylon [Sri Lanka], Goa, to Hormuz at the Persian Gulf, and to the Cape of Good Hope, from where he traverses the Atlantic to Pernambuco (Brazil). He seeks to pass through the Magellan Strait to Peru but fails, so he sails back to Buenos Aires and travels by land via Tucumán, Paraguay, Potosí, Charcas, Arequipa, Lima, and Guayaquil, to his original destination of Quito, having completed his world travel in three years. In the chapter “En que se hace relación de algunas cosas maravillosas del mundo” [“Which relates some marvels of the world”] (Ordóñez 1691 [1614]: 408–411), the narrator relates those phenomena from America, Asia, Africa, and Europe which have impressed him most pleasantly, such as the hot, salty springs in the City of Sion, which he connects to the boiling fountains of Mozambique, the fountains of Borneo, of Burdeos, of Santiago, of Granada and Naples; they are as precious as the volcanoes of Guatemala or the fauna of the West Indies and the birds of the East Indies. In the next chapter that links the world’s fishes, Ordóñez de Ceballos goes beyond cosmographical knowledge and enters a literary realm which paints zebras, elephants, and other animals of the world in peaceful coexistence (Ordóñez 1691 [1614]: 411–414). The vague chronology of events and the wonders breaking into reality further complicate a merely history-centered reading of Ordóñez’ text (Zugasti 2003: 112). The animal of the earth (“nuestr[o] centro, que es la tierra”) in Cochinchina, with the face and the breasts of a woman and the body of a scorpion, or the eagle in East India large enough to

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hold an elephant in its claws, pertain to this literary cosmos of global marvels (Ordóñez 1691 [1614]: 410; 413). Almost eighty years later, in 1690, Carlos de Sigüenza y Góngora, author and intellectual from New Spain, enacts a similar journey as Pigafetta and Carletti in his Infortunios de Alonso Ramírez [Misfortunes of Alonso Ramírez]. Like Ordóñez de Ceballos, Sigüenza y Góngora displaces the focus of global imagination to America. In the picaresque plot, Alonso departs in 1675 from San Juan de Puerto Rico to La Habana, Cuba, and New Spain, where he passes through Xalapa, the city of Mexico, Oaxaca, and Chiapas. In 1682, he sets sail from the port of Acapulco, crosses the Pacific to Cavite, in the Philippines, and continues to Portuguese-dominated Macao in China. He encounters pirates who have come from England and Spain and via Perú, Chile, and Argentina to Asia. They capture Alonso and continue together to Cambodia, continuously navigating between Siam and Portuguese Goa, Indonesia, Malaysia, Singapore, and New Holland or Australia. One day, they decide to leave Asia to go to Madagascar, the Cape of Good Hope, and the West African coast, before sailing the Atlantic to Brazil, where they arrive at the five arms of the Amazon delta. There, Alonso regains his freedom together with other captives, such as his slave from Mozambique, with whom he travels back to Yucatán. In the final chapters, Alonso sails from Mexico to Spain and visits Valladolid before returning to Mexico: “Cerró Alonso Ramírez en México el círculo de trabajos con que, apresado de ingleses piratas en Filipinas, varando en las costas de Yucatán en esta América, dio vuelta al mundo” (Sigüenza y Góngora 2017 [1690]: 70) [“Alonso Ramírez closed in Mexico the cycle of hardships that took him around the world, being captured by English pirates in the Philippines, and stranded on the coasts of Yucatán, here in America” (Sigüenza y Góngora 2019 [1690]: 90)]. As Sigüenza y Góngora’s dedication promises, America is the starting and ending point of this geographically circular narrative. A contemporary of Sigüenza y Góngora, the Spaniard Pedro Cubero Sebastián, inverts the global route from America to the east in his autobiographic Breve relación de la peregrinación que ha hecho de la mayor parte del mundo Don Pedro Cubero Sebastian [. . .] desde España hasta las Indias Orientales [Short Relation of the Pilgrimage of the Largest Part of the World by Don Pedro Cubero Sebastian [. . .] from Spain to the East Indies]. His Relación de la peregrinación – or in short, Peregrinación –, published in 1680, narrates his world travels between 1670 and 1679. The title and some narrative elements of Cubero’s book might have been inspired by Mendes Pinto’s Peregrinação, which was first published in 1614, but through many translations – among them, five Spanish editions between 1620 and 1666 – became “a piece of world literature” already in the seventeenth century (Ehrlicher 2010: 123). Like Mendes Pinto’s narrator in the Portuguese colonies of Asia, the protagonist Cubero passes through Romance colonies heading eastwards. He describes

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himself as “siempre desde mi niñez inclinado à las letras” (Cubero 1682 [1680]: 1) [“always, since my childhood, inclined to literature”]. Yet, as he declares, he parts from Zaragoza not with literary intentions – perish the thought – but with the missionary will to follow Mary, the guiding star of all pilgrims, to “estender la Sagrada Religión [. . .] por las mas barbaras, y remotas naciones del mundo” (Cubero 1682 [1680]: 4) [“extend the Holy Religion in the most barbarian and remote nations of the world”]. He travels through the Romania – through Spain, France, and Italy – and continues by land to Constantinople, Moscow, Astrakhan, Isfahan, and Goa, then to the Philippines, China, and the Maluku Islands, where he takes a ship to America. He finally arrives in Acapulco and departs from Veracruz, both in New Spain, back to the Iberian Peninsula. As he travels “de la ultima parte de Asia à otra parte del mundo, que es América” [sic] [“from the last part of Asia to another part of the world, America] (Cubero 1682 [1680]: 385), the physical entering of New Spain is preceded by the process of writing: “Fue con el pliego [. . .] (deste puerto cuentan auer salido Fernando Magallanes al descubrimiento de las Filipinas) à Mexico al Señor Virrey, dándole noticia de nuestra llegada a nueua España. Yo le escriuì dándole cuenta por mayor de mi llegada en aquel puerto” [“In the port where they say Magallan left for the discovery of the Philippines, we sent a paper to the viceroy in Mexico, informing him about our arrival. And I wrote to him personally to tell him in full extent about my arrival at this port”] (Cubero 1682 [1680]: 388). Soon enough, Cubero receives a letter from the viceroy dating January 15, 1679, confirming that he received Cubero’s letter written on December 20 and read his entire pilgrimage account, up to the port of Acapulco, with attention. The viceroy further informs his reader that he himself sends off his written response to Cubero as quickly as possible to welcome him (Cubero 1682 [1680]: 388). Throughout the account, writing appears as a casual and necessary event to move through the world. Cubero inserts the texts he reads, such as San Gregorio’s descriptions of Roman churches (Cubero 1682 [1680]: 59), as well as the letters he writes and receives about his pilgrimage, for instance a letter he writes in Latin (which actually appears in Latin in the Spanish narrative) to the King of Poland, explaining his intention to travel on to Asia (Cubero 1682 [1680]: 110–112). In the process, Cubrero’s Peregrinación establishes a fascinating intertextual metalevel, not only regarding precursors such as Mendes Pinto’s Peregrinação, but also previously existing texts he inserts into his narrative. His writing about writing the world proves that Cubero’s global encounters are also, and prominently, literary milestones.

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Colonial Global Encounters in Romance Literary and Cultural History Other examples of early modern Romance world writings could be enumerated, among them, Ignacio of Loyola’s accounts of his missionary travels from Spain to Mexico to the Philippines and back to Europe from 1581 to 1584, or of his later journeys between Asia and America. Another such example is Giovanni Gemelli Carreri’s highly successful Giro del mondo [Around the World] (1699/1700). Its six volumes relate the travels overland from Europe to Asia and on to America which Cubero had taken a few years earlier. Giro del mondo has stimulated debates about a “cosmopolitan” view onto the Spanish Philippines and New Spain, but also about the fictionality or authenticity of the autodiegetic narrator (Bernabeu Albert 2012: 230). However, the essays of this volume exemplify that literature and cultural expressions of global encounters not only come as great narratives of world travels, or as cosmographies which announce their universality, or as loudly proclaimed histories of the world. They also appear in the manifold distant or in-person negotiations, interactions, exchanges, entanglements, confluences, transformations, or acts of interlingual communication which marked emerging colonial-global literatures, cultures, and histories in ways scholars are only gradually uncovering. This anthology is divided into three thematic sections, each consisting of three or four articles. The first block, “Between America, Asia, and Africa” is inaugurated by Adma Muhana’s article “Literate Circulation between India and Brazil in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries”. In an intriguing reading of archive material, Muhana shows how objects and texts moved between Portuguese America and Asia, inspiring ubiquitous Portuguese-Asian artwork in Brazil. Moreover, these circulations gave rise to intellectual and poetic debates concerning the relation between the two continents, as in the literary work of the Academia Brasílica dos Esquecidos [Brazilian Academy of the Forgotten]. The section continues with Clayton McCarl’s contribution, “Enemigos encubiertos: A Colonial Latin American Perspective on the Buccaneer Era in the Writings of Francisco de Seyxas y Lovera”. McCarl demonstrates that early modern Romance piracy writing often moves in unprecise boundaries between America, Africa, and Asia, confounding borders and creating texts of global liminality. The other two essays of the first section are dedicated to the intellectual and narrative relations established between America and Africa in the writing of Alonso de Sandoval. Fernando Restrepo’s “Inflection Points of the Colonial Necropolitical Machine: Alonso de Sandoval’s De instauranda Aethiopum salute” offers a careful close reading of the differences between the 1627 and 1647 editions of Sandoval’s De instauranda Aethiopum salute. He investigates how the author’s view

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on the necropolitical enterprise of African slave trade to America changed between the first and the second version and became abolitionist. In her article “The Development of Modern Racial Discourse in Alonso de Sandoval’s De instauranda Aethiopum salute”, Monica Styles continues the debate regarding Sandoval’s participation in racial discourses which arose in the seventeenth century between America and Africa. She sounds out embodied knowledges and oral histories of enslaved Africans in Cartagenas de Indias that are embedded into Sandoval’s text. The second section is titled “Transcontinental Writing” and starts with Pablo García Loaeza’s “Speculative Encounters in the New World” which analyzes José de Acosta’s, Fray Gregorio García’s, Carlos de Sigüenza y Góngora’s and Pablo Félix Cabrera’s ponderings on the transcontinental constitution of America. García Loaeza affirms the continuous production of a common narrative between the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries which imagined numerous African, Arab, and Asian ancestors of Native people in America. The second contribution of the section, Marlen Bidwell-Steiner’s “Trading Goods, Trading Souls between Seville and las Indias: Casuistry, Economy, and Penitence in Seventeenth-Century Spain”, debates transatlantic economic exchanges, and the literary and juridical texts produced in the process. Such writing transplanted and fused Christian and Indigenous imaginaries between continents, as in the work of the Augustinian friar Antonio de la Calancha, the humanist Tomás de Mercado, and Siglo de Oro writer Tirso de Molina. The section is concluded by Victoria Rios Castaño’s article “Founders, Discoverers, and Conquistadors in the 1577 Relaciones geográficas of Colonial Mexico”, which examines the answers given in New Spain to the 1577 Royal questionnaire about who had “discovered”, conquered, and ruled their lands in the past decades. The result is a heterogeneous, transcontinental textual format, co-written by government officials and Native informants, which cannot belong to one continent alone. The third and last thematic block of Relating Continents is called “Native Agencies”, as it highlights the active Indigenous participation in establishing early modern global networks. Rubén Sánchez-Godoy’s “Encounters between Indigenous Communities and Vásquez de Coronado’s Expedition to the Northern Part of New Spain according to Pedro Castañeda Nájera’s Relación de la Jornada de Cibola” proposes an innovative rereading of the account on the Coronado expedition through Acoma origin myths. By doing so, the author traces the different meanings of the territory proposed by the Native Acoma and the Spanish conquerors, which gave rise to deep conflict. Allison Bigelow’s “The Crossroads of the World: Centering Indigenous Knowledge in Colonial Iberian Histories of Mining and Metallurgy” proposes a similar proceeding, reading Taíno mythology and Andean metallurgic language to extract the Native intellectual participation in early modern Iberian metallurgy. In “Tiahuanaco and Sacsayhuamán: Creating Early Modern World Histories through pre-Columbian Andean Buildings”, Juan Carlos Mantilla debates

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how world historic knowledge was established though Peruvian and Bolivian preColumbian sites, transforming European intellectual paradigms. The anthology is concluded by the final contribution, David Tavárez’s “Contemplative Devotions in Colonial Mexico: A Nahuatl Commentary on Kempis’s Imitation of Christ as a University Sermon”. Tavárez inquires into the authorship of two Nahua manuscripts – versions of the celebrated fourteenth-century De Imitatione Christi –, studying in detail the Nahua texts and rendering passages of them into English. In sum, the anthology asks how globally oriented literatures and cultures are constructed in early colonial Romance history, how colonial expansion cemented or dissolved transcontinental relations, and how these global linkages are narrated. It investigates the merging of local and global elements in colonial global dynamics of relating continents, the participants of encounters, the roles they play, and the tales told in the process. It is interested whether “relating” refers to geopolitical linkages or to genre and narration, and which methodological challenges arise out of the relational approach to specific cases of colonial and global encounters. Together, the contributions weave the early modern construction of Spanish and Portuguese American literatures into a global frame, demonstrating the impact of a transcontinental relational take on coloniality and global encounters.

Bibliography Adorno, Rolena (1988): “El sujeto colonial y la construcción de la alteridad”. In: Revista de Crítica Literaria Latinoamericana, 14, 28, pp. 55–68. Alden, Dauril/Miller, Joseph C. (1987): “Out of Africa: The Slave Trade and the Transmission of Smallpox to Brazil, 1560–1831”. In: The Journal of Interdisciplinary History, 18, 2, pp.195–224. Anchieta, Jose de (1933): Cartas, informações, fragmentos históricos, e sermões (1554–1594). Rio de Janeiro: Civilização Brasileira. Bachmann-Medick, Doris (2016): Cultural Turns: New Orientations in the Study of Culture. Transl. Adam Blauhut. Berlin: De Gruyter. Bassnett, Susan/Trivedi, Harish (1999): “Introduction: Of Colonies, Cannibals and Vernaculars”. In: Bassnett, Susan/Trivedi, Harish (eds.): Post-colonial Translation: Theory and Practice. London: Routledge, pp. 1–18. Belleforest, François de (1575): La Cosmographie universelle de tout le monde [. . .]. Vol. I. Paris: Chez Nicolas Chesneau. Bernabeu Albert, Salvador (2012): “Presentación”. In: Anuario de Estudios Americanos, 69, 1, pp. 229–232. Braudel, Fernand (1979): Civilisation matérielle, économie et capitalisme, XVe–XVIIIe siècle. 3. Le temps du monde. Paris: Armand Colin. Buisseret, David (1992): “Introduction”. In: Buisseret, David (ed.): Monarchs, Ministers, and Maps: The Emergence of Cartography as a Tool of Government in Early Modern Europe. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, pp. 1–4.

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Burke, Peter (2005): “The Renaissance Translator as Go-Between”. In: Höfele, Andreas/von Koppenfels, Werner (eds.): Renaissance Go-Betweens. Cultural Exchange in Early Modern Europe. Berlin: De Gruyter, pp. 17–31. Cabeza de Vaca, Álvar Núñez (2018) [1542]: Naufragios. Eds. Eloísa Gómez-Lucena, Rubén Caba. Madrid: Cátedra. Camões, Luis Vaz de (1572): Os Lusíadas. Lisbon: Antonio Gonçaluez Impressor. Carletti, Francesco (1701): Ragionamenti di Francesco Carletti Fiorentino sopra le cose da lui vedute ne’ suoi viaggi si dell’ Indie Occidentali, e Orientali come d’altri paesi. Florence: Stamperìa di Guiseppe Manni. Castro-Klarén, Sara (2017): “Produciendo a Sahagún. El problema de la autoría en Sahagún, Pablo de San Buena Ventura, Antonio Valeriano, Alonso Vegerano, Martín Jacobita y otros, o Sahagún y los neotlacuilos”. In: Revista de Crítica Literaria Latinoamericana, 43, 86, pp. 89–110. Cattaneo, Angelo (2016): “European Medieval and Renaissance Cosmography: A Story of Multiple Voices”. In: Asian Review of World Histories, 4, 1, pp. 35–81. Costilla Martínez, Héctor/Ramírez Santacruz, Francisco (2019): Historia adoptada, historia adaptada. La crónica mestiza del México colonial. Madrid: Iberoamericana. Cronin, Michael (2003): Translation and Globalization. London: Routledge. Crosby, Alfred W. (2015) [1986]: Ecological Imperialism: The Biological Expansion of Europe, 900–1900. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. DeLanda, Manuel (2006): A New Philosophy of Society: Assemblage Theory and Social Complexity. London: Continuum. Deleuze, Gilles/Guattari, Félix (1987) [1980]: A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Transl. Brian Massumi. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. D’haen, Theo (2012): The Routledge Concise History of World Literature. London: Routledge. Díaz del Castillo, Bernal (2015) [1632]: Historia verdadera de la conquista de la Nueva España. Ed. Guillermo Seres. Madrid: Real Academia Española. Ehrlicher, Hanno (2010): Zwischen Karneval und Konversion: Pilger und Pícaros in der spanischen Literatur der frühen Neuzeit. Munich: Fink. Figueiredo, Manoel de (1625) [1608]: Hidrographia, exame de pilotos, no qual se contem as regras que todo piloto deue guardar em suas nauegações, assi no sol, variação dagulha como no cartear: com os roteiros de Portugal pera o Brasil, Rio da Prata, Guinè, S. Thomé, Angolla, & Indias de Portugla [sic], & Castella. Lisbon: Vicente Aluarez. Flint, Richard/Flint, Shirley C. (2019): A Most Splendid Company: The Coronado Expedition in Global Perspective. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Garcilaso de la Vega, Inca (1985): Comentarios Reales. Tomo II. Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho. —— (1986): La Florida del Inca. Ed. Silvia L. Hilton. Madrid: Historia 16. Gibson, Charles (1950): “The Identity of Diego Muñoz Camargo”. In: The Hispanic American Historical Review, 30, 2, pp. 195–208. Glissant, Édouard (1990): Poétique de la relation. Paris: Gallimard. Greenblatt, Stephen (1991): Marvelous Possessions: The Wonder of the New World. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Gruzinski, Serge (2008): Quelle heure est-il là-bas? Amérique et Islam à l’orée des temps modernes. Paris: Le Seuil. —— (2012): L’Aigle et le Dragon. Démesure européenne et mondialisation au XVIe siècle. Paris: Fayard. Hanke, Lewis (1974): All Mankind is One: A Study of the Disputation between Bartolomé de Las Casas and Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda in 1550 on the Intellectual and Religious Capacity of the American Indians. DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press.

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Harris, Oliver J. T. (2012): “(Re)assembling Communities”. In: Journal of Archeological Method and Theory, 21, 1, pp. 76–97. Hausberger, Bernd (2018): Historia mínima de la globalización temprana. Mexico City: El Colegio de México. Helgesson, Stefan/Rosendahl Thomsen, Mads (2020): “Introduction: Why World Literature?” In: Helgesson, Stefan/Rosendahl Thomsen, Mads (eds): Literature and the World. New York: Routledge, pp. 1–23. Krenak, Ailton (2020): “O contacto e o contágio“. In: Duarte, Luisa/Gorgulho, Victor (eds.): No tremor do mundo. Ensaios e entrevistas à luz da pandemia. Rio de Janeiro: Livros Cobogó, pp. 26–36. Latour, Bruno (2005): Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor-Network Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lestringant, Frank (1989): “André Thevet, cosmographe”. In: Bulletin de l’Association d’étude sur l’humanisme, la réforme et la renaissance, 28, pp. 49–57. —— (1990): Le huguenot et le sauvage. L’Amerique et la controverse coloniale, en France, au temps des Guerres de Religion (1555–1589). Paris: Aux Amateurs de Livres. —— (1994): “Deux Regards sur le Nouveau Monde au XVIe Siecle: Guillaume le Testu et l‘Anonyme du ‘Drake Manuscript’” [sic]. In: Proceedings of the Meeting of the French Colonial Historical Society, 19, pp.1–22. —— (2013): “La Cosmographie universelle de Guillaume le Testu (1556): Au croisement de la géographie savante et de la science nautique des portulans”. Bulletin du CFC/Comité Français de Cartographie, 216, pp. 91–107. Le Moyne de Morgues, Jacques/De Bry, Theodore, et al. (1591): Brevis narratio eorvm qvae in Florida Americæ provicia Gallis acciderunt: secunda in illam nauigatione, duce Renato de Laudõniere classis præfecto, anno MDLXIIII, qvae est secvnda pars Americæ: additæ figuræ & incolarum eicones ibidem ad vivu expressæ, brevis item declaratio religionis, rituum, vivendique ratione ipsorum [sic]. Frankfurt am Main: Sigismundi Feirabedii. Malato, Maria Luísa (2019): “A Literatura-Mundo e O ano em que Pigafetta completou a circumnavegação. World-Literature and the Year Pigafetta Completed the Circumnavigation”. In: Acta Iassyensia Comparationis, pp. 61–72. McCarl, Clayton (2019): “The Transmission and Bibliographic Study of the Pigafetta Account: Synthesis and Update”. In: Abriu: Estudos de textualidade do Brasil, Galicia e Portugal, 8, pp. 85–98. Mignolo, Walter (1982): “Cartas, crónicas y relaciones del descubrimiento y la conquista”. In: Iñigo Madrigal, Luis (ed.): Historia de la literatura hispanoamericana I: Época colonial. Madrid: Cátedra, pp. 57–116. Müller, Gesine/Siskind, Mariano (2019): “Introduction”. In: Müller, Gesine/Siskind, Mariano: World Literature, Cosmopolitanism, Globality: Beyond, Against, Post, Otherwise. Berlin: De Gruyter, pp. 1–9. Nóbrega, Manuel da (1956): “Ao P. Luís Gonçalves da Câmara, Lisboa. 15 de junho de 1553”. In: Leite, Serafim (ed.): Monumenta Brasilae I (1538–1553). Rome: Monumenta Historica Societatis Iesu, pp. 489–503. Nunes, Pedro (1537): Tratado da sphera com a Theorica do Sol e da Lua. E ho primeiro liuro da Geographia de Claudio Ptolomeo Alexa[n]drino. Tirados nouamente de Latim em lingoagem pello Doutor Pero Nunez Cosmographo del Rey do[m] Ioão ho terceyro deste nome nosso Senhor. E acrece[n]tados de muitas annotações e figuras per que mays facilmente se podem entender. Item dous tratados q[u]e o mesmo Doutor fez sobre a carta de marear. Em os quaes se decrarão todas as principaes duuidas da nauegação. Co[m] as tauoas do mouimento do sol: e sua declinação. E o

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Regime[n]to da altura assi ao meyo dia: como nos outros tempos. Lisbon: Germão Galharde empremidor. Ordóñez de Ceballos, Pedro (1691): Historia y viage del mundo del clerigo agradecido don Pedro Ordoñez de Zevallos natural de la insigne ciudad de Jaen, à las cinco partes de la Europa, Africa, Asia, America y Magalanica con el itinerario de todo èl. Madrid: Juan Garcia Infanzon. Pérez-Amador Adam, Alberto (2011): De legitimatione imperii Indiae Occidentalis. La vindicación de la Empresa Americana en el discurso jurídico y teológico de las letras de los Siglos de Oro en España y los virreinatos americanos. Madrid: Iberoamericana/Vervuert. Pigafetta, Antonio (1800): Primo Viaggio intorno al globo terracqueo ossia Ragguaglio Della Navigazione alle Indie orientali per la via d’occidente fatta das cavaliere Antonio Pigafetta Patrizio Vicentino sulla Squadra del Capit. Magaglianes negli anni 1519–1522. Milan: Stamperia di Giuseppe Galeazzi. —— (2007): The First Voyage Around the World 1519–1522: An Account on Magellan’s Expedition. Ed. and transl. Theodore J. Cachey Jr. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Portuondo, María M. (2009): Secret Science: Spanish Cosmography and the New World. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Pratt, Mary Louise (2008): Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation. New York: Routledge. Quijano, Aníbal (2008): “Coloniality of Power, Eurocentrism, and Latin America”. In: Moraña, Mabel/ Dussel, Enrique/Jáuregui, Carlos A. (eds.): Coloniality at Large: Latin America and the Postcolonial Debate. Durham: Duke University Press, pp. 181–224. Ricœur, Paul (1984) [1983]: Time and Narrative, Vol. I. Transl. Kathleen McLaughlin/David Pellauer. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Robertson, Roland (1995): “Glocalization: Time-Space and Homogeneity-Heterogeneity”. In: Featherstone, Mike/Lash, Scott/Robertson, Roland (eds.): Global Modernities. London: SAGE, pp. 25–44. Roditi, Eduardo (1989): Magalhães do Pacífico. Lisbon: Assírio e Alvim. Sahagún, Bernardino de (1993): “Book Twelve of the Florentine Codex”. In: Lockhart, James (ed. and transl.): We People Here: Nahuatl Accounts of the Conquest of Mexico. Berkeley: University California Press. pp. 48–255. Sánchez Prado, Ignacio M. (2021): “Introduction”. In: Sánchez Prado, Ignacio M. (ed.): Mexican Literature as World Literature. London: Bloomsbury Academic, pp. 1–6. Santos, Abel Antonio (2010): “Narración tikuna del origen del territorio y de los humanos”. Mundo amazónico 1: 303–313. Sigüenza y Góngora, Carlos de (2017) [1690]: Infortunios de Alonso Ramírez. Ed. Antonio Lorente Medina. Madrid: Iberoamericana/Vervuert. —— (2019) [1690]: The Misfortunes of Alonso Ramírez. Ed. and transl. José F. Buscaglia-Salgado. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press. Skousen, Jacob B./Buchanan, Meghan E. (2015): “Introduction: Advancing an Archaeology of Movements and Relationships”. In: Skousen, Jacob B./Buchanan, Meghan E. (eds.): Tracing the Relational: The Archaeology of Worlds, Spirits, and Temporalities. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, pp. 1–17. Spagnesi, Enrico (1993): “Bernardino de Sahagún, la natura in Messico, l’arte a Firenze”. In: Quaderni di Neotropica, 1, pp. 7–24. Subrahmanyam, Sanjay (2022) [2004]: Connected History: Essays and Arguments (World History). London: Verso Books. Téllez, Jorge (2021): “World-Making and the Poetics of the New World”. In: Sánchez Prado, Ignacio M. (ed.): Mexican Literature as World Literature. London: Bloomsbury Academic, pp. 7–22.

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Terraciano, Kevin (2019): “Introduction. An Encyclopedia of Nahua Culture: Context and Content”. In: Favrot Peterson, Jeanette/Terraciano, Kevin (eds.): The Florentine Codex: An Encyclopedia of the Nahua World in Sixteenth-Century Mexico. Austin: University of Texas Press, pp. 1–18. Thevet, André (1575): La cosmographie universelle d’André Thevet, cosmographe du roy: illustrée de diverses figures des choses plus remarquables veues par l’auteur, & incogneuës de noz anciens & modernes. Paris: Chez Guillaume Chandiere. Todorov, Tzevtan (1987) [1982]: La conquista de América. El problema del otro.Transl. Flora Botton-Burlá. Madrid: Siglo XXI Editores. Valdeón, Roberto A. (2014): Translation and the Spanish Empire in the Americas. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. —— (2019): “Colonial Conflict and Imperial Rivalries in the Americas”. In: Kelly, Michael/Footitt, Hilary/Salama-Carr, Myriam (eds.): The Palgrave Handbook of Languages and Conflict. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, pp. 355–372. Vainfas, Ronaldo (2020): “A peste das Bexigas no Brasil colonial: tragédia histórica ou genocídio?” In: Brathair, 20, 2, pp. 107–127. Vallen, Nino (2019): “The Self and the World in Baltasar Dorantes de Carranza’s Sumaria relación”. In: Böttcher, Nikolaus/Rinke, Stefan/Vallen, Nino (eds.): Distributive Struggle and the Self in the Early Modern Iberian World. Stuttgart: Akademischer Verlag, pp. 141–168. Verdesio, Gustavo (2002): “Colonialism Now and Then: Colonial Latin American Studies in the Light of the Predicament of Latin Americanism”. In: Félix Bolaños, Álvaro/Verdesio, Gustavo (eds.): Colonialism Past and Present: Reading and Writing About Colonial Latin America Today. Albany: SUNY, pp. 1–17. Wallerstein, Immanuel (2011) [1974]: The Modern World-System I. Capitalist Agriculture and the Origins of the European World-Economy in the Sixteenth Century. Berkeley: University of California Press. White, Hayden (2014) [1973]: Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. White, Landeg (2008): “Introduction”. In: Camões, Luís de: The Collected Lyric Poems of Luís de Camões. Transl. Landeg White. Princeton: Princeton University Press, pp. 1–21. Zugasti Zugasti, Miguel (2003): “El viaje del mundo (1614) de Pedro Ordóñez de Ceballos o cómo modelar una autobiografía épica”. In: Iberoromania: Revista dedicada a las lenguas y literaturas iberorrománicas de Europa y América, 58, pp. 83–119.

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Literate Circulations between India and Brazil in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries India and Brazil in Contact through the South Atlantic This chapter aims to examine literary exchanges between so-called Portuguese India and Brazil during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries by tracing a set of controversial papers related to the performance of the Archbishop of Goa, Friar Don Inácio de Santa Teresa (in office 1721–1740), which were transported in Portuguese fleet ships from Portugal to India and back, before ending up in Bahia de Todos os Santos in 1725 (Fig. 1). In the city of Salvador, these papers were read and discussed by scholars of the so-called Academia Brasílica dos Esquecidos [Brazilian Academy of the Forgotten]. Among the documents sent to Lisbon, an anonymous writing entitled “Reflexões declarativas do manifesto do procedimento do Arcebispo de Goa, contra as muitas falsidades, e calúnias que se lhe tem posto” [“Declarative reflections on the ‘Manifest of the proceedings of the Archbishop of Goa’, against the many falsehoods and slanders that have been brought against him”] contested the Archbishop’s practices and thus, confronted the habits, proceedings, and institutions of both India and Brazil, proving a closer relationship between Asia and lusophone America than is usually assumed. This study grew out of preliminary research on the movement of commercial and devotional objects between India and Brazil, or rather between Eastern and Western Portuguese domains, particularly during the sixteenth, seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Studies on the art history of Brazil are fairly recent, and I observed that during these centuries Asian-Portuguese art was appropriated in Brazilian paintings and other iconographic works found across the three major regions in which Brazil was divided during that period: the State of Maranhão and Grand Para; the State of Brazil, based in Bahia; and the provinces of the South. By selecting representative examples from existing research and archive material, and despite an extremely insufficient bibliography, I was able to show how the religious art of Brazil during the colonial period incorporated Asian-

Note: Translated from Portuguese by Gabriela Miranda. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110796308-002

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Fig. 1: Map of the Portuguese Carreira da Índia. Source: uMap.

Portuguese features, techniques, and solutions (Pissurlencar 1960; Muhana 2003; Silva 2011). These objects are mainly pieces of ivory, wood, and fabric found in Brazilian churches and museums, such as the National Historical Museum of Rio de Janeiro, which houses a collection of 572 objects of Asian-Portuguese statuary1. This study also included objects in heritage catalogs, as well as those mentioned in letters from members of active religious orders in Brazil and in historical documents of the period. For example, Ambrósio Fernandes Brandão, the author of Diálogo das Grandezas do Brasil [Dialogue of the Greatness of Brazil] (1618), refers to stores in Pernambuco where one could find “toda espécie de louçarias, sedas riquíssimas e panos finíssimos” [“all kinds of crockery, very rich silks, and very fine cloths”], destined for members of the nobility and the local administration. The mixture of materials used in the creation of these artworks is, in many cases, a reflection of the circuit between Asia, Africa, and Brazil, with objects that bring together ivory (African or Asian) and rosewood, or cedar, silver, and turtle shell. The iconography of these works also bears witness to countless elements of contact between both Indias. For their abundance and diversity, crucified Christs (Fig. 2) and the various invocations of Nossa Senhora [Our Lady] (Fig. 3) constitute

 Other museums with important Asian-Portuguese collections include the Museum of Sacred Art of Bahia, in Salvador; the Museu do Convento da Ordem Terceira do Carmo, in Cachoeira; the Museu do Convento da Ordem de São Bento, in Olinda; and the Museum of Sacred Art of the Matriz do Pilar, in Ouro Preto.

Literate Circulations between India and Brazil

Fig. 2: Cristo Crucificado. Courtesy of the Museu de Arte Sacra/Universidade Federal da Bahia.

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Fig. 3: Nossa Senhora da Conceição. Courtesy of the Museu de Arte Sacra/Universidade Federal da Bahia. Photograph: Sérgio Benutti.

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the main groups of this Asian-Portuguese imaginary. They are usually small images mainly destined for chapels, both public and private (Museu de Arte da Bahia 1997: 17). Numerous examples can be found throughout Brazil, from the North to the South, such as representations of the crucified Christ in ivory, and others in light wood to imitate those from Asia. Another phenomenon is the practice of copying embroidered silk fabrics from China in painting, as attested in the distant city of Belém do Pará, on the edge of the Amazon rainforest, in the “Inventario da casa dos exercícios e religiosa recreação de Nossa Senhora Madre de Deus da Companhia de Jesus” [“Inventory of the House of Exercises and Religious Recreation of Our Lady Mother of God of the Society of Jesus”], which recorded the goods left behind when the Jesuits were expelled in 1760: Nos dois altares colaterais [da Igreja] ficaram também duas imagens de Cristo crucificado, obra primorosa em marfim [. . .] em cruzes grauda forrada de tartaruga, com seus resplandores, remates, e títulos de prata. Nos outros dois altares, outras duas imagens de Cristo trabalhadas em pau de laranjeira, para imitar o marfim. E em todos os dez frontais primorosamente pintados imitando os bordados da China. (“Inventário” 2001: 437–438) [On the two side altars [of the Church] there were also two images of Christ crucified, exquisite work in ivory [. . .] on high-grade crosses lined with tortoiseshell, with their splendors, finishings, and titles of silver. On the other two altars, another two images of Christ worked in orange wood, to imitate ivory. And on all ten fronts, exquisitely painted in imitation of the embroidery of China.]

Furthermore, it is well-known that in the seventeenth century, high officials, missionaries, soldiers, and captains travelled from Brazil to India and vice versa (Gracias 1965: 343), though a survey of their names and activities is still outstanding. Given this movement of people, it stands to reason that the ships carrying painted screens, ivory, pearls, silks, and other fine household articles (such as porcelain, fans, chests, boxes, mats, and tables), and transporting ecclesiastical and administrative staff, would also establish a literary circulation between these regions. In fact, the ships traveling from Goa to Lisbon invariably stopped in Brazil and carried loads of papers and books, containing letters, news, sermons, plays, polemics, laws, etc. This influence impacted the literary production of Brazil, although this interrelatedness is still not very visible in literary historiography. The extent and relevance of this exchange are little known, mainly due to the scarcity of studies that focus on handwritten circulation and its textual reception, particularly with regard to writings not considered “literature”. However, a large contingent of texts circulated as manuscripts in the most diverse discursive genres: poetry, letters, stories, and dialogues but, above all, writings of religious controversy, as pointed out by Fernando Bouza in his fundamental book, Corre manuscrito (Bouza 2001). The arrival in Brazil of news from India and vice versa, mainly through rules, instructions, and letters

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(Palomo 2005), caused great enthusiasm among priests and novices who met for public hearings, sometimes through the night. For example, in a letter written in Goa to the brothers in Coimbra in 1552, Father Luís Froes (1532–1597) narrated that: As cartas que de Portugal vieram, assim desse Colégio como do Brasil, no ano de 52, sobremaneira nos alegraram, e houve com elas assaz de fervor. Na noite que chegaram, se leram com campainha tangida até à uma depois da meia-noite, e no refeitório todos os dez dias seguintes. E logo, tresladado o sumário delas, foram mandadas à China, Japão, Maluco e Málaca, e todas as mais partes onde os Padres nossos andam. (Froes 1950 [1552]: 488) [The letters that came from Portugal, both from this College and from Brazil, in the year 52, made us exceedingly glad, and there was a great deal of fervor about them. The night they arrived, they were read with the bell ringing until one o’clock after midnight, and in the refectory for the next ten days. And then, after their summary was written, they were sent to China, Japan, Maluco, and Malacca, and all the other places where our Fathers go].

Similarly, Father João de Brito (1647–1693)’s visit to Brazil in 1687 thrilled students and novices from Bahia so much that many volunteered to be missionaries to the eastern parts (Leite 1947: 5–7; Leite 1952: 108; Russell-Wood 2001: 16).

News from the Archbishop of Goa in Bahia For this investigation of literate circulations, our point of departure are some writings concerning the performance of the Augustinian friar Inácio de Santa Teresa (1682–1751), who held a PhD in theology from the University of Coimbra, where he became professor of philosophy, theology, and morals. At that time, he was linked to a religious movement begun by Friar Francisco da Anunciação (1669–1720) that later became known as Jacobeia. In 1720, Friar Inácio was appointed archbishop of Goa, an office he held from 1721 to 1740. During his tenure, he was involved in many conflicts both with members of Catholic religious orders (Jesuits and Franciscans as well as Oratorians, Capuchins, and nuns of Santa Monica) and with the local Hindus of Goa – particularly with regard to keeping their rites and customs, and the presence of the so-called bailadeiras (or devadasi, female dancers and servants of a deity in Hindu temples) in Portuguese territories (Boxer 1961)2. For his emphasis on the importance of grace for salvation, instead of good works, the archbishop was even accused of Jansenist practices and prosecuted by the Tribunal of  Bailadeira was the name given by the Portuguese to the dancers of the Hindu temples, called in Sanskrit devadassi, which means, “slave of God”. They were discriminated by Christians for serving in pagodas, or temples; they had a reputation as public women and were associated with prostitutes (Dalgado 1919: 80–81).

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the Holy Office, though he was eventually cleared by Pope Benedict XIV in 1737 (Mendes 2017: 46). In addition to being known as a pious and rigorous man, Inácio gained a reputation as being cultured and literate (Barbosa Machado 1747: 550). He owned a vast library of 197 volumes, which at the end of his tenure remained in two libraries in Goa. Among his books were the Historie universelle [Universal History] by Bossuet, De Gratia [By Grace] by Francisco Suárez, Nova Floresta, ou silva de vários apophtegmas e ditos sentenciosos, espirituais e morais [New Forest, or Sylva of Several Apophthegmas and Sententious Sayings, Spiritual and Moral] by Manuel Bernardes, Peregrinação [Peregrination] by Fernão Mendes Pinto, Monarquia Lusitana [Lusitanian Monarchy] by Bernardo de Brito, the Agudeza y Arte de Ingenio [Acuity and Art of Wit] by Baltasar Gracián, La Torre de Babilonia [The Tower of Babylon] by Antonio Enríquez Gómez, a collection of poetry entitled Fênix Renascida [Phoenix Reborn], the works of Friar Luis de Granada, and História do Futuro [History of the Future] and sermons by Father Antonio Vieira, whom he greatly admired (Alves 2012: 48–63; 2014). He also composed some religious writings in addition to sermons and works on Catholic morals, among them Estado do Presente Estado da Índia [State of the Present State of India] (1725), Crisis Paradoxa [Paradox Crisis] (1748), and Pérolas Orientais [Oriental Pearls], an undated manuscript, the copy of which can be found in the National Archives of Torre do Tombo in Lisbon. By the 1720s, so-called Portuguese India had already lost its splendor of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries and was reduced to the former state capital Goa, nicknamed “Rome of the East”, and other smaller coastal cities such as Daman and Diu (Xavier 2015: 39). Parts of its former territory which constituted the State of India, such as Malacca, Ceylon, and the Malabar Coast, had been taken by the Dutch (Boxer 1997: 128–129; Antony 2013: 51). Yet, on the Indian subcontinent itself, the Portuguese had to defend themselves against the Marathas, a Hindu people who inhabited the western edge of the Northern Deccan, and who, from the seventeenth century onwards, began to dispute territories belonging to the Portuguese Northern Province, such as Chaul and Vasai (Delduque da Costa 1933: 2; Boxer 1997: 132–133). Since the decision to transfer the seat of government from Goa to Mormugão in 1684, due to the Marathas’ advances as well as cholera and malaria epidemics, the old city of Goa – Velha Goa – was denuded of its main public and religious buildings. The stones were reused for the construction of new buildings in the village of Panjim, ten kilometers away from Velha Goa, leading to the impoverishment and abandonment of most of the city’s institutions. Goa’s population had declined to such an extent that, of the 250,000 inhabitants at its peak, less than one tenth remained in Goa at the end of the seventeenth century. It was said of the king’s ecclesiastics and administrators that lassitude and corruption had taken hold of everyone, and that they were only interested in enriching

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themselves during their three years in office (Mendes 2012: 24). Having been sent by King John V of Portugal to Goa to reform the “abuses of the Estado da India”, Friar Inácio de Santa Teresa fought to reform customs in public life and in the cloisters, and encouraged frequent mental prayer, confession, and discipline (Mendes 2017: 92). These practices collided with the evangelizing action advocated by the Society of Jesus and by a segment of the post-Tridentine Church. This Jesuit missionary action, which emerged in the mid-sixteenth century, was based on the idea of a militant Church, focused on the “defense and propagation of the faith”, with a strong emphasis on teaching and catechizing the infidels (O’Malley 1995: 91–93). During my research, I became particularly interested in several texts produced around an anonymous writing titled “Manifesto do procedimento do Arcebispo de Goa contra as muitas falsidades, e calúnias que lhe tem imposto” [“Manifest of the proceedings of the Archbishop of Goa, against the many falsehoods and slanders that have been brought against him”], today held in the National Archives of Torre do Tombo in Lisbon. Written in the years 1722 to 1723, the “Manifesto do procedimento do Arcebispo de Goa” seeks to defend the Archbishop’s actions in India. During monsoon 1724, it was sent to Lisbon; one copy was located in the city of Salvador in 1725 (Alves 2012: 244). Bound in the same codex that today contains the “Manifesto”, a folio entitled “Noticias de Goa desde a monção de Janeiro de 1724 até a de Janeiro de 1725” [sic] [“News from Goa from January monsoon 1724 to January 1725”] details a body of paperwork about the strivings of the Archbishop in India and of its shipment to Portugal aboard the vessel Nossa Senhora da Piedade [Our Pious Lady]. The “Noticias de Goa” record that in the same ship, the Jesuits sent twelve bound books with opinions about disputes with the Archbishop. Arriving in Mozambique, the ship started to leak, and there were also many sick and dead people on board, so it was decided to dock there. According to the report, however, some voiced the opinion that the stop in Mozambique was intended so that slaves could be seized and sold in Bahia. The author of the “Noticias de Goa” continues by stating that everyone throughout Asia already knew about the disputes between the Archbishop and the Society of Jesus, the Gentiles [pagans], and other Europeans, namely the Dutch, English, and French, from India to Ceylon and Macau. Thus, the “Noticias de Goa” elucidate the circumstances under which were sent the papers related to the Archbishop’s polemics, and their rapid dissemination by Gentiles and Christians in Asia. However, it also reveals that ships on way from Goa to Lisbon which entered the port of Mozambique often did so to acquire slaves to be sold in Brazil: Foram na mesma nau, em não menos volume, que o de doze livros encadernados, em que as mandaram juntar para apresentarem no Reino a quem bem lhe pareça, com todos os pareceres que tinham publicado sobre as matérias das contendas, que moveram contra este

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Prelado, e com uma larga relação de tudo, feita como sempre ao seu modo. [. . .] Como todos em Goa sabiam dos muitos volumes que os Padres mandavam nesta Nau [. . .] logo começaram a agourar mal o sucesso da viagem dela. E fosse pelo que fosse, o certo é que a Nau estando já junto do Cabo de Boa Esperança, arribou a Moçambique com água aberta e vento contrário e 4 bombas nas mãos e muitos enfermos, além dos muitos mortos que faleceram de doença, e de dar a bomba. [. . .] Outros quiseram dizer que a arribada fora de propósito para se refazerem em Moçambique do montante dos Cafres, que nela levavam os oficiais e passageiros para venderem na Bahia. O que se faz incrível é como a principal matéria das notícias desse ano seja a continuação das contendas do Arcebispo com alguns padres jesuítas, e com os Menores seculares [franciscanos menores], coligados com eles, de sorte que elas têm dado matéria à admiração e discursos de toda a Ásia, não só entre os gentios, mas também entre os mesmos europeus, assim holandeses, como ingleses e Franceses, tanto assim que até em Ceilão achou a Nau que esse ano veio de Macau notícias muito individuais de tudo. (“Noticias de Goa”: 56r–56v) [They went in the same ship, in no less volume than twelve bound books, in which they had them assembled to present in the Kingdom to whomever they liked, with all the opinions they had published on the matters of the disputes they had brought against this Prelate [the Archbishop]. [. . .] As everyone in Goa knew of the many volumes the Fathers sent on this ship [. . .] they soon began to bode ill for the success of its voyage. And whatever the reason, what is certain is that the ship, already near the Cape of Good Hope, arrived in Mozambique with open water and a contrary wind and 4 pumps in it and many sick people, in addition to the many dead who had succumbed to illness, and the pumps [. . .] Others said that it arrived for the purpose of recovering a number of Cafres in Mozambique, which the officers and passengers took to sell in Bahia. What is incredible is how the main story of this year’s news is the continuation of the Archbishop’s disputes with some Jesuit priests, and with the Secular Minors [Minor Franciscans], allied with them, so that they have given rise to admiration and speeches from all over Asia, not only among the Gentiles, but also among the same Europeans Dutch, English, and French; so much so that even in Ceylon this year the ship that came from Macau had very individual news about everything.]

Since the sixteenth century, it was usual for ships sailing from Asia to anchor in Brazil, though it was only legalized after the Portuguese royal family’s arrival in Brazil in 1808. To evade this prohibition, Portuguese ships from India faked the most diverse excuses – diseases on board, lack of water and food supplies, damage to the hull – to put into port in Salvador, then capital of Brazil, as well as Rio de Janeiro and Recife, and there, they often smuggled products coming from the East (Lapa 2000 [1968]: 1–23). Nossa Senhora da Piedade was one of many such ships that made a clandestine detour in order to anchor in Brazil. Its captain, Custódio Antônio da Gama, reported that they set sail from Goa on January 25, 1724, but that a great storm opened the hull of the ship, and he had to put into port for months-long repairs in Mozambique, which he left only in December of the same year. After a few weeks of travel, he headed towards the port of Salvador, where the ship hit a shoal on March 8, 1725. Therefore, it was not possible “seguir viagem até a cidade de

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Lisboa sem se consertar e descarregar a dita nau” [“to continue to the city of Lisbon without repairing and unloading said ship”] (Gama 1944 [1725]: 262). After the usual checks of the ship’s hull by master carpenters and shipyard caulkers, viceroy Vasco Fernandes César de Meneses authorized the ship to be emptied and the necessary repairs carried out in the port of Salvador (Meneses 1725). We do not know for certain what furniture, domestic objects, cult images, jewelry, fabrics, and other riches were unloaded from Nossa Senhora da Piedade in March 1725, nor what plants, seeds, and drugs it carried in its crates, nor the names of the returning soldiers, priests, and officers, nor those of the enslaved Mozambicans who went to work in the fields and services of the Brazilian lands. However, we do know that it was carrying manuscripts to be conveyed to King John V, his court, and ecclesiastical members in Lisbon. Among the load that disembarked was a set of writings called “Varios discursos em que se censurão algumas proposiçoens contra o Arcebispo primás de Goa D. Fr. Ignacio de Santa Thereza, e outros à seu fauor” [“Various Speeches in which are Censored Some Assumptions Against the Archbishop of Goa D. Fr. Ignacio de Santa Thereza, and Others in his Favor”], which is found today in codex 13185 of the National Library of Portugal. The speeches’ titles – the majority in paradoxical structure – provide a sense of the controversial content of most of the “Varios Discursos” [“Varios Speeches”], all concerning polemics in which the archbishop Ignatius of Santa Teresa was involved in India: “Segredos Manifestos” [“Manifest secrets”], “Erros Celebrados” [“Celebrated errors”], “Defesa da fama do grande Antônio Vieira, injustamente ofendida” [“Defense of the fame of the great Antonio Vieira, unjustly offended”] “Doutrina de São Paulo defendida e reprovante reprovado” [“St. Paul’s doctrine upheld and reprobate failed”], “Herético Católico” [“Catholic heretic”], “Censura verdadeira de huma falsa, e cavilosa Censura” [“True censure of a false and cavillous censure”], etc. Almost all of the texts in this codex were written in India – some are even attributed to Friar Inácio de Santa Teresa himself – but the text it contains to which I will turn later was written anonymously in the city of Salvador de Bahia and is entitled “Reflexões declarativas do manifesto do procedimento do Arcebispo de Goa, contra as muitas falsidades, e calúnias que se lhe tem posto” [“Declarative reflections on the ‘Manifest of the proceedings of the Archbishop of Goa’, against the many falsehoods and slanders that have been brought against him”], (Fig. 4) a reaction piece contradicting the “Manifesto” mentioned above. Situating the political-religious conflicts that appear in these documents, the Archbishop’s proceedings all originate with King John V’s uncompromising defense of his authority against the various local ecclesiastical authorities. But the archbishop also displeased the Indian population and the civil authorities by destroying Hindu temples and Muslim mosques, and ending what he considered to be favors and privileges to non-Catholics. With regard to religious practice, he believed that

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Fig. 4: “Refleçoens declarativas do manifesto do procedimento do Arcebispo de Goa”, Códice 13185, p. 103r. Courtesy of the National Library of Portugal.

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priests should be appointed from Portugal, that there should be no election of priests from Asia and no novitiate in India, the population of the territory should be Portuguese couples (not “mixed race”), and the doctrine should be taught in Portuguese (not in the Native language, Konkani), in addition to many other practices that stood in opposition to the evangelizing procedures habitually practiced by the Society of Jesus in Asia and America (Alves 2012: 70–71; Mendes 2017: 80–83). Counting on the unconditional support of King John V, the Archbishop strived to impose his authority on the various religious and civil orders that operated in Portuguese India. Yet other members of the religious orders, however, did not recognize his authority over the missions, on neither a spiritual nor an organizational level3. Over the years, the conflicts escalated to such a point that, in 1740, Friar Inácio was eventually removed from his position in India and recommended for the archbishopric in Faro, Algarve, a position he held from 1741 until his death in 1751 – though also not free from struggles and controversy (Mendes 2012: 112–116).

Viceroy of India, Governor of Brazil Interestingly, the codex containing the “Varios discursos” [“Various speeches”] seems to have been in Bahia for a few months before it again embarked a vessel en route to Portugal, expanded with new documents and writings from the State of Brazil, testifying that a copy of the “Manifesto do procedimento do Arcebispo de Goa” [“Manifest of the proceedings of the Archbishop of Goa”] had ended up in the hands of academics in the city of Salvador da Bahia, probably a year earlier, as I shall demonstrate. At this time, Vasco Fernandes César de Meneses, First Count of Sabugosa (1673–1741) was governing Brazil as viceroy. He was appointed to Brazil by King John V following his militarily successful viceroyalty of India from 1712 to 1717: Don Vasco left Asia a known warrior, after having secured military victories and submitting insurgent kingdoms to the Portuguese Crown. As he had suffered from the climate and illnesses, he had requested to return to Portugal. He was then transferred to Brazil in 1720, where remained in power until 1735 (Monteiro 2001).  “Missions” were settlements administered by the religious orders. The Franciscans worked mainly in regions such as Bardez (North Goa), Ceylon, and the Northern Province, while the Jesuits were active in the Far East, the south of India, Salcete (South Goa), and the Mughal court. The Augustines were active in Goa and predominant in Persia, while the Dominicans were active in Timor, Solor, Moluccas, regions of Goa and northern India. Throughout the seventeenth century, other congregations established themselves in India, such as the Theatines, the Italian Oratorians, and the Discalced Carmelites (Faria 2012: 361).

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During his governance, despite droughts in the hinterland and storms on the coasts, Bahia and Brazil experienced a period of prosperity. A historian of Portuguese America, Sebastião da Rocha Pita (1660–1738), praised the viceroy’s commitment to founding villages, promoting the construction of churches for the Society of Jesus, and nota bene, equipping the Salvador shipyard with the means to manufacture and repair the ships that traveled between Asia, Africa, the Americas, and Europe. Undoubtedly, Don Vasco was a fundamental character in the historical connection between Brazil and India. The accommodation the viceroy gave to the Patriarch of Alexandria, Monsignor Carlo Ambrogio Mezzabarba (1685–1741), entered the annals of the capital of Brazil. Mezzabarba was sent to China as a legate of the Pope to investigate how Christianity was promulgated by the Jesuits there; having seriously displeased them and the Chinese emperor Kangxi himself, who relied mainly on Portuguese Jesuits, the Patriarch returned to Europe. However, on his return voyage the ship had to dock in Rio de Janeiro, where all the valuable cargo sent from the Chinese emperor as gifts to the Pope and to the King of Portugal was lost in a fire that also ruined the ship. In order to travel with a fleet leaving for Europe, the patriarch Mezzabarba, along with the Jesuit Father Antonio Magalhães (1677–1735) who came as an ambassador from China, went to Bahia. There, they were received lavishly by the viceroy, the noble landed men, and civil and ecclesiastical authorities – an event reported in detail in Rocha Pita’s História da América Portuguesa [History of Portuguese America] (Rocha Pita 1958 [1730]: 474–477). Yet what this historian of Brazil’s province highlights is the fact that the viceroy founded an academy in Bahia, “uma academia, que se faz em palácio na sua presença” [“an academy, which is created in the palace in his presence”] (Rocha Pita 1958 [1730]: 492). Rocha Pita himself was one of the literati of this so-called Academia Brasílica dos Esquecidos [Brazilian Academy of the Forgotten] – meaning, forgotten by the capital of the Empire, Lisbon. This Academy was short-lived, being active for less than one year (from March 1724 to February 1725), yet it included forty-four scholars and held eighteen meetings or conferences during that period. At the time, before there were any universities in Brazil, the Academia Brasílica dos Esquecidos bought together the main literati from the different provinces and produced significant literary output: three thick volumes of various writings, which were published only in the 1970s (Castello 1969–1978). In this Academy, the viceroy, councilors, landowners, judges, priests, and “good men” participated in literary social ceremonies and refined their skills in conferences, discourses, and poetry. The Academy’s motto was “Sol oriens in occiduo”, which stands in direct opposition to the Latin maxim “Ex orient lux”, “The light [comes] from the East”. The motto could mean either “the sun is born in the West”, “the sun of the East is in the West”, or even “the East sun is dead”. Sebastião da Rocha Pita’s sonnet, presented at the Academy’s first conference, on April 23, 1724, in the governor’s palace, deals with the Academy’s literary emblem

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“The Sun is born in the West” and says: “Mudou o Sol o Berço refulgente / [. . .] / com Luz no Ocaso, e sombras no Oriente” [“The Sun changed the effulgent Cradle / [. . .] / with Lights in the West, and Shadows in the East”] (Rocha Pita (1969) [1724]: 94–95). These dynamics prove the presence of papers about the political and religious disputes of India in Bahia in the 1720s, not as isolated or fortuitous cases, but as specific moments, among others, in a heavy traffic between the two Indies. These circulations went far beyond commerce: supported by scholars of the Brazilian provinces, they concerned theological, political and literary matters which affected the regions into which the Portuguese Crown was expanding, namely Africa and Asia (Subrahmanyam 2004: 48–75).

Reflexões declarativas on the Archbishop of Goa at the Academy of the Forgotten The document named “Reflexões declarativas do manifesto do procedimento do Arcebispo de Goa” [“Declarative reflections on the ‘Manifest of the proceedings of the Archbishop of Goa’”] (Códice 13185, 103r–136v) was composed in Salvador and, at some unknown point in time, was incorporated into the “Varios Discursos” [“Various Speeches”] collection mentioned above. This document consists of 11 “reflections”, and it starts as follows: Um Eclesiástico, que no ano de 1725, veio da Índia a esta Cidade da Bahia nas Naus que se acham ancoradas neste porto, e nelas intenta passar ao Reino [de Portugal], acaso encontrou nas mãos de uns acadêmicos desta Cidade um manifesto, de que no título se faz menção; e lendo-o conheceu ser obra da Índia por sua subtileza, e fácil de se desfazer; e porque lá na Índia tendo título de ‘manifesto’, andou escondido com medo de aparecer; porque facilmente seria conhecida a sua falsidade; o dito Eclesiástico, levado de santo zelo quis relatar por escrito na Bahia o que, pertencente ao mesmo manifesto na Índia, tinha sabido nos poucos anos que lá assistiu. (“Reflexões declarativas”: 103r–103v) [An ecclesiastic, who in the year 1725, came from India to this city of Bahia in the ships that are anchored in this port, and who tried to pass in them to the Kingdom [of Portugal], found, by chance, with some of the city’s academics a “manifest”, which is mentioned in the title; and reading it, he understood that it was a writing from India for its subtlety, and for how easy it was to discard; and because it had the title ‘manifest’, in India it had been hidden for fear of surfacing (because its falsity would easily be known); the said ecclesiastic, moved by holy zeal, decided to file in Bahia a written report about what he had known in his years in India about this “manifest”.]

The anonymous author (a Jesuit, as stated below) plays a game between the literary genre “manifest” – that is, a formal declaration of political or aesthetic ideas,

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etc. – and the meaning of the term as an adjective: something that shows itself publicly. As stated in the “Reflexões declarativas” [“Declarative reflections”], a priest who came from India found a copy of the “Manifesto do procedimento do Arcebispo de Goa” [“Manifest of the proceedings of the Archbishop of Goa”] in the hands of Bahia’s academics. The Manifesto had generated great interest in Salvador because it was about a conflict between a high member of the ecclesiastical hierarchy and the Society of Jesus. Knowing the importance of the Society of Jesus in Brazil, the “Reflexões declarativas” aimed to contradict the “Manifesto”, painting the Archbishop instead as a slandering character, an enemy of the Jesuits, distant from missionary practice, and in short, as an office theologian4, who ignored the difficult task of gaining Native populations for the Faith and the Empire5. The evangelization of the Native populations practiced by the Jesuits in Asia had several points in common with that practiced among the Native populations of the New World, and the Jesuits in Brazil, like in India, were deprived of close proximity to the emperors, viceroys, and local chiefs (Xavier 2015: 181–185). Thus, it is not surprising that, informed by these events and recognizing the similarity of the situation in Brazil and in India, the academics from the Academia Brasílica in Bahia chose as the subject for a conference held in November 1724 the discussion of Asia and America, India and Brazil, and Goa and Bahia. In the end, the Brazilian Academy was comprised generally of scholars who represented the bureaucracy and the clergy and had trained in civil and canonic law at the University of Coimbra; they were always dependent on the patronage of the viceroys,

 “Podia algum crítico julgar, que [o Arcebispo] vinha ao Oriente com os pensamentos, com que alguns Doutores Conimbricences se embarcam para as conquistas; cuidam estes, saindo da Barra do Tejo, que só o [rio] Mondego adonde algum dia beberam, nasceu com Estrela, e por trazerem muito livro cercado dos Institutos, Digestos, Codices, Autênticas, Decretos, Decretais, Sextos, Clementinas, e Extravagantes com suas Rosas, cuidam que só o tal Mondego correu direito neste Mundo” (“Reflexões declarativas”: 111). [“Could any critic judge, that [the Archbishop] came to the East with the thoughts, with which some Doctors Conimbricences embark on the conquests; these take care, leaving Barra do Tejo, that only the Mondego [river] from where they once drank, was born with a Star, and for bringing many books surrounded by Institutes, Digests, Codices, Testimonies, Decrees, Decretals, Sextos, Papal decrees of Clementine, and Extravagantes with their Roses, they take care that only this Mondego ran straight in this world”].  “Pode agora opor S. Francisco Xavier e seus filhos às Malacas e muitas praças defendidas e conquistadas, o muito sangue que derramaram, e serviços que fizeram e que fazem para conquistar almas para o Céu” (“Reflexões declarativas”: 125) [“May now oppose St. Francis Xavier and his children to Malacca and many public squares defended and conquered, all the blood they shed, and the services they did and that they do to win souls for Heaven”].

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not constituting themselves as independent individuals, much less as an autonomous body, but as part of a monarchical governance. Indeed, the theme of the Fourteenth Conference of the Academy of the Forgotten was a dispute over the preeminence of Bahia or Goa, of America or Asia, among all Portuguese domains. The entire session was devoted to this epideictic debate, the center of which was in fact praise of the viceroy of Brazil, Vasco Fernandes César de Meneses, founder of the Academy, who had also served as viceroy in India. The conference disputed whether the value of the viceroy was more evidenced by the wars waged in defense of the Portuguese conquests in India, or the implementation of institutions of knowledge and arts in Brazil, and which of the two Portuguese domains was more deserving of Vasco Fernandes César’s efforts. The orators and poets of the Academy argued with the way of proceeding in the East and the way of proceeding in the West, affirming the superiority of the latter in relation to the former, and praising the adhesion of the viceroy to the western regions of the Empire. In defense of the superiority of Brazil, the academics presented sonnets, epigrams, a panegyric song, novels, and even a prosopopoeia6. Evidently, they are poetic pieces, in which praise and censorship seek to maintain virtues and to suppress vices in a given political state, and which had such importance in the rationality and institutions of the Old Regime, especially in the Iberian world. Of course, these works were not about objectively demonstrating the superiority of Goa or Bahia, but rather about establishing a competition between them, amplifying their qualities, so that both come out of the debate dignified and one of them praised. In this practice, participants aim to generate paradox, which unites opposite extremes, sharpness [agudeza] and mental finesse (Gracián 1974: 14; Hansen 2000). In the 1700s, academic conferences in Portugal and its colonies were recognized as a privileged occasion for rhetorical dispute on diverse subjects, from

 In Rhetoric, Aristotle includes epideictic speeches as one of the three rhetorical genres (in addition to the judiciary and the deliberative). Rhetoric presupposes that discourses are carried out because there are different opinions about human affairs, which, unlike science and dialectics, are dubious and variable according to the circumstances of time, place, and societies. Therefore, the speaker argues with what appears to be true, not with the truth itself; with the plausible, not the real. Epideictic discourse aims to show that something is beautiful or ugly, that is, virtuous or shameful, honorable or dishonorable; but since virtue, honor, or dignity cannot be proved logically, given that they are variable according to the judgments of men, the orator of the epideictic discourse resorts to topics of amplification to demonstrate his opinion: that is, one does not expose that something is just or unjust, useful or harmful, virtuous or shameful, but shows that something is more just or more useful or more virtuous, etc. In other words: between two virtuous actions, which is “more virtuous”, which is superior? In this way, epideictic discourse becomes the most rhetorical of the rhetorical genres. For further reading, see Aristoteles (1971).

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science to literature, outside university teachings. Among other texts, this is clear in Francisco Leitão Ferreira’s Nova arte de conceitos [New Art of Concepts], composed between 1718 and 1721 as “lessons” based on the debates of the Academia dos Anónimos de Lisboa [Anonymous Academy of Lisbon], which aimed to offer an “arte de fazer conceitos por imagens e ideias engenhosas” [“art of making concepts by images and ingenious ideas”]. São as Academias palestras dos entendimentos, porque neste literário circo, como em campo agonal, costumam os sábios fazer prova de seus engenhos, contendendo uns com outros por uma mesma palma, aspirando todos a um mesmo triunfo, e competindo-se em uma mesma glória. Conforme esta proporção, muito se parecem os exercícios Acadêmicos aos certames Olímpicos. (Ferreira 1721: 311) [The Academies are the lectures of understanding, because in this literary circus, as in an agonal field, wise men are wont to put their wits to the test, contending with one another for the same applause, all aspiring to the same triumph, and competing for the same glory. In this regard, Academic exercises are very similar to the Olympic contests.]

Some poems from the Fourteenth Conference are evident examples of this epideictic conception of poetry, which in the competition between Goa and Bahia finds an ingenious subject for academic debate. Therefore, information about the Archbishop Friar Inácio and the Portuguese Catholic mission in the East took on the character of a dispute in the Academia Brasílica dos Esquecidos. The scholars disputed the relation between East and West, economically and politically speaking, but mainly between an “Eastern” and a “Western” rationality. The literary composition of the “Reflexões declarativas” testifies to this tension between East and West, as the apparent documentary clarity of the “Manifesto” stand in opposition to the elaborate language of the “Reflexões declarativas”, full of paradoxical constructions, eloquent trickeries, misunderstandings and ironies. The latter’s such agudezas link them to the elevated style of Brazilian society, supposedly “closer” to the Portuguese matrix. For example, the “Manifesto” claims that in India everyone is false; the “Primeira Reflexão” [“First Reflection”] refutes this, returning the claim to the premise itself: because everything in India is false, and since the “Manifesto” was written in India, it is also false. At the same time, Brazil is praised as being the opposite of Asia, that is, as a “land of truth”, a term that appears elsewhere in the document: Afirma [o Manifesto] com toda a constância, que na Índia não se fala verdade, que tudo se prova com testemunhas falsas, tudo são papeladas indignas, e tais as mandam para o Reino. Isto afirma, e nisto arruína o seu intento; porque se os papéis feitos na Índia todos são falsos, e o Manifesto, que impugnamos, é feito na Índia; logo é todo falso, e alheio de toda a verdade. As premissas não se podem negar: se o Autor negar a consequência, tenho licença para lhe dizer que Goa está muito longe da Lógica Conimbricense, pois nega verdades evidentemente provadas. Eu dou graças a Deus concedendo-me passar o cabo de Boa Esperança, a que, na

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suposição do Autor, chamo Cabo das Mentiras Indiáticas, para na terra da verdade mostrar, e escrever papéis sem escrúpulo de falsidade. (“Reflexões declarativas”: 105v) [The Manifest] affirms with all constancy that in India no one speaks the truth, that everything is proved with false witnesses, everything is unworthy paperwork, and such [information] is sent to the Kingdom. Affirming this, its intentions are ruined; because if the papers made in India are all false, and the Manifest, which we question, is made in India; then it is in itself all false, and far from all truth. These premises cannot be denied: If the Author denies the consequence, I am entitled to say that Goa is very far from the Logic of Coimbra, as it denies evidently proven truths. I give thanks to God for allowing me to pass the Cape of Good Hope, which, in the Author’s assumption, I call the Cape of Indian Lies, to show in the land of truth and to write papers without scruple of falsehood.]

In this dispute, Indigenous people from both sides rarely had a voice; nevertheless, the anonymous ecclesiastic who wrote the “Reflexões declarativas” sometimes translates Indian terms into African or American Portuguese, conscious of writing a document that, situated between India and Brazil and intermediated by Mozambique, is intended to be received by the nobility of Lisbon. These translations both evince the anonymous writer’s experienced missionary pilgrimages, but also assume that the text’s readers are capable, or at least curious, to comprehend and speak these languages and travel to these places. The descriptio of a burial scene in the region of Sofala, in Mozambique, testify to this point: Ao som de uns tristes clamores, e instrumentos bárbaros, vi aparecer uma grande comitiva, trazendo um cadáver em umas andas, que podiam ser de luto, se fossem (o que Deus não quis) de ébano natural da terra. Chegados à porta da Igreja, ou palhoça indigna, e cheia de cariâ, que no Brazil chamão copîm, e em Angola salalé, depuseram o féretro no terreiro; o pretinho sacristão, que na Índia chamamos bicho, fez dois sinais com o triste tamboril, ou tabâque; ao som de tantos ruídos saiu finalmente o vigário. (“Reflexões declarativas”: 122r–123r, my emphasis) [To the sound of sad cries and barbaric instruments, I saw a large entourage appear, bringing a corpse on stilts, which could have been for mourning, if they were (which God did not want) made of ebony natural from the land. Arriving at the door of the church, or unworthy hut, full of cariâ, which in Brazil is called copîm, and in Angola salalé, they deposited the coffin in the yard; the little black sexton, which in India we call a bicho, made two signs with the sad tambourine, or tabâque; to the sound of so much noise, the vicar finally appeared.]

The “ecclesiastic” that describes such a scene assumes that the readers of Bahia – the Brazilian capital with rich churches, decorated with gold paintings, Chinese, European and Oriental pieces, as noted at the beginning of this chapter – would perceive their own superiority and distance from the people and habits of Africa, in which Christianity had not yet established itself. The passage as a whole aims to provoke a laugh, loaded with disdain and demonstrating the difficulty of practicing religion in a region of such poverty.

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Conclusion The analyzed documents about religious controversies in Goa among Brazilian scholars in Bahia echo the opposition found in the “Reflexões declarativas” between Asian vices and errors, and the new and virtuous Portuguese institutions in the Brazilian territory: after all, Brazil had become the new love of Portugal, its new treasure. If India had been the greatest wealth of Portugal in the sixteenth century, at the beginning of the eighteenth century it was America that provided Portugal with goods once the gold mines and precious stones of the Brazilian hinterlands had been discovered. The Archbishop Friar Inácio de Santa Teresa appears as a representative of the already decaying Portuguese empire in Asia, in opposition to the “young” America. Although no more than a poetic event at a forgotten Academy, these texts construct the figure of America as a counterpoint to Asia, taking up the persistent notion of translatio imperii, with great appeal to the contemporary governing institutions (Kantor 2009). If the East was proverbially praised as the land of the rising sun, the Empire had now moved to America, which was not imagined as the West or the sunset, but as a summit, a peak, an axis – as one of the poems by graduate Jorge da Silva Pires describes: “O Sol, que lá no Oriente, cintilante / Para luzir se ensaia luminoso / Quando ao alto Zênite chega lustroso / Então créditos logra de radiante” [“The Sun, which up there in the East, shimmering / To shine, prepares itself luminous / When to the high Zenith arrives shiny / So it achieves credit radiantly”] (Silva Pires 1969 [1724]: 341). We should recall that not too much earlier, in the 1660s, Father Antonio Vieira (1608–1697) proposed that the king of Portugal (the westernmost nation in Europe) should rule the Fifth Empire – a universal Christian empire, after those of the Assyrians, Persians, Greeks and Romans (Muhana 2008: 82–84; 150–155; 179–190). Father Vieira also planned to transfer the capital of the Portuguese empire to Brazil, which was put into practice a century later by his grandson King John VI, in 1808 (Norton 1979: 3–4). Finally, the presence of the “Manifesto do procedimento do Arcebispo de Goa” in the capital of Brazil and the writings surrounding it provide evidence of the knowledge and importance of India’s issues in Brazil – and vice versa. The literary controversy discussed here, while having its center in a dispute about religious practices, directly exposes the shift in prestige, wealth, and knowledge from the east to the west of the fragmented but connected Portuguese empire. In sum, the capital of Portuguese America knew about and tried to intervene in the issues of Portuguese Asia, debating them and producing solemnities through which distant India became close to Bahia. This happened not only through the ships that crossed the ocean loaded with merchandise, but also through the writings they carried from one part to another.

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Archival Sources “Inventário da caza dos exercicios, e religioza recreação de N. Sr.a Madre de D.s da Compa.ª de Jesus, seus bens moveis, e de raiz e suas fazendas; conforme ao estado em que ficaraõ ao tempo de nossa auz.ª em Junho de 1760”. In: Leite, Serafim (1938): História da Companhia de Jesus no Brasil, III. Lisbon/Rio de Janeiro: Livraria Portugália/Civilização Brasileira, Appendix D, p. 29. “Manifesto do procedimento do Arcebispo de Goa contra as muitas falsidades, e calúnias que lhe tem imposto”, 1722–23. Lisbon, Arquivo Nacional da Torre do Tombo, Tribunal do Santo Ofício, Conselho Geral (ANTT-TSO-CG), Livro 286, 5r–33v. Meneses, Vasco Fernandes César de [Conde de Sabugosa] (1725): “Carta do vice-rei e capitão-general do Brasil, conde de Sabugosa, Vasco Fernandes César de Menezes ao rei [D. João V] informando sobre as avarias sofridas pela nau Nossa Senhora da Piedade durante a viagem da Índia para a cidade da Bahia” [“Letter from the Viceroy and Captain-General of Brazil, Count of Sabugosa, Vasco Fernandes César de Menezes to the King [John V] informing about the damages suffered by the ship Nossa Senhora da Piedade during its voyage from India to the city of Bahia”] 5 April 1725. Lisbon, Arquivo Histórico Ultramarino, AHU-Baía, cx. 18, doc. 100 / AHU_ACL_CU_005, Cx. 21, D. 1920. “Noticias de Goa desde a monção de Janeiro de 1724 até a de Janeiro de 1725” [sic] [“News from Goa from January monsoon 1724 to January 1725”], 1725. Lisbon, Arquivo Nacional da Torre do Tombo, Tribunal do Santo Ofício, Conselho Geral, Livro 286, 56r–56v. “Reflexões declarativas do manifesto do procedimento do Arcebispo de Goa” [Declarative reflections on the “Manifest of the proceedings of the Archbishop of Goa”], n.y. MS Lisbon, National Library of Portugal, Códice 13185, 103r–136v. “Varios discursos em que se censurão algumas proposiçoens contra o Arcebispo primás de Goa D. Fr. Ignacio de Santa Thereza, e outros à seu fauor” [“Various Speeches in which are Censored Some Assumptions Against the Archbishop of Goa D. Fr. Ignacio de Santa Thereza, and Others in his Favor”], n.y. MS Lisbon, National Library of Portugal, Códice 13185.

Bibliography Alves, Ana Maria Mendes Ruas (2012): “‘O Reyno de Deus e a sua Justiça’. Dom frei Inácio de Santa Teresa (1682–1751)”. Doctoral dissertation. Coimbra: University of Coimbra. —— (2014): “A biblioteca de D. Inácio de Santa Teresa, um bispo jacobeu, entre 1721 e 1751”. In: Revista de história da sociedade e da cultura, 14, pp.209–230. Antony, Philomena Sequeira (2013): Relações intracoloniais Goa-Bahia. 1675–1825. Brasília: Fundação Alexandre de Gusmão. Aristoteles (1971): Retórica. Transl. and ed. Antonio Tovar. Madrid: Instituto de Estudios políticos. Barbosa Machado, Diogo (1747): Bibliotheca lusitana historica, critica, e cronologica, II. Lisbon: Oficina Ignacio Rodrigues. Bouza, Fernando (2001): Corre manuscrito. Una historia cultural del Siglo de Oro. Madrid: Marcial Pons. Boxer, Charles (1961): “Fidalgos portuguêses e bailadeiras indianas (Séculos XVII e XVIII)”. In: Revista de história, 22, 45, pp. 83–105. —— (1997) [1969]: The Portuguese Seaborne Empire 1415–1825. London: Hutchinson & Co.

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Brandão, Ambrósio Fernandes (1930) [1618]: Diálogo das Grandezas do Brasil [Dialogue of the Greatness of Brazil]. Rio de Janeiro: Publicações da Academia Brasileira. Castello, José Aderaldo (1969–1978): O movimento academicista no Brasil (1641–1820/22). Sao Paulo: Conselho Estadual de Cultura. Dalgado, Sebastião Rodolpho (1919): Glossário luso-asiático. Coimbra: Imprensa da Universidade. Delduque da Costa, Cap. A. (1933): “Os Portugueses e os reis da Índia. V: Os Maratas”. In: Boletim do Instituto Vasco da Gama, 20, pp. 1–40. Faria, Patrícia Souza de (2012): “Mais soldados e menos padres: remédios para a preservação do Estado da Índia (1629–1636)”. In: História unisinos 16, 3, pp. 357–368. Ferreira, Francisco Leitão (1721): Nova arte de conceitos. Lisbon: Antonio Pedroso Galram. Froes, Father Luís (1950) [1552]: “Carta aos Irmãos de Coimbra” [“Letter to the brothers in Coimbra”], Goa. In: Wicki, Joseph (ed.): Documenta Indica, II (1550–1553). Roma: Monumenta Historica Societatis Iesu, pp. 445–490. Gama, Antônio de (1944) [1725]: “Petição” [“Petition”]. In: Ministério da Educação e Saúde/Biblioteca Nacional (eds.): Documentos Históricos: Registro do Conselho da Fazenda, Bahia, 1699–1700. Cartas régias, 1642–1651, LXV. Rio de Janeiro: Biblioteca Nacional, pp. 261–262. Gracián, Baltasar (1974) [1648]: Agudeza y arte de ingenio. Madrid: Espasa-Calpe. Gracias, José Antonio I. (1965): “Algumas raízes do Brasil na Índia Portuguesa”. In: Separatum, Actas do V Colóquio Internacional de Estudos Luso-Brasileiros. Coimbra:n. p. Hansen, João Adolfo (2000): “Retórica da agudeza”. In: Letras Clássicas, 4, pp. 317–342. Kantor, Iris (2009): “As academias brasílicas e a transmissão da cultura letrada: os Esquecidos e os Renascidos (1724–1759)”. In: Vainfás, Ronaldo/Monteiro, Rodrigo B. (eds.): Império de várias faces. Relações de poder no mundo ibérico da Época Moderna. São Paulo: Alameda, pp. 273–286. Lapa, José Roberto do Amaral (2000) [1968]: A Bahia e a carreira da Índia. Campinas: Hucitec. Leite, Serafim (1947): “João de Brito na Baía e o movimento missionário do Brasil para a Índia, 1687–1748”. Lisbon: E.M. Lucas. —— (1952): “Movimento missionário do Brasil para a Índia”. In: Boletim do Instituto Vasco da Gama, 69, pp.107–118. Mendes, José Maria (2012): “Inácio de Santa Teresa. Construindo a biografia de um arcebispo”. Doctoral dissertation. Lisbon: University of Lisbon. —— (2017): “D. Inácio de Santa Teresa e o Movimento Jacobeu”. In: Fluxos & Riscos. Revista de Estudos Sociais, II, 2, pp. 45–61. Monteiro, Nuno Gonçalo (2001): “Trajetórias sociais e governos das conquistas: notas preliminares sobre os vice-reis e governadores-gerais do Brasil e da Índia nos séculos XVII e XVIII”. In: Fragoso, João/Bicalho, Maria Fernanda/Gouvêa, Maria de Fátima (eds.): O Antigo Regime nos trópicos: a dinâmica imperial portuguesa (séculos XVI – XVIII). Rio de Janeiro: Civilização Brasileira, pp. 249–284. Muhana, Adma (2003): “Brasil: Índia Ocidental”. In: Revista USP, 57, pp. 38–49. —— (2008): Os autos do proceso de Vieira na Inquisição: 1660–1668. São Paulo: Edusp. Museu de Arte da Bahia (1997): Vieira e a Bahia do seu tempo. Salvador: Museu de Arte da Bahia. Norton, Luís (1979): A côrte de Portugal no Brasil: notas, alguns documentos diplomáticos e cartas da Imperatriz Leopoldina. Sao Paulo: Companhia Editora Nacional. O’Malley, John W. (1995): The First Jesuits. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Palomo, Federico (2005): “Corregir letras para unir espíritus. Los jesuítas y las cartas edificantes en el Portugal del siglo XVI”. In: Cuadernos de Historia Moderna, IV, pp. 7–81. Pissurlencar, Panduronga (1960): “A presença do Brasil no Arquivo Histórico de Goa”. In: Separatum, Actas do III Colóquio Internacional de Estudos Luso-Brasileiros, II. Lisbon: Imprenta de Coimbra.

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Rocha Pita, Sebastião da (1958) [1730]: Historia da America Portugueza. Rio de Janeiro: W. M. Jackson. —— (1969) [1724]: “Soneto: Sobre a Empresa da Academia, o Sol nascido no Ocidente”. In: Castello, José Aderaldo (ed.): O movimento academicista no Brasil (1641–1820/22).São Paulo: Conselho Estadual de Cultura, pp. 94–95. Russell-Wood, Anthony John R. (2001): “A dinâmica da presença brasileira no Índico e no Oriente. Séculos XVI–XIX”. In: Topoi, 2, 3, pp. 9–40. Silva, Jorge Lúzio Matos (2011): “Sagrado marfim: o império português na Índia e as relações intracoloniais Goa e Bahia, século XVII – iconografias, interfaces e circulações”. Master’s thesis. São Paulo: Pontifical Catholic University of São Paulo. Silva Pires, Jorge da (1969) [1724]: In: Castello, José Aderaldo (ed.): O movimento academicista no Brasil; 1641–1820/22, I, t. 3. São Paulo. Conselho Estadual de Cultura, p. 341. Subrahmanyam, Sanjay (2004): Explorations in Connected History: From the Tagus to the Ganges. Delhi: Oxford University Press. Xavier, Ângela Barreto (2015): A invenção de Goa: poder imperial e conversões culturais nos séculos XVI e XVII. Lisbon: Instituto de Ciências Sociais da Universidade de Lisboa.

Clayton McCarl

Enemigos encubiertos A Colonial Latin American Perspective on the Buccaneer Era in the Writings of Francisco de Seyxas y Lovera In 1693 in Mexico City, Galician author Francisco de Seyxas y Lovera completed Piratas y contrabandistas de ambas Indias, y estado presente de ellas [Pirates and Smugglers of the East and West Indies, and the Current State of Those Regions]1. Drawing on his experiences as a sailor, merchant, and colonial official, Sexyas describes the precarious circumstances of Spain’s American colonies and maritime system during the age of the buccaneers, celebrated raiders who attacked Spanish shipping and coastal settlements in the Caribbean and Pacific. His work was written against the backdrop of De Americaensche zee-roovers (1678) by Alexander Exquemelin, a text that has played a central role in how the period is framed in both popular culture and scholarly discourse. Henry Morgan, Bartholomew Sharp, and the other notorious predators who populate Exquemelin’s text, however, are not the focus of Seyxas’s study. Instead, in his 1693 treatise and throughout his larger body of work, Seyxas scrutinizes the invisible actions of others, both foreign and Spanish, who quietly cheated Spain’s monopoly system. In doing so, he offers an alternative paradigm through which to consider the buccaneer period, portraying a world in which Spain’s principal enemies were not the protagonists of dramatic maritime encounters, but rather deceitful merchants and duplicitous administrators who undermined the Crown’s economic interests.

Unclear Boundaries By Sexyas’ time, piracy had played a role in Hispanic letters for at least 150 years, with authors representing the maritime predation of diverse historical and geographical circumstances to a variety of rhetorical ends. In the sixteenth century, Antonio de Guevara recounts in his Libro de los inventores del arte de marear [Book of Those Who Discovered the Art of Navigation] a series of anecdotes from the classical world that highlight the relative nature of piracy – with king and pirate being different by degree, not type – and that critique the desire to navigate to

 All English translations from Spanish are my own. In all instances I have opted for renditions that read well, as long as they remain faithful to the meaning of the original. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110796308-003

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foreign lands, echoing the theme of beatus ille that is central to his more famous work, Menosprecio de corte y alabanza de aldea [In Disdain of the Court and in Praise of the Village] (Guevara 1984 [1539]: 330–335). In the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, Juan de Castellanos, Martín del Barco Centenera, Juan de Miramontes y Zuázola, and Lope de Vega portrayed in epic verse the person and exploits of Francis Drake in ways that contrast with the triumphalist narratives that often characterize English portrayals2. Miguel de Cervantes employed piracy as a narrative tool in various works, including the story of the capitán cautivo [captive captain] in the first part of Don Quijote (1997 [1605]: 505−508, 517−560), and “La española inglesa” [“The English Spanish Woman”], one of his exemplary novels (1987 [1613]: 119−184). Towards the middle of the seventeenth century, María de Zayas utilized piracy to shape a narrative that responded to Cervantes from a female perspective in “La esclava de su amante” [“Her Lover’s Slave”], part of Desengaños amorosos (1998 [1647]: 127−169). In La hora de todos [The Hour of All Men], Francisco Quevedo satirized the ambitions of the Dutch in the New World (2009 [1650]: 296−305). Three years before Seyxas completed Piratas y contrabandistas, Carlos de Sigüenza y Góngora published Los infortunios de Alonso Ramírez [The Misadventures of Alonso Ramírez], a first-person narrative in which pirates capture the protagonist and press him into service3. These writings generally present piracy as a force that establishes a national, cultural, or religious border4. The pirate is the Other, a being that represents the alien, the forbidden, and the sacrilegious. In the nineteenth century, such values would facilitate the reinvention of the maritime predator as a symbol of artistic and individual freedom in works like “Canción del pirata” [“Song of the Pirate”] by José de Espronceda and El filibustero [The Filibuster] by Justo Sierra O’Reilly5. In the pre-Romantic Hispanic context in which Seyxas writes, however, the otherness of the pirate is assigned a negative value. As an outsider, the pirate is frequently represented as a monster that threatens the most essential, in material and spiritual terms, of the life of the Spanish, both in the Peninsula and in the colonies.

 Barco Centenera (2002 [1602]), Castellanos (1932 [1921]), Miramontes y Zuázola (1978 [1921]), Vega (2007) [1598]. For recent studies that address the textual construction of Drake, see Ríos Taboada (2021) and Velázquez (2023).  In an autobiographical sketch that presents elements of the picaresque and Byzantine novels, even Seyxas recounts in literary terms a story of himself being captured by French pirates. See his prologue to “Theatro real”, transcribed in Seyxas (2011: 213–225).  For this dynamic in the writings of Cervantes, see Fuchs (2001).  For literary uses of piracy in nineteenth-century Latin American letters, see Gerassi-Navarro (1999).

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In the third chapter of Infortunios (2014 [1690]: 475−491), Sigüenza y Góngora provides extensive examples of this characterization. In that “compendio” [summary] of “robos y crueldades” [robberies and cruelties], the narrator recounts atrocities witnessed during his journey from the Philippines to the Americas. An often-cited highlight of the chapter is an episode of cannibalism: “Entre los despojos con que vinieron del pueblo [. . .] estaba un brazo humano de los que perecieron en el incendio; de este cortó cada uno una pequeña presa, y alabando el gusto de tan linda carne, entre repetidas saludes le dieron fin” [“Among the spoils they brought from the town [. . .] was the arm of one of those who perished in the fire. From this each one cut a small piece, and praising the taste of such beautiful meat, with much toasting to each other’s health, they finished it off”] (Sigüenza y Góngora 2014 [1690]: 480). The renegade, an individual who separates from his group to join the enemy, exemplifies the transgressive nature of the pirate, abandoning – and at times ultimately reinforcing – the ideology of the society he leaves behind. Two examples are found in the story of the capitán cautivo, one being a Venetian renegade named Azán Agá who became king of Algeria and who was “el más cruel renegado que jamás se ha visto” [“the cruelest renegade ever seen”] (Sigüenza y Góngora 2014 [1690]: 529). The other is a Spanish renegade from Murcia who aids the captive captain and his associates in their escape from custody in Algeria (Cervantes 1997 [1605]: 533−560). The latter falls into a category of individuals whose apostasy is portrayed by the story’s narrator as tenuous, with such men teetering between exploiting their status for financial gain and renouncing their transgressions and reverting to the faith in which they were born (Cervantes 1997 [1605]: 533). We find another example in Infortunios, in which Miguel, a renegade from Seville, is responsible for the greatest suffering experienced by the narrator and his fellow captives: No hubo trabajo intolerable en que nos pusiesen, no hubo ocasión alguna en que nos maltratasen, no hubo hambre que padeciésemos, ni riesgo de la vida en que peligrásemos que no viniese por su mano y su dirección, haciendo gala de mostrarse impío y abandonando lo católico en que nació por vivir pirata y morir hereje. (Sigüenza y Góngora 2014 [1690]: 502) [There was no intolerable work in which [the pirates] put us, there was no occasion in which they mistreated us, there was no hunger that we suffered, nor risk of life we faced that did not come by his hand and his direction, making a show of being impious and abandoning the true faith in which he was born to live as a pirate and die as a heretic.]

Throughout the book, we witness a juxtaposition of the constant faith and humanity of Ramírez with the heresy and cruelty of his captors, and in particular, their renegade companion.

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The figure of Drake also suggests the way that piracy is used to reinforce boundaries. As scholars have observed, in Hispanic letters, Drake was portrayed in an ambivalent fashion. He was, on the one hand, a consummate gentleman. Barco Centenera, for instance, praises him as “[a]stuto era, sagaz y muy artero, / Discreto, cortesano y bien criado, / Magnánimo, valiente y animoso, / Afable y amigable y generoso” [“astute, wise and very capable, / discrete, courtly, and well-raised, / magnanimous, brave, and valiant, / friendly, agreeable, and generous”] (Barco Centenera 2002 [1602]: 180v–189v), noting that all of these traits are nonetheless made null by the disqualifying flaw of being a heretic, a deficiency which led him to his career as a pirate. At the same time, Drake is a supernatural force of evil, with authors conventionally rendering his name in Spanish as El Draque, evoking the Spanish dragón [dragon] and adding the definite article [El] for further dehumanizing effect (Cummins 1996: 15). In Seyxas’s writings, in contrast, pirates confuse borders more than mark them. They are not unquestionably foreign, nor do they move in a visible, unambiguous fashion across social and cultural boundaries, like the renegade. They are also not exceptionally deranged and cruel, as in Infortunios, nor are they abstract incarnations of evil, as Drake was often portrayed. While at times capable of spectacular deceptions, Seyxas’s protagonists are individuals whose most outstanding characteristic − aside from their audacity − is their in-betweenness, being either individuals of unclear national affiliation or Spaniards whose loyalty is compromised. This situation responds, in part, to a historical reality, the weakening of associations between the actions of pirates and sovereign states. In earlier times, piracy had possessed a strong national character, as seen in the havoc wrought by Elizabethan and Dutch pirates in open, though unofficial, war against Spain. In the second half of the seventeenth century, however, the buccaneers formed ad hoc groupings from bases in the Americas, not Europe, and acted without clear national loyalties. They attacked not only Spain, but also threatened the interests of the other European nations that had established themselves in the Caribbean. This transformation would lead to the campaigns of the first decades of the eighteenth century directed toward the elimination of pirates, a process whose most famous textual result is the General History of the Pyrates (1724−1725), attributed to Daniel Defoe6. The liminality of pirates in Seyxas’s writing also reflects the diverse demographics of the maritime world in the period. The crews of ships often involved individuals of many nationalities, as can be seen in Exquemelin’s text, in which

 For the trajectory described here, see Lane (1998: chs. 4–6).

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the narrator, of Dutch origin, participates in exploits led by English captains. We perceive this complexity as well in Infortunios, with a crew composed not only of Englishmen, but also the Spanish renegade and impressed mariners from Southeast Asia. Seyxas himself had participated in commercial ventures on several continents with English, Dutch, and Portuguese partners (McCarl 2011: xx). Seyxas was aware, likewise, of the role that Spaniards themselves played in enabling and profiting from illicit trade. His knowledge was largely first-hand, and perhaps went beyond that of a mere observer. Although he denies on multiple occasions having been a smuggler himself, the nearly three decades he spent as a mariner and merchant traveling between Europe, Africa, Asia and the Americas may, in fact, have involved contraband trading. He had, in whatever case, direct experience with the colonial administration, having survived a chaotic tenure as alcalde mayor of Tacuba, outside Mexico City, and more importantly, come into personal conflict with the viceroys of New Spain and Peru largely on account, as Seyxas asserts, of his denunciations of official corruption and mismanagement (McCarl 2011: xxviii−xxxii).

Hidden Enemies Speaking from his position in the Spanish maritime and colonial world, Seyxas provides a view of piracy as an activity that is primarily economic, based more on deception than violence, and inseparable, in many ways, from the more banal category of smuggling. This connection is made patent in the binary formulation piratas y contrabandistas [pirates and smugglers], the phrase that begins the title of his 1693 treatise and also appears throughout his larger body of work. The implicit equivalence he draws between the two terms crystalizes his view that the precariousness of the colonial world is not a result only of bellicose activity, but also the insidious, largely anonymous undermining of economic and political structures. As early as 1688, in the unpublished “Theatro real del comerzio de las monedas” [“Royal Theater of Foreign Currency Exchange”], Seyxas pointed to the enemigos encubiertos7 that, in his opinion, largely accounted for Spain’s problems overseas. In

 Seyxas uses this term (enemigos encubiertos) only once in Piratas y contrabandistas, and in reference to the internal enemies of Charles II of England (Seyxas 2011: 151), not in the context of the Hispanic world. I have adopted it, however, because I believe it captures the two types of individuals with whom Seyxas is concerned: deceitful foreigners and duplicitous Spaniards. He uses the term hidden traitors (traidores encubiertos) in reference to the informants he alleges the Duke of Orange possessed in Lima (Seyxas 2011: 136).

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denouncing the activities of Northern Europeans – French, English or Dutch – who had been “ladrones en todas las costas de las Yndias” [“thieves on all the coasts of the East and West Indies”] (Seyxas 1688: 36v), he cautions that those who operated openly as maritime raiders were not the only threat, but rather that ostensibly legitimate merchants were also complicit in the pillaging of the colonial world. As he asserts, “todos los extranjeros que comerzian en los estados de V Mg.d, [. . .] los Unos y los otros son yncubridores de todos los Pirattas y contrabandistas” [“All the foreigners who trade in the states of Your Majesty [. . .] are providing cover for pirates and smugglers”] (Seyxas 1688: 33v–34r). Two years later, Seyxas goes a step further in his first published book, Descripcion geographica, y derrotero de la region austral magallanica [Geographical Description and Sailing Routes of the Strait of Magellan and Surrounding Areas]. In the “Prólogo al lector” [“Reader’s prologue”], he introduces the notion that the efforts of these foreign agents are supported by Spaniards in the Americas. As he explains, “las ynteligencias que tienen con los vassallos de la Corona” [“the close ties they have with subjects of the Crown”] (Seyxas 1690: n.p.) constituted a primary reason why Spain had found it so difficult to combat territorial and economic encroachments. In Piratas y contrabandistas, for example, Seyxas suggests that the voyage of Jacques l’Hermite and the “Nassau Fleet” to the Pacific in the 1630s was inspired by information that Dutch spies in Lima had provided about the movement of silver to Central America for transshipment to the Caribbean. As he recounts, the viceroy in Lima at the time became aware of this network of informants through information gathered from a captured Dutch sailor: Con esta ocasión sabiendo el virrey de Lima, por medio de aquellos soldados, que el Príncipe de Orange tenía muchas espías en Lima, y que había más de 14 meses que le habían avisado al de Orange cuándo había de bajar la plata a Panamá para Portobelo, se receló con todas ellas mucho, y llegó a presumirse que en el Perú había algunos traidores encubiertos. Y haciendo la diligencia el virrey y sus ministros, hallaron una espía con muchos pliegos de Holanda, y a otros muchos cómplices que condenaron a muerte, y a atenacear vivo al intérprete espía. (Seyxas 2011: 136) [The Viceroy of Lima, on this occasion knowing, through those soldiers, that the Prince of Orange had many spies in Lima, and that it had been more than fourteen months since they had notified said prince of when the silver would travel to Panama for overland transfer to Portobelo, he became very wary of such spies, and even arrived at the conclusion that there were some undercover traitors in Peru. And doing the needed diligence, the viceroy and his ministers found a spy with many sheets written in Dutch, and many other accomplices whom they condemned to death, and the interpreter spy was sentenced to be torn to bits alive with red hot pincers.]

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Seyxas suggests that two main factors enabled foreign agents to establish themselves in the Americas. First, in the prologue to Descripcion geographica, he points to what he regards as the susceptibility of New Christians to the evangelical influence exerted by foreigners. Compelled to convert from Judaism to Christianity, these individuals were, according to Seyxas, attracted to any heresy and were easily persuaded by French, Dutch, and English heretics, as well as those of other nationalities (“por persuasiones de los Hereges Franceses, Olandeses, y Ingleses, y otras Naciones”, Seyxas 1690: n.p.). In this way, Spanish subjects in the New World who were New Christians were transformed into instruments of other nations. The second factor enabling the representation of foreign interests in the Spanish colonies was the ease with which, according to Seyxas, these foreigners were able to infiltrate Spanish shipping, “mezclandose con los españoles que passan a las Indias” [“by mixing in among the Spaniards who cross over to the Americas”] (Seyxas 1690: n.p.). Able to pass for subjects of the Spanish Crown, these foreigners themselves took up residence in Spain’s overseas realms. In an unpublished treatise from 1702 he explains how this deception begins in a liminal space on the coasts of Southern Spain: [V]iendo los Yngleses, y holandeses, y otros Septentrionales que no podian Comerçiar en las dichas Yndias, muchos armaron a los Españoles Andaluçes con ropas, y con navios, en buena fe, y otros navegaron en ellos siendo mercaderes poderosos con el dessimulo de Pilotos, de condestables, y de Marineros de tal forma, que sin ser muchos christianos, y nacidos en holanda, en Amburgo, y en otras partes como en Inglaterra, han pasado por naturales de las dichas ciudades, y villas de las Costas de la Andalucia. (Seyxas 1702a: 174r) [Many English, Dutch, and other Northerners, seeing that they could not trade in the Indies, provisioned in good faith Andalucian Spaniards with clothes and with ships, and others sailed with them, being powerful merchants, with the subterfuge of being pilots, constables, and sailors, in such a way that, without being Christians and having been born in Holland, in Hamburg, and in other places like England, they have passed themselves off as natives of the mentioned cities and villages of the coast of Andalucia.]

Sexyas insinuates that the success these foreigners enjoyed was due not solely to their own cunning, but rather the permissiveness of Spanish authorities. Without pointing directly to the individuals responsible, he emphasizes in the mentioned prologue the consequences of such official complicity or neglect: “[E]n los puertos de Andaluzia se ha visto, y vé, q[ue] passan a America las Naciones Septentrionales con mas facilidad que los Es[pa]ñoles, y que en los de las Indias entran con menos pension, y derechos libres, que los vasallos de su Magestad” [In the ports of Andalusia it has been, and continues to be seen, that foreigners from the North gain passage to the Americas with greater ease than Spaniards, and that in the ports of the Indies, they enter with less difficulty than His Majesty’s subjects, and free of customs duties”] (Seyxas 1690: n.p.).

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In Piratas y contrabandistas he points to the proliferation of foreigners in the Río de la Plata as further evidence of administrative failure. He returns to the theme of the corruption of New Christians, but in this case the responsible parties are not heretics from Northern Europe, but rather Portuguese Jews or cryptoJews. The origin of the problem, he argues, is the attitude of the Portuguese Crown with respect to the movement of these individuals to Brazil: “[T]iene tal política el reino de Portugal que a muchas personas de la casta hebrea, que la Sancta Inquisición suele absolver con penitencia a la primera instancia, los destierra comúnm[en]te a vivir en las costas del Brasil” [“The kingdom of Portugal has such a policy that many people of the Hebrew caste, whom the Holy Inquisition usually acquits with penitence in the first instance, are commonly banished to live on the coasts of Brazil”] (Seyxas 2011: 198). In weakening the resolve of recently converted Christians, these exiles facilitate the entry of Dutch, English, French, and others through the Río de la Plata into Peru and Chile. The blame extends beyond the actions of Portugal, however, as Spanish administrators are the ones charged with ensuring that the referenced “heretics and Hebrews” not enter the dominions of the Crown. The failure is not in the law, as he observes, but in enforcement: [S]e previene en las ordenanzas de la Nueva Recopilación que el gobernador del Río de la Plata no deje entrar ni salir por aquella parte a persona alguna sin licencia del rey, y que el gobernador del Paraguay no deje entrar por allí gente del Brasil. (Seyxas 2011: 198) [[T]he ordinances of the New Recopilation prevent the governor of the Río de la Plata from allowing anyone to enter or leave that area without a license from the king, and [stipulate] that the governor of Paraguay not allow people to enter through Brazil.]

From Seyxas’s perspective, such duties were not upheld. In Avisos a pretendientes para Indias [Warnings to Those Seeking Office in the Indies], written in 1695, Seyxas explains that administrators frequently permitted foreigners within their jurisdictions in the New World, benefiting from their trade and even entering into alliances with them. According to Seyxas, local officeholders were often forced into such illicit arrangements to pay off the staggering loans with which they purchased their positions, a feature of the Spanish bureaucracy that had originated in the mid-sixteenth century as a source of revenue for the Crown and that was widespread in Seyxas’s day (Seyxas 2014)8.

 For studies examining the practice of buying and selling of offices, see McCarl (2014a: n. p., note 16).

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Throughout Piratas y contrabandistas, Seyxas affirms that he withholds information about Spanish officials who traded with foreigners and tolerated their residence within their districts. He does so, it seems, out of both discretion and a desire for self-preservation. In Discurso [chapter] V, he points to the existence of such individuals in Perú: “Y conforme a los hechos, consignándolos anualmente, es cierto que hasta el año de 1680 han pasado [a] aquellas partes algunos contrabandistas estranjeros más de los que aquí se refieren, y dejan de decir por no ofender con esta relación a algunos ministros de Su Maj[esta]d en el Perú” (Seyxas 2011: 155) [“It is true that up to the year 1680 some foreign smugglers − more than those referred to here − have passed to those parts, and I decline to name them so as not to offend certain ministers of His Majesty in Peru”]. Seyxas seems to be aware of such corrupt officials, in part, due to grievances their foreign clients expressed about their failure at times to uphold their end of these illicit partnerships: “[S]e quejan algunos franceses, ingleses y holandeses que les faltaron al trato y buena correspondencia que [les] ofrecieron mantener en Europa, hallándose [los oficiales] en sus gobernaciones en aquellas partes de la América” (Seyxas 2011: 155) [“[S]ome French, English, and Dutch complain that they did not enjoy the good treatment and correspondence that [these officials] offered to maintain with them in Europe, once these individuals had assumed their governorships in [. . .] America”]. According to Seyxas, these ministers could not be denounced because the corruption in which they were complicit reached the highest levels of the colonial administration: Mas como en la corte de nuestro monarca y en las demás de su monarquía, hay tantas inteligencias de los estranjeros, con los principales de ellas, no podemos los caballeros particulares de la nación española sacar tan abiertamente la cara contra algunas cosas que se esperimentan, como lo pudiéramos hacer si en las tales cortes no tuvieran las naciones tantas inteligencias como tienen, para persuadir a algunos ministros y personas de ellas hacia el logro de sus pretensiones. (Seyxas 2011: 155) [Since in the court of our monarch and in the others of his monarchy, so many of the principal citizens share information with foreigners, everyday Spanish gentlemen cannot speak as openly [. . .] as we could do if in such courts foreign nations did not have so many informants persuading some ministers and their staff towards the achievement of their objectives.]

In his letters and other personal papers, Seyxas levels accusations at the viceroys of both New Spain and Peru related to complicity in these matters. In Peru, for instance, he offered to lead a naval mission against foreign ships engaged in illegal trade on the Pacific coast, funded by the seizure of properties of foreigners who resided in Lima and collaborated with smugglers (Seyxas 1702b: 4v–5r). According

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to Seyxas, the information that led to this suggestion came from reliable sources: “[Y]o savia antecedentemente por publico y notorio, y por cartas de personas de entidad de el Reyno de Chile las muchas correspondenzias que los dichos extranxeros tenian con otros en aquellos reynos y que con los mesmos caxeros de el Virrey negociaban sus efectos” [“[I] knew beforehand – because it was public and notorious, and through letters from important persons of the kingdom of Chile – of the many close ties that the said foreigners had with others in those realms, and that with the very treasurers of the viceroy they conducted their business”] (Seyxas 1702b: 5r). Melchor Portocarrero y Lasso de la Vega, count of Monclova and viceroy of Perú, rejected the author’s proposal, dismissing his allegations about the presence of foreign ships in the Pacific and foreign subjects resident in the viceroyalty, and denouncing the author as “[un] hombre indigno de credito” who was “reboltoso y inquieto, y de genio de introducir novedades perniçiosas en la Republica” [“[A] man unworthy of being believed” who was “rambunctious and restless, and determined to introduce pernicious novelties into the Republic”] (Portocarrero y Lasso de la Vega 1698: 1r). The viceroy’s rejection of this project and personal animus toward the author was, according to Seyxas, on account of his own personal interest in the illicit trade (Seyxas 1702b: 4v–5r). Even the directors of the Consulate of Seville, according to Sexyas, profited from smuggling. As he argues in Gobierno militar y político del reino imperial de la Nueva España [Military and Political Government of the Imperial Kingdom of New Spain], written in 1702: “Hoy ha llegado la materia a tal estado que el mismo Consulado ha empezado a valerse de estos enemigos para tener trato con ellos y remitir de contrabando a las Indias sus mercancías de España, despachando a los navíos extranjeros con sus mismas cargazones” [“Today the matter has reached such a state that the Consulate itself has begun to use of these enemies, to do business with them and smuggle their goods from Spain to the Indies, dispatching foreign ships with their own cargo”] (Seyxas 1986: 498).

Mauricio del Pozo This emphasis on damaging but relatively mundane economic and legal transgressions does not preclude Sexyas from assembling a collection of outlandish figures in Piratas y contrabandistas. Instead of belligerent buccaneers, however, he puts forward characters whose exploits are rooted in elaborate deceptions and culminate not in violence but rather in difficult-to-detect financial success. Some of these protagonists are the foreigners, alluded to in the prologue to Description

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geographica and elsewhere, whose extensive knowledge of Hispanic language and culture permits them to live undetected among the Spanish. In Piratas y contrabandistas, Sexyas tells the story, for instance, of Mauricio del Pozo, a Frenchman who assumed a Spanish identity in order to trade in the New World. As Seyxas recounts, Del Pozo ultimately became a long term-resident, marrying into a prestigious family and ascending to an important post in the local bureaucracy: Y para que se vea con cuánta facilidad se han introducido y mantenido hasta estos tiempos en las provincias de Buenos Aires las naciones, Mauricio del Pozo, natural de la provincia de la Bretaña Gállica, hallándose en ella con la inteligencia que otros muchos franceses suelen tener en la lengua española y en el comercio, pasó a los puertos de la Andalucía, y desde ellos en los navíos de Buenos Aires a aquella provincia. Y pasando por español en ella, subió a las del Paraguay y las del Tocumán, y a otras del Potosí. Y en ellas divirtiéndose algunos años, usando del ardid francés para estar más inmediato a la correspondencia que muchos tienen en aquella provincia, se casó en ella en la ciu[da]d de Santa Fe de las Corrientes, que está en el camino por donde pasan los mercaderes de Buenos Aires para el Paraguay, para el Tocumán, para Chile y para el Perú. Y por este medio de arraigarse Mauricio del Pozo, casándose con una dama de las primeras de aquella república, vivió en ella más de 14 años, con buena estimación y crédito, de tal manera que, habiendo ocupado los primeros oficios, llegó a ser alcalde ordinario de aquella ciudad de Santa Fe. (Seyxas 2011: 176) [[T]o show how easily foreigners have inserted and maintained themselves until now in the provinces of Buenos Aires, Mauricio del Pozo, a native of the province of Gallic Brittany, finding himself with the knowledge that many Frenchmen tend to have in the Spanish language and in commerce, advanced to the ports of Andalusia, and from there on the ship going to Buenos Aires. And passing for Spanish there, he went up to the provinces of Paraguay and Tocumán, and to others in Potosí. And employing himself there for a few years, using the French ruse to be closer to the connections that many have in that province, he married in the city of Santa Fe de las Corrientes, which is on the road where the merchants travel from Buenos Aires to Paraguay, to Tocumán, to Chile, and to Peru. And by this means of establishing himself, Mauricio del Pozo, marrying a daughter of one of the principal families, lived in Corrientes for more than 14 years, respected and with good credit, in such a way that, having held the first lower offices, he rose to became alcalde ordinario.]

Following the death of his wife, Del Pozo decided to return home with her riches and the son they had together. In doing so, he carried out a scheme to defraud his wife’s family and his personal associates. In expectation that he would lobby for their interests in his alleged homeland, these residents of Corrientes entrusted a portion of their wealth to his stewardship. Upon returning to Europe, however, he did not proceed to the Spanish court, absconding instead to France with their money (Seyxas 2011: 177). Seyxas recounts how Del Pozo made use of his contacts among Spain’s smugglers to attempt to achieve legal status in France for his American-born son, who otherwise would be unable to inherit the wealth he had amassed: “[S]abiendo con

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esta ocasión Mauricio del Pozo que había en Samalo personas que le conocían y habían visto en las provincias del Tocumán, del Paraguay y de Buenos Aires, hizo jurídicamente ante la justicia de Samalo información de cómo su hijo era habido en legítimo matrimonio” [“Mauricio del Pozo, knowing on this occasion that there were people in Saint-Malo who knew him and had seen him in the provinces of Tocumán, Paraguay, and Buenos Aires, made a legal claim before the court in Saint-Malo informing how his son was born in legitimate marriage”] (Seyxas 2011: 177). As this strategy apparently did not succeed, Del Pozo employed the resources he extracted from the colonies for the same purpose, making a donation to the Crown in exchange for legitimacy for his son and social standing for himself, becoming through this transaction a “gentleman merchant” (Seyxas 2011: 178). Seyxas concludes by providing his sources for this seemingly outlandish tale, citing specific individuals who had known Del Pozo personally, grounding his assertions about the trustworthiness of two of them in the fact that they were, like the author, native Galicians (Seyxas 2011: 178).

Joseph Carreras Others of Sexyas’s outlandish protagonists are renegade Spaniards who differ from those we find in Cervantes and Sigüenza y Góngora. Joseph Carreras, for example, was a priest from Cantabria who, after being expelled from the Church, proceeded to Northern Europe and converted to Judaism: [N]otorio es a todos los ministros embajadores del Rey, n[uest]ro s[eñor], que residen en Francia, en Inglaterra, en Holanda y en Hamburgo, que hoy vive en Inglaterra don Joseph Carreras, que habiendo sido eclesiástico en su patria Cataluña, por no haber de haberlo sido bueno, fue castigado, el cual para no ver su afrenta merecida, se pasó al reino de Portugal, y de él a diversas tierras de aquella corona, en todas las cuales debiendo temer el castigo de sus nimiedades, se trasplantó en Holanda, y abjurando de la fe católica en Amsterdam, admitió ateístamente la profesión hebrea en que se circuncidó. (Sexyas 2011: 121) [Well-known to all the ambassadorial ministers of the King, our lord, who reside in France, in England, in Holland and in Hamburg, is that in England lives Mr. Joseph Carreras, who was an ecclesiastic in his native Catalonia, but, for not having been good, was reprimanded, and in order not to face his deserved punishment, went to the kingdom of Portugal, and from it to various lands of that Crown, in all of which having reason to fear the punishment of his trifles, relocated to Holland, and abjuring the Catholic faith in Amsterdam, he atheistically embraced the Hebrew faith and was circumcised.]

His plan did not work as he had hoped, however, as the Jewish community remained skeptical of his sincerity: “Y como los judíos conocieron que era ateísta, le

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faltaron con los socorros que suelen dar a semejantes personas que se reducen a sus herejías. Por esta causa y otras que omito, el d[ic]ho Carreras se segregó de ellos” [“[S]ince the Jews knew that he was an atheist, they failed to provide him with the help they usually give to such people who convert to their heresies. For this reason and others that I omit, the said Carreras separated from them”] (Seyxas 2011: 121). Following this rejection, Carreras relocated again and dedicated himself to fabricating false documents, including the letters of marque that granted ostensible legitimacy to the military actions of pirates: [Y] pasándose a la corte de Londres a vivir entre los ingleses [. . .] se ha mantenido en ella de imitar cuánto género de firmas, sellos y instrumentos públicos hay del papa, de los reyes y de los arzobispos, obispos y prelados de la cristiandad, para cuya imitación es de los hombres más diestro que tiene el orbe. [C]on estas habilidades dispone todo cuanto quiere, haciendo patentes de cualquiera género y calidad que sean, para eclesiásticos y militares, y en particular patentes diferentes para los piratas y recomendaciones del Rey, n[uest]ro s[eñor], para que en los puertos de sus Indias admitan a algunos bajeles de los extranjeros. (Seyxas 2011: 121) [[G]oing to the court of London to live among the English [. . .] he has made a living by imitating all kinds of signatures, seals, and public instruments, corresponding to the Pope and the kings and archbishops, bishops, and prelates of Christendom, for the falsification of which he is one of the most skillful men that the world has seen. [. . .] [W]ith these skills he prepares whatever he wants, making patents of any kind and quality, for churchmen and soldiers, and in particular diverse patents for pirates and recommendations from the King, our lord, so that in the ports of the Indies foreign vessels are admitted.]

Having achieved notoriety in England for such abilities, Carreras organized a group of Jewish merchants to undertake a voyage of deception: Con estas buenas mañas de d[o]n Joseph Carreras, se formó el año de 1682 en la ciu[da]d de Londres, [. . .] un enredo de tal manera persuasivo que Moysés de Toledo [. . .], hebreo, y otros tales, con codicia de ganar dinero, éstos y algunos ingleses compraron en Inglaterra un navío de porte de 900 toneladas, armado con 60 cañones de artillería, y un patache de 300 toneladas, con 24 cañones de artillería. Y con ellos pasando a Hamburgo el d[ic]ho judío y sus compañeros hebreos y ingleses [. . .] compraron más otro navío de porte de más de 600 toneladas y armado con 48 cañones de artillería al almirantazgo real del rey de Dinamarca. Conque teniendo ya prevenidos y carenados los d[ic]hos 3 navíos, y armados y peltrechados con todo género de municiones y peltrechos, en el mesmo río de Hamburgo los bastimentaron de lo necesario, surtiendo un caudal de poco más de 100 [mil] pesos para la cargazón de los d[ic]hos 3 navíos, para con ella, y un considerable presente que dispusieron de las cosas más curiosas de Europa, asegurar más bien el interés de este viaje que hicieron, con suposición de ser el d[ic]ho judío embajador de España al emperador Mogor en la India Oriental. (Seyxas 2011: 122)

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[With these tricks, Joseph Carreras in the year 1682 in the city of London [. . .] put forth a plot in such a persuasive way that Moysés de Toledo [. . .], Hebrew, and others like him, eager to earn money, along with some Englishmen, bought in England a 900-ton ship, armed with 60 artillery guns, and a 300-ton patache, with 24 artillery guns. And passing to Hamburg with them, the said Jew and his Hebrew and English companions [. . .] bought another ship of more than 600 tons and armed with 48 artillery cannons from the Royal Admiralty of the king of Denmark. Having prepared and careened the three ships, and armed them with all kinds of weapons and military supplies, in the same river of Hamburg they supplied them with everything else that was necessary, providing a sum of a little more than 100,000 pesos for the cargo of the three ships, so that with it, and a considerable present they prepared of the most curious things in Europe, they might ensure the success of the trip, based on the pretense that Carreras was an ambassador of Spain to the Mughal Emperor in East India.]

After further preparations, including the recruitment of sailors who spoke Spanish, they departed Hamburg in April 1683 asserting they were bound for the Americas, and instead made their way along the coast of Africa, entering the port of Surat in western India in September. Upon arriving, they sent word to the Mughal emperor that an ambassador was to arrive with a gift from the Spanish king. Carreras was subsequently admitted into the court, and the ships remained in the harbor, free to conduct their commerce and unencumbered by customs duties (Seyxas 2011: 123). When the rumor eventually began to spread that the owners of the ships were Jews, not Spaniards, and that Carreras was not actually a representative of Spain, they managed to escape before this came to the attention of the authorities, carrying off the proceeds of their commerce and the gifts that had been presented to Carreras as would-be ambassador. As they fled, they managed a parting heist, seizing a ship carrying the treasure that the Mughal emperor sent annually to Mecca (Seyxas 2011: 123−124). Arriving back in Europe, the three ships separated in order to dissimulate the true nature of the journey they had undertaken, with one going to Saint-Martínde-Ré in France and the other two to the ports of Cork and Kinsale in Ireland. The principal investors in the trip then returned to their homes newly rich. As in the case of the Carreras narrative, Seyxas provides his source, a treatise allegedly published in London in 1686, today unknown, by an individual to whom the author refers as “Guillermo Mauricio”, indicating he served as pilot on one of the three ships (Seyxas 2011: 124)9.

 For this and the other lost, unknown, or possibly invented texts among Seyxas’s sources, see McCarl (2014b).

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Carlos Enriques Clerque Seyxas’s protagonists also include Sephardic crypto-Jews, as is the case of Carlos Enriques Clerque. According to Seyxas, Enriques Clerque was the son of a converso merchant who fled with him from Spain to the Netherlands in 1640 out of fear of being punished for continuing to practice Judaism. He received a Catholic education in England and the Netherlands, which Seyxas asserts was a common arrangement that allowed the children of crypto-Jews to pass as Catholics among Catholics and as Jews among Jews (Seyxas 2011: 144−145). In 1656, Enriques Clerque traveled to the New World, where he was engaged in commerce in Peru and Chile until 1667, when he returned to London. For two years, he worked there, and in the Netherlands, to promote a scheme to conquer Chile: [E]l año d[ic]ho y el siguiente le ocupó en pretender en la corte de Inglaterra y en la de Holanda que le armasen con 8 u con 10 bajeles, bien prevenidos y con bastante gente, para pasar por el Estrecho de Magallanes a apoderarse del reino de Chile, que ofrecía conquistar si le hicieran general y virrey de él, con 5 [mil] hombres de guerra para su defensa que pidió, dándosele los 3 [mil] en el primero armamento y los demás en el segundo que pedía de socorro, para en tomando puerto del reino de Chile. (Seyxas 2011: 145–146) [That year and the following, he busied himself in lobbying in the courts of England and Holland that he be armed with eight or ten vessels, well-supplied and with enough people, to pass through the Strait of Magellan to seize the kingdom of Chile, which he offered to conquer if they made him general and viceroy, with five thousand soldiers for its defense, giving him the three thousand in the first armament and the rest in a second that he asked for as backup to help in seizing a port of the kingdom of Chile.]

When his proposal was rejected in both courts, he attempted the same in France, where he was equally unsuccessful. He then returned to London, now with assurances of support from powerful Jews and others. He appealed again to Charles II, making three promises: that he and his backers would pay a third of the cost; that he knew how to navigate to the Pacific through both the Strait of Magellan and the Strait of Lemaire, and back to the Atlantic through the first of the two; and that he both knew the ports of Chile and had contacts there who would facilitate his entry therein, allowing him to execute the planned conquest. The Duke of York (later James II) encouraged his older brother to approve the plan, and Charles subsequently offered to provide Enriques Clerque with seven warships and two smaller vessels – which he commanded be outfitted in a clandestine fashion – and ten thousand pounds sterling to conduct the expedition. He also offered to grant Enriques Clerque, upon his successful return, another thousand in payment, along with the post of first advisor to the general of the navy and title to

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one of the principal cities in the newly conquered Chile, as long as it was not a port (Seyxas 2011: 146). When word of this secret mission spread, the merchant community in England voiced its opposition, worried that the scheme would damage commercial relations with Spain. They were likewise alarmed that the Crown would risk the reputation of its military supporting the pretensions of a man who was unknown in the court, other than being known to be a Jew. Faced with this opposition, the king sought to cancel the expedition, but the Duke of York argued instead for a smaller undertaking with the goal of exploration, not conquest, to which the king agreed. He ordered that John Narborough captain one of his warships, the Sweepstakes, with Enriques Clerque as práctico [guide, or individual with prior experience]. The Sweepstakes departed for Chile in 1669 with 40 cannons and 340 men, accompanied by one of the smaller vessels, which was separated from it in the Patagonian region before passing through the Strait of Magellan (Seyxas 2011: 146−147). During the journey, the English crew realized that Enriques Clerque lacked the navigational knowledge of which he had boasted in London. Conscious of the royal orders he had received, however, Narborough came to the defense of his mysterious companion: “[P]or no serlo bueno y no haber navegado aquellos mares ni ser cosmógrafo, le quisieron echar muchas veces a la mar los ingleses. Mas como el cap[it]án del navío le defendió, diciendo que era orden del rey que le llevase y volviese a Inglaterra, se contuvieron los soldados y marineros” [“[F]or not having the experience he claimed and for never having navigated those waters, nor having knowledge of the natural sciences, the English wanted on many occasions to throw him into the sea. But as the ship’s captain defended him, saying that the king’s orders were to take him and return with him to England, the soldiers and sailors restrained themselves”] (Seyxas 2011: 147). Fearful nonetheless for his own safety, Enriques Clerque engineered his escape. Upon arriving in Valdivia, he invoked his prior intentions to activate his contacts in Chile. He expressed a desire to go ashore to meet with his associates and return to the Sweepstakes with Chilean merchants for the purposes of trade and to take some of them back to England, presumably to serve as informants to the Crown. These activities being in accordance with the royal commission issued to Narborough, the captain ordered Enriques Clerque to be set ashore, at which point he disappeared. While they were waiting to see if Enriques Clerque would return, some Englishmen who had gone on land were captured by the Spanish. When a Spanish soldier was sent to gather the prisoners’ belongings, Narborough was informed that they were being sent to Lima. Giving up either on securing their release or seeing Enriques Clerque again, he departed, returning to England (Seyxas 2011: 147−148).

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Enriques Clerque was remitted with the other captives to the viceregal capital, where from prison he wrote many documents in his own defense. These were so eloquent and convincing, Seyxas explains, that citizens of that city came to his defense, many of whom may have been foreigners in disguise: De los muchos peruanos que se compadecieron de su prisión, acaso serían algunos de los muchos que en estos reinos de las Indias pasan por españoles, no siendo sino naturales de los de Francia, de Inglaterra y de Portugal, como también por este lado unos hebreos y otros holandeses, hamburgueses y algunos de los estados de la Italia y de Venecia, esclavones y griegos, porque de todas estas costas están muy pobladas las costas de las Indias. (Seyxas 2011: 150) [Of the many Peruvians who regretted his imprisonment, perhaps some were among the many people who, in those kingdoms of the Indies, pass for Spaniards, being instead natives of France, England, and Portugal, as well as some Jews and other Dutchmen, Hamburgers, and some from the states of Italy and Venice, Croatians, and Greeks, because the coasts of the Indies are very populated by all of these peoples.]

Among his defenders, Seyxas asserts, must have also been individuals who had stood to benefit from Enriques Clerque’s thwarted New World designs. His case rose to such a fevered pitch that some of his apologists asserted that he was, in fact, a certain priest of the Order of San Francisco who was thought to have gone missing, but when the individual in question was located, the viceroy ordered Enriques Clerque to be executed by hanging (Seyxas 2011: 150). Once again, Seyxas points to his sources for the story in question: a text printed in London in 1671 following the return of the Sweepstakes, the diary of a subsequent journey made in 1675 (Seyxas 2011: 148), the Tablas chronologicas of Juan Eusebio Nieremberg (1689), and other documents possibly in his possession (Seyxas 2011: 149), along with the inquiries he himself had made in various places10.

Conclusion While eccentric and capable of extraordinary feats, these protagonists are far from the stereotype of the buccaneer. Although the boldness of their deceptions may border on the unbelievable, they nonetheless inhabit a world far more mundane than that of the cinematic pirates who dominate our imaginings of the era.

 I consider Seyxas’s version of the Enriques Clerque story at greater length, comparing it to the other available documentation, in McCarl (2015). This is the only of the three stories highlighted here for which the existence of the protagonist can be asserted as a matter of historical fact.

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Seyxas’s characters move in an everyday environment that is more similar to that represented by writers such as Acarete du Biscay, a Frenchman who published a memorial of his wanderings in South America in 1672 (Biscay 1943 [1672)], and Gregorio de Robles, a Spaniard who wrote a report on the illegal trade that he witnessed in the colonies at the end of the seventeenth century (Robles 1980). They also, in a sense, occupy a space similar to that of Constantine Phaulkon, whom Seyxas mentions in Piratas y contrabandistas in the context of European advances into Asia and, in particular, the efforts of Jesuit missionaries. Known to Seyxas as “maestro Joane”, Phaulkon was a Greek who in the 1670s attained a post in the government of Siam and ascended to the highest position in that administration, becoming advisor to the king (Wills 2001: 87–92; Coatsworth et al. 2015: 99–130). The anecdote appears to have circulated widely, as Sigüenza y Góngora mentions him in Infortunios, though not by name and assigning him a different nationality: “Consiguió un ginovés [. . .] no sólo la privanza con aquel rey [el de Siam] sino el que lo hiciese su lugarteniente en el principal de sus puertos” [“A Genoese [. . .] achieved not only the post of primary advisor to that king [of Siam], but also that the king should name him as his lieutenant in the most important of his ports”] (Sigüenza y Góngora 2014 [1990]: 17). The Phaulkon story is ostensibly about political skill, not deception, but like the tales Seyxas tells, it reflects the capacity of certain individuals to gain power in foreign lands, or, as in the case of Enriques Clerque, to attempt such feats. Participating in a baroque game of false appearances and transforming identities, these characters resist interpretation as manifestations of absolute values. They are not embodiments of wickedness, and their heresies seem to be little more than interchangeable disguises. They also do not lend themselves to being represented as a clearly identifiable Other. None is completely alien to what we could call a Spanish identity, since many were born in Spain, or, as foreigners, assimilate into Hispanic culture to the point of blurring into colonial society. The title of his 1693 treatise encapsulates Seyxas’s perspective on piracy by engaging with and elaborating on, perhaps unwittingly, that of Exquemelin’s book. To Exquemelin’s Buccaneers of America, translated as Piratas de la América in the 1681 Spanish version, Seyxas adds the mention of illicit trade – Pirates and smugglers – and extends his gaze to a broader geographical and historical context, changing America to the East and West Indies. Seyxas also adds another phrase to the title – and the present state of them, that is, of the Indies – to indicate that his book is not just a story of pirates, but an analysis of the broader realities of the moment. The allusion to their present state also communicates a certain urgency, making a connection between piracy and the precarious circumstances of the colonies.

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Ximena Urbina has studied piracy as a vector for information, demonstrating that the significance of maritime predators as historical actors often lies not primarily in their criminal excesses, but rather in the role they play, perhaps at times unintentionally, in facilitating or activating the movement of knowledge. Taking the case of the ill-fated journey of Narborough and Enriques Clerque as a case study, she has examined how this expedition by sea was consequential because of the effects it had both on the Pacific coast of Spanish America and in Europe (Urbina 2016, 2017). Working from this perspective in a forthcoming book chapter, Carmen Channing proposes that early modern nautical journeys should not be measured by standard criteria like profitability, but rather should be viewed as opportunities to observe the circulation of ideas and the transformations they can catalyze (Channing forthcoming). This framework can help us to put in context the views expressed by Seyxas, for whom piracy and smuggling are, on a fundamental level, more about information than material riches. He is concerned with the knowledge that foreign spies and corrupt officials push outward from the colonies, as well as the insight that Spanish officials seem to be unable to attain, or upon which they are unable or unwilling to act, with respect to identifying and punishing these individuals. To a certain extent, Seyxas’s entire body of work can be understood as an appeal for those in power to become cognizant of the information that was before them but remained unseen. The metaphor of pirates as agents of contagion is frequent in Hispanic texts, with the verb infestar (to infest) commonly used when discussing the prevalence of such predators in Spanish waters. In the writings of Seyxas, the Indies indeed experience the effects of piracy and smuggling as a body experiences disease. It is not, however, merely a plague that arrives from beyond, but also a cancer that grows from within. From his vantage point as a Spaniard at the end of the seventeenth and the beginning of the eighteenth century, the clandestine movement of merchants, goods, money, and intelligence was far more significant than that of pirate captains and their ships.

Archival Sources Portocarrero y Lasso de la Vega, Melchor [Conde de la Monclova] (1698): Letter to the Count of Galve, Lima, 28 December 1698. MS Seville, Archivo General de Indias, México 628/629. Seyxas y Lovera, Francisco de (1688): Theatro Real del Comerzio de las Monedas de la Monarchia del Rey nuestro Señor, con la mayor parte de todos los Ymperios, Reynos, y Prouincias, de toda la mayor parte del universo, en que se manifiestan los considerables intereses que se llevan las Naçiones por la

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falta de estimacion que las monedas esta Monarcha deven tener. MS Madrid, Real Biblioteca, II/ 1800. —— (1702a): First book of “Verdadera Union de las Dos Coronas de España y Francia”. MS Paris, Centre des Archives diplomatiques de La Courneuve, Mem. et Doc. 117−123, 30r–280r. —— (1702b): Letter to Philip V containing “Informe que haze al Rey Nuestro Señor el Capitan de Mar, y Guerra D[o]n Francisco de Seyxas y Lovera, Alcalde Mayor de La Provincia de Tacuba en el Imperio Mexicano de la Nueba España. Sobre Las violencias, y excesos de substraccion que contra el dicho hizieron el Conde de Galve Virrey de la Nueva España en la Ciudad de Mexico, y el Conde de la Moncloba Virrey del Peru en la Corte de la Ciudad de los Reyes de Lima, desde el año de 1692. hasta el de 1699”, Versailles, 2 November 1702. MS Seville, Archivo General de Indias, México 628/629.

Bibliography Barco Centenera, Martín del (2002) [1602]: La Argentina: poema histórico. In: Biblioteca Virtual Miguel de Cervantes, (last visit: 28/6/2022). Biscay, Acarete du (“Acarette”) (1943) [1672]: Relación de un viaje al Río de la Plata y de allí por tierra al Perú. Ed. Julio César González. Transl. Francisco Fernández Wallace. Buenos Aires: Alfer y Vays. Castellanos, Juan de (1932) [1921]: “Discurso de el Capitán Francisco Draque.” In: Obras de Juan de Castellanos. Tomo II. Ed. Parra León Hermanos. Caracas: Editorial Sur América, pp. 291–338. Cervantes, Miguel de (1997) [1605]: Don Quijote de La Mancha, parte I. Ed. Florencio Sevilla Arroyo. Madrid: Castalia. —— (1987) [1613]: Novelas ejemplares [Exemplary Novels]. Ed. Juan Manuel Oliver Cabañes. Madrid: Castalia. Channing, Carmen (forthcoming): “El diario de John Narborough (1694): conocimiento útil e instrumento para la navegación del estrecho de Magallanes”. In: Fontaine, Amparo/ Iommi, Virginia/Urbina, Ximena (eds.): Instrumentos modernos: definiciones, usos y transformaciones. Valparaiso: Instituto de Historia/Pontificia Universidad Católica de Valparaíso. Coatsworth, John, et al. (2015): “European and Southeast Asian crossroads”. In: Coatsworth, John, et al.: Global Connections: Politics, Exchange, and Social Life in World History. Vol. II: Since 1500. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 99–130. Cummins, John (1996): “‘That Golden Knight.’ Drake and His Reputation”. In: History Today, 46, 1, pp. 14−21. Defoe, Daniel (1999) [1724]: A General History of the Pyrates. Ed. Manuel Schonhorn. Mineola: Dover Publications. Espronceda, José de (1992): “Canción del pirata” [“Song of the Pirate”]. In: Espronceda, José de: El Diablo Mundo. El Pelayo, Poesías. Ed. Domingo Ynduráin. Madrid: Cátedra, pp. 141–174. Exquemelin, Alexandre Olivier (1678): De Americaensche zee-roovers. Amsterdam: Jan ten Hoorn. —— (1681): Piratas de la America. Transl. Alonso de Buena-Maison. Cologne: Lorenzo Struickman. —— (1684): Bucaniers of America. Transl. unknown. London: William Crooke. Fuchs, Barbara (2001): Mimesis and Empire: The New World, Islam, and European Identities. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Gerassi-Navarro, Nina (1999): Pirate Novels: Fictions of Nation Building in Spanish America. Durham: Duke University Press. Guevara, Antonio de (1984) [1539]: Menosprecio de corte y alabanza de aldea / Libro de los inventores del arte de marear. Ed. Asunción Rallo Gruss. Madrid: Cátedra. Lane, Kris E. (1998): Pillaging the Empire: Piracy in the Americas, 1500−1750. Armonk: M.E. Sharpe. McCarl, Clayton (2011): “Introduction”. In: Seyxas y Lovera, Francisco de: Piratas y contrabandistas de ambas Indias, y estado presente de ellas (1693). A Coruña: Fundación Pedro Barrié de la Maza, pp. xi–xlvii. —— (2014a): “Introduction to Avisos a pretendientes para Indias”. In: Scholarly Editing: The Annual of the Association for Documentary Editing, 35. n. p. —— (2014b): “Ghost Journeys and Phantom Books: Francisco de Seyxas y Lovera’s Elusive Library of Pirates”. In: Book History, 17, pp.165–190. —— (2015): “Carlos Enriques Clerque as Crypto-Jewish Confidence Man in Francisco de Seyxas y Lovera’s Piratas y contrabandistas (1693)”. In: Colonial Latin American Review, 24, pp.406−420. Miramontes y Zuázola, Juan de (1978) [1921]: Armas antárticas. Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho. Nieremberg, Juan Eusebio (“Clemente, Claudio”) (1689): Tablas chronologicas, en qve se contienen los svcessos eclesiasticos, y seculares de España, Africa, Indias Orientales, y Occidentales [. . .]. Valencia: Imprenta de Iayme de Bordazar. Quevedo, Francisco de (2009) [1650]: La hora de todos y la fortuna con seso. Ed. Lía Schwartz. Madrid: Castalia. Ríos Taboada, María Gracia (2021): Disputas de altamar: Sir Francis Drake en la polémica españolainglesa sobre las Indias. Madrid: Iberoamericana/Vervuert. Robles, Gregorio de (1980): América a fines del siglo XVII: noticia de los lugares de contrabando. Ed. Víctor Tau Anzoátegui. Valladolid: Casa-Museo de Colón y Seminario Americanista de la Universidad. Seyxas y Lovera, Francisco de (“Seixas y Lovera, Francisco de”, 1690): Descripcion geographica, y derrotero de la region austral magallanica. Madrid: Antonio de Zafra. —— (“Seijas y Lobera, Francisco de”, 1986 [1702]): Gobierno militar y político del reino imperial de la Nueva España (1702). Ed. Pablo Emilio Pérez-Mallaína Bueno. México: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 1986. —— (2011) [1693]: Piratas y contrabandistas de ambas Indias, y estado presente de ellas (1693). Ed. Clayton McCarl. A Coruña: Fundación Pedro Barrié de la Maza. —— (2014) [1695]: Avisos a pretendientes para Indias. Ed. Clayton McCarl. In Scholarly Editing: The Annual of the Association for Documentary Editing, 35. (last visit: 13/8/2022). Sierra O’Reilly, Justo (2003) [1841]: El filibustero. México: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. Sigüenza y Góngora, Carlos (2014) [1690]: “Infortunios de Alonso Ramírez”. [The Misadventures of Alonso Ramírez]. Ed. Leonor Taiano Campoverde. In: Taiano Campoverde, Leonor: “Entre mecenazgo y piratería. Una re-contextualización histórica e ideológica de Infortunios de Alonso Ramírez”. Doctoral dissertation, Tromsø: UiT The Arctic University of Norway, pp. 437−544. (last visit: 28/6/2022). Urbina, Ximena (2016). “La sospecha de ingleses en el extremo sur de Chile, 1669−1683: actitudes imperiales y locales como consecuencia de la expedición de John Narborough”. In: Magallania, 44, 1, pp. 15−40.

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—— (2017). “La expedición de John Narborough a Chile, 1670: defensa de Valdivia, rumores de indios, informaciones de los prisioneros y la creencia en la ciudad de los Césares”. In: Magallania, 45, 2, pp.11–36. Vega, Lope de (2007) [1598]: La dragontea. Ed. Antonio Sánchez Jiménez. Madrid: Cátedra. Velázquez, Mariana-Cecilia (2023): Cultural Representations of Piracy in England, Spain, and the Caribbean: Travelers, Traders, and Traitors, 1570 to 1604. New York: Routledge. Wills, John Elliot (2001): 1688: A Global History. New York: Norton. Zayas, María de (1998) [1647]: Parte segunda del Sarao y entretenimiento honesto [Desengaños amorosos]. Ed. Alicia Yllera. Madrid: Cátedra.

Luis Fernando Restrepo

Inflection Points of the Colonial Necropolitical Machine Alonso de Sandoval’s De instauranda Aethiopum salute Porque si las leyes ciuiles cuentan al destierro por vn linaje de muerte ciuil: que mucho, que a la triste esclauitud llamemos muerte? Thus if civil laws consider being uprooted a sort of civil death, why not call slavery, death? De instauranda (Sandoval 1647: 121)

Born in Spain and raised in Lima where he entered the Jesuit order, Alonso de Sandoval arrived in 1605 in Cartagena de Indias (Colombia), the main port of entry of the transatlantic slave trade in Spanish America. Facing the suffering of thousands of enslaved Africans, many of whom had barely survived the horrible journey in armazones (slave-transport ships) across the Atlantic, crammed into deplorable and inhuman conditions, Sandoval recruited fellow priest Pedro Claver, who was subsequently canonized by Pope Leo XIII in 1888 for his work with Cartagena’s enslaved and destitute population and named “the Slave of the Slaves” (Spleniani and Aristizábal 2002; Vargas Arana 2006: 297–301). Sandoval also convinced the Order to acquire a group of African slaves to serve as translators for more than a dozen African languages in order to provide assistance to slaves arriving in Cartagena, many of whom were bozales, or non-Spanish speakers (Santos Murillo 2012: 1087; Brewer García 2020: 116–163). Sandoval also turned to writing about the precarious condition of the enslaved population whom he attended in a treatise that he would work on for more than two decades, resulting in a first (1627) and a revised edition (1647) of De instauranda Aethiopum salute1. There are only two contemporary Spanish editions of the princeps edition: one edited by Angel Valtierra in 1956 in Bogotá and currently out of print, and the other edited by Enriqueta Vila Vilar in 1987 under the title Un tratado de la esclavitud [Treatise on Slavery], which omits the notes on the margin of the original text. A partial translation into English was published by Nicole von Germeten in 2008. Since none of the modern editions are suitable or accessible, in this chapter I will rely on both original editions, which are accessible online. The princeps edition is titled De instauranda Aethiopum salute. Naturaleza, policía sagrada i profana, costumbres i ritos, disciplina y catecismo evangélico de todos los etíopies, por el Padre Alonso de Sandoval, natural de Toledo,

 Unless otherwise noted, all translations from this text are my own. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110796308-004

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de la Compañía de Jesús, Rector del Colegio de Cartagena de Indias [De instauranda Aethiopum salute. Nature, sacred and profane policies, costumes and rites, evangelical discipline and catechism of all Aethiopians, by Father Alonso de Sandoval, from Toledo, of the Society of Jesus, Director of the College of Cartagena de Indias]. It was published in Seville in 1627 and is available at the French National Library. The title of the 1647 edition reads De Instauranda Aethiopum Salute: historia de Aethiopia, naturaleza, policia sagrada y profana, costumbres, ritos y Cathecismo Evangelico, de todos los Aethiopes con que se restaura la salud de sus almas: dividida en dos tomos, illustrados de nuevo con cosas curiosas y provechosas, y indice muy copioso [. . .] / por [. . .] Alonso de Sandoval de la Compañía de Jesús [De instauranda Aethiopum salute: History of Aethiopia, nature, sacred and profane policy, costumes, rites and evangelical catechism, of all Aethiopians to restore their souls’ health: divided into two volumes, again illustrated with curious and fruitful things, and a plentiful index [. . .] by Alonso de Sandoval of the Society of Jesus]. It was published in Madrid, and it is available through the Spanish National Library’s Biblioteca Digital Hispánica. Sandoval was born in Seville, Spain in 1576, and died in Cartagena in 1652 during an epidemic. He entered the Jesuit order in Lima (Peru) in 1593 and arrived in Cartagena in 1605, where he was appointed Procurador General of the province and rector of the Jesuit School in 16242. It is estimated that this city received more than 135,000 slaves between 1595 and 1640 (Vila Vilar 1977: 206). Recent years have witnessed a growing corpus of critical work on Sandoval (Olsen 2004; Ariza Montañez 2005; Maya Restrepo 2005; Almeida de Souza 2006; Buitrago Escobar 2007; Chaves Maldonado 2009; Restrepo 2009; Guerrero Mosquera 2012; Hiller 2015; Brewer García 2020). In this contribution I examine Sandoval’s humanitarian practices and writing, in which we see the emergence of a tortured conscience that both knows that it is part of and seeks to come to terms with a necropolitical regime of terror that sustained the slave in a death-to-life situation described by Achille Mbembe as a “state of injury”, marked by a triple loss: loss of ‘home’ country, loss of the right of their own body, and loss of political status (Mbembe 2019: 74–75). The horror he encountered led Sandoval to examine the juridical and moral foundations of slavery, the ius gentium, and Christian compassion. In the process, the colonial writer was confronted with his own precarious existence in the face of the Other’s suffering, a point of inflection of the colonial subject of knowledge/power (Levinas 2006: 32). Writing and rewriting on the suffering Other for over more than two decades is a process of becoming of the author himself, not as an

 The Colegio de los Jesuitas de Cartagenas de Indias was founded in 1604 (Astrain 1913: 588).

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a priori or fixed entity, but one that constitutes itself in response to the Other. In this process, Sandoval, the writing-subject, was moved from moral doubt to a realization that the rampant early modern capitalocene seeking “cheap labor” and “cheap nature” exceeded the juridical frameworks and the Christian moral economy that sanctioned slavery. The capitalocene, as Jason Moore suggests in Capitalism in the Web of Life: Ecology and the Accumulation of Capital, is a critical term that allows us to map the predatory practices on humans and nature in seeking greater accumulation of capital which dates back to sixteenth-century European colonial expansion. In this context, the human-caused environmental degradation referred to as the Anthropocene is not critical enough because it considers all of humanity as the perpetrators and does not include the violence of colonialism, racism, repressive regimes, and savage capitalism (Moore 2015: 169–192). Returning to Sandoval, working with the slaves and witnessing their suffering would change his assumptions on slavery, and would later challenge the relevance of those authorities who had written on the matter. In the first edition, however, Sandoval hesitated to address the legal and moral status of the slave trade: Aunque es verdad, que la gran controvesia que entre los Dotores ay cerca de la justificación deste tan arduo, y dificultoso negocio me tuvo mucho tiempo perplexo, silo passaria en silencio con todo me he determinado a tratalo, dexando la determinación de su justificación a los Dotores3, que tan doctamente han escrito cerca deste punto, principalmente nuestro Dotor Molina. [sic] (Sandoval 1627: 65) [Although it is true, that the great dispute among the Doctors on the justification of this hard and difficult matter had me pondering for a while, considering whether I would let it pass in silence. Notwithstanding I have decided to address it, leaving the justification to the Doctors, who have so wisely written about this point, specially our Doctor Molina.]

Sandoval did express some doubts, but a decisive point of inflection of the legal and moral order sanctioning slavery becomes evident in the second edition, when Sandoval comes to the conclusion that “habiéndose hecho la libertad de los hombres mercancía, no pueden dejar de ser achacosos los títulos con que muchos se cautivan y venden” [“When men’s liberty has become a commodity, the titles by which many are captured and sold cannot be but defectuous”] (Sandoval, 1647: 118). The term achacoso, according to the Diccionario histórico de la lengua española, denotes a legal and moral defect or deficiency: “2. En sentido figurado, defectuoso, deficiente, que tiene algún achaque, falta o debilidad” [“In a figurative

 Sandoval refers to scholastic doctors in theology who address the moral implications of slavery such as the Dominican priest Tomás de Mercado, author of Suma de tratos y contratos (1571) and the Jesuit Luis de Molina, author of De iustitia et iure (1593–1609).

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way, defectuous, deficient, or that has some problem, fault, or weakness”]; “6. En sentido moral o intelectual, dudoso, incierto, confuso; sospechoso” [“6. In a moral or intellectual sense, doubtful, uncertain, confused; suspect”] (RAE 1960–1996). I will start by comparing both editions of De instauranda Aethiopum salute to demonstrate that there are significant differences between them that have not been acknowledged sufficiently, especially since most scholarship on Sandoval has concentrated on the 1627 edition alone (Valtierra 1956, Vila Vilar 1987, Olsen 2004, Maya 2005, Buitrago Escobar 2007, Guerrero Mosquera 2012). In the next section I will examine De instauranda as an early modern humanitarian narrative, offering a critical perspective on the poetics and politics of compassion that brings early modern Iberian imperialism into the history of humanitarianism, which has been seen as a phenomenon that began with eighteenth – and nineteenth-century abolitionist narratives: for example, Michael Barnett’s Empire of Humanity: A History of Humanitarianism traces humanitarianism’s origin in the eighteenth century, leaving out the early modern Iberian imperialism (Barnett 2013). The humanitarian narrative has moments of aperture where the relation to the precarious Other is not asymmetrical. In the final section I examine Sandoval’s rewriting of the two chapters in the princeps edition (Book I, Chapters XVII and XVII) which discuss slavery and the armazones. In the 1647 edition, Sandoval dedicated thirteen chapters to the legal and moral frameworks of slavery (Sandoval 1647: 74–127). I argue that this is more than an amplificatio of the arguments of the first edition, and examining the second edition leads us to reconsider what most critics have said about Sandoval’s position on slavery. For example, Vila Vilar suggests that it is hard to pinpoint: “[N]o se decide a hacer una condena explícita, aunque deja entrever su desacuerdo con los métodos en uso e insiste ardientemente en su postura ante ellos” [“He does not decide to explicitly condemn it, although he does manifest his disagreement with the methods employed and emphatic opposition to them”]; yet his position is paternalistic (Vila Vilar 1987: 22–23). Olsen argues that Sandoval uses exempla to condemn the brutality of slavery: “I see Sandoval’s texts, however, as a highly pragmatic and engaged treatise that seeks, above all, immediate spiritual and material alleviation of misery for Africans” (Olsen 2004: 21). Maya Restrepo expresses indignation that Sandoval did not explicitly reject slavery and that he “shows a great philosophical and theological capacity to avoid getting involved too much” (Maya Restrepo 2005: 433). For Almeida de Souza, Sandoval simply justifies slavery and social inequities based on the human body as metaphor (Almeida de Souza 2006: 40). As we delve into the second edition’s chapters discussing slavery, we see that after a tortuous examination of the legal and moral basis for slavery contrasted with actual practice on the ground, Sandoval comes to a radical position: liberate all the slaves (Sandoval 1647: 101).

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This radical position, inspired in Las Casas’ recommendation regarding the enslavement of the Indigenous population, is buried in one of the chapters of the second edition. Yet for the most part, De instauranda seeks to come to terms with slavery, demanding humane treatment of the slaves and seeking to save their souls. Thus, the critical views expressed by Sandoval may still be deeply embedded in the colonial regime of epistemic violence. Notwithstanding, they represent important critical apertures made possible by the act of writing itself, a “phármakon” (Derrida 1981: 71) that is art and part of colonial violence.

The Evangelization Project of De instauranda and its Editions Designed as an evangelization manual for enslaved Africans or “Ethiopians”, Sandoval’s treatise is often seen as an equivalent of Jose de Acosta’s De procuranda indorum salute (1588) catechism for the Indigenous peoples. In a way, De instauranda is also similar to Acosta’s Historia natural y moral de las Indias (1590), since it includes proto-ethnographic descriptions of the “Ethiopians”, a term that Sandoval, like his contemporaries, uses to describe populations from Africa and Asia. In sum, De instauranda sought to be a natural, moral, and spiritual history of Africa and Asia, as well as a catechism manual and a chronicle of the work of the Order. Ideologically, De instauranda is also similar to Bartolomé de las Casas’s Brevissima relación de la destrucción de las Indias (1552) since it denounces the inhuman treatment of the enslaved Africans (Almeida de Souza 2006). Like Las Casas, Sandoval’s long engagement with colonial violence and injustices through writing would change and become more radical over the years, transformed by being witness to the abject reality and precarious condition of the Other (Restrepo 2019: 275). I will further address this humanitarian thrust in the next section. For now, it can be said that the main purpose of De instauranda is as a humanitarian intervention that seeks to bring back (instaurare) enslaved Africans into a universal, civilizing Christian fold: instauranda, from the Latin verb instauro, instaurare, means to renew, repeat, or restore. Sandoval states this goal in the “Prologue to the Reader” in the first edition: He puesto a esta obra por titulo, De instauranda Aethiopum salute, que es decir: Tratado de como se à de restaurar la salvación de los negros; [. . .] no es mover a que vamos a sus tierras a convertilos, sino que en las partes donde traen sus armaçones, y ellos desembarcan, con nombre y titulo de Christianos, sin serlo (como en ella se verà) examinemos sus baptismos, instruyamos su rudeza: y bien enseñados, los baptizemos: con lo qual repararemos, y

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restauraremos la salud que en ellos, por la razon dicha, estava perdida, como impossibilitada. [sic] (Sandoval, 1627: n. p.) [I have given this work the title De instauranda Aethiopum salute, which means a treatise to restore the salvation of the Black people [. . .] not to motivate us to go to their lands to convert them, but that, in the places where the slave ships arrive and disembark them, under the name and titles of Christians (which they are not), we examine their baptisms and tame their rudeness. And when they are well taught, we shall baptize them. With this we will repair and restore the health that they had lost, for the reason stated, and how it was impeded.]

Let us now take a closer look at the structure of the treatise. In the princeps edition, De instauranda constitutes one volume divided into four books. In the “Argumento de la obra al Christiano lector” [sic] [“Argument of this work for the Christian reader”], Sandoval states that the first book describes “el estendido Imperio de los Etiopies” [sic] [“the extended empire of Ethiopians”]. The second one narrates “de la miseria e infelicidad” [“the misery and unhappiness”] of the Ethiopian slaves. The third one outlines “el modo en que su enseñança se ha de tener” [sic] [“the methods to teach them”] and considers the cases of conscience (Sandoval 1627: n. p). Rhetorically, Sandoval has a role for each of the books: “El primero creo que deleytarà, el segundo moverà, y el tercero enseñarà” [sic] [“The first one, I think, will entertain, the second one will inspire, and the third one will teach”] (Sandoval 1627: n. p.). He adds a fourth book to motivate members of the Order by giving examples of the Society of Jesus’ work throughout the world: “[D]a Dios por fin a la Compañia, atender ygualmente a la salvacio[n] propia, y a la de los proximos; y esto, no en Roma solo, no en Italia, o España, o Europa, sino en todo el mundo” [“God’s goal for the Society is to equally assist its own salvation and that of the neighbors, and this not only in Rome, or in Italy, Spain, or Europe, but in all the world”] (Sandoval 1627: 2v). Sandoval draws from an ample variety of sources to compose the treatise, including Biblical texts, Aristotle, Pliny, Saint Augustine, Thomas Aquinas, Bartolomé de las Casas, Francisco de Vitoria, Domingo de Soto, Tomás de Mercado, Luis de Molina, José Acosta, Francisco Suárez, and many others in addition to letters and chronicles about the Portuguese slave trade. Sandoval also adapts the Doctrina christiana y catecismo para la instrucción de los indios [Christian Doctrine and Catechism for the Education of Indios], an evangelization manual produced after the Tercer Concilio de Lima [Third Council of Lima] in 1584 (Brewer García 2020: 166). At the end of Book III, in Chapter XXII, Sandoval includes an evangelization treatise for enslaved Africans that was developed for the slaves brought to Seville: Instrucción para remediar y asegurar, quanto con la divina gracia fuere posible, que ninguno de los Negros, que viene de Guinea, Angola, y otras Provincias de aquella costa de Africa, careza del sagrado baptismo [Instruction to remedy and to assure, if with divine grace it should be possible, that none of the Blacks coming from Guinea, Angola, and other provinces of the

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African coast, lacks sacred Baptism], written by the Archbishop of Seville, Pedro Castro y Quiñonez. The treatise was published in Seville in 1614 and reprinted in Lima in 1628 (Sandoval 1627: 326v–334v; Brewer García 2020: 70). Sandoval probably wrote De instauranda in Lima, during his stay there from 1617 to 1619, and must have finished it by 1623, based on the publication approvals from authorities of the Order (Valtierra 1956: xxiii). In fact, he would continue revising the work for at least two decades, resulting in the second edition, published in 1647, that entails more reworking than simply adding pages and information. There are significant differences between the two editions, especially in relation to slavery, although anthropologist Eduardo Restrepo’s comparison of both editions has suggested otherwise (Restrepo 2005: 24). There is also a noticeable transformation of the writing subject – Sandoval himself – as we will discuss in the next section. For now, we will begin by comparing the organization of both editions in the following table, based on their titles, although I only offer descriptive titles for the lost volume of the 1647 edition based on Sandoval’s description in the prologue to the reader (Sandoval 1647: n. p.).

First edition published by Francisco de Lyra in Second edition published by Alonso de Seville, . One volume. Paredes in Madrid, . Two volumes. Book I. De las principals naciones de etiopes, que se conocen en el mundo, y de sus condiciones, ritos, y abusos; y de otras cosas notables, que se hallan en ellas. [About the main nations of Ethiopians known in the world, and their conditions, rites, and abuses; and other notable matters that are found in them.]

Volume I, Book I. De los mas principals reinos y prouincias de Negros que se hallan en la Etiopia Occidental, o interior, de la parte tercera del mundo, que ocupa el Africa. En que se trata con gran latitude de su esclauitud [sic] [About the main kingdoms and provinces of Blacks in Western Ethiopia, or its inland, of the third part of the world, which Africa occupies. In which it is discussed with great length about its slavery.]

Book II. De los males que padecen estos negros, y de la necesidad deste ministerio, cuya alteza y excelencia resplandece por varios titulos [sic]. [About the ills that these Blacks suffer and the need of this ministry, whose highness and excellence shines in varous ways.]

Volume I, Book II. De los principales Reinos, Prouincias, è Islas de Negros, que se hallan en la Etiopia oriental, o sobre Egipto, de la partes segunda del mundo, que ocupa el Assia. Y de la predicaccion en toda ella del Apostol Santo Tome [sic]. [About the main Kingdoms, Provinces, and Islands of Blacks, in Eastern Ethiopia, or about Egypt, of the second part of the world, which Asia occupies. And the preaching in all this parts by Saint Thomas Apostle.]

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(continued) First edition published by Francisco de Lyra in Second edition published by Alonso de Seville, . One volume. Paredes in Madrid, . Two volumes. Book III. Del modo de ayudar a la salvacion de estos negros en los puertos adonde salen, y adonde llegan sus armazones. [The way to assist in the salvation of these Blacks in the ports where they embark and where the slave ships arrive.]

Volume I, Book III. De muchas cosas monstruosas, singulares, y marauillosas, que los Autores cuentan hallarse en los Reinos destos Etiopies, y demas tierras de Negros. Y de las vidas de sus Santos, y Varones ilustres que se han podido rastrear [sic]. [About the many monstruous, singular, and quite marvelous, that the Authors say are in those kingdoms of Ethiopians and other lands of Blacks. And of the lives of their Saints, and Illustrious Men that have been known.]

Book IV. De la estima grande que nuestra sagrada Religion de la Compañía de IESVS siempre ha tenido, y caso que ha hecho del bien espiritual de los morenos, y de sus glorosos empleos, en la conversión destas almas [sic]. [Of the great esteem that our sacred religion of the Society of Jesus always has had, and the attention it has paid to the spiritual good of the Blacks, and their glorious works, in the conversion of these souls.]

Volume II, Book I. Misery and unhappiness of the slaves (lost).

Volume II, Book II. Evangelization manual and cases of conscience (lost). Volume II, Book III. Examples of Jesuit accomplishments (lost).

De instauranda was expanded from its first edition of four books to a second edition comprising six books, divided into two volumes. Unfortunately, it appears that the second volume of the 1647 edition was never published, and the manuscript is now lost (Valtierra 1956: xxii). From the table, we can see that Sandoval broadened the proto-ethnographic material provided in 1627 edition’s first book into two books organized geographically in the 1647 edition: Book I covers Western Ethiopia and Book II Eastern Ethiopia and Asia, whereas the Western and Eastern Ethiopians were treated in the same book in the first edition. As noted above, the second edition also contains a substantial rewriting of the two chapters of the first edition that addressed

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the legal and moral status of slavery. I will return to the these added chapters in the last section of this essay. The addition of Book III to the first volume of the second edition is also notable. Its contents are not entirely new, since it reshuffles the material included in Book I, Chapter XXXI of the first edition. Still, Book III brings together elements that exceed the proto-ethnographic narrative and the evangelization manual. We could call this Book III the “Baroque turn” of De instauranda, taking flight to explore natural wonders and hagiography. Sandoval opens Book III by stating that history brings truth and pleasure (deleyte) and that rare and marvelous things are delightful. Here Sandoval puts together a series of narratives of strange beings, including giants, Pygmies, Amazons, hermaphrodites, transgender persons, elephants, unicorns, rhinoceroses, lions, monkeys, etc. The following chapters also describe natural treasures, such as pearls, gold, and silver, ambivalently seen as natural wonders with intrinsic moral qualities and as market commodities. The collection of wonders reflects a Jesuit disposition to see the work of God in everything, as Sandoval expresses it: “De todas estas marauillas, esta Señor llena la tierra, el mar y los aires” [sic] [“The earth, the sea, and the sky are full of all these marvelous things, Lord”] (Sandoval 1647: 416). After these descriptions, Sandoval turns to narrate the lives of saints: Con esto damos fin a algunas de las marauillas de aquel mundo material. Passemos ahora a los espirituales tesoros que la divina Majestad depositó en estas grandes y estendidas provincias, que son algunos de los muchos Santos y varones insignes que en aquellos reinos florescieron. [sic] (Sandoval 1647: 475v) [With this we finish with some of the marvelous things of that material world. Let us pass now to the spiritual treasures that the divine Majesty deposited in these grand and extended provinces, which are some of the many saints and illustrious men who bloomed in those kingdoms.]

Among the saints and illustrious figures, Sandoval includes African and Asian foundational characters, such as the Queen of Sabba (Sheba), Saint Balthasar, Ebed–Melech, Virgin Santa Efigenia, San Esteban Emperor, San Moses “the Ethiopian”, San Serapion, and the lives of figures such as Barlaam and Josaphat (Sandoval 1647: 476–520; see also Brewer-García 2019). Altogether, the material of Book III of the first volume provides an image of Africa and Asia as rich continents, full of wonders and natural wealth, as well as saintly Christian figures. Ideologically, Book III elevates the status of Africa and Asia: these are not savage or heathen continents, but part of Christianity’s universal (imperial) picture of the world. Altogether, the matters addressed in the books dedicated to the misery of the enslaved Africans and the work of the Jesuits with various populations

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across the world can be seen as a humanitarian intervention of planetary reach, as I will argue in the following section.

An Early Modern Humanitarian Narrative Humanitarianism encompasses efforts to aid destitute populations affected by war, depredatory regimes, and natural calamities. It has become a multimilliondollar endeavor of global reach, including military interventions. Its top-down campaigns seek to contain global crises rather than challenge structural inequities, as argued by Belloni (2007) and Fassin (2012). A critical approach to this hegemonic geopolitical discourse is to examine those narratives that mediate the suffering of destitute Others for a metropolitan audience. Thomas Laqueur (1989) coined these texts “humanitarian narratives”, which emerged from the eighteenth-century empirical knowledge revolution that produced multiple social issues’ reports for an audience they sought to enlist for those causes. Laqueur’s seminal essay opened the way for critical approaches to narratives from different periods, for example, from nineteenth-century slave narratives to contemporary reports on world crises such as the Médecins sans frontièrs series Testigos del Horror [Witness of Horror] (2012) that enlisted Nobel Prize-winning Peruvian writer Mario Vargas Llosa, Laura Restrepo, Sergio Ramírez, Leila Guerriero, and others to raise awareness of the deplorable situation of people in Congo, Yemen, Haiti, Kashmir, Malaysia, and other conflict ridden places (Restrepo 2018). Paying attention to the language of Christian compassion, I propose examining De instauranda as an early modern humanitarian narrative. This humanitarian goal is clearly expressed by Sandoval in the opening paragraph of the second book in the 1627 edition, titled “Los males que padecen estos negros, y de la necessidad deste ministerio, que los remedia” [sic] [“The ills that these Blacks suffer, and the necessity of this ministry, which aids them”]. The argument for Book II begins: “Es tan poderosa (Christiano Letor) la vista de la miseria humana, puesta a los ojos de un coraçon piadoso, que no es possible, que aunque la mire de passo, dexe de remediarla” [sic] [“Is so powerful (Christian reader) the sight of human misery, set in front of a pious heart, that it is not possible, even if briefly glimpsed, not to remedy it”] (Sandoval 1627: 131). Sandoval starts the chapter with a shocking description of the inhuman treatment of the slaves, who are tortured, killed, starved, and overworked by their masters. Sandoval states that their masters are more beasts than men, for how they treat the slaves: “[B]rearlos, lardarlos hasta quitarles los cueros y con ellos las vidas, con crueles azotes y gravisimos tormentos; o ellos atemorizados, por ay se mueren podridos, y llenos de gusanos”

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[sic] [“They cover them in tar or lard to strip their skins, and to take their lives with cruel lashings and grave torments; or scared, they are left to die rotting and full of worms”] (Sandoval, 1627: 143v). In the rest of Book II, Sandoval seeks to motivate fellow priests to care for the enslaved, the poor, and the humble. This book has a section reflecting on friendship, following ethical consideration of the love for the Other: “Aristoteles dice que amicus es alter ego y un alma en dos cuerpos como dijo Diogenes: Amicus una anima est in duobus corporis habitant” [sic] [“Aristotle says that the friend is another self and one soul in two bodies as Diogenes said: A friend is one soul that inhabits two bodies”] (Sandoval 1627: 187v, original emphasis). Book II ends with a treatise on the theological virtues that places charity as the highest virtue. Christian discourse has its radicalness, in principle, and this is evident in the preaching of charity as a paramount ethical imperative towards the Other (Sandoval 1627: 185–211v). However, as a number of postcolonial approaches to De instauranda suggest, Christian love is a productive justification of colonialism (Olsen 2004, Buitrago Escobar 2007, Restrepo 2009, Chaves Maldonado 2009). Through humanitarian narratives, Christian compassion (caritas) is universalized. In the process, missionaries become the mediators of European imperial expansion, entrusted with the care of the colonized and enslaved. The greater the suffering, the greater the need of the obreros, or missionaries. These pastoral politics sought to rationalize colonial oppression, not eliminate it: “No veda el Espiritu Santo, que no se reprehenda, ni castigue; pero veda que se castigue y reprehenda con el exceso que los amos deste tiempo reprehenden, y castigan, breando, quemando, desollando, matando” [sic] [“The Holy Spirit does not forbid reprehensions and punishments; but it forbids excessive punishing and reprehensions like the reprehensions and punishments of today’s masters, tarring, burning, scalping, killing”] (Sandoval 1627: 137). The asymmetries of these pastoral politics are reflected in the narrative itself when the experience of the narrator and humanitarian giver takes center stage. In De instauranda we find this when the narrator mediates the suffering of the Other: “Testigo soy yo que he visto algunas veces, haciendoseme de lastima, los ojos fuentes, y el coraçon un mar de lagrimas” [sic] [“I am a witness some times full of pity, with fountains in my eyes, and my heart a sea of tears”] (Sandoval 1627: 135). We hear the emotions of the humanitarian narrator. We do not hear directly from those affected. Joseph Slaughter has identified this triangular framing of the humanitarian narratives; the spectator is drawn to identify with the humanitarian figure, not the victim (Slaughter 2009). In De instauranda and in the ample collection of Jesuit letters, the central figures are the Jesuit priests as caregivers of the neediest populations across the world. In these humanitarian narratives the ailing Other is turned into an object of compassion. This is a

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problematic move in the representation of violence, as Susan Sontag has pointed out in Regarding the Pain of Others, because it separates the compassionate subject from the wretched Other and the conditions producing their suffering (Sontag 2003). Notwithstanding, there are points of inflection in such paternalistic humanitarian narratives. The subject of compassion in these narratives is not always a stable autonomous subject, a self–fashioned subject or an ego conquiro [I conquer], which, according to Dussel’s interpretation of Hernán Cortés’ will to power, represents more clearly the violent, modern rational subject than the Cartesian ego cogito (Dussel 1994: 40; see also Greenblatt 1980). Here is an important rupture with the humanist rational, free, and autonomous subject. From an existentialist perspective where there is no a priori or stable self, the subject’s own humanity is continuously challenged by the presence of the vulnerable Other that reminds one of one’s own vulnerability (Levinas 2006: 66). The suffering of the Other is not an external stimulus received by the subject, but one that constitutes such subject. Thus, there is a point in humanitarian narratives where the ego of the benevolent figure breaks apart. In the Historia de las Indias [History of the Indies], for example, Las Casas expresses great fright (grima) narrating the massacre of Caonao in Cuba in 1514 where the Spaniards under Pánfilo de Narváez razed a whole village (Las Casas 1986–3: 115). We find another such moment in De instauranda when Sandoval encounters the bodies of unburied dead slaves left to rot on the street, like dogs as he says, with their mouths open and full of flies. Sandoval expresses indignation that the people standing nearby are indifferent to the abandoned corpse of a dead slave: “Estaba desnudo, tendido boca abaxo en el suelo, cubierto de moscas, que parecía se lo querían comer, y allí se lo dexavan sin hacer mas quenta del, que si fuera un perro” [sic] [“He was naked, lying face down on the ground, covered by flies wanting to eat him. And they left him there without any consideration for him, as if he was a dog”] (Sandoval 1627: 74). Sandoval began describing the above scene as something that startled him (“[M]e causó pasmo”, Sandoval 1627: 73v). The reflexive expression denotes the temporary suspension and loss of control of the rational subject. This is reinforced by the sense of “pasmo”. According to Covarrubias’ dictionary, “pasmo” means “quedarse en suspenso, sin movimiento” [“remain suspended, without movement”] (Covarrubias 1998 [1611]: 885). Sandoval appears to experience great anxiety from these horrible scenes: These unburied corpses seem to open the void between the human and the non-human, the dead and the living. The unattended corpses seem to threaten his own sense of humanity and mortality. Fear of defilement, pollution of contagion may express fears of falling from grace, as Mary Douglas has suggested (2000 [1966]). Rituals for dealing with the dead address this moment of crisis, separating the living and the dead. In this case,

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Sandoval acts to restore the proper order, requesting a proper Christian burial for the dead slave (Sandoval 1627: 74). Here the humanitarian narrative takes over again, in which he assumes control of the situation, and the Jesuits are the ones most willing to provide assistance to the destitute populations.

The Black Atlantic and the Capitalocene Although slavery had existed in Europe since ancient times, it was significantly transformed and racialized by the early modern colonial expansion to Africa and the Americas, resulting in the forced relocation of more than 12 million African people to the Americas (Slave Voyages Consortium 2021). Most of the slaves brought to Spanish America were conveyed by the Portuguese, who had controlled the slave trade from Sudan and Guinea to the Mediterranean since the time of Henry the Navigator (1394–1460). In 1455, Pope Nicholas V’s Bull Romanus Pontifex (1455) granted the Portuguese king Alfonso V the rights over sub-Saharan Africa including the right to “illorumque personas in perpetuam servitutem redigere” [“to reduce their persons to perpetual slavery”] (Castañeda Delgado 1970: 870; Nicholas V 2017 [1455]: n. p.). As early as 1501, the Spanish Crown allowed Black slaves to be brought to the Indies and a few years later assigned the Casa de Contratación [House of Trade] in Seville to administer slave importing licenses (asientos), which became a source of income for the Crown. In 1553, for example, a royal contract granted Hernando de Ochoa the right to import 23,000 slaves to the Indies, paying 8 ducats per African slave to the Crown. He enjoyed exclusive rights over the slave trade until 1559 (Castañeda Delgado 1970: 825). From 1595 to 1640 the Casa de Contratación issued licenses to transport a total of 147,779 African slaves to the Indies (Vila Vilar 1977: 195). However, contraband ran high and many more slaves were brought to the Indies without licenses. According to estimates by Enriqueta Vila Vilar, the port of Cartagena alone, for example, received at least 135,000 slaves during the same period. That is about 3,000 per year, a figure near the 4,000 that Sandoval estimated arrived each year to the port city (Vila Vilar 1977: 206; Sandoval 1627: 175). This massive human trafficking was not unknown to the major Spanish theologians and scholars of the period. Francisco de Vitoria, Domingo de Soto, Tomas de Mercado, Luis de Molina, and Francisco Suárez at one point or another expressed their views on slavery (Castañeda Delgado 1970: 859)4. In regard to enslaved Africans, the main issue, legally and morally, was whether they had been  In this volume, the contribution of Styles refers to these debates.

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acquired according to just titles. Among these titles were the capture of pagan soldiers, criminals reduced to slavery, adults who sold themselves, or those born of a slave mother (Castañeda Delgado 1970: 865–866). For Vitoria and Mercado (and also for Las Casas in the 1516 “Memorial de los Remedios”), those receiving the slaves bear no moral liability if the Portuguese acquired them under the correct titles. However, these assumptions were later questioned. Writing at the end of the sixteenth century, Molina suggests that those acquiring slaves, for their own conscience, need to make a greater effort to determine whether the slaves were captured according to the legally sanctioned ways (Castañeda Delgado 1970: 870). Sandoval concurs with Molina, and although he hesitates to pursue the matter further or challenge the Doctors in the first edition, he considers that the author of De iustitia et iure relied solely on what merchants had told him. But this was not enough for Sandoval: Assi lo hizo nuestro doctisimo Molina, escribiendo de iustitia et iure, en el tom. I. tract. 2. en la disp. 34. en donde dize, se informó de los mercaderes Portugueses, que Yvan a las partes de Guinea, a comprar negros, del modo como estos negros eran cautivos, y con que titulo los vendían su Reyes, y otras personas, dando crédito a solo el dicho de estos mercaderes no teniendo otros autores mas graves de quien saber la verdad. [sic](Sandoval, 1627: 2v) [This is what our knowledgeable Molina did, writing De iustitia et iure, in volume I. Treatise 2, disposition 34 where he states that he was informed by the Portuguese merchants who went to Guinea to buy Blacks, and how those Blacks were captured and with which titles they were sold by their kings, giving credit only to the accounts told by these merchants since he did not have more serious authors from whom to learn the truth.]

Sandoval would inquire further, reaching out to missionaries like father Luys Brandon, rector of the Jesuit college in Loanda, Angola, and consulting other works to determine whether the slaves were rightly captured. As he inquired about those captured in Guinea, Sandoval’s doubts grew: “De donde mas razon he tenido de dudar, ha sido de los Negros que llaman de los ríos, Negros de ley, que vienen de los puertos de Guinea” [sic] [“Where I have had more reasons to doubt is about those Blacks from the rivers, true Blacks, who come from the ports of Guinea”] (Sandoval, 1627: 68). A couple of pages later he expresses his concern that the various ways the slaves were captured caused him to doubt much about “this business” (Sandoval 1627: 69). When he sets out to describe the armazones, Sandoval reiterates that “Cautivos estos negros con la justicia que Dios sabe” [sic] [“only God knows how justly these Blacks have been captured”] (Sandoval 1627: 72). These comments suggest that Sandoval’s doubts about the justice of the slave trade were growing ever more pronounced. This moral burden becomes increasingly

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evident in the second edition, written two decades later. He returns to the authorities he had hesitated to question in the first edition and embarks on an inquiry of the legal and moral foundations of slavery, elaborating an emphatic call for more humane treatment of the slaves, and pointing out where the legal framework justifying slavery comes apart. The following table compares the treatment of slavery in both editions of De instauranda. Book I,  Edition

Volume I, Book I,  Edition

Chapter XVII. De la esclavitud de estos negros de Guinea y demás puertos, hablando en general [On the slavery of these Blacks of Guinea and other ports, speaking in general terms.]

Chapter III. En que se prueba el mismo intento con otras razones, y se trata de la primera esclauitud que huuo en el mundo [sic]. [In which the same matter is proved with other reasons, and addressing the first slavery in the world.]

Chapter XVIII. De las armazones destos negros [On the slave ships (armazones) of these Blacks.]

XVI. En que consiste la verdadera Libertad, o seruidumbre [sic]. [What is true Liberty or servitude.] XVII. Prosigue el mismo intento, probado con eficazes razones, y excelentes lugares [sic]. [Continues the same matter, proving it with effective reasons and excellent references.] XVIII. De la esclauitud, y seruidumbre, vniversalmente hablando; y como fue licita en el estado de la inocencia, en la ley Natural, en la Escrita, y lo es en la ley de Gracia [sic]. [On slavery, and servitude, universally speaking, how it was licit in the state of innocence, in natural law, written law, and in the law of Grace.] XIX. Prosigue la materia del capitulo passado [sic] [Continues the matter of the previous chapter] XX. Passa Adelante el mismo intento [sic] [Advances the same matter] XXI. El trato, rescate, y esclauitud destos Negros de Guinea, y de mas puertos, que llegan esclauos destos nuestros [sic]. [The trade, ransom, and slavery of these Blacks of Guinea, and other ports, including our ports where slaves arrive.] XXII. En que se prosigue, y prueua el mismo intent [sic]. [In which the same matter is continued and tested.]

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(continued) Book I,  Edition

Volume I, Book I,  Edition XXIII. Del tratamiento que deue hazerse a vn Principe, que fue cautivo, y preso en la Guerra, y traen esclauo enre los demas que viene destos puertos a los nuestros, para ser vendidos: a imitacion del que a semejantes hizieron los Emperadores antiguos [sic]. [The treatment of a prince captured in war, and bringing him as a slave with the rest that are brought to our ports, to be sold, as it was done by the ancient emperors.] XXIV. En que se prueba no ser de menor loa vusar de la misma liberalidad con los Letrados cautious, que la que se vsaua con los nobles, por ser las let[r]as el apoyo, y adorno de la Republica [sic]. [In which it is proven that it is not less valid to use the same manner with the learned captives, as the one that is used with the nobles, because letters are the base and adornment of the Republic.] XXV. No tiene los señores de esclauos obligacion a darles Libertad [sic]. [The masters of slaves are not obliged to give them liberty.] XXVI. Deben procurar los señores de esclauos, que sean pocos, y buenbos los que para seruirles eligieren: y quan conveniente es, para que lo sean que les dén buen exemplo [sic]. [The owners of slaves should select only a few and good ones, and how important it is that they provide them good example.] XXVII. En que se explica por otro modo mas proextenso, lo propuesto, y se declara quan graue daño es la esclauitud. [In which it is explained in another way, more extensively, what has been proposed, and it is declared how grave an injury is slavery.]

In the second edition, Sandoval cites a much wider corpus including Plato, Aristotle, Thucydides, Macrobius, Juvenal, Seneca, Cicero, the Bible, Saint Augustine, Saint Thomas Aquinas, Alfonso X, José de Acosta, Jean Bodin, Las Casas, and others. Sandoval states that he will not question the “Doctors” but would provide examples and

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concrete cases from which “el prudente, discrete y docto vera claramente la verdad de sus conclusiones” [sic] [“The prudent, the discrete, and the wise will see clearly its concluding truth”] (Sandoval 1647: 74). Thus, he stresses the importance of the knowledge acquired on the ground “[i]usgando ser cordura, guiarse mas por la experiencia, que por la ciencia mas estudiada” [sic] [“judging [it] to be wiser to use experience as a guide, instead of the most studied science”] (Sandoval 1647: 94). This wink to a more savvy and discerning reader suggests that Sandoval is cautiously presenting views that could draw censorship. It may not have been a casual decision that in both editions he inserted the discussion on slavery in the middle of a series of chapters describing African nations. Furthermore, in the second edition, at least four chapters have generic titles, such as “Prosigue el mismo intento, probado con eficazes razones, y excelentes lugares” [sic] [“Continues the same matter, proved with effective reasons and excellent references”] (Chapter XVII), “Prosigue la materia del capitulos passado” [sic] [“Continues the material of the last chapter”] (Chapter XIX) and “Pasa Adelante el mismo intento” [sic] [“Continues the same matter” (Chapter XX). In those chapters we find “camouflaged” a discussion on natural slavery next to the legal recognition of slavery, but clearly outlining the juridical framework and the contractual relationship that sanctions it. An ample corpus of Classical and Christian sources seems to obfuscate, and at points contradict, the argument developed further on: that all humans are naturally equal and were created free by God. However, there are “by necessity” social inequalities that serve the common good of the republic. Still, a just order requires that the lesser part of the social body be valued and cared for properly. And following Saint Ambrose, Sandoval equates the slaves with being the feet of colonial society (Sandoval 1647: 75). Para andar son tan importantes los pies como para ver son los ojos. Y no porque son pies tomais un alfanje y los cortáis ni los maltratais, sino que procuráis abrigarlos y lauarlos y limpiarlos y si enferma no lo embias a un hospital sino que los curáis con tanto cuidado como a carne vuestra y parte de vuestro cuerpo. [sic] (Sandoval 1647: 75) To walk are the feet as important as to see are the eyes. And not because they are feet do you take a sword and cut them or mistreat them. Rather you try to protect them, washing and cleaning them, and if they are sick, you do not abandon them in a hospital, but you care for them as your own flesh and part of your own body.]

This body analogy allows Sandoval to justify slavery, but also to condemn its abuses and violence. Chapter XVIII provides the most developed discussion on slavery. Citing Jean Bodin, Sandoval addresses the founding violence of all polities: cities and republics are created by avarice, violence, and cruelty resulting in wars in which some are enslaved (Sandoval 1647: 81). Liberty is described as a divine gift that should not be exchanged for gold or silver. However, even if theologians declare that slavery is

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against natural law, Sandoval puts forward a perilous argument: human laws are not contrary to them “porque nunca la naturaleza mando que fuessen libres los hombres: y assi dio lugar a que los derechos humanos introdussen la servidumbre, sin contradezirla” [sic] [“because nature never ordered that men be free: and thus it is permissible that human rights introduce slavery, without contradicting it”] (Sandoval, 1647: 84). Thus, he argues that slavery may be justified by iure gentium. However, although the matter is sound legally, Sandoval considers slavery to be made questionable by the circumstances in which it is carried out: “[N]o por la naturaleza de la cosa, que es clara, sino por las circunstancias, y adjacentes que la escurecen” [sic] [“Not by its nature, which is clear, but by its circumstances and particularities which make it obscure”] (Sandoval 1647: 93). Recognizing that Mercado, Molina, Soto, Barbosa, and Rebuelo discussed slavery, Sandoval reiterates that his experience paints another picture. The five titles that justify slavery are often bypassed in practice, resulting in many Africans unjustly captured and sold (Sandoval 1647: 94). This is the point of inflection of the legal and moral order that sanctions slavery in the Indies. Sandoval recalls several accounts from merchants and missionaries about irregularities of the slave trade: many are captured in unjust wars, tyrant princes enslave their subjects unjustly, and parents sell their children in a moment of anger. Sandoval ends the chapter warning of the prudence and refrain (circunspeccion y recato) needed in such a difficult matter (Sandoval 1647: 99). Following Las Casas, in Chapter XXII Sandoval arrives at a critical point: if there is moral doubt surrounding the captivity of the Africans, it is necessary to free them all. He recalls that this is what Charles V did for the “Indians”, proclaiming them free to relieve the Royal conscience on the matter (Sandoval 1647: 101). Sandoval buries this radical position in the middle of De instauranda, but it is not in fact an isolated idea, when we consider his sustained reflection on the matter which started with the first edition twenty years earlier, hesitating there as if he would let it pass in silence. But he did not. Yet, the title of Chapter XXV – “No tiene los señores de esclauos obligacion a darles Libertad” [sic] [“The masters of slaves are not obliged to give them liberty”] – is deceptive and suggests that Sandoval is still hesitant to call for an allout liberation of all slaves as he had done in the earlier chapter. Here, Sandoval discusses cases in which slaves must be freed, such as when the master marries the slave or when a slave marries a free man. However, it is not right to free slaves and to abandon them when they become old and need care following an entire life of service (Sandoval 1647: 114). In the last chapter of Book I, Sandoval warns that having too many slaves could lead to uprisings. He considers that the authorities should check the greed of the merchants, who seeking gain, have introduced into Europe and the Indies such a great number of slaves, and become

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rich by capturing slaves by deceit or by force. It is here where Sandoval affirms the conviction that when the liberty of men is turned into a commodity, there are serious moral doubts about the titles under which these men are enslaved5. He ends the chapter underscoring the injuries caused by the slave trade; it undermines the most precious gift, liberty. Slavery is a thus part of a necropolitics that denies the humanity of the Africans: “[E]n la esclavitud se comiençan todos los daños y trabajos, y una como continua muerte, porque viven muriendo y mueren viviendo” [sic] [“In slavery start all injuries and burdens. It is a continual death because they live dying and die living”] (Sandoval 1647: 121). Sandoval’s awareness of this necropolitical order in the second edition comes a long way from the writer of the first edition who hesitated to question its legal and moral status. Thus, we can conclude that writing De instauranda was in itself a process by which Sandoval, the narrator, emerges as an ethical subject whose humanity is defined by the encounter with the precarious Other. He embarks on a humanitarian effort to enlist the members of his Order to tend to the enslaved Africans’ needs in a narrative that places himself and the Jesuits as the mediators of colonial violence. Consequently, the suffering Other becomes a mute object of compassion. However, the paternalistic figure of this humanitarian narrative breaks up in at least two ways. The horrible sight of unburied slave corpses confronts the Jesuit writer with his own humanity and mortality. In addition, the work with the slave population leads him to question the authorities who have written about the legal and moral justifications of slavery, and his moral doubts weigh heavily. The problem is that the quest for economic gain eroded the colonial moral economy, turning African people into commodities, and condemning them to a living death working in the mines and sugar plantations of the New World. Thus, in De instauranda emerges a critical conscience that sees how the violent accumulation of capital sustained (but also threatened) the stability of the colonial order. Reading Sandoval in our convoluted twenty-first century, at the brink of environmental catastrophe and with widespread brutal social inequities, we see how the early modern search for cheap labor and cheap nature inaugurated the destructive era we now live in, the capitalocene.

 For a discussion of the Jesuits’ approach to economic gain and the common good, see Brian Owensby, A New World of Gain: Europeans, Guaraní and the Global Origins of Modern Economy (Owensby 2022) and Nicole Legnani, “La acumulación originaria y los fantasmas de la conquista de las Indias según Bartolomé de Las Casas y José de Acosta” (Legnani, forthcoming).

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Bibliography Almeida de Souza, Juliana B. (2006): “Las Casas, Alonso de Sandoval e a defensa da escrividão negra”. In: Topoi, 7, 12, pp. 25–59. Ariza Montañez, Catalina (2005): “Los objetos con alma: Legitimidad de la esclavitud en el discurso de Aristóteles y Alonso de Sandoval. Una aproximación desde la construcción del cuerpo”. In: Fronteras de la Historia, 10, pp. 139–170. Astrain, Antonio (1913): Historia de la Compañía de Jesús en la asistencia de España. Vol. 4. Madrid: Administración de Razón y Fe. Barnett, Michael (2013): The Empire of Humanity: A History of Humanitarianism. Cornell: Cornell University Press. Belloni, Roberto. (2007): “The Trouble with Humanitarianism”. In: Review of International Studies, 33, 3, pp. 451–474. Brewer-García, Larissa (2019): “Hierarchy and Holiness in the Earliest Colonial Black Hagiographies: Alonso de Sandoval and His Sources”. In: William and Mary Quarterly, 76, 3, pp. 477–508. —— (2020): Beyond Babel: Translations of Blackness in Colonial Peru and New Granada. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Buitrago Escobar, Flor Angela (2007): “De Instauranda Aethiopum Salute de Alonso de Sandoval: Discurso que justifica el ministerio religioso”. In: Ortiz, Lucía (ed.): Chambacú: la historia la escribes tú. Madrid: Iberoamericana/Vervuert, pp. 319–348. Castañeda Delgado, Paulino (1970): “Un capítulo de ética indiana española: Los trabajos forzados en las minas”. In: Anuario de Estudios Americanos, 27, pp. 815–916. Chaves Maldonado, María Eugenia (Ed.) (2009): Genealogías de la diferencia: Tecnologías de la salvación y representación de los africanos esclavizados en Iberoamérica colonial. Bogotá: Pontificia Universidad Javeriana. Covarrubias, Sebastián de (1998) [1611]: Tesoro de la lengua castellana o Española. Barcelona: Editorial Alta Ful. Derrida, Jacques (1981): Dissemination. Transl. Barbara Johnson. Chicago: Chicago University Press. Douglas, Mary (2000) [1966]: Purity and Danger: An Analysis of the Concepts of Pollution and Taboo. London: Routledge. Dussel, Enrique (1994): 1492: el encubrimiento del otro. Hacia el origen del “mito de la modernidad”. Conferencias de Frankfurt, octubre de 1992. La Paz: Vicepresidencia del Estado Plurinacional de Bolivia, Dirección de Participación Ciudadana. Fassin, Diddier (2012): Humanitarian Reason: A Moral History of the Present. Berkeley: University of California Press. Greenblatt, Stephen (1980): Renaissance Self-Fashioning: From More to Shakespeare. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Guerrero Mosquera, Andrea (2012): “Alonso de Sandoval: Un tratadista en Cartagena de Indias”. In: Cuaderno de la Bitácora. El Caribe: epicentro de la América Bicentenaria III. Bogotá: Fundación Carolina, pp. 14–22. Hiller, Rafael Francisco (2015): “Alonso de Sandoval: a luta de um jesuíta em favor dos negros”. In: Problemata: Revista Internacional de Filosofía, 6, 2, pp. 430–437. Laqueur, Thomas (1989): “Bodies, Details, and the Humanitarian Narrative”. In: Hunt, Lynn (ed.): The New Cultural History. Berkeley: University of California Press, pp. 176–204. Las Casas, Bartolomé de (1986): Historia de las indias 1–3. Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho.

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Legnani, Nicole (forthcoming): “La acumulación originaria y los fantasmas de la conquista de las Indias, según Bartolomé de Las Casas y José de Acosta”. In: Visitas al Patio. Levinas, Emmanuel (2006): Humanism of the Other. Transl. Nidra Poller. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Maya Restrepo, Luz Adriana (2005): Brujería y reconstrucción de identidades entre los africanos y sus descendientes en Nueva Granada, siglo XVII. Bogota: Ministerio de Cultura. Mbembe, Achille (2019): Necropolitics. Transl. Steve Corcoran. Durham: Duke University Press. Moore, Jason (2015): Capitalism in the Web of Life: Ecology and the Accumulation of Capital. London: Verso. Nicholas V (2017) [1455]: Romanus pontifex (Granting the Portuguese a Perpetual Monopoly in Trade with Africa). Papal Encyclicals Online. (last visit: 21/09/2022). Olsen, Margaret (2004): Slavery and Salvation in Colonial Cartagena de Indias. Gainesville: University of Florida Press. Owensby, Brian (2022): New World of Gain: Europeans, Guaraní, and the Global Origins of Modern Economy. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Real Academia Española de la Lengua (RAE) (1960–1996): Diccionario histórico de la lengua española. Madrid: Real Academia Española de la Lengua. Restrepo, Eduardo (2005): “De instauranda aethiopum salute: sobre las ediciones y características de la obra de Alonso de Sandoval”. In: Tabula Rasa, 3, pp. 13–26. —— (2009): “Eventalizing Blackness in Colombia”. Doctoral dissertation, Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina. Restrepo, Luis Fernando (2018): “Celebrity Authors, Humanitarian Narratives, and the Role of Literature in World Crises Today: The Médecins Sans Frontiers’ Newspaper Chronicles Testigos del horror (Witness of Horror)”. In: Comparative Literature Studies, 55, 2, pp. 345–360. —— (2019): “The Colonial Face-to-Face and the Human Condition: Writing and Subjectivity in Bartolomé de las Casas” In: Orique O.P., David Thomas/Roldán-Figueroa, Rady (eds.): Bartolomé de las Casas, O.P.: History, Philosophy, and Theology in the Age of European Expansion. Leiden: Brill, pp. 260–279. Sandoval, Alonso de (1627): Natvraleza, policia sagrada i profana, costvmbres i ritos, disciplina i catechismo evangelico de todos etiopes, por el p. Alonso, de Sandoval. Seville: Francisco de Lira, impresor. Available online: BnF Gallica, (last visit: 21/09/2022). —— (1647): Tomo primero De instauranda aethiopum salute: Historia de Aethiopia: Naturaleça, policia sagrada y profana, costumbres, ritos y cathecismo evangelico de todos les aethiopes. Madrid: A. de Paredes. Available online: Biblioteca Digital Hispánica, (last visit: 21/ 09/2022). —— (1956): De instauranda aethiopum salute: El mundo de la esclavitud negra en America. Ed. Angel Valtierra. Bogotá: Biblioteca de la Presidencia de Colombia. —— (1987): Un tratado sobre la esclavitud. Ed. Enriqueta Vila Vilar. Madrid: Alianza. —— (2008): Treatise on Slavery: Selections from De Instauranda Aethiopum Salute. Ed. and transl. Nicole von Germeten. Indianapolis: Hackett. Santos Morillo, Antonio (2012): “La expresión lingüística de los esclavos negros según Alonson de Sandoval”. In: Cairo Carou, Heriberto, et al. (eds.): Actas Congreso International América Latina: La

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autonomía de una región. XV Encuentro de Latinoamericanistas Españoles. Madrid: Trama editorial, pp. 1086–1093. Slaughter, Joseph (2009): “Humanitarian Reading”. In: Wilson, Richard/Brown, Richard (eds.): Humanitarianism and Suffering: The Mobilization of Empathy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 88–107. Slave Voyages Consortium (2021): Transatlantic Slave Trade Database, version 2.2.13 (last visit: 21/09/22). Sontag, Susan (2003): Regarding the Pain of Others. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Splendiani, Ana María/Aristizábal, Tulio (2002): Proceso de beatificación y canonización de San Pedro Claver. Bogotá: Pontificia Universidad Javeriana. Valtierra, Angel (1956): “Introducción”. In: Sandoval, Alonso de: De instauranda aethiopum salute. Edited by Angel Valtierra. Bogotá: Biblioteca de la Presidencia de la República, pp. v–xxxvii. Vargas Arana, Paola (2006): “Pedro Claver y la evangelización en Cartagena: Pilar del encuentro entre africanos y el Nuevo Mundo, siglo XVII”. In: Fronteras de la Historia, 11, pp. 293–328. Vila Vilar, Enriqueta (1977): Hispanoamérica y el comercio de esclavos. Sevilla: Escuela de Estudios Hispano–Americanos. —— (1987): “Introducción”: In: Sandoval, Alonso de: Un tratado sobre la esclavitud. Madrid: Alianza, pp. 15–44.

Monica Styles

The Development of Modern Racial Discourse in Alonso de Sandoval’s De instauranda Aethiopum salute Justice, Blackness, and the Slave Trade The racial ideology Alonso de Sandoval proposed in De instauranda Aethiopum salute reflects an early modern Iberian fascination with defining and explaining Blackness to justify the transatlantic slave trade. In this treatise, Sandoval describes the customs and ceremonies of a variety of people he defines as “Black” because of their skin tone1. Sandoval believed his ethnographic treatise would be useful to Jesuit missionaries preparing Black slaves for spiritual “whitening” and salvation. Beyond Sandoval’s recognition of the treatise’s place in the corpus of Jesuit theological hermeneutical writing on race and the treatment of Black Africans in the Iberian Empires, there exists within De instauranda Aethiopum salute a network of racial narratives by the author, ancient philosophers and historians, Sandoval’s Portuguese contemporaries, and Black subalterns which links the Colombian Caribbean to Europe and Africa. Sandoval’s description of Black Africans with white (“albino”) bodies in Book I, Chapter II of the first edition from 1627 acknowledges the narrative agency of African subalterns2. Their voices are incorporated to further authorize the Portuguese informants’ eyewitness accounts of their experiences as traders in Africa, relayed to Sandoval in conversations in Cartagena de Indias (Colombia)3. This network of sources provides rich material on the authoritative power of Black voices and bodies in constructing racial discourse in the Iberian Empire4. The present contribution focuses primarily on this

 I have chosen to capitalize both “Black” and “White” when referencing racial groups in order to counteract the systemic erasure of Black communities and to acknowledge how Whiteness functions in institutions and communities. See Mack/Palfrey (2020) for more on debates concerning capitalization of names for racial groups in English.  Throughout the article, I will work with the text of this first edition from 1627.  Sandoval gives some concrete examples of informants’ accounts, but also generalizes based on having heard many. He writes, “tengo cierta y fidedigna información” [“I have certain and reliable information”] (Sandoval 1987: 71) but remains vague about how many informants shared information and on what occasions. Sandoval does not give the names of informants even for concrete examples he provides.  See my article “Voicing Black African Agency” on how Black embodied and voiced agency is a sign of heterogenous social disorder which increased along with contact between racial groups https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110796308-005

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authoritative power of “very white” Black bodies in the text to undermine the socalled Curse of Ham narrative. In Book I, Chapter II of De instauranda Aethiopum salute, Sandoval includes references to children with “very white” skin, born to Black African women in West Africa and Cartagena de Indias, who had presumably been fathered by Black Africans. Sandoval’s Portuguese informant describes the unusual births of “los hijos tan blancos, que de puro albos salen cortos de vista y con los cabellos plateados: y los hijos destos blancos suelen con variedad bolver a nacer negros, pero todos unos y otros afeminados y para poco; y que solo sirven de hechizeros” [“children so white that, because they are pure white, they are born short-sighted with silver hair; and the children of those whites tend with variation to be born black again, but all of them effeminate and worth little; and they only serve as medicine-men”] (Sandoval 1987: 71)5. The “very white” children are not described as mulatos, or as the children of sexual reproduction between European and Black African parents. In this context, the children’s “white” skin disrupts anti-Black sentiment produced by hegemonic racial ideologies because it undermines the false narrative that dark skin, and the Curse I already mentioned, are always passed down from parent to child. In other words, their bodies produce a social justice narrative that affirms the absurdity of moral justifications for the slave trade such as that articulated by the Curse of Ham myth. Further discussion of the Curse of Ham myth is necessary before moving on to a discussion of De instauranda Aethiopum salute. Like his contemporaries, Sandoval considered Blackness a sign of God’s curse on the Old Testament figure of Ham even though in Genesis 9 the Curse is never associated with Blackness. In Genesis (9: 20–27) Ham’s father, Noah, curses Ham’s son Canaan after Ham witnessed Noah’s drunkenness on the ark. Ham, whose descendants were said to have inhabited Africa and adjacent parts of Asia including Babylon, was not cursed himself, and there is no mention of race in the Hebrew Bible. Ham had four sons – Canaan, Cush, Egypt and Put – and Genesis 10 reveals more about the regions which Noah’s sons inhabited after the Flood. Canaan’s descendants populated lands in Asia near Gaza, yet Canaan was not the only descendant of Ham to inhabit Africa and Asia. For example, Cush, who was not cursed, inhabited lands in Africa called Seba and Havila (Coogan/Brettler/Newsome/Perkins 2010: 22–25). The fact that Ham’s sons who were not cursed also inhabited lands in Africa and Asia reveals the weak basis of the Curse of Ham myth. In the post-biblical period, Christian and Jewish hermeneutical canons made the association between the

and racial mixing (Styles 2019: 91–92). Black Africans rarely contributed to written culture as writers, but they participated in the authorship of texts such as Sandoval’s when embodied and voiced meaning is incorporated into the hegemonic narratives.  All translations in this chapter are my own.

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Curse narrative and Blackness to justify the enslavement of people of African descent. Goldenberg refers to the first-century BCE scholar Philo of Alexandria, who allegorized Ethiopians’ Blackness with evil, as an example of the Jewish tradition as well as Origen of Alexandria and the apostle Paul, Christians who described dark-skinned gentiles as Ethiopians (Goldenberg 2009: 94–96); Sweet mentions the tenth-century Persian historian Tabari, who considered Ham the father of all Blacks, who were destined to slavery (Sweet 1997: 148–149). Sandoval accepted the Curse of Ham as the most compelling explanation for dark skin after considering climate theory and maternal impression, even though the bodies of the “very white” children could not be explained by the Curse. The Curse of Ham is also key to understanding how Sandoval’s support of the slave trade is based in modern thinking that blends embodied and religious markers of racial difference. Tracing the origins of the Curse back to Genesis 9 reveals frictions within Sandoval’s racial discourse, and the broader habitus of racial thinking in the Iberian empire, even if Sandoval was probably unaware. Though an aberration, the fact that the Curse of Ham fails to explain the color of the children’s skin reveals the Curse narrative to be a flimsy justification for the transatlantic slave trade. Sandoval’s dedication to the head of the Jesuit order, Padre Mutio Vitilleschi, in the 1627 edition of De instauranda Aethiopum salute, expresses his purpose. In the process, Sandoval represents the difference of negros or Blacks within Spain’s Catholic empire as “los granos, que aunque a la vista son negros, pueden tener candidez y blancura, que dà la sangre de Christo a quien se lava con ella” [sic] [“the particles, that even if they appear Black, can have the innocence and Whiteness that Christ’s blood gives to those who are washed with it”] (Sandoval 1987: 53). He requests Vitilleschi’s favor in encouraging other Jesuits to evangelize enslaved Black Africans (Sandoval 1987: 53). Later in the same 1627 edition, Sandoval repeats the same message that Black Africans can be saved in the “Argumento dela obra al Christiano Letor” [sic] [“Argument of the word to the Christian Reader”], asking to take action to “procurar en especial la salud espiritual de los Etiopes (que por su color comunmente llamamos negros)” [sic] [“procure especially the spiritual health of the Ethiopians (who for their color we commonly call Black)”] (Sandoval 1987: 54). Sandoval compels his Christian readers to dedicate themselves to the mission of proselytizing Black Africans since they had not yet done so in Cartagena de Indias, or other regions of Spain’s American empire. Sandoval locates his call not only within the Jesuit community but within a larger corpus of writing on the spiritual well-being of Black Africans, affirming the necessity of reaching a broader audience. Sandoval is cognizant that De instauranda Aethiopum salute is useful, even though other books on the subject had been written before, arguing that many books written in different styles regarding the same questions may reach more readers (Sandoval 1987: 54). In the following pages, I will disentangle how Sandoval communicates a racial

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discourse on Blackness and social justice departing from theological and juridical precedent concerning the Curse of Ham established by Josephus and a writer named “el Tostado” in Book I, Chapter II. Sandoval’s arguments about the meaning of Blackness in De instauranda Aethiopum salute participate in the common early modern interpretation of the Curse of Ham that condones the slave trade. Justifying Black enslavement required a curse on Black Africans. Sixteenth-century biblical exegesis erased Canaan from the story, which allowed the application of the Curse of Ham in later centuries (Whiteford 2009: 78). The question of skin color is important since Black African enslavement did not occur solely due to capitalist expansion; the belief in the inferiority of Black Africans because of their skin color was a catalyst for the transatlantic slave trade, a fact most scholarship has not sufficiently acknowledged6. Though Sandoval was progressive for the time because he advocated for the inclusion of Black Africans in the missionary project of Spanish imperialism, he also never openly repudiated the transatlantic slave trade as an institution, agreeing with Jesuit theological arguments that Black Africans could be enslaved due to color. A close reading of Black African oral and embodied narratives – that is, stories Sandoval was told and bodily actions he observed – in Book I, Chapter II concerning the appearance of Black African children with “very white” skin denotes the impossibility that the slave trade can be justified by the Curse of Ham, and thereby skin color, even if this conclusion is not explicitly stated by Sandoval. Anti-Black sentiment was a preexisting contributor to associations between Black Africans and slavery in the context of early capitalism. For example, the links between Blackness and the enslaved existed by the ninth century, when Muslim authors distinguished between enslaved Whites, who were more valuable, and Black slaves, who did the back-breaking work (Sweet 1997: 146). This color division results from anti-Black sentiment in the Muslim world that influenced racist mindsets in early modern Europe. As Kate Lowe relates in the introduction to Black Africans in Renaissance Europe, in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, Europeans were unable to appreciate cultural difference and were preoccupied with differences of skin color (Lowe 2005: 2). Africans were imaged as distinctly different as their “African ancestry and possession of a black skin led directly to all sorts of differentiation, prejudice and discrimination” (Lowe 2005: 7). The modern racial component of Iberian conceptions of just war – that skin color could determine who can be enslaved – can be deduced from anti-Black thought that considered Black Africans to be lesser humans or inhuman; these  As will be discussed further in this chapter, Anna More and Daniel Nemser’s exceptional studies emphasize instead the influence of the developing capitalist market on the nascent transatlantic slave trade in Jesuit theological and juridical and early modern conceptions of race and Blackness. See More (2014) and Nemser (2019).

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beliefs also resulted from the expanding global market catalyzing the formation of racial hierarchies. Slavery was legitimized based on the idea that the colonized were being brought into the Christian community. Slavery was considered “just” by late scholastic economic treatises if merchants had no knowledge that an enslaved person had been captured under unjustifiable circumstances (García Añoveros 2000: 321–327). European theologians and jurists such as Tomás de Mercado, Luis de Molina, José de Acosta, and Alonso de Sandoval rationalized the slave trade through the expansion of the economic market beyond Europe7, debating the extent of the responsibility of traders and determining whether original capture was the result of a just war. In De instauranda Aethipum salute the expansion of a global market neutralized the issue of justice or capture by just war, arguing it was necessary to proselytize the enslaved (More 2014: n.p.). Citing García Añoveros, More demonstrates that it was possible to avoid the question of just war altogether if the treatises (such as Tomás de Mercado’s 1569 Summa de tratos y contratos [Deals and Contracts of Merchants and Traders] and Luis de Molina’s 1593 De iustitia et iure [Of Justice and Law]) could present market exchange occurring at a distance from the violence of original enslavement, and therefore negate the possibility of determining the legitimacy of the violence used to enslave: “The market thus became a means to mediate violence by suspending direct contamination, as the moral order shifted from concern with original justice to the smooth functioning of mercantile exchange” (More 2014: n. p.). More connects the spatial development of Iberian capitalism to the development of racial hierarchies that functioned to justify enslavement, and shows how Sandoval takes Acosta’s ideas regarding hierarchies of human beings to justify the enslavement of Black Africans (More 2014: n. p.). Within these hierarchies, it was also widely believed that enslaved persons had sold themselves initially. Molina broke with the tradition established by Dominicans like Francisco de Vitoria and Domingo de Soto, who believed that men were not free to enslave themselves (Nemser 2019: 111), even if in disputatio 33 of De iustitia et iure Molina does not provide concrete examples of enslaved persons selling themselves (García Añoveros 2000: 316). Jesuits used the idea of dominium or property rights, based on Molina’s explanation, to argue that the individual is the owner of the self and individuals have freedom of possession. Freedom of exchange justified the buying and selling of the enslaved who had the freedom to sell themselves, transferring their possession of  According to More (2014: n. p.), Alonso de Sandoval continued Acosta’s reasoning that developed a hierarchy of non-European populations and practices which should be employed to produce subjects for the imperial economy in the Atlantic circuit between Angola and Cartagena de Indias.

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themselves to another (Nemser 2019: 111). Sandoval’s arguments in De instauranda Aethiopum salute are a continuation of early modern Jesuit theological writing about just war in the context of globalization and capitalism. Sandoval, like many Jesuits of the period, had come to accept Molina’s argument that the slave trade was justified because it could be assumed that enslaved Africans were captured in just wars, and the responsibility of verifying their capture in just wars lay wholly in the hands of those who had initially captured slaves on the African continent, not Spanish traders who later purchased the slaves. Just war in the context of the global market was used to support the slave trade. But, as I pointed out above, the question of why only Black Africans were enslaved, rather than other racial or ethnic groups, has not been considered sufficiently in recent scholarship. Jesuit argumentation in support of slavery, repeated by Sandoval, was based on the grounds established by De iustitia et iure. In contrast to Molina, Sandoval appears to take his trust of the merchants’ authority further: “Whereas for Molina their expertise is generally confined to matters of price, Sandoval’s reading also accepts their declarations regarding the original title of enslavement [legal document verifying the slave is captured justly]” (Nemser 2019: 117). Molina also seems to leave it up to the interpretation of individual merchants whether a slave may have been taken justly, which leaves room for discursive ambivalence regarding the morality of the trade. The question of why Sandoval is more accepting of the Portuguese traders’ justification of enslaving Africans, based on legal titles of enslavement, than Molina is deserves further analysis8. Molina’s precedent establishes moral limitations, such as recognizing the many enslaved captured under immoral circumstances, while it creates ample moral grounds for merchants to trade Black people, based on the impossibility of knowing for sure whether the slaves were captured justly. In large part, the justification for the capture and sale of Black Africans returns to the Blackness of the enslaved: as I contend, economic factors alone do not explain why people with dark skin were associated with the enslaved while Europeans were not. Black Africans became the targets of the trade because of their visible racial difference. Molina justified slavery since the enslaved were already enslaved, but he does not state overtly that the enslaved were also Black and the Curse of Ham indelibly linked Blackness with slavery. Sandoval’s argumentation creates greater freedom for the trade of Black Africans, which, following the precedent set by Molina, also signaled a belief in their inferiority due to skin color. In Book I, Chapter II Sandoval refers to disputatio 34 in Luis de Molina’s De iustitia et iure, which theorizes slavery as licit if Portuguese traders

 See Restrepo’s article in this volume on Sandoval’s shifting opinion on slavery.

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reported the sale occurred under just circumstances, since it was not possible to know the truth from other authors: [Molina] se informó de los mercaderes Portugueses, que ivan a las partes de Guinea, a comprar negros, del modo como estos negros eran cautivos, y con que titulo los vendian sus Reyes, y otras personas, dando crédito a solo el dicho de estos mercaderes, y no teniendo otros autores mas graves de quien saber la verdad. Y esto le parece bastante en un caso tan grave, como es el título de servidumbre, por no poderse saber de otra manera. A cuya imitación, y de los Santos que he citado, me he avido yo en esta historia. [sic] (Sandoval 1987: 59) [Molina] was informed by the Portuguese merchants, who went to parts of Guinea to buy Blacks, of the way these Blacks were captured, and with what title their kings sold them and other people, giving credit only to the word of these merchants, not having other more serious authors from whom to know the truth. And this seemed like enough to him in a serious case, such as the title of servitude, for not being able to know otherwise. I have imitated him, and other saintly men that I have cited, in this history.]

According to Molina’s reasoning, even if slavery is morally and legally just in instances in which the enslaved person can be considered property, such as if an enslaved person is taken in just war, committed a crime, sold themself, or was born to an enslaved mother (Kaufmann/Aichele 2014: 194), it is still the responsibility of the merchant and/or enslaver to assess whether an enslaved person has been enslaved justly. The argument that ultimately an enslaved person may be baptized and saved is not sufficient to enslave anyone unjustly, says Molina (Kaufmann/Aichele 2014: 214). Sandoval, in contrast, considers evangelization a sufficient justification. As will be considered shortly, Sandoval’s belief in evangelization is also tied to his racial discourse regarding the Curse of Ham, which takes precedence in De instauranda Aethiopum salute over economic reasons in validating the trade. Historical economic factors and the concept of “just” enslavement are crucial in understanding why the Jesuits supported the slave trade as an institution. However, as I would like to underline again, contemporary scholarship that emphasizes economic factors has not sufficiently considered race-based justifications for slavery. Early capitalism developed parallel to, rather than preceding, the development of a modern racial discourses that propagated anti-Blackness and both contributed to the evolution of the trade in enslaved persons of African descent. The reading in the following pages seeks to acknowledge the historical development of anti-Blackness because we must account for the history of racism if we are to resist racism. Loose ends in Jesuit logic regarding the justness of the slave trade can be further tied together through a consideration of how pejorative beliefs about Blackness impacted the theological and juridical model on which Sandoval based his exegesis. Sandoval incorporated the myth that skin color was

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associated with sin into his racial ideology in support of slavery in De instauranda Aethiopum salute. Sandoval is one authority amongst many who participated in handing down the myth of the Curse of Ham for generations of enslavers, including nineteenth-century enslavers in the United States such as John Bell Robinson and Josiah Priest. The fact that Europeans did not consider enslaving other Europeans supports the modern racial discourse enveloped in Molina’s antecedent.

De instauranda Aethiopum salute’s Modernization of Racial Ideology Sandoval’s discussion of the causes of black skin in Book I, Chapter II of De instauranda Aethiopum salute (1627) demonstrates how Jesuit discourse that justified the growing transatlantic slave trade was grounded in racial and economic factors. Sandoval’s treatise reproduces pejorative arguments that attribute moral inferiority to Blackness because of the Curse of Ham. Tracing the origins of the Curse back to Genesis 9 reveals friction Sandoval was probably unaware of in his own arguments, as well as what I consider to be embodied subaltern agency when Sandoval and his sources encounter “white” blacks whose white skin upends the idea that Blackness, caused by the Curse, is always passed down from parent to child. Embodied subaltern agency is the power Black bodies hold to inform ideologies produced by texts. In the following sections, the power of Black bodies with white skin – who today would most likely be classified as persons with albinism – is revealed in unimaginable (to Sandoval) hybrid encounters that are dynamic meeting grounds where literature, culture, and history bring together strands from Africa, Latin America, and Europe. As intellectual traditions from these continents are related in De instauranda Aethiopum salute, the treatise ultimately produces an ideology of social justice that rejects moral rationalization for Black enslavement, even if this was not Sandoval’s intent. In Book I, Chapter II Sandoval discusses the “naturaleza de los etíopes” [“nature of the Ethiopians”] providing Guinean, Caravalies, Ardas, Lucumies, Congos, Angolas, Cafres, and Macuas as examples of ethnic groups Sandoval considers “Ethiops” (Sandoval 1987: 69). Covarrubias’s definition of naturaleza provides context to understand that Sandoval intended to discuss racial background or caste when he used the term naturaleza. According to Sebastián de Covarrubias, “naturaleza” meant the same as natura: “Algunas vezes vale condicion y ser, como Fulano es de naturaleza fuerte. Naturaleza se toma por la casta, y por la patria, o nacion” [sic] [“Sometimes it means condition and being, like so and so is of a strong nature. Nature is taken to mean caste, and for homeland, or nation”] (Covarrubias

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1674: n. p.). When early moderns applied the term “naturaleza” they were describing inherent racial characteristics based on lineage and place of birth. Taking Covarrubias’s definition into account, I propose Sandoval’s reference to “nature” connects Black skin color to his understanding of the racial difference of Afro-descendants. Sandoval is not the first intellectual to associate skin color with racial difference, nor are his arguments distinct from earlier and contemporary arguments about the causes and significance of Black skin. Sandoval references the first-century CE Roman-Jewish historian Josephus on Ethiopians’ skin color and the Curse of Ham. According to Sandoval, Josephus attributes black skin to the Curse of Ham because the Hebrew Bible tells of how the lands inhabited by negros is called “Chusia” and their inhabitants are called “Cheseos” (Sandoval 1987: 69). The terms derive from the name Chus or Cham, another spelling of the name of Ham, who populated the lands. Sandoval concludes that the term “Chus” for the Hebrews is the same as the term “Etiopes” or Ethiops for early moderns (Sandoval 1987: 69). In the biblical narrative of the Curse of Ham presented in Genesis 9, however, Blackness is not commented upon. This is important because the Curse of Ham has been used since the fourthcentury CE to justify Black enslavement because it was believed that Ham, one of Noah’s sons, was cursed to be enslaved and to be Black, and this curse would be passed down to his children. Though the association between Black skin and evil is not present in the Bible, pre-biblical and post-biblical precedents inform early modern stereotypes regarding dark skin color and the development of the Curse of Ham that is repeated in De instauranda Aethiopum salute (Josephus 1809: 82–83; Whitford 2009: 77–87). Sandoval’s insertion of the false idea that the son of Ham was Black was not original. In ancient stereotypes, Black skin was variously a bad omen or associated with evil. For example, Greco-Roman and Iberian-Muslim narratives introduced negative perceptions of Black Africans in the medieval and early modern periods. Greek and Roman idealization of their own skin color over that of Northern Europeans and Sub-Saharan Africans (Ethiopians) (Goldenberg 2009: 92–93), and their contempt for dark skin reflects universal color symbolism that associates the color black with evil. Goldenberg cites various examples of how Romans considered Ethiopians (Black Africans) harbingers of evil, which is reflective of negative attitudes based on skin color (Goldenberg 2009: 93–94). Patristic literature composed by early Christian Church Fathers took earlier metaphors that associated the color black with evil further, attaching them to Ethiopians in Scripture (Goldenberg 2009: 99). Goldenberg explains the association between black skin and slavery was a commonality of post-biblical stories from the period beginning in seventh-century Arabia (Goldenberg 2009: 170), though Curse narratives would shift over time and place as evidenced by other another source that firmly linked Blackness and the Curse of Ham in Europe, the forged Commentaria completed by Johannes Annius of

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Viterbo in 1498 (Goldenberg 2009: 45–59). There may be no direct link to Annius of Viterbo in Sandoval’s work since the Curse of Ham is, as explained by Braude, a tradition that had many origins (Braude 1997: 128; Goldenberg 2009: 127–128). Sandoval nevertheless reproduces the same argument that Black Africans have dark skin due to the Curse of Ham. Negative stereotypes that associated black skin with the Curse of Ham developed primarily during the period of Muslim expansion (600–1200 CE). Texts written by Jewish scholars who lived in Muslim-controlled lands repeated and propagated the myth that Black Africans were cursed (Goldenberg 2009: 170). These pejorative attitudes about Black Africans were transposed to Iberia when Spain’s Muslim conquerors divided slaves by color. Iberian Muslim writers did not explicitly state why White slaves were highly valued, but they often implied that lighter skin was valued while darker skin was not. Arguments in favor of Black inferiority refined the Hamitic Curse to justify the increasing subordination of Sub-Saharan Africans. What resulted was the association between Blackness and slavery. The Persian historian Tabari’s writing offers exemplary Islamic interpretations that Ham was the father of all Blacks (Sweet 1997: 148–149). Accounting for the revision of the Hamitic Curse myth in the socio-racial context of Muslim expansion provides a backdrop to Sandoval’s acceptance of the Curse of Ham as a justification for slavery. Like his predecessors, Sandoval also devalued Black people because of their skin color and participated in the elaboration of a hermeneutical canon that propagated the Curse of Ham myth to condone the dehumanization of Black lives. Returning to the biblical story of the Curse of Ham is necessary to trace the false assertion that Blacks’ skin color is evidence of their immorality, passed down from generation to generation, which justified Black enslavement. Even if Black Africans were condemned to enslavement, a condition passed down to their children, Sandoval proposed that there was hope for Black salvation and the whitening of their souls in the afterlife through their catechism. In the 1647 version of De instauranda, Sandoval includes verbal commentary in Book I, Chapter III regarding the whitening of Black men and women as well as imagery in the frontispiece by Juan de Noort (Fig. 1). In the top left corner, a group of Black men and women being baptized is depicted above the Latin caption “dealbabuntur” [“they will be bleached”]. Their skin is white, the result of their purification through baptism. As Brewer-García points out, Sandoval assigns black skin an immutable visible and moral stain because of Ham’s sin. The only spiritual escape for Black people is baptism, which would guarantee their salvation through the whitening of their souls after death. Though evangelization provided hope for Black African salvation, the whitening narrative propagates a negative stereotype about black skin and ugliness (Brewer-García 2015: 134–136). Sandoval and his fellow early moderns essentialized Blackness as a negative trait through the imagery of their whitening, which only

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Fig. 1: Juan de Noort, frontispiece to Alonso de Sandoval’s second edition of De instauranda Aethiopum salute, vol. 1. (Madrid: Alonso de Paredes, 1647). Engraving, 280 x 200 mm. Copyright The British Library Board.

occurs in artistic representation, to signify they are Christians. Hope for their salvation, according to Sandoval’s hegemonic narrative, may not be found in their own bodies or through their own initiative.

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Contending with a variety of causation theories for black skin besides the Curse, Sandoval synthesizes scholars’ conceptualizations about Ethiopians that range from arguments about climatological causes, to imaginative causes, and back to the Curse of Ham. Pliny the Elder’s assertion in the Natural History, Book VI, Chapter XXXVI, that Ethiopia is a name that comes from the son of Vulcan, the Roman god of fire who presided over territories in Sub-Saharan Africa, is one such source. Sandoval also references the possibility that the name Ethiopia came from the Latin verb cremo, meaning to burn (Sandoval 1987: 69). References from the ancient world also support arguments that black skin is the result of climatological factors, which Sandoval does not discard completely, even if he finds the Curse of Ham to be a more compelling explanation. Sandoval is not original in making these assertions, as Erin Rowe notes, since early modern hagiographers of Black saints commonly drew on climate theory to describe their subjects’ skin color (Rowe 2016: 741). Sandoval also considers ancient Greek sources such as Aristotle’s theory that imagination causes variations in skin color, inadvertently referencing the unresolved inadequacy of the Curse of Ham to explain Black Africans’ occasional White offspring (Sandoval 1987: 70). Sandoval elaborates a prolonged apart about the role of imagination in determining skin color and reasons why white-skinned children are sometimes born to Black Africans and blackskinned children are sometimes born to Europeans. Sandoval cites a certain Celio Rodigenio, an author unknown to today’s scholars, who quotes ancient antecedents like Hippocrates, about a White woman who was accused of adultery after giving birth to a child “como los de Etiopia” [“like Ethiopians”]. The woman was later found free of guilt because there was a portrait of a child from Ethiopia found in the room where she had conceived her child (Sandoval 1987: 70). The discussion of the causes of dark skin tones in Book I, Chapter II of De instauranda Aethiopum salute foregrounds Sandoval’s intervention on the Curse of Ham that brings together ancient and contemporary theories with his own theory integrating climatological approaches with the Curse myth. Sandoval supports his interpretation with references to patristic sources such as Augustine, John Chrysostom and Ambrose, and his own contemporary, the Jesuit theologian M. Pedro de Valderrama, who argued like Sandoval that Black slaves were born Black because of the Curse (Sandoval 1987: 75). In a twist on previous arguments, Sandoval proposes that an “intrinsic heat” caused by the Curse has blackened Sub-Saharan Africans’ skin so that their children have that smudge or stain on their bodies as they descended from a man who had mocked his father as punishment; this was not a miracle but a curse on them: [A] quien Dios avian tomado por instrumento de aquel castigo, supeditaria mas materia de la ordinaria para aquella nota y marca. Lo cual se puede entender en los Etiopes que traen

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su origen de Can, que fue el primer siervo y esclavo que huvo en el mundo, como veremos, en quien estava este calor intrinsico, para con el tiznar a sus hijos y descendientes [sic]. (Sandoval 1987: 74–75) [To whom God have taken as an instrument of punishment, subordinating more material than ordinary for that note and mark. Which one can understand in the Ethiopians who originate from Ham, who was the first servant and slave in the world, as we will see, who was marked by this intrinsic heat, which stained his children and descendants.]

Sandoval’s conclusion updated ideas propagated in the ancient world, relating them to the racial and economic context of seventeenth-century Cartagena de Indias. The Eurocentric narrative that justifies slavery by establishing Black African immorality is never fully consolidated, however, in De instauranda Aethiopum salute. Sandoval’s rethinking of the Curse of Ham is a literary contact zone, defined by Mary Louise Pratt as social spaces where cultures meet, clash, and grapple with each other, often in contexts of highly asymmetrical relations of power (Pratt 1991: 34). In the contact zone represented by Sandoval, relations between ancient and contemporary understandings of race include Black African bodies and voices, and they compound the Curse narrative and anti-Black stereotypes.

Embodied Black Texts in Literary and Visual Culture Cartagena de Indias, and Sandoval’s writing about this urban colonial center, is a contact zone in which the embodiment or physical representation of Blacks with white skin disrupts proto-capitalist arguments, rooted in theology and law, about Blackness and enslavement. Sandoval’s description of Black Africans with white bodies in Book I, Chapter II acknowledges the narrative agency of African subalterns. Their voices are incorporated to make more believable the eyewitness accounts told by Sandoval’s Portuguese informants in conversations with the Jesuit priest in Cartagena de Indias about their experiences as traders in Africa. In the same discussion of imagination previously mentioned, Sandoval writes of instances in which Black Africans produced White offspring “en la tierra de Zofala, Reinos de Mocaranga, de la Etiopia Oriental, se vieron algunas Etiopes Cafres, parir hijos muy blancos, que no parecian sino flamencos, siendo sus padres negros como la pez” [sic] [“in the land of Zofala, kingdoms of Mocaranga, of eastern Ethiopia, some savage Ethiopians were seen to give birth to very white children that looked like they were Flemish, while their parents were tar Black”] (Sandoval 1987: 70). In Disappearing Mestizo Joann Rappaport explains how this excerpt reflects early

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modern views on race that saw skin color as mutable, and that there was a disconnect between paternity and appearance (Rappaport 2014: 195–196). Though albinism could be interpreted as another instance of the fluidity of skin color allowed for by early modern racial epistemologies, the Curse of Ham narrative negates racial fluidity. The discursive rigidity produced by the Curse of Ham narrative does not account for the racial reality. In De instauranda Aethiopum salute the hegemonic narrative fails to flesh out an explanation for these white Black bodies, considering them inexplicable marvels. For example, Sandoval describes Francisco, a seven-year-old white Angolan in Cartagena de Indias, as “a cosa maravillosa” [“a marvelous thing”] (Sandoval 1987: 71) that can only be understood in the context of the many monsters believed to inhabit the African continent9. Sandoval cannot explain the births of White children to Black parents, as the white bodies of the children visually demonstrate that Black skin is not always passed from parent to child. The contradictions produced by Africans’ bodies, both the children born and their mothers who give birth to them, underscore the fallacy of Curse-of-Ham and race-based justifications of the Black African slave trade. Of particular interest is the influence of Black maternal bodies in De instauranda Aethiopum salute to generate disruptive racial narratives that question the transmission of Blackness as proposed by Sandoval and the broader transmission of the Curse of Ham myth, as Sandoval describes how they “paren hijos tan blancos” [“give birth to children so White” (Sandoval 1987: 71) even though their husbands are Black. Though Sandoval’s informant attempted to apply the norms of the market and the trade in Africans in response to what he saw, offering a thousand cruzados to purchase one of the children, because people with albinism are valued in their communities, the offer is rejected (Sandoval 1987: 71). Del Valle, More, and O’Toole propose in their introduction to Iberian Empires and the Roots of Globalization, “we must dare to make suggestions, to open possibilities that, remaining historically grounded, are also an exercise of the imagination” (Del Valle/ More/O’Toole 2019: 16). They refer to the need to make suppositions in cases where there are silences, though the suppositions cannot be pure fantasy. Their perspective applies to the following considerations: For what did African communities specifically value albinism? What roles did people with white skin play in their communities and their families? The answers to these questions are beyond the scope of this chapter. However, the described white bodies communicate the inadequacy of the Curse myth to justify slavery because their Whiteness is visual

 In Book I, Chapter III of De instauranda Aethiopum salute Sandoval continues his discussion of “los extraordinarios monstruos y demas cosas maravillosas que se hallan en Africa” [sic] [“extraordinary monsters and other marvelous things that are found in Africa”] (Sandoval 1987: 76).

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evidence that the Curse of Ham is false. Sandoval does not state this explicitly or even recognize it while composing De instauranda Aethiopum salute, but Sandoval’s is not the only authorial voice in the text. The text’s Black bodies and oral narratives concerning these bodies produce counternarratives. The mentioned inability of the Portuguese trader to purchase these bodies through the logic of the market also shows their embodied agency to evade European domination and a set of Afrocentric beliefs, native to Black Africa, that take precedence over the Portuguese informants’ desires to control. The details of African belief systems concerning albinism are generally silenced in Sandoval’s treatise. However, the idea that albinism is an embodiment African communities connected to autochthonous religions, much as Christians connect the variation in pigmentation to religious beliefs, is apparent in the Portuguese account Sandoval incorporates in De instauranda Aethiopum salute in Book I, Chapter II. This Portuguese account does not address negative attitudes in West African traditions concerning people with albinism, suggesting, I argue, that the child the Portuguese informant wished to purchase had value or was esteemed, and perhaps that was so. In African Philosophy and the Otherness of Albinism: White Skin, Black Race, the philosopher Elvis Imafidon studies albinism as a category of otherness in West African culture. Though some cultures may have seen value in those born with albinism, albinism is seen as repugnant across African thought. For example, the Yoruba and Ibo view albinism as contagious, and many Sub-Saharan cultures believe albinism is a curse to punish the parents of the child with albinism for a wrongdoing (Imafidon 2018: 17–19). Though African and Judeo-Christian cosmologies are separate systems of thought, both categorize skin color that is not the norm as the result of a punishment or curse. These categorizations are based on false narratives about the causes of skin color that, by design, justify the suffering of those marked as different. Other unnamed Portuguese informants attest to the existence of White people in the land of Fulo (Senegal) who are described as “más blancos y rubios que Alemanes” [sic] [“Whiter and blonder than Germans”] (Sandoval 1987: 71). The description of the children’s skin tone is more fantastic than real as Sandoval’s unnamed informants describe people who have straight golden hair like European women, again feminizing them as they are consumed visually by the male colonizing gaze. These White Fulos are never captured and brought to Spanish lands, however, those who are of a variety of tones such as mixed, dark, “zambos”, and yellowish-brown are enslaved (Sandoval 1987: 71)10. The Portuguese narrators

 “Zambo” is a term referring to people of mixed Indigenous and African ancestry that is still prevalent today in Latin America. It is likely that Sandoval is referring to some Black Africans

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objectified the white bodies through the desire to purchase and possess what they viewed as rare commodities. The white Black bodies contradict Eurocentric arguments that climate, intrinsic heat, or God’s curse could be the cause of their pigmentation. Sandoval narrates his own encounter with the before-mentioned Angolan boy, Francisco, in Cartagena de Indias who had extremely white skin and Spanish features. Francisco’s parents in contrast were very Black11. Like the Sub-Saharan Africans whom Sandoval’s Portuguese informants had observed, Francisco is also shortsighted (Sandoval 1987: 71), a telltale characteristic of albinism. Francisco is not the only person with albinism whom Sandoval would encounter. Sandoval describes an encounter with three young girls of Angolan descent in the year 1621 in Mompox, Colombia. One was Black like her parents while the younger sisters had African features and were white-skinned like Germans. Their father testified to having had other children of the same color with another woman in Angola (Sandoval 1987: 72). Sandoval could not provide an explanation for this instance of albinism he observed in Cartagena de Indias, but attributed the piebald coloring of the girls to her mother’s imagination, although he first believes the girls to be mixed race. Then, taking the father’s testimony into account, Sandoval concludes that the cause of these variations is not the climate but the Curse of Ham. Sandoval’s interpretation of the girl’s skin would be replicated by the Comte de Buffon, the eighteenth-century French naturalist, in his Histoire Naturelle [Natural History]. Buffon had never come across the condition before and thinks the piebald girl, Mary Sabina, is mixed, that her parents are of two different races (Dobson 1958: 275). However, the father of the girl described in De instauranda Aethiopum salute becomes another informant as his voice provides information that corroborates

with a skin tone similar to “Zambos” in Cartagena de Indias, but who do not actually have Indigenous American ancestry.  Sandoval’s discussion of Francisco and other “very white” children becomes the nexus of his interpretation of a variety of baroque discursive strategies including maternal imagination, or the commonly accepted early modern belief that what a mother saw during pregnancy affected the appearance of the child, and the Curse of Ham to explain the causes of black and white skin color (Styles 2019: 91). I previously interpreted Portuguese narratives and Sandoval’s personal experience as evidence that the children were indeed mixed-race but left open the possibility that they could also have been persons with albinism (Styles 2019: 89). Though I have changed that assessment in this chapter, highlighting the probability that the children were in fact persons with albinism, their heterogenous racialization still creates social and cultural instability. For more on the Hispanic baroque as a conservative culture that developed a taste for novelty that affirmed the social order, see Maravall’s Culture of the Baroque: Analysis of a Historical Structure (Maravall 1986: 136).

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my interpretation that the girl is a person with partial albinism. Though the Angolan man’s subaltern discourse does not provide information concerning Angolan beliefs about persons with albinism, or how people with albinism were regarded in their native lands, the Angolan man’s oral narrative, like his daughters’ bodies, complicates Sandoval’s telling of events. Though albinism is not a choice, the condition is a type of embodied authority that undermines Eurocentric discourses about Blackness. The visual effect of the unexplained variation of skin color disrupts attempts by colonial authorities to control the proliferation of racial mixtures and variations. Sandoval’s ultimate inability to explain these aberrations through the Curse of Ham alludes to the fiction that enslaving Black Africans could be justified. Eighteenth-century visual representations of albinism corroborate the bodily agency marked by albinism in De instauranda Aethiopum salute to question the Curse of Ham narrative. Though it does not appear that these artistic renderings of persons with albinism are directly connected to De instauranda Aethiopum salute, they are expressions of a similar discourse concerning race and skin color. According to Ilona Katzew, the initial impulse behind the casta genre is connected to the criolloismo that arose at the end of the seventeenth century. The visual representations from the eighteenth century depict albinism as part of the continuum of race mixtures (Katzew 2004: 2–3). Though it is difficult to locate one single purpose, the paintings must be understood in the context of efforts by colonial authorities to control the proliferation of race mixing, “but the blurring of boundaries that resulted from race mixing precluded a de facto categorization of the population, which greatly concerned colonial authorities” (Katzew 2004: 39). Casta paintings developed as a genre because colonial governance wished to visually represent and classify racial differences as a means of social control. Of particular interest to this discussion of Sandoval’s description of “muy blancos”, “very white”, Black children in Cartagena de Indias are casta paintings that depict the racial category albino. In one such example (Fig. 2), a young girl with albinism is represented as the offspring of an “español” and a “morisca” (Black and Spanish). The “albina” girl’s birth is represented as an unusual racial phenotype that cannot be explained through normative hierarchies. This example provides a visual reference that corroborates Sandoval’s written rendering of the children’s unusual skin color. Albinos depicted in the paintings are associated with Black ancestry because a morisca is the offspring of a Spanish man and a mulatta (halfBlack) woman. The possibility that Blackness can revert to Whiteness, represented by the albino category, echoes European and Creole anxieties regarding the blurring of racial boundaries which threatened not only the legitimacy of the slave trade but their own legitimacy (Katzew 2015: n. p.). Casta paintings of albinos silence the reality that albinism occurred in Africa and Iberian colonies, outside of

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Fig. 2: Miguel Cabrera, 6. De español y morisca, albina [6. From Spaniard and Morisca, Albina Girl]. Oil on canvas, 131 x 105 cm, 1763. Los Angeles County Museum of Art.

instances of racial mixing or racist hierarchies propagated by colonial authorities, to which Sandoval’s Angolan and Portuguese informants testify. The engraving of Mary Sabina (Fig. 3), a girl with partial albinism, in Buffon’s work similarly confounds hegemonic attitudes about Blackness propagated in Book I, Chapter II of De instauranda Aethiopum salute. Much like the girl Sandoval described in Cartagena de Indias in the previous century, the engraving represents the black and white coloring marked on her body, a visual reality that exposes the unworkability of hierarchical racial ideologies such as Curse of Ham. Harpster notes that Sandoval groups all people of a certain skin tone under “the rubric of blackness”, or what More describes as a “geography of blackness” (Harpster 2015:

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Fig. 3: Portrait of Piebald Girl. Engraving in Comte de Buffon’s Histoire naturelle, générale et particulière (Paris, 1752), vol. 4, plate II, p. 568. Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley.

90, More 2014: n. p.). For Sandoval, Blackness communicates whether salvation is possible; it is a condition that is reflected by bodily markings such as skin color rather than culture or geographic origin (Harpster 2015: 90). Though signifying the Curse, and therefore exclusion from salvation, Afro-descendants’ black skin is relativized as a visual signifier of moral purity among saintly Europeans, like the black clothing worn by the Virgin discussed in Book II, Chapter VIII. Sandoval describes the Virgin’s love for all things black in visual depictions of the Adoration of the Magi, which was reflected even in her choice to wear black on most occasions

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(Sandoval 1987: 260, Harpster 2015: 98–99, Stoichita 2011: 196). Sandoval relativizes Blackness in descriptions of clothing as a sometimes-chromatic choice “since a sartorial black could also conjure up images of priestly habits or monk’s robes, signifying the virtues of humility and penitence” (Harpster 2015: 99). The hegemonic binary is similarly negated by the visual representation of Mary Sabina’s body in the engraving and by the “very white” Black bodies described in De instauranda Aethiopum salute. Bodies with albinism are visual texts that debunk the lie that black skin or black color can definitively mark difference, curse, and inferiority.

Concluding Remarks Though Alonso de Sandoval establishes the Curse of Ham as the primary explanation for Black skin, and a justification for the transatlantic slave trade sourced from theological exegesis, the binary between White superiority and Black inferiority gives way in Sandoval’s argument due to the diversity of sources. Alonso de Sandoval makes recourse to modern racist arguments concerning Black skin and moral inferiority in Book I, Chapter II of De instauranda Aethiopum salute. The early modern fascination with monstrous “very white” Black Africans recorded in De instauranda Aethiopum salute reflects the baroque mentality of the seventeenth century making sense of heterogeneity that does not fit into racial categories (Olsen 2004: 22–23). Sandoval’s sources on the Curse of Ham bleed between regions, time periods, and texts, including the bodies of Sub-Saharan Africans creating a meeting ground where racial discourse is produced and contested in unexpected ways. This meeting ground, or network of texts, demonstrates how Sandoval, like his contemporaries, was not color blind in his assessment of who could be enslaved in the context of the expanding global market. A web of transregional and transtemporal narratives concerning race and black bodies in De instauranda Aethiopum salute is evidence of the interconnectedness of the Colombian Caribbean with Europe and Africa in the production of modern racial ideology. In De instauranda Aethiopum salute, Sandoval never makes sense of heterogeneity, or what he terms “variedad” [variety] (Sandoval 1987: 54). This means that, since Blackness is conceived as a category that is separate from Whiteness, these Black bodies that also have partial or complete albinism cannot be reduced to anti-Black standards or the power of the global demand to buy and sell Black bodies articulated by juridical and ecclesiastical thinkers, including Sandoval, even if they are monstrosities that appeal to the baroque mentality of the period. Tales of “very white” Blacks, who today would be defined as people with albinism, hamper the logic of the false narrative that Black people were cursed to enslavement

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according to the Hebrew Bible. Their bodies are invaluable sources within De instauranda Aethoipum salute that question the Curse of Ham and the concomitant devaluation of Black lives in all their forms.

Bibliography Brewer-García, Larissa (2015): “Imagined Transformations: Color, Beauty, and Black Christian Conversion in Seventeenth-Century Spanish America”. In: Patton, Paula (ed.): Envisioning Others: Race, Color, and the Visual in Iberia and Latin America. Leiden: Brill, pp. 111–141. Coogan, Michael D./Brettler, Marc Z./Newsom, Carol/Perkins, Pheme (eds.) (2010): New Oxford Annotated Bible with Apocrypha: New Revised Standard Version. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Covarrubias Orozco, Sebastián de (1674): Tesoro de la lengua castellana o espanõla. In: Internet Archive, (last visit: 30/ 06/2022). Del Valle, Ivonne/More, Anna/O’Toole, Rachel Sarah: (2019): “Introduction: Iberian Empires and a Theory of Early Modern Globalization”. In: Del Valle, Ivonne/More, Anna/O’Toole, Rachel Sarah (eds.): Iberian Empires and the Roots of Globalization. Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, pp. 1–22. Dobson, Jessie (1958): “Mary Sabina, The Variegated Damsel”. In: Annals of the Royal College of Surgeons of England, 22, 4, pp. 273–278. García Añoveros, Jesús María (2000): “Luis de Molina y la esclavitud de los negros africanos en el siglo XVI: Principios doctrinales y conclusiones”. In: Revista de indias, LX, 219, pp. 307–329. Goldenberg, David (2009): The Origins of Racism in the West. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Harpster, Grace (2015): “The Color of Salvation: The Materiality of Blackness in Alonso de Sandoval’s De instauranda Aethiopum salute”. In: Patton, Paula (ed.): Envisioning Others: Race, Color, and the Visual in Iberia and Latin America. Leiden: Brill, pp. 83–110. Imafidon, Elvis (2018): African Philosophy and the Otherness of Albinism: White Skin, Black Race. London: Routledge. Josephus, Flavius (1809): The Genuine Works of Flavius Josephus: The Learned and Authentic Jewish Historian and Celebrated Warriors: Translated from the Original Greek, according to Haverkamp’s Accurate Edition: With Copious Notes, & Proper Observations. Transl. William Whiston, Siwart Haverkamp. Boston: For Thomas and Andrews. Katzew, Ilona (2004): Casta Painting: Images of Race in Eighteenth-Century Mexico. New Haven: Yale University Press. —— (2015): “Why an Albino? Some Notes On Our New Casta Painting by Miguel Cabrera”. In: Unframed, (last visit: 30/06/2022). Kaufmann, Matthias/Aichele, Alexander (eds.) (2014): A Companion to Luis de Molina. Leiden: Brill. Lowe, Kate (2005): “Introduction”. In: Lowe, Kate/Earle, T. F. (eds.): Black Africans in Renaissance Europe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 1–14. Mack, Kristen/Palfrey, John (2020): “Capitalizing Black and White: Grammatical Justice and Equity”. In: MacArthur Foundation, (last visit: 21/07/2022).

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Maravall, José Antonio (1986): Culture of the Baroque: Analysis of a Historical Structure. Transl. Terry Cochran. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. More, Anna (2014): “From Lines to Networks: Carl Schmitt’s Nomos and the Early Atlantic System”. In: Política Común, 5, . —— (2019): “Jesuit Networks and the Transatlantic Slave Trade: Alonso de Sandoval’s Naturaleza, policía sagrada y profana (1627)”. In: del Valle, Ivonne/More, Anna/O’Toole, Rachel Sarah (eds.): Iberian Empires and the Roots of Globalization. Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, pp. 131–157. Nemser, Daniel (2019): “Possessive Individualism and the Spirit of Capitalism in the Iberian Slave Trade”. In: Journal for Early Modern Cultural Studies, 19, 2, pp. 101–129. Olsen, Margaret (2004): Slavery and Salvation in Colonial Cartagena de Indias. Gainesville: University Press of Florida. Pratt, Mary Louise (1991): “Arts of the Contact Zone”. In: Profession, pp. 33–40. Rappaport, Joanne (2014). The Disappearing Mestizo: Configuring Difference in the Colonial New Kingdom of Granada. Durham: Duke University Press. Rowe, Erin Kathleen (2016): “After Death, Her Face Turned White: Blackness, Whiteness, and Sanctity in the Early Modern Hispanic World”. In: American Historical Review, 121, 3, pp. 727–754. Sandoval, Alonso de (1987) [1627]: Un tratado sobre la esclavitud. Ed. Enriqueta Vila Vilar. Madrid: Alianza. Stoichita, Victor (2010): “The Image of the Black in Spanish Art: Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries”. In: Bindman, David/Gates, Jr., Henry Louis (eds.): The Image of the Black in Western Art. Vol. III: From the “Age of Discovery” to the Age of Abolition. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, pp. 191–234. Styles, Monica (2019): “Voicing Black African Agency in Alonso de Sandoval’s De instauranda Aethiopum salute”. In: Afro-Hispanic Review, 38, 1, pp. 77–97. Sweet, James (1997): “The Iberian Origins of American Racist Thought”. In: The William and Mary Quarterly, 54, 1, pp. 143–166. Vila Vilar, Enriqueta (1987): “Introducción”. In: Sandoval, Alonso de/Vila Vilar, Enriqueta (ed.): Un tratado sobre la esclavitud. Madrid: Alianza, pp.15–42. Whitford, David M. (2009): The Curse of Ham in the Early Modern Era: The Bible and the Justifications for Slavery. Farnham: Ashgate.

Transcontinental Writing

Pablo García Loaeza

Speculative Encounters in the New World The dictionary of the Real Academia Española [Royal Spanish Academy] defines the noun encuentro as the “acto de coincidir en un punto dos o más cosas, a veces chocando una contra otra” [“action of two or more things coming together at some point, sometimes crashing into each other”]1. To emphasize the latter aspect, Spanish has encontronazo or encontrón, which entails a golpe [blow] but can also add an element of surprise: “Encuentro sorprendente o inesperado entre personas o de personas y cosas” [“Surprising or unexpected encounter between people or between people and things”] (DRAE). The notion of an encuentro de dos mundos, a coming together of two worlds, starting in 1492 has been widely deployed to dampen what was undoubtedly an encontronazo, as Rafael Sánchez Ferlosio described it early in the debates provoked by the quincentennial commemoration of the so-called “discovery” of America. Sánchez Ferlosio argued that what took place had “toda la brutalidad de un puro choque, que convertirá la diferencia en ciega e impenetrable otreidad [sic]” [“all the brutality of an utter crash that will turn difference into blind and unassailable otherness”] (Sánchez Ferlosio 1988: n. p.)2. Nevertheless, beyond the physical violence, in terms of literary, cultural, historical, and social relations, the idea of encuentro invites us to consider how early modern intellectuals related continents in novel ways, as Radlwimmer notes in the first chapter of this volume. Many of these efforts were, in fact, aimed at addressing the alleged otherness of the peoples mislabeled as Indios. The expeditions conducted by Spanish explorers and conquistadores in what they generally referred to as Las Indias revealed a densely populated space. Once it was determined that the continent was not part of the “Old World” that comprised Africa, Asia, and Europe, a series of vexing questions arose about the origin of the peoples of the “New World”. According to the biblical tenet of a single creation, all humans descended from Adam and Eve through Noah, whose family alone survived the Flood. Since the Indios were fully human – as attested by the bull Sublimis Deus issued by Pope Paul III in 1537 – they could not actually be

 All translations are my own unless indicated otherwise.  Miguel León-Portilla, however, asserted that the connotations of encuentro range from “el choque, o encontronazo y confrontación violentos, hasta la convergencia, diálogo y acercamiento” [“the collision, crash, or violent confrontation to convergence, dialogue, and coming together”], that the word was proposed as a frame for including all the participants on equal terms, and that it ultimately succeeded in promoting dialogue with contemporary Indigenous groups (LeónPortilla 1992: 24). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110796308-006

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autochthonous3. They must necessarily have arrived from somewhere, and they must be the descendants of a known people. Seeking to solve this mystery, myriad authors speculated about ancient transcontinental encounters. One was Fray Gregorio García (d. 1627), whose work provides an overview of the various theories about the origins of the Indios in general. Arguing both in favor of and against each of them, García knew full well that he was operating in the realm of speculation. In New Spain, Carlos de Sigüenza y Góngora (1645–1700) and Pablo Félix Cabrera (d. 1800) proposed creative solutions to the mystery of the origins of the Nahua and Maya peoples. As we shall see, these authors’ self-alleged historical treatises are in fact imaginative works whose baroque elaborations anticipate several traits that characterize modern Latin American literature. Moreover, they point toward a systematic effort to deny aboriginal peoples their particular historicity and write off their specificities by incorporating them into the Western historical narrative. This process promoted detrimental social biases that still plague Latin America. A definitive history of the original population of America remains unwritten. In a recent study, geneticist Jennifer Raff remarks on the difficulty of finding even two archaeologists who agree on exactly how the continent was peopled. While most scholars agree that the first people came from Siberia and East Asia through Beringia, the timeline is still up for debate. In Raff’s estimation, the model that best fits the available archaeological and genetic data posits an entry into the Americas from Siberia no earlier than 30,000 years ago. Most scholars agree that there were people in America at least 14,000 years ago. Some favor 18,000 to 15,000 years ago. And a few claim that people were present much earlier, even as far back as 130,000 years ago, but with little archeological evidence and no genetic information. After crossing from Siberia, people likely traveled down the west coast of North America by boat and reached South America fairly quickly (Raff 2022: 127, 275). In 1590, without recourse to genetic data, the Jesuit José de Acosta (c. 1540–1600) proposed the land-bridge theory in his Historia natural y moral de las Indias. Lucidly and methodically, Acosta began by asserting the unity of humankind as established in the biblical narrative. Given the common origin of humanity and its near-total destruction as a result of the Flood, there could be no doubt that the Indios had arrived from elsewhere, but where and how? Acosta promptly dismissed miraculous explanations, “[p]orque no se trata qué es lo que pudo hacer Dios, sino qué es conforme a razón y al orden y estilo de las cosas humanas” (Acosta 1999: 57) [“for it is not a

 On the significance of Sublimis Deus, see Hanke (1937).

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question of what God could do but of what conforms to reason and the order and style of human affairs” (Acosta 2002: 51)]. Following the thread of reason, as he calls it, the Jesuit argued against a deliberate ocean crossing due to the ancients’ lack of a compass. Acosta allowed that the early peoples could have arrived accidentally, driven off course and shipwrecked by tempests. However, that would not explain the presence in Las Indias of all sorts of animals, which must also have come from somewhere else (Acosta 2002: 53; 61). It was highly improbable that so many species, including dangerous ones, were brought or swam there. Therefore, Acosta proposed “a great conjecture”: “[T]he new world that we call the Indies is not completely divided and separated from the other world [. . .] one part of the earth and the other must join and continue, or at least be very close” (Acosta 2002: 63). Thus, the ancestors of the Indios must have arrived on foot or by sailing short distances, advancing little by little, as they sought new lands to settle. Before letting the matter rest, Acosta argued against competing theories. First, he decried the possibility of a journey by way of Atlantis, based on Plato’s description of that island in his dialogues Timaeus and Critias. Noting the story’s many improbabilities and the total absence of physical evidence, Acosta declared that everything Plato says about that fabulous place “cannot be told as truth except to children and old women” (Acosta 2002: 68). Second, he argued against the opinion that the Indios descended from Jews, based on the apocryphal fourth book of Esdras, which relates how the ten tribes sought refuge in a remote, uninhabited region across the Euphrates River. Acosta observed that all the alleged similarities between Indios and Jews (e.g., cowardice, dress) were mere conjectures that facts belie (e.g., lack of writing and circumcision). And so, he did “not see how the apocryphal Euphrates of Esdras could have provided a better opportunity for men to cross to the New World than Plato’s enchanted and fabled Atlantis” (Acosta 2002: 71). Finally, Acosta pointed out that refuting the falsehoods about the Indios’ origin was easier than discovering the truth, owing to the lack of clear written evidence and the fact that what the Indios themselves related resembled “dreams rather than history” (2002: 72). For Acosta, the only meaningful encounter was the one they had had with the Christians who had brought the true faith to Las Indias. Nevertheless, as we shall see, such perceptive reasoning did not prevent alternative theories from multiplying. Much of the discussion surrounding the origins of the Indigenous peoples of America involves the notion of diffusion. While ideas about the importance of cultural spread in human history, including the possibility of transoceanic contacts since antiquity that resulted in significant cultural and biological exchanges, have

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long been out of favor among academics, it has never ceased to have proponents4. In the late twentieth century, José Alcina Franch, for example, argued that, throughout the second millennium BCE, small groups of people crossed the ocean from northwestern Africa and the Canary Islands. According to the Spanish anthropologist, there was sufficient evidence of the cultural products and practices they may have introduced. As proof, he described types of ancient objects (e.g., ceramics, pottery), ethnohistorical customs (e.g., brother-sister marriage, land ownership), and anthropological practices (e.g., trepanation, mummification) that could be found on both sides of the Atlantic. Alcina Franch also acknowledged the possibility of Carthaginian and Phoenician navigations. However, he found contact between Nahuas and Romans more convincing based on a piece of Hellenistic sculpture allegedly excavated at an archeological site in Mexico5. Alcina Franch lamented that the archeological establishment scorned diffusionism by arguing that it lacked scientific qualities (Alcina Franch 1985: 195, 205–206, 270)6. Beyond this lack, diffusionism is highly problematic because it often assumes – in fact, creates – a cultural scale. In Alcina Franch’s words: “[E]n todos los procesos de difusión o aculturación es fundamental considerar el nivel cultural relativo de las dos o más entidades socioculturales que se ponen en contacto, ya que de ese hecho dependerá la mayor o menor capacidad de aceptación e integración de los rasgos o complejos culturales propuestos por la sociedad donante a la sociedad receptora” [“In all diffusion or acculturation processes, it is essential to consider the relative cultural level of the two or more socio-cultural entities that come into contact, since this will determine the greater or lesser capacity for acceptance and integration of the cultural traits or systems proposed by the donor society to the receiving society”] (Alcina Franch 1985: 30, emphasis added). Alcina Franch immediately attempted to qualify this assertion by claiming that, as the archeological record shows, not all cases of cultural transmission were as uneven as those that began in the fifteenth century. Yet, the fact remains. Another issue with many, if not most, diffusionist theories is their Eurocentrism, based on the assumption that cultural processes “tend to flow out of the European sector and toward the non-European sector” (Blaut 1993: 1). Diffusionist arguments include the claim that the great pre-Columbian civilizations were

 For an overview of the contention between diffusionism, the notion that cultural development is the result of transmission from one people to another, and independent-inventionism, the idea that cultures develop autonomously, see Jett (2017: 2–6).  On various theories about the “Roman figurine” from Calixtlahuaca, see Smith (2010).  For a relatively recent defense of diffusionism, see Jett (2017). As evidence of pre-Columbian transoceanic exchange, Stephen Jett offers examples of shared raw materials, diseases, and cultigens, which have more probative value than purely cultural phenomena.

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probably incapable of developing such traits as agriculture, temple architecture, and writing, all of which must therefore have been the result of transoceanic diffusion (Blaut 1993: 11). It is a fundamentally racist model that justifies European colonization because it asserts an emptiness of basic cultural institutions, intellectual creativity, and spiritual values, sometimes described as a lack of rationality, and even emptiness of people in desirable spaces. The material wealth extracted by the colonizers cannot fully compensate for the benefits brought by civilization, “so the exploitation of colonies and colonial peoples is morally justified” (Blaut 1993: 15–16). J.M. Blaut explains that while the theory of diffusionism only became a fully formed scientific theory during the nineteenth century, its roots stretch back to the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries in the context of colonial expansion. Diffusionist thinking was originally tied to the Christian view of history as a providential plan, but even after secular authors mostly abandoned references to God and the Scriptures, “the basic model of European progress as natural, as rational, remained unchanged in its essence”, preserving biases against non-Europeans and serving the interests of the colonial and neocolonial elite (Blaut 1993: 18–19; 24). Blaut argues that because it was compatible with European belief systems in general (e.g., Christianity), “reasonableness” sufficed to compensate for deep knowledge gaps and even allowed “the most unreasonable ideas to pass for wellfounded scientific argument” (Blaut 1993: 35, original emphasis). However, at least one early modern author was well-aware that he stood on uncertain ground. Fray Gregorio García judiciously posited that despite all the arguments put forward and the evidence proposed, the origin of the Indios was ultimately a matter of opinion.

A Matter of Opinion: Fray Gregorio García’s Origen de los indios The Dominican missionary Fray Gregorio García spent nine years in Peru and three in New Spain. After returning to Spain, he wrote Origen de los Indios de el Nuevo Mundo e Indias Occidentales [Origin of the Indios of the New World and Western Indies] (1607). García offered a complete catalog of proposed answers to the question of the Indios’ origin, arguing systematically for and against each one. This kind of reasoning corresponds to the Scholastic method, except that the dispute was not usually left undecided (Kerkhoff 1992: 113). From the outset, however, García posited that a definitive answer could be found neither through science for lack of material evidence, nor through divine faith since God did not

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reveal it in the Bible, nor through human faith, which relies solely on an individual’s authority. Therefore, their origin is a matter of opinion, which is doubtful and uncertain “porque procede de fundamentos probables, que pueden ser y no ser verdaderos o falso o estimados por tales. Y así cada uno sigue la opinión que le parece verdadera, conforme a las razones en que se funda, que ve, juzga y conoce o le parecen verdaderas y que tienen probabilidad” [“because it is based on the probabable, which may and may not be true, or false, or considered as such. And so, each one follows the opinion that seems true, according to the reasoning on which it is based, which one sees, judges, and knows, or that seem true and are probable”] (García 2005: 69). Thus, each reader must decide what to believe based on their own judgment of each opinion’s merits. After asserting the common lineage of humankind, Fray Gregorio presented twelve opinions regarding the origin of the Indios. The first three opinions match Acosta’s thinking about how the Indios could have reached Las Indias: by (1) sailing purposefully after learning of them somehow, (2) being deposited there accidentally by storms, or (3) advancing on foot little by little. The following eight opinions have to do with the Indios’ ancestry. The Indios could be the descendants of (4) Carthaginians, (5) the lost Jewish tribes, (6) the people of Ophir, a land of great wealth mentioned in the Bible, (7) Atlanteans, (8) Europeans, particularly Spaniards, or Africans, curiously grouped in the same opinion, (9) Greeks, (10) Phoenicians, and (11) Chinese or Tartars. He questions and defends each one in turn with impressive erudition, deploying all sorts of evidence. For example, classical authors agree that the city of Carthage had many striking buildings, and there are remarkable ruins in New Spain and Peru. However, if the Indios descended from Carthaginians, they would have beards – unless they lost them due to environmental causes. The twelfth and final opinion is García’s own: Y así digo que los Indios que hoy hay en las Indias Occidentales y Nuevo Mundo, ni proceden de una sola nación y gente ni a aquellas partes fueron de sola una de las del Mundo Viejo, ni tampoco caminaron o navegaron para allá los primeros pobladores por el mismo camino y viaje ni en un mismo tiempo ni de una misma manera, sino que realmente proceden de diversas naciones. (García 2005: 311) [And so I say that the Indios that live today in the West Indies and the New World did not come from a single nation and people, nor was it a single one that went to those parts from the Old World, nor did the first settlers walk or sail there by the same path and route, nor at the same time or in the same way, but they truly come from different nations.]

As evidence, García offers the previous eight opinions, which draw attention to the similarities in the laws, languages, rituals, and practices of Las Indias with those of various European, Middle Eastern, and Asian cultures. And as it was in antiquity,

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so it is in García’s own time for in Las Indias, as he points out, “hay castellanos, indios, portugueses, gallegos, vizcaínos, catalanes, valencianos, franceses, italianos, griegos y negros y aun moriscos y gitanos disimulados [. . .] y no faltan descendientes de judíos” [“there are Castilians, Indios, Portuguese, Galicians, Biscayans, Catalans, Valencians, French, Italians, Greeks and Africans and even Muslims and gypsies in disguise [. . .] and there are even some of Jewish descent”] (García 2005: 312). Whether speculative or real, America was ever a place of encuentros. However, García’s work also entailed a colonial desencuentro, or distancing, of the Indigenous peoples of America. The last section of Origen de los indios showcases what the Indios of various regions told about their origins. Obviously, these did not count as opinions, for the Indios lived in the darkness of ignorance and, García explained, “como la obscuridad y noche incita y mueve a sueño, fue en ellos tan profundo, que de lo que entonces habían sabido y oído soñaban y componían mil fábulas, mentiras y disparates, siendo el artífice y maestro de ellas el que lo es de mentiras: Satanás” [“since dark night incites and bids sleep, theirs was so deep that, based on what they had formerly known and heard, they dreamed and composed a thousand fables, lies, and absurdities, whose author and director was he who is the master of lies: Satan”] (García 2005: 314). Thus, Indigenous culture was dismissed not only as derivative, but even diabolically deformed and, therefore, in need of reform. This discourse had practical implications. García may, as he claimed in the prologue, have written out a natural thirst for knowledge. But ascertaining the Indios’ origin was, as Teresa Martínez Terán points out, integral to the effort to justify and legitimize conquest, colonization, and evangelization (Martínez Terán 2001: 13). A blatant example is the opinion that the Caribbean islands were the mythical Hesperides, named after their original settler, Hespero, the twelfth king of Spain.7 Therefore, those islands were not discovered, but “restituidas por Colón a la Corona de España, a la cual pertenecieron con justo título y buen derecho, pues tantos años antes fueron suyas” [“returned by Columbus to the Crown of Spain, to whom they belonged justly and rightfully, since it had owned them many years before”] (García 2005: 281)8. García’s Origen de los indios is a virtuoso performance of back-and-forth reasoning, but it is also an exercise of the imagination. The realm of opinion, where things may be true or not, neighbors the literary sphere, where anything is possible. Most of the opinions proposed by García are as fantastic as the Indigenous

 “Hesperides” derives from the Greek mythological nymphs who inhabited gardens in the west, where the sun set in the evening (hesperos), hence their identification in the west.  The main source for this opinion is Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo y Valdés (1478–1557), who proposed the theory in his Historia general y natural de las Indias (Book 2, Chapter 3). See Oviedo y Valdés (1851).

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stories he dismisses as mere fantasy. The difference is that the opinions were duly authorized within the dominant belief system since they were backed by unquestionable biblical narratives or accepted classical history, expressed in alphabetical writing, and supported by esteemed thinkers. As García wrote, the Indios themselves ought to be most knowledgeable about their origin, “pero como no tuvieron libros ni letras, no tenían memoria de su verdadero origen y principio. Y aunque los de Nueva España [. . .] con pinturas, y los del Pirú con cuerdas [. . .] conservaron algunas cosas de su origen; pero bien mirado no dicen de que parte de las tres conocidas y sabidas de todos fueron a aquella tierra” [“but since they had no books or letters, they had no memory of their true origin and beginning. And though those of New Spain [. . .] with paintings and those of the Pirú with ropes [. . .] preserved some facts about their origin, on closer inspection, they do not say from which of the three parts known to all they went to that land”] (García 2005: 71). Even as García, like many other authors on the same topic, sought to integrate the Indios into the Western narrative, he disenfranchised them by dismissing their history, their knowledge, and their technology9. Thus, the encuentros presented by García are an illusion that disguises a fundamental desencuentro. All the allegations about the Indios’ origins alienated them from their own history. Decades later, Carlos de Sigüenza y Góngora seized it for himself and his criollo compatriots10. In exchange, he tendered rhetorical compensation.

Rhetorical Compensation: Carlos de Sigüenza y Góngora’s Teatro de virtudes políticas In 1680, Mexico City’s cabildo, or council, sponsored the construction of an allegorical arch to welcome New Spain’s new viceroy, Tomás de la Cerda. The ephemeral structure was the brainchild of the renowned criollo polymath Carlos de Sigüenza y Góngora, who titled it Teatro de virtudes políticas que constituyen a un príncipe advertidas en los monarcas antiguos del mexicano imperio [Theatre of Political Virtues that Constitute a Prince Exemplified by the Ancient Monarchs of the Mexican Empire]. To elucidate the arch’s allegories, Sigüenza published a similarly titled description and erudite explanation. In it, he pointed out that his design’s originality lay in the fact that he had rejected the usual practice of using

 In reality, Indigenous intellectuals quickly learned to use authorized means and discourses to assert their social standing and retell their own histories; see Ramos/Yannakakis (2014).  Children born in Las Indias to two Spanish parents were known as criollos or criollas.

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images, analogies, and allusions related to the “fábulas”, or fables, of GrecoRoman mythology – such as the ones featured on the arch sponsored by the Iglesia Metropolitana de México, the Metropolitan Cathedral, for the same purpose, designed by the even more renowned criolla intellectual Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz (1648–1695)11. Instead, driven by the love of his homeland [patria], Sigüenza decided it was more appropriate to showcase “los mexicanos emperadores, que en la realidad subsistieron en este emporio celebérrimo de la América” [“the Mexican rulers that truly lived in this very famous American empire”] (Sigüenza y Góngora 1984: 174–175). The arch featured twelve allegorical portraits of Mexica rulers. The first was Huitzilopochtli, who was not a deity but a divinized leader according to Sigüenza. The twelfth was Cuauhtemoc, still popularly known as the last Aztec emperor. Each ruler represented a princely virtue, such as prudence, piety, or strength. The description is preceded by three preludes. The first explains why cities greet rulers with arches. Sigüenza argued that while in the past they may have celebrated triumph, in this case it was meant to honor and welcome the new head of government, and also to communicate clear expectations: “Providencia será también el que la vez primera que a los príncipes y gobernadores se les franquean las puertas sea cuando en ellas estuvieren ideadas las virtudes heroicas de los mayores, para que [. . .] entren al ejercicio de la autoridad y del mando adornados de cuantas perfecciones se les proponen para ejemplar del gobierno” [“It should also be that when they are first opened for princes and rulers, doors should display on them the heroic virtues of the elders, so that they enter the exercise of authority and command adorned by as many of the proposed perfections of exemplary government”] (Sigüenza y Góngora 1984: 171). In the second prelude, Sigüenza explained why he chose characters from local history rather than figures from classical mythology to decorate the arch. When read as a set, however, it becomes clear that the choice was not just an expression of criollo pride; it was also meant to convey the notion that the viceroy’s success depended on his ability to reconcile the mandates of the Spanish Crown with the interests of the New Spanish elite, which was jealous of its privileges and controlled the city council at the time (Lorente 1996: 36–37). The Teatro’s first two preludes underscored the lesson that the arch sought to teach the viceroy about a long tradition of local government.

 The famous nun, poet, and scholar devised allegories that associated the viceroy, who also held the title of Marqués de la Laguna, with the Roman god Neptune. A description of her arch was also published in 1680 as Neptuno alegórico, océano de colores, simulacro político que erigió la muy esclarecida, sacra, y augusta Iglesia Metropolitana de México.

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At first glance, the third and final prelude appears to point in a different direction. It begins with a sort of apology: “Cuanto en el antecedente Preludio se ha discurrido más tiene por objeto dar razón de lo que dispuse en el arco que perjudicar lo que en el que erigió la Santa Iglesia Metropolitana de México al mismo intento ideó la madre Juana Inés de la Cruz” [“All that has been discussed in the previous Prelude is intended to justify what I presented in the arch rather than to criticize what Mother Juana Inés de la Cruz devised in the arch erected by the Holy Metropolitan Church of Mexico for the same purpose”] (Sigüenza y Góngora 1984: 176). Sigüenza goes on to argue that Neptune, the main figure in Sor Juana’s design, was not only a historical individual, but also the forefather of the Indios. The convoluted argument, bolstered by numerous citations, begins by equating Neptune with the biblical Naphtuhim, son of Mizraim. The identification hinges on the similarity in spelling and the allegation that the name Naphtuhim is related to a verb that means “to open violently” in Biblical Hebrew, which evokes the power to cause earth-splitting quakes attributed to Neptune. Neptune is further identified as the son of Isis, which means wisdom and refers symbolically to the wisdom of Mizraim: “[S]iendo Nephtuim hijo de Misraím, habrá de ser Neptuno hijo de Isis, según la doctrina y enseñanza y de Misraím, según la naturaleza” [“Since Naphtuhim is the son of Mizraim, Neptune must be the son of Isis, in terms knowledge and learning, and of Mizraim, in terms of nature”] (Sigüenza y Góngora 1984: 178). Sigüenza then pointed out that the names Libya, Africa, and Carthage are synonymous. Neptune founded Libya/Africa/Carthage. Therefore, if the Carthaginians were the original inhabitants of the Indies, as suggested by some authors, including Gregorio García, it is possible to say that Neptune was the originator of the Indios. However, Sigüenza, who cites García’s work, did not find the theory of Carthaginian or African sailors convincing. Nonetheless, Neptune was indeed the ancient Mexicas’ forefather. One piece of evidence was the fact that although they had forgotten his name, “en reverencia de su autor, que fue señor de las aguas, buscaron tan ansiosamente un lugar de ellas para fundar su ciudad México” [“in veneration of their author, who was lord of the waters, they eagerly sought a watery place to found their city, Mexico”] (Sigüenza y Góngora 1984: 180). Indeed, Mexico City had been built on a lake. Moreover, the Mexicas awaited the prophesied return of their former lord, who could be none other than Neptune, for he was the ruler of the sea and all its islands, including America, which Sigüenza considered as such, being entirely surrounded by water. He also called attention to the similarities between ancient Mexicas and Egyptians in their dress, sacrificial offerings, calendar, hieroglyphic writing, temple architecture, and government. These coincidences pointed to the ultimate key to the puzzle: the island of Atlantis, which was indubitably historic and ruled by Neptune. To make his point, the criollo scholar first reasserted “la

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similitud (que bien pudiera decir identidad) que los indios, y con especialidad los mexicanos, tienen con los egipcios, descendiendo de Misraím, poblador de Egipto, por la línea Nephthuim” [“the similarity (I might as well say identity) between the Indios, and especially the Mexicas, and the Egyptians, as descendants of Mizraim, who settled Egypt, through Naphtuhim’s lineage”] (Sigüenza y Góngora 1984: 183). Then, disregarding the deductions of Acosta, whom he references elsewhere but not here, Sigüenza posed a rhetorical question: Luego, si de la Atlántica, que gobernaba Neptuno, pasaron gentes a poblar estas provincias, como quieren los autores que expresé arriba, ¿quién dudará el que de tener a Neptuno por su progenitor sus primitivos habitadores los toltecas, de donde dimanaron los mexicanos, cuando en sumo grado convienen con los egipcios, de quienes descendieron los que poblaron la Atlántica? (Sigüenza y Góngora 1984: 183) [Therefore, if people crossed to populate these provinces from Atlantis, which Neptune governed, [. . .] who will doubt that the Toltecas, who are the ancestors of the Mexicas, have Neptune as their progenitor, given the high degree to which they match Egyptians, whose descendants populated Atlantis?]

Finally, Sigüenza stated the three reasons that justified the third prelude, revealing the real nature, drive, and aim of the text. First, it was meant to show respect [cortesanía, reverencia] for the exceptional intricacy of the subject matter and the remarkable genius of Sor Juana (Sigüenza y Góngora 1984: 183). Directly motivated by the allegories represented in the learned nun’s arch design, the prelude may reflect the friendly competition between two of New Spain’s leading intellectuals. Thus, it may be read as a rhetorical exercise in which the speculations that bring together diverse ancient traditions – Judeo-Christian, Greco-Roman, Nahua – in fact expose an encounter of wits. The second justification is the author’s patriotism. In response to those who might complain about the length of his digressions, Sigüenza declared that the text’s extension is a measure of his desire to exalt his homeland, one that is apparent in all of Sigüenza’s known works. The Teatro is an effort to deepen the historical roots of his nation, specifically the criollos, by providing them with an antiquity on par with Europe’s12. He did so by appropriating the local past, as the prelude’s final justification almost callously defends. Sigüenza quoted Fray Antonio de la Calancha (1584–1654) to say: “[C]on estos párrafos les he pagado a los indios la patria que nos dieron, y en que tantos favores nos hace el Cielo y nos tributa la tierra” [“With these paragraphs I have repaid the Indios for the homeland they

 Sigüenza spoke of “nuestra nación criolla” [“our criollo nation”] (Sigüenza y Góngora 1984: 181). However, the expression does not refer to a political configuration (e.g., a nation-state), but to a common birthplace.

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gave us, and in which Heaven and earth grant us so many favors”] (Sigüenza y Góngora 1984: 183). Once again, the encontronazo between Europeans and Mesoamericans led to a double desencuentro. Nahua history was usurped by the criollo founders of a new nation, who remade it to match their ideal vision of themselves, different from their Spanish forebears but also from the Indios. Moreover, Indigenous peoples were removed not only from Mexico’s national history but from the field of history altogether, left to be objects of anthropological studies that froze them in time or as the target of campaigns meant to “de-indianize” and assimilate them. Sigüenza’s baroque elaborations did not compensate for the losses they reveal. By the late eighteenth century, the transfer of history from the Indios to the criollo patria – soon to become Mexico – was all but complete. When Pablo Félix Cabrera sought to solve the historical problem of the peopling of America, he was free to propose a fantastic solution.

A Fantastic Solution: Pablo Félix Cabrera’s Teatro crítico americano Pablo Félix Cabrera (d. 1800) studied civil and canonical law at the University of Turin. In the 1760s, he left Italy for Spain and then New Spain, where he made his living as a teacher and a pettifogger. In 1784, he moved to Guatemala and, in 1794, he finished composing a treatise entitled Teatro crítico americano o Nueva tentativa para la solución del gran problema histórico sobre la población de la América [American Critical Theater, or, New Attempt to Solve the Great Historical Problem about the Peopling of America]. In an accompanying petition, Cabrera stated that his work was meant to serve the Spanish Crown and benefit the orbe literario, or literary sphere (Cabrera 2017: 71) – as well as Cabrera himself, of course, by currying favor with the imperial authorities and perhaps obtaining a royal grant for his labor. The Teatro crítico retraces the history of the peopling of Mesoamerica, which again appears as a place of transcontinental encounters. The author may not have intended it as a work of literature, but it anticipates many traits that characterize modern Latin American fiction. Like many would-be historians of ancient Mesoamerica, Cabrera acknowledged that “la indiscreta destrucion de los Annales, y memorias de las Naciones Americanas, nó solamente há sido perjudicial a la Historia, si nó, tambien a la Religion, para cuyo mayor progeso, se egecutó” [sic] [“the indiscriminate destruction of the annals and memories of the American nations, has been detrimental to History, but also to Religion, for whose greater progress it was done”] (Cabrera 2017: 77). Yet, on the one hand, the blanks in the documentary record are what inspired and

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allowed authors such as Cabrera to speculate creatively about antiquity. On the other hand, Cabrera rails against Isaac La Peyrère (1596–1676), who proposed that, contrary to the biblical narrative of Genesis, not all humans descended from Adam and Eve, and the Flood had not destroyed the whole of humanity. According to Cabrera, this theory was predicated on the mystery surrounding the peopling of America. Cabrera drew his starting premise about transcontinental contact in Meosamerica from the Constituciones diocesanas del obispado de Chiappa (1702) [Diocesan Constitutions of the Bishopric of Chiapas] by Fray Francisco Núñez de la Vega (1634–1706). Cabrera made much of one of Núñez de la Vega’s sources, a cuadernillo, or booklet, written in the language of the Indios that identified Votán as one of Noah’s grandsons, a witness to the fall of the Tower of Babel, and “el primer Hombre que embió Dios a dividir, y repartir esta tierra de las Yndias” [sic] [“the first man God sent to divide and distribute this land of las Indias”] (Cabrera 2017: 101; see also Núñez 1702: 9). Cabrera lamented that Núñez de la Vega, wary of promoting superstition, decided to omit much information about local antiquity contained in such historical booklets, whose whereabouts were unknown. Cabrera also gave credit to the priest Ramón de Ordóñez y Aguilar (n.d.), who also possessed a cuadernillo – perhaps the very same – written in the Tzendal [Tzeltal] language and was willing to share some of his knowledge on the matter13. Cabrera also offered a description of the booklet, which had five or six folios on common paper, in quarto. It was written alphabetically, but it was evidently copied from an original “escrito con geroglificos antiguos poco después de la conquista” [sic] [“written in ancient hieroglyphs soon after the conquest”] (Cabrera 2017: 111). The booklet’s first page showed the continents in color: Europe, Asia, and Africa on one side and America on the other. Between the drawings, a title read Prueba de que soy Culebra [Proof that I am Snake]. Cabrera went on to summarize the contents of the cuadernillo. The narrator is Votán the Third, who led seven families from Valum-Votán to America, where he distributed lands to them. Wishing to travel to the root of Heaven and meet his relatives, the Snakes, Votán made four trips to and from Chivim. He reached Spain, visited Rome, witnessed the building of the Great House of God, and traveled the road carved by his brethren Snakes, passing by thirteen of their Houses. On one of his return journeys, he found that another seven families of the Tzeguil [Tzotzil?] nation, who also descended from the Snakes, had joined the original set. They founded the first town, called Tzeguil, and Votán taught them table

 On the work of Ordóñez y Aguiar and his controversies with Cabrera, see Cañizares-Esguerra (2001: 330–345).

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manners; they taught him about God. He also taught them about the cult of the Snake, and they chose him as leader of all the families. Cabrera acknowledged that, without an accurate translation, it was not much to go on. However, “poco basta para aclarar muy graves dificultades Historiales, en que, hasta ahora, han fatigado envano sus Cerebros, los Mayores Yngenios del Orbe” [sic] [“little suffices to clarify very serious historical difficulties that have tired in vain the brains of the greatest minds in the world”] (Cabrera 2017: 117). Cabrera proceeds to expound his own solution to the conundrum, adding evidence based on a report by Captain Antonio del Río (1745–1789) of his survey of the Maya ruins of Palenque in 178714. Captain del Río’s report included drawings of ancient bas-reliefs, two of which, according to Cabrera, showed Votán in the Old World (which could either refer to Africa or Europe, or to Africa, Asia, and Europe combined) and the New. By Cabrera’s estimate, the story he was about to disclose was not only absolutely true but was one that “prefiere a la de los Romanos, y de las mas celebres Naciones del orbe; y que tiene todo el merito para ser comparada, con la de los Hebreos” [sic] [“surpasses that of the Romans and the most celebrated Nations of the world; and it fully deserves to be compared with that of the Hebrews”] (Cabrera 2017: 127). But first, a lengthy digression told of the virtuous culture hero Osiris/Mizraim, murdered and dismembered by his evil brother Typhon, avenged and reconstituted by his sister-wife Isis and their son Oro [Horus], whom the Greeks called Apollo. Cabrera asserted that the peoples of “Tartary” and China worshiped Osiris as the benevolent god of the sky and Typhon, under the name Natigay, as the maleficent god of the earth, and furthermore that the pagan Americans did as well, as demonstrated by some of the figures carved in the bas-reliefs found in the ruins of Palenque. For Cabrera, the evidence was clear: “[E]l ver aquí trasplantada la fabulosa Historia de Ysis, y Osiris [. . .] es argumento convincentisimo, para nó dudar, que entre uno, y otro Continente, huvo comunicacion Maritima en los Siglos antiguos” [sic] [“Seeing the fabulous story of Isis and Osiris transplanted here [. . .] is a very convincing argument for not doubting that in the ancient centuries there was maritime communication between one continent and the other”] (Cabrera 2017: 155). This exposition showcases Cabrera’s method, which is more poetic than scientific in how his arguments are intentionally selected and arranged.

 The archeological site of Palenque is located in the state of Chiapas, Mexico. On the early explorations of the Maya ruins, see Garza (1981). Captain del Río speculated that the Phoenicians, the Greeks, or the Romans could have visited those parts “where it is probable they only remained long enough to enable the Indian tribes to imitate their ideas and adopt, in a rude and awkward manner, such art as their invaders thought fit to inculcate” (Río 1822: 19).

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Returning to the story of Votán, Cabrera began by elucidating a short but significant assertion – “Soy Culebra [. . .] porque soy Chivim” [“I am Snake because I am Chivim”] (Cabrera 2017: 156–157) – and alleging that the solution to this cryptic statement could be found in the Old Testament15. Once again, Cabrera’s explanation is far-fetched, in every sense of the phrase. The descendants of Canaan – the son of Ham, the son of Noah – known as the Hivim [Hivites] had lived on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea until the Caphtorites expelled them a few years before the Exodus. Afterward, some of the Hivim settled near Mount Hermon. Among these, according to Cabrera, were Cadmus and his wife, Hermione, whom the gods turned into snakes, as told by Ovid. However, the myth likely stemmed from the name Hivim, which in the Phoenician language meant “snakes” and which they were given, according to ancient Hebrew authors, because they usually lived in underground caverns, like snakes (Cabrera 2017: 161). Cabrera elaborated further, dating classical tales according to biblical chronology, noting the ambiguous meaning of certain Phoenician words, commenting on the credulity of the common folk, before asserting, finally, that the Hivites settled in Syrian Tripoli, which in ancient times was called Chivim. Thus, Cabrera claims to have demonstrated the accuracy of Votán’s statement: “I am a Snake because I am Chivim”. Cabrera had Votán himself explain and summarize: [S]oy Hevéo, originario de Tripoli de Siria, que es el Valum-Chivim. Puerto de mis viages a el antiguo Continente: y de una Nacion tan famosa, que produjo un Heróe como Cadmo que mereció por sú valor y hazañas ser colocado entre las Deidades, convertido en Culebra, cuyo culto, para gloria de mi origen enseñé a las siete familias de Tzequilos, que hallé en uno de mis retornos unidas a las otras siete primeras Pobladoras del Continente Americano que trasporté de Valum-Votán, y a las que hizere partimiento de tierras. [sic] (2017: 181) [I am a Hivite from Tripoli of Syria, which is Valum-Chivim, the port of my travels to the ancient continent, and of a nation so famous that it produced a hero like Cadmus, whose courage and exploits caused him to be placed among the gods, made into a Snake, whose cult I taught, to glorify my origin, to the seven families of Tzequilos that I found in one of my returns and which had joined the seven that first settled the American continent, which I transported from Valum-Votán, and to whom I distributed lands.]

But Cabrera was far from done! He possessed a round medal made of fine brass with images that, besides confirming Votán’s account, allegedly revealed a connection to the traditions of Anahuac in central Mexico: “[E]s la Medalla una Historia abreviada de la Poblacion de la America Septentrional, y de la expulsion de los Chichimecas de sú indicado Reyno de Amaguemecán, cuya Capital fue sin

 Here, Cabrera acknowledges his debt to the work of Antoine Augustin Calmet (1672–1757) (Cabrera 2017: 157).

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duda la Ciudad Palencana, buscados hasta ahora envano, por el Norte de Mexico, ó por el de la Asia” [sic] [“the medal is an abbreviated history of the peopling of Northern America, and of the expulsion of the Chichimecas from their noted kingdom of Amaguemecán, whose capital was undoubtedly the ruined city near Palenque, vainly sought until now north of Mexico or in Asia”] (Cabrera 2017: 183). Moreover, the medal offered an opportunity to assert the rationality of the Indios by recognizing their forebears’ awe-inspiring capacity for historical synthesis.

Fig. 1: The side of Votán’s medal showing the snake and the bird. Tracing by author.

Cabrera’s manuscript included drawings of the medal. The design on one side showed trees that supposedly represented the seven families, a snake that indicated their Hivite origin, and a bird identified with the Nahua deity Huitzilopochtli (Fig. 1). Cabrera categorized two of the trees as nopal cactuses and claimed one of them symbolized the Mexica nation, whose emblem – an eagle standing on a nopal gripping a snake – further confirmed Votán’s account. Cabrera contended that the Chichimecas had three kings in Amaguemecan, which is to say Anahuac, the Nahua name for a region that overlaps roughly with Mexico’s central plateau16. Three sculpted heads found in the ruins of Palenque corroborated the connection because, according to the description in Captain del Río’s report, they matched the way the Mexica preserved the names of their kings using a form of writing that they had inherited from their elders of the old continent (Cabrera 2017: 191). Furthermore, the three-tiered tower that still stood in Palenque was undoubtedly the tomb of the three kings. Thus, Cabrera writes: “[T]odo en conjunto, demuestra a la

 In this section, Cabrera references the works of the Franciscan Juan de Torquemada (c. 1562–1624) and the Jesuit Francisco Xavier Clavijero (1731–1787), both of whom studied central Mexican antiquity (Cabrera 2017: 189).

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mayor evidencia, si no me engaña la fantasia; que el Reyno de Amaguemecan, estuvo fundado en la Provincia de Chiapa” [sic] [“everything confirms most evidently, if fantasy does not deceive me, that the kingdom of Amaguemecan lay in the province of Chiapas”] (Cabrera 2017: 199). As further proof of his thesis, Cabrera pointed to a speech reported by Hernán Cortés in which the Mexica leader Moteuczoma purportedly gave up power because his people had long expected the return of their former lord from the east. Cabrera believed that lack of diligence on the part of Cortés and the authors who followed made them disregard local traditions. In truth, “[L]os Yndios, no solo conservaron constantemente la memoria de su origen, si nó, tambien la de los primeros pasos de sus Antecesores, desde sú salida, voluntaria, ó forzada de la Palestina, por el ingreso del Pueblo Hebréo: però estos primeros pasos, a mi entender, fueron mal interpretados por los Escritores” [sic] [“the Indios not only preserved continuously the memory of their origin but also that of their ancestors’ first steps, since leaving Palestine, voluntarily or by force, because of the arrival of the Hebrew people: but these first steps, as I see it, were misinterpreted by writers”] (Cabrera 2017: 215). After further digressions, the Teatro crítico moves to identify the location of Valum-Votán and the dates of Votán’s travels. Cabrera reported the transoceanic navigations of the Atlanteans, the Phoenicians, and the Carthaginians. An earlier crossing, however, was attributed to Hercules. After following a long and winding road, Cabrera abruptly posited that Votán’s grandfather was Hercules of Tyre and that Valum-Votán was the capital city of Atlantis, which was actually the Caribbean island Hispaniola. Cabrera’s complicated computations involving three different calendars for dating Votán’s journeys are impossible to follow, but his temporal scheme coordinated the Punic Wars, the rise of the Tolteca kingdom after the fall of Amaguemecán, and the legendary deeds of the Nahua deity Quetzalcoatl. There is more, but Cabrera eventually claimed to have revealed “el origen de los Americanos, si nó de todos, a lo menos, de los que poblaron las tierras del seno Mexicano, ó septentrional de la America, y de sus Yslas adyacentes” [sic] [“the origin of the Americans, if not of all, at least of those who populated the lands of the Mexican or northern American space and its adjacent islands”] (Cabrera 2017: 345). Given the continent’s linguistic diversity, Cabrera allowed that many other peoples could have arrived at different times and populated other regions. The “discovery” of the Bering Strait had revealed how animals had crossed into America. The ancestors of the peoples that reached Hudson Bay to the east and California and New Mexico to the south could have arrived by the same route. Thus, without fear of undermining his own theory, Cabrera confirmed Acosta’s original proposition.

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Cabrera gained some notoriety when the Teatro crítico and Captain del Río’s description of the ruins of Palenque were translated into English and published for the first time in London in 1822. In the “Prefatory Address”, the publisher declared that “it would be no easy task to refute every argument [Cabrera] adduces” (1822: XIII). Yet, archeologist Heinrich Berlin-Neubart recognized that Cabrera’s Teatro crítico is erudite but useless (1970: 108). Beatriz Monsalve Vélez and Juan Carlos Rodas Montoya describe it as a “hyperfiction” in which Cabrera “se toma las licencias que los escritores de literatura utilizan para recrear sus más extraordinarias fantasías” [“takes the licenses that literary writers use to recreate their most extraordinary fantasies”] (Monsalve Vélez/Rodas 2017: 44). And in a suggestive essay, Tarsicio Valencia Posada notes that the Teatro crítico anticipates the neo-baroque novels of José Lezama Lima (1910–1976) or Carlos Fuentes (1928–2012), authors who also examined the roots of Latin American culture using a multicultural lens (Valencia Posada 2017: 34). All the encuentros in the Teatro crítico are utterly fantastic. Nonetheless, the fiction reflects a true desencuentro with Indigenous peoples that were never understood on their own terms. The Indios were not only silenced but distanced from their particular heritage. From the Teatro crítico’s diffusionist perspective, their history had always belonged to the colonizers’ culture17. Even without a specific imperial or patriotic political agenda, Cabrera (re)invented Indigenous antiquity within an imported rhetorical structure instituted in the sixteenth century that still limits our capacity to appreciate Indigenous history and Indigenous peoples as historical actors.

Encuentros and Desencuentros Despite the significant distance that separated them in time and space, García, Sigüenza, and Cabrera composed narratives that are essentially alike. They told different tales, but they all drew from similar sources and casts of characters. They imagined ocean crossings by Atlanteans, Carthaginians, Egyptians, Hebrews, and Phoenicians that gave rise to the Inca, Maya, and Nahua civilizations, which, they presumed, could not have developed independently. Even so, García knew full well that he was not writing history, stating plainly that the origin of the Indios was a matter of opinion. On the other hand, Sigüenza and Cabrera asserted the

 However, the Ejército Zapatista de Liberación Nacional has reclaimed the name Votán, translating it as “guardian of the heart of the people” and using it as a title (EZLN 2013). In an early communiqué, it was applied to revolutionary leader Emiliano Zapata (1879–1919): “Votán Zapata, guardián y corazón del pueblo” (EZLN 1994).

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historicity of their accounts. Yet, Sigüenza’s conclusion to the third prelude suggests that he was mainly engaging in a rhetorical exercise, a display of erudition and intellectual ability – perhaps as part of a battle of wits with the talented Sor Juana. Cabrera’s work is literary not just because it is utterly fantastic but because, unlike García and Sigüenza, Cabrera had no other agenda than to expand the literary sphere and, if possible, profit from his writing. Sigüenza’s and Cabrera’s works may be characterized as early examples of Latin American literature. Their style and content match what Cuban writer Alejo Carpentier identified as two of its key features: the baroque and the real maravilloso, or the marvelous real. According to Carpentier, the region’s baroque propensity is related to its long history as a place of encuentros: “¿Y por qué es América Latina la tierra de elección del barroco? Porque toda simbiosis, todo mestizaje, engendra un barroquismo” (Carpentier 2003 [1975]: 79) [“And why is Latin America the chosen territory of the baroque? Because all symbiosis, all mestizaje, engenders the baroque” (Carpentier 1995: 100)]. Likewise, Carpentier identified the marvelous as an integral part of Latin American reality: “[O]ur own marvelous real is encountered in its raw state, latent and omnipresent, in all that is Latin American” (Carpentier 1995: 104). Even acknowledging the possibility of ancient transoceanic contacts, the elaborate narratives about the imaginary lineage of the Mexicas, or the fantastic travels of Votán fit within the Latin American literary tradition as described by Carpentier. The speculative encounters that García, Sigüenza, and Cabrera narrate complemented the creation of an imagined space and the relationships therein. Their texts illustrate the ethnic aspect of the invention of America, a concept proposed by Edmundo O’Gorman. Paraphrasing O’Gorman, we may say that in the absence of verifiable facts, the theories about the origin of the Indios were formulated solely according to the theorists’ frame of reference (O’Gorman 1961: 51–52). Such theories were expressed as stories predetermined by other stories, especially biblical and classical ones, and driven in no small measure by imperial and later patriotic political interests. Operating within that framework, the diffusionist model made it possible to integrate and, at the same time, to disenfranchise Indigenous peoples. This model supported the colonizers’ idea of the world and their own place in it. The portrayal of Indigenous peoples as degraded remnants of lost cultures or as foreigners in their own land confirmed it further. All the accounts about their origins seem to abridge the space between peoples from different continents, but in truth, these fictions compound the distance between colonizer and colonized. It is important to remember that the colonization of Las Indias produced countless physical encuentros that were brutal and traumatic. But even if

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the literary efforts to determine the origins of the Indios generated only fictional encounters, they were also very violent in their own way. Over the years, they helped cement a real desencuentro whose consequences still plague the Indigenous peoples of Latin America.

Bibliography Acosta, José de (1999) [1590]: Historia natural y moral de las Indias. In: Biblioteca Virtual Miguel de Cervantes, (last visit 01/09/2022). —— (2002) [1590]: Natural and Moral History of the Indies. Ed. Jane E. Mangan. Transl. Frances M. López-Morillas. Durham: Duke University Press. Alcina Franch, José (1985): Los orígenes de América. Madrid: Alhambra. Berlin-Neubart, Heinrich (1970): “Miscelánea palencana”. In: Journal de la Société des Américanistes, 59, pp. 107–128. Blaut, James Morris (1993): The Colonizer’s Model of the World: Geographical Diffusionism and Eurocentric History. New York: The Guilford Press. Cabrera, Pablo Félix (2017): Teatro crítico americano o Nueva tentativa para la solución del gran problema histórico sobre la población de la América. Eds. Samuel Tarsicio Valencia Posada et al. Medellín: Universidad Pontificia Bolivariana. Cañizares-Esguerra, Jorge (2001): How to Write the History of the New World: Histories, Epistemologies, and Identities in the Eighteenth-Century Atlantic World. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Carpentier, Alejo (1995): “The Baroque and the Marvelous Real”. Transl. Tanya Huntington, Lois Parkinson Zamora. In: Parkinson Zamora, Lois/Faris, Wendy B. (eds.): Magical Realism: Theory, History, Community. New York: Duke University Press, pp. 89–108. —— (2003) [1975]: “Lo barroco y lo real maravilloso”. In: Carpentier, Alejo: Los pasos recobrados: ensayos de teoría y crítica literaria. Ed. Alexis Márquez Rodríguez. Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, pp. 68–87. Cruz, Sor Juana Inés de la (1680): Neptuno alegórico, océano de colores, simulacro político, que erigió la muy esclarecida, sacra, y augusta Iglesia Metropolitana de México. Mexico City: Juan de Ribera. Díaz Perera, Miguel Ángel (2012): “El fundamento de una nación en el sureste novohispano: a propósito de Votán, sacerdote fundador de Palenque, (1773–1994)”. In: LiminaR, 10, 1, pp. 159–178. EZLN (1994): “Votán Zapata”. In: Enlace Zapatista, (last visit: 13/06/2022). —— (2013): “VOTÁN II. The Guardians”. In: Enlace Zapatista, (last visit: 13/06/2022). Fernández de Oviedo y Valdés, Gonzalo (1851): Historia general y natural de las Indias. Vol. 1. Ed. José Amador de los Ríos. Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia. García, Gregorio (2005) [1607]: Origen de los indios del Nuevo Mundo e Indias Occidentales. Eds. Carlos Baciero et al. Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas. Garza, Mercedes de la (1981): “Palenque ante los siglos XVIII y XIX”. In: Estudios de Cultura Maya, 13, pp. 45–65. Hanke, Lewis (1937): “Pope Paul III and the American Indians.” In: The Harvard Theological Review, 30, 2, pp. 65–102.

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Jett, Stephen C. (2017): Ancient Ocean Crossings: Reconsidering the Case for Contacts with the PreColumbian Americas. Tuscaloosa: The University of Alabama Press. Kerkhoff, Manfred (1992): “‘Discurso de opiniones’ (Gregorio García y su Origen de los indios)”. In: Revista de estudios hispánicos, 19, pp. 101–114. León-Portilla, Miguel (1992): “Encuentro de dos mundos”. In: Estudios de Cultura Náhuatl, 22, pp. 15–27. Lorente Medina, Antonio (1996): La prosa de Sigüenza y Góngora y la formación de la conciencia criolla mexicana. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica. Martínez Terán, Teresa (2001): Los antípodas. El origen de los indios en la razón política del siglo XVI. Puebla: Instituto de Ciencias Sociales y Humanidades, Benemérita Universidad Autónoma de Puebla. Monsalve Vélez, Beatriz Elena/Rodas Montoya, Juan Carlos (2017): “Identidad y nación en el manuscrito: Teatro crítico americano, de Pablo Félix Cabrera”. In: Cabrera, Pablo Félix: Teatro crítico americano o Nueva tentativa para la solución del gran problema histórico sobre la población de la América. Eds. Samuel Tarsicio Valencia Posada et al. Medellín: Universidad Pontificia Bolivariana, pp. 43–56. Núñez de la Vega, Francisco (1702): Constituciones diocesanas del obispado de Chiappa. Roma: Caietano Zenobi. O’Gorman, Edmundo (1961): The Invention of America: An Inquiry into the Historical Nature of the New World and the Meaning of Its History. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Raff, Jenniffer (2022): Origin: A Genetic History of the Americas. New York: Twelve. Ramos, Gabriela/Yannakakis, Yanna (eds.) (2014): Indigenous Intellectuals: Knowledge, Power, and Colonial Culture in Mexico and the Andes. Durham: Duke University Press. Real Academia Española (RAE). “Encuentro.” In: Diccionario de la lengua española, 23rd ed. (last visit: 01/09/2022). Río, Antonio del (1822): Description of the Ruins of an Ancient City Discovered Near Palenque. Transl. unknown. London: Henry Berthoud. Sánchez Ferlosio, Rafael (1988): “Los perros”. In: El país, July 4, n.p., (last visit: 01/06/2022). Sigüenza y Góngora, Carlos de (1984) [1680]: Teatro de virtudes políticas que constituyen a un príncipe: advertidas en los monarcas antiguos del mexicano imperio. In: Sigüenza y Góngora, Carlos de (1984): Seis obras. Ed. William Bryant. Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, pp. 167–240. Smith, Michael E. (2010): The ‘Roman Figurine’ Supposedly Excavated at Calixtlahuaca. (last visit: 14/06/2022). Valencia Posada, Tarsicio (2017): “Dionisios en América. Crónica olvidada: Teatro crítico americano, de Pablo Félix Cabrera”. In: Cabrera, Pablo Félix: Teatro crítico americano o Nueva tentativa para la solución del gran problema histórico sobre la población de la América. Eds. Samuel Tarsicio Valencia Posada et al. Medellín: Universidad Pontificia Bolivariana, pp. 32–42.

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Trading Goods, Trading Souls between Seville and las Indias Casuistry, Economy, and Penitence in Seventeenth-Century Spain On November 26, 1617, the populace of Seville witnessed quite a peculiar spectacle: twelve black horsemen in satin costumes embroidered with gold and silver; twelve “Caziques”, each wearing a meter-wide feather crest and pearls in their noses and beards; dozens of French, Portuguese, and German delegations also richly adorned – all in harmonic community with cardinals and, finally, even the pope. What reads like a ceremony for an invigorated convivencia was in fact one of the metropolis’ costliest baroque mask parades, sponsored by the guild of silversmiths. To allay any fear of a Babylonian triumph of tolerance in CounterReformation Spain, the chronist of the event quickly clarified the real nature of the exotic groups: “Eran blancos hechos negros / tan relucientes las caras, que a fe que dieron deseo / a mas de a quatro preñadas” [“They were White men made Black, / their faces so radiant that one reckons that they gave desire / to more than four pregnant women”1] (quoted in Sanz 1995: 94)2. Of course, not only the “Blacks” were painted noblemen; the defiling pope was also fake, even though some of the spectators held him for the real Roman pontiff (Sanz 1995: 86). The reversal of White and Black is quite instructive for my reading of this sumptuous parade’s purpose: “Fueron todas las quadrillas / dando letras muy discretas / y todas en alabança / de la Inmaculada Reyna” [“All the brigades were / uttering very discrete lyrics / and all in praise / of the Immaculate Queen”] (quoted in Sanz 1995: 98). The immediate occasion for this celebration in honor of the “unblemished” Virgin took place two months earlier, on September 12, when Pope Paul V published his Sanctissimus Dominus Noster [Our Most Holy Lord]. This papal decree was a major step in the Sevillian campaign in favor of recognizing the miracle of Mary’s conception without original sin. To clarify this subtlety: the concept of Mary’s immaculate conception means that not only Jesus was conceived through divine grace by Mary being a virgin, but also that Mary’s own conception and, consequentially, her body were free of Adam’s and Eve’s carnal sin. As we shall see, the varied and contradictory developments accompanying Spanish colonization of

 All translations in this chapter are the author’s own.  In Sanz (1995) the complete text is given as an appendix; it was first printed in Seville by Gabriel Ramos Bejarano, without specification of the author, in 1617. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110796308-007

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the Americas seem somehow to be condensed in the figure of the Pure Mother of Christendom. In the following, I will counterpose two orientations within early modern Spanish Catholicism, both reflecting the newly experienced circulation of goods – above all silver (Stein/Stein 2003). On the one side was Marianism, which looked to the past and tried to re-establish a providential medieval order, even extending it to the New World. On the other side were the arbitristas, who looked to the future and developed incredibly sophisticated economic ideas that were subsequently acclaimed by modern theorists such as Friedrich Hayek and John Maynard Keynes. I would like to highlight the progressiveness of these now nearly forgotten ideas without obscuring the fact that in the long run, fanaticism, violence, and hypocrisy prevailed. Almost as if exposing the different sediments of silver ore from dark earth to shiny metal, this historical examination metaphorically inverts the colonial obsession with silver mining: the reconstruction of dark idolatries and contemporaneous “enlightened” theories shall add some shades to the Black Legend of early modern Spain.

The Dark Side of Silver Why, then, were Sevillians so ardently championing their María Purísima? In the sixteenth and early seventeenth century, Seville was the most vital urban center in all of Europe. The city was home to the Crown’s agency responsible for the monopoly over exploitation of the Americas, the Casa de Contratación [House of Trade]. Many humble people took advantage of the possibility to ascend the social ladder by participating in such overseas adventures. It was in this environment that a plethora of trade activities and famous artisan guilds flourished. A significant case in point are the silversmiths, who benefitted from their widely valued Moorish and Sephardic heritage, supplemented by a new material abundance due to marauders’ expeditions to las Indias. Thus, the gremio de plateros, the guild of the silversmiths, was one of the most powerful guilds in Seville. For centuries, it held a strong affinity to the Virgen Inmaculada – based in alchemical concepts linking Mary to the moon, the celestial body thought to influence the quality of silver. Accordingly, the purity of the artwork is represented by the purity of the Virgin; and to honor this tradition, at the end of his apprenticeship,

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every silversmith had to attest by oath to his worship of the Inmaculada3. But the mercy of the Inmaculada goes further: another of her iconographical representations is the so-called Stella Maris [Our Lady, Star of the Sea]. As is to be expected during a period of Seville’s overseas raids, this quality gained fresh momentum as a guiding star of sailors. This symbolic meaning blended with the metaphor of holy war, since the Reyes Católicos, Isabella and Ferdinand, flew a banner depicting the Inmaculada in their decisive battle against the last Moorish stronghold in Granada. In this context, Mary’s purity can be read as an allegory of the limpieza de sangre [purity of blood]. Isabella was the ruler who fostered the first overseas adventures, and at the same time was known as the foremost advocate of the Catholic evangelization of “heretics”. The worldly queen and the celestial queen were meant to share the crown as a common attribute; by extension, Isabella herself became linked to the archetypical mother of Christendom. And finally, the Virgen offered a unique vessel for integrating syncretistic religious tendencies, since many cultures of the Americas featured female goddesses of fertility, such as, for example, Pachamama (Hall 2004: 140–145). Marian polysemy explains why the so-called mystery of the Inmaculada Concepción, even before becoming Catholic dogma in the nineteenth century, served as one of the most effective propaganda tools in a literal sense, since the very notion of “propaganda” was coined in 1622 with the papal bull Sacra Congregatio de Propaganda Fide [Sacred Congregation for the Propagation of the Faith], which aimed at spreading the Catholic faith (Bussemer 2005). Statues of the Virgin were used by missionaries to convert Indigenous peoples in the Americas, and these conversion efforts were simultaneously legitimatizing the Spanish raids there as a worthy cause. From some contemporaneous accounts, it is impossible not to have the impression that Spanish overseas trade was skewed towards exchanging newly Christianized souls for precious goods to the benefit of Old (and not so old) Christians.

Trading Indigenous Souls One such example is the Corónica moralizada del orden de San Agustín en el Perú [Moralized Chronical of the Order of St. Augustine in Peru] (Barcelona 1631). What today is acknowledged as one of the first Latin American anthropologies is in fact

 Nearly every guild of silversmiths in the Spanish dominium organized festivities for the Immaculate Virgin, produced coins in her honor, and swore by oath to her; a good overview for Seville is to be found in Sanz (1996: 177 sig.).

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a highly hybrid text by the Augustinian friar Antonio de la Calancha – himself of “mixed” origin, being the son of a Sevillian encomendero and a criolla mother. Most certainly, he possessed some valuable insights into Indigenous legends and cults due to his mother, Doña Maria de Benavides. Though he does not explicitly mention her, he would seem to pay tribute to her on a symbolic level in dedicating his writings to La Virgen de Copacabana. Following his fellow friar Alonso Ramos Gavilán (2015 [1621]), he offers a detailed description of the foundations on which rests this syncretistic patroness of Peru (now Bolivia) (Calancha 1631-I: 1–11). The blending of the Catholic Virgen with an Indigenous idol at Lake Titicaca succeeded not least due to isomorphic parallels in the Inmaculada’s iconographical program. In addition to the Virgin’s aforementioned attributes, Paul V’s decree served to further popularize the symbols of the Immaculate as reiterated in the Marian litanies: sunrays (electa ut sol), the moon (pulchra ut luna), the spotless mirror (speculum sine macula), the spring (fons vivus), and tree (hortus conclusus) (Roschini 1948). Obviously, the former cult at Lake Titicaca constituted a privileged site, since it not only reunited equivalent qualities but was already associated with an Inca myth superimposed on another pre-Columbian cult of the Kolla peoples (Salles-Reese 2010: 35–36). Though he belonged to a controversial clan of colonists (who will be discussed later), Pedro Pizarro penned one of the metaphorically most intriguing accounts of the site: “En esta laguna ay una ysla que se dize Titicaca, / donde tenían por ydolo una muger, de la ginta / arriua de oro y de la ginta auaxo de plata, de / la estatura de una muger mediana. Esta uide yo / que la truxeron dallí, de quien dizen los yndios / auían salido el primer señor deste rreyno” [sic] [In this laguna there is an island called Titicaca, / where they had a woman as idol, above the waistline in gold and below the waistline in silver, in / the size of a medium-height woman. I saw her / as they brought her from there, of whom the Indians say / that they had got out the first lord of this kingdom] (Pizarro 2013 [1571]: 46). As with many ancient myths, it seems that the oldest version refers to a female earth divinity who gave life to a male sun god on the lake’s Isla del Sol [Sun Island]. This god, Viracocha, would eventually become the dominant figure of the Inca myth, worshipped in a cave by three different groups of virgins. Viracocha later generates an ur-couple bearing a sun cult – symbolized by a cubit of gold – to Cuzco and the rest of the Inca realm. Next to the lake’s divinity of the sun is located the Isla de la Plata [Silver Island]. It seems that the earlier Kolla myth did not denote an exclusive cult of light, but instead included an ambiguous demon-divine figure, usually called Tunupa, later sometimes conflated with Viracocha (SallesReese 2010). In a Quechua himno [hymn] celebrating a peace agreement between the Inca and the Kolla, this figure was transformed through an admixture of their

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beliefs, as the version transcribed by the Indigenous chronicler Santa Cruz Pachacuti indicates: “Tú el poderoso del Cuzco / yo el poderoso del Collao: / bebamos, / comamos / [y] convengamos / que ninguno [de nos] padezca / Yo aferrado a la plata / tú aferrado al oro / tú – adorador – de Huiracocha / él conservador del mundo, / yo / el adorador del Sol” [“You, the potentate of Cuzco I, the potentate of Collao: / let us drink, / let us eat / [and] let us agree / that none [of us] suffer / I adhered to silver / you adhered to gold / you – worshipper – of Huiracocha / he, the preserver of the world, / I / the worshipper of the Sun”] (quoted in Meneses 1982: 129). Thus, this site turned out to be ideal for Catholic appropriation, which manifested as early as 1583: a scene of fresh water, sunrays, the moon, reflections off the lake, and arguably – if we follow Calancha’s description – a garden that leads to the virgins’ refuge. Calancha’s second volume reproduces large parts of Ramos Gavilan’s text almost verbatim, including an usurpation of the aforementioned hymn for his veneration of the Virgen de Copacabana. It is illuminating, combining as it does Scripture with metallurgical jargon: “Ella [la virgen] es el orno donde se fundio el oro Dios on la plata umanidad, i salio aquel electro; que vido Ezechiel, metal en que se profetizò el supuesto de Cristo, por ser conpuesto de oro, i plata, como dijo S. Gregorio” [sic] [“She [the Virgin] is the furnace where the Golden God with the Silver mankind fused and out comes this electrum; which Ezekiel saw, a metal in which the assumption of Christ was prophesized, since it was composed of gold and silver, as Saint Gregory said”] (Calancha 1631II: 24). Electrum is a technical term of the time, referring to the mingling of four parts of gold and one of silver, resulting in an amber-like color (Covarrubias Horozco 2006: 747). The familiarity with this alloy would account for a more ready acceptance of the slightly Indigenous appearance of the Virgin’s statue at the former Indigenous sanctuary, which was in fact formed by Francisco Tito Yupanqui, a descendant of the Inca sovereign Huayna Capac4. As we shall see, Calancha’s amalgamation further draws on a parallel made between Mary and the mountain’s silver mines: [Q]ue esto de tener ramos i varas el metal de plata al modo de árboles i frutales, es particular, i no se alla en otra parte del mundo, sino es en este Perú [. . .] I no sólo se an aliado en este Perú, estas vetas encorporadas en los metales, como de ataugia, o nieladas, que esto en

 For this interesting account on the difficult process of what would be acclaimed by the Christian authorities as one of the first Indigenous artworks, see Van den Berg (2015: 40–41) and Ramos Gavilán (2015 [1621], chapters I–VI).

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todas lo vemos, i en las entrañas de la tierra forman las vetas estos árboles ocultos i enbutidos [sic]. (Calancha 1631-I: 11) [That this having branches and rods of silver metal in the manner of trees and fruit trees, is particular, and is not found anywhere else in the world, but in this Peru [. . .] And not only in this Peru, these veins come allied, embedded in the metals, as ataugia or nieladas [alloys of silver and gold, like electrum], we see this in all [mines], and in the innards of the earth the veins form these hidden and embedded trees.]

When we follow the common trope of the mountain as the Virgin’s womb, she seems in this passage to be giving birth to Christ in the form of miraculous silver trees5. The “treeness” of silver is in fact a result of the amalgamation process. Here, it becomes overlaid by another representation of the Inmaculada: sometimes the Virgin encloses “innards” in the form of the Cross or the Trinity. Besides these metallurgical metaphors, the passages of even greater interest in terms of colonialist politics are the textual references from the Bible. Calancha aimed at nothing less than to prove a historical apostolic presence in las Indias, and thus a precolonial evangelization. To this end he adapts the Kolla myth of Tunupa, who was seduced by a sort of mermaid. In the Augustinian re-reading, the fair-haired, young male divinity transforms into one of the apostles who is saved from being sacrificed through the intervention of the Virgin, who puts him on a raft (Ramos Gavilán 2015 [1621]: 54). What might be the purpose of such a historical misrepresentation? Obviously, the mere act of baptism was not enough to create new Christians of lascivious and cannibalistic Indios. In this context, Calancha mentions the Dominicans’ stalled missionary attempt, which resulted in their withdrawal by royal order (Calancha 1631-I: 131). Obviously, they had not intervened when the Indigenous people closely mingled the worship of Christian statues with their “pagan” idols. The authoritative reaction was a campaign to destroy the latter, the so-called Visitas de Idolatría [Idolatry Visits] (Cordero Fernández 2017: 241–246), which entailed not only burning idols, but in some cases severe (lethal) punishments as well. Though the Dominicans might have proven too feeble in their evangelization, the conception that Francisco de Vitoria6, an eminent member of the Order and founding father of the School of Salamanca, had concerning the status of the Indigenous people as ensouled and therefore rational beings was widely – and royally – accepted. For Christians, the status of the Other as human in principle precluded cruelty toward them – unless they could be found guilty of heresy.

 For context on Mary’s womb in connection with silver production, see Hall (2004: 135–136), Gómez (2020: 35).  For his contribution to the School of Salamanca, see Azevedo Alves/Moreira (2010: 13–14).

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Thus, by the logic of the Augustinians, if one of the apostles had already brought the true faith to the Indigenous people centuries earlier and they had not embraced it, this was a license for cruelty against them which might be at stake. Now God was giving them a second chance: “[N]o es nuevo en Cristo criar plata fuera del orden natural, i azar que la reporta uno (aunque se aya de dar a tiranos i codiosos) en señal i profecía, de que él i sus sucesores avían de ser cabeças de su Iglesia, i causa de que a Dios se convirtiesen muchos, llenando sus ánimas de tesoros celestiales” [sic] [It is not unusual for Christ to create silver in excess of the natural order, and that by hazard it is lavished on someone (even if it should be given to tyrants and grabby persons) as a sign and prophecy that he and his followers must be heads of his Church, and cause that many convert to God, filling their souls with celestial treasures] (Calancha 1631-I: 9). In Calancha’s reading, the God-Son is attracting Europeans by employing persuasive material arguments to lure them into their soulwinning mission – in his words, “plata spiritual” [“spiritual silver”]. Yet according to the subtext, which offered a loophole, if the united strength of the Spanish friars could not convert the Indigenous peoples, violence would be the next step. By extension, colonizers had every right to exploit the Indigenous. Most certainly, Calancha’s text was not designed exclusively to create a threatening situation; it also sought to reconcile pre-Columbian myths with those familiar to his readers. And as such syncretistic narratives spread, the Virgen Inmaculada indeed became a successful device for Christianization. It is not by accident that the Dominicans were reluctant to adopt the evangelizing measures of the Marian followers. Historically, within the (Spanish) Catholic sphere, veneration for María Purísima did not remain uncontested. For centuries, there had been an ardent debate over Mary’s exception from original sin between the almighty Dominican order and the other mendicant friars, above all Franciscans, Augustinians, and Mercedarians (Rubin 2009: 303–304). What today seems a hairsplitting distinction turned out to be a significant political issue during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries in the context of a near-contemporaneous religious schism. When this rupture consolidated, the so-called leyenda negra [Black Legend] began to take shape. This mainly Northern European, anti-Spanish bias was fueled by atrocities ascribed to the Iberian Inquisition, its economic backwardness, and not least, its forced Catholic idolatry as exemplified in the Inmaculada Concepción7. As is often the case, such a black and white historiography proves paradoxical – not only in light of the

 A good historical account of the Black Legend and the impact of the Virgin on it can be found in Velés Cipriano (2014: 133–134).

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Virgin’s iconography, commonly depicted as bright and shiny, but also because the order from which the inquisitors were recruited, the Dominicans, were the greatest opponents of the Immaculate Conception.

Refining the Souls of the Indianos As shown, the Augustinian salvation program was aimed at Indigenous people. But the challenges of an incipient globalized experience in every aspect of human life, without doubt, also affected the souls of the Spanish colonizers, as well as those coping with bankruptcies and rising living costs caused by the influx of wealth from the Americas: this was much more the domain of the Dominicans’ intellectual concerns. While denounced as poor missioners, it was mainly Dominicans who stayed abreast of the global changes which were the genesis of many groundbreaking ideas arising from the ethical, economic, and political concerns around the colonizing process. Following the concepts of Francisco Vitoria, these ideas were heavily informed by casuistry – a theological field which later itself became notorious through a name-blackening diatribe written by the French philosopher Blaise Pascal in his Lettres provinciales from 1657. As we shall see, this is an irony of history, since casuistry allows discernment of the nuances between black and white. The focus in all of Vitoria’s relectiones [lectures] is the concept of justice, mainly informed by natural law. In including Indigenous people as subjects within human society based on natural law, he develops the concept of communitas totius orbis, now commonly acknowledged as a founding idea of international law. Vitoria went further, analyzing the consequences of this global society, such as the challenges arising from accelerated commercial dynamics. Again, the overall principle of his argument is justice, understood as balance or symmetry between the interested parties – the buyer and the seller. He calls a price balanced in such a way natural, while this context also gives rise to the problem of usury, or unjust profit. The Catholic doctrine of usura can be traced back to Aristotle, who claimed that in order to comply with ethical criteria, profit must be based on an added value – an exacting standard for mercantile activities, since the traded good is not changed or augmented and thus no visible extra worth is generated. Vitoria modifies a rigid interpretation of the Aristotelian view, arguing for an added welfare value in the interest of the community, which allows for interest rates in accordance with the risks undertaken by the merchant. With such ideas,

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he laid the foundations for a myriad of treatises on just price penned by the socalled arbitristas8. One of Vitoria’s most original followers in money exchange theory would seem, by his very name, to have been predestined for trade ethics: Tomás de Mercado. Born in Seville around 1520, he embarked for las Indias at an early age. His insights into the technicalities of trade gave rise to the hypothesis that he stemmed from a merchant family9. In Mexico City he entered the Dominican order, lectured in philosophy, and was ordained as a priest in 1558. Only five years later, he returned to Spain to continue his academic formation at the University of Salamanca. Mercado’s Summa de tratos y contratos [Deals and Contracts of Merchants and Traders] (1569/72) was dedicated to the Consulado de Mercaderes [merchants’ guild] of his hometown and allegedly instigated by the Corridor de lonja, Angelo Brunengo. This makes sense, as the city’s Consulado was connected to the Casa de Contratación. While the latter held the monopoly over trade with las Indias, the Consulado had autonomous jurisdiction over every case concerning merchants’ activities. By royal decree from 1511, it could try all cases concerning trade affairs independently from the established Sevillian civil tribunal, with the aim of a judicature that was “rápida, sumaria y sin intervención de abogados” [“quick, brief, and without the intervention of lawyers”] (Del Vas Mingo 2004: 80). This concern for efficiency stood in jeopardy of conflicting with the core approach of casuistry – namely, to consider all possible circunstancias de casos [“circumstances of the cases”] according to natural law10 – even more so when the Consulado’s authorities lacked the competence to imbed the cases in Christian ethics: “Porque

 This is the umbrella term for a group of thinkers who developed economic theories based on mercantilist ideas in Salamanca in the second half of the sixteenth and during the seventeenth century; arbitrio refers to the solutions proposed to the ruler. Regarding the concept of just price, see Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, Book 5/8; Vitoria (2006) [1536–1537]. For a deeper insight into Vitoria’s economic concepts, see Cendejas Bueno (2021).  His family background and the year of his birth are still cause for scholarly speculation: Some argue for 1523; other authors still mention 1525. Lagares Calvo (2016), in summarizing these positions and the scant secured data available for Mercado’s life, opts for 1520 but only as a guess.  According to the casuists, the concrete situatedness of every act is crucial for arriving at an ethical decision, a condition they discuss as circunstancias [circumstances]. For instance, in his “cuatro reglas para declarar las circunstancias” [“four rules to explain the circumstances”], Bartolomé de Medina elaborates on different situations that should be carefully considered when discussing vices that might be changing (“cuando mudan especie de pecado” [“when the type of the sin changes”]), or potentially aggravating circumstances (“cuando agravan el pecado” [“when they exacerbate the sin”]) (Medina 1580: 20). A good analysis of the concept is to be found in Mitchell (2004: 22–35).

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siempre juzgué por gran descuido no tener cualquier congregación de tratantes – como ésta, Burgos, Medina, Lisboa – determinado por alguna universidad de teólogos que es lo lícito e ilícito en los negocios” [“For I always judged it a great oversight not to have any congregation of tradesmen – such as this one, Burgos, Medina, Lisbon – deployed by some university of theologians what is lawful and unlawful in business”] (Mercado 1569/72, Epístola nuncupatoria, n. p.). The major detrimental condition in trade is greed, and therefore natural law alone will not suffice; instead a careful self-assessment following the scheme of penitence is required. Although, in principle, human beings have an innate capacity to judge good and evil, the complexities of globalized trade could not be unraveled solely on the grounds of common sense. This was especially the case in the hotbed of avarice, his hometown of Seville: [P]orque un hombre vacío de Dios que es todo buen, no puede no recibir y aun henchirse de mucho mal. Pero, en fin, su distinción y grado es ser en sí indiferente, aunque ocasionado y aparejado much más para mal que para bien. Do colegíran cuánto ha menester trabajar quien se quiere salvar en este estado, que ha de ir a la continua nadando contra la corriente, porque si se deja llevar del agua de la codicia, no puede dejar de ir a dar a la mar de la muerte [. . .]. Lo cual deben advertir principalmente los de esta ciudad, que por todas vías y modos son mercaderes. (Mercado 1569/72, Book II, Chapter III, n. p.) [[B]ecause a man devoid of God, the utmost good, cannot but receive and even be filled with much evil. But in the end, its distinction and degree are indifferent on its own, although caused and prepared much more for evil than for good. Hence, those who want to save themselves in this state will understand how much work must be done, that they have to swim against the current constantly, because if they let themselves be carried away by the water of greed, they cannot help but end in the sea of death [. . .]. This is something that primarily the people of this city, who are merchants in every way and manner, should be aware of.]

In the second edition of this work, Mercado even added a chapter on the origins of natural law and carefully elaborated on its entanglement with divine law. While apparently aiming at first to assert theological hegemony over mundane trade, he qualifies this position in his writing. As Mercado states in his prologue, he wishes to cultivate a clear and flowing rhetoric, yet conspicuously uses tropes derived from the domain of economics, with (spiritual) provecho [profit] as a recurring metaphor. Interestingly, the relationship between Christian ethics and mercantilist economics becomes almost inverted through Mercado’s repeated demand for the confessors to become conversant in the commercial sphere, especially as regards overseas trade: “Cierto, estos benditísimos padres, a cuyo decreto y sentencia es justo nos sujetemos, dicen la substancia de la verdad, mas muchas veces, por no ser perfecta y cumplidamente informados de la práctica, condenan lo que, si supiesen el hecho, aprobarían y aplicarían muy de otra manera” [Certainly, these most

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blessed fathers, to whose decree and sentence it is right that we submit, speak the substance of the truth, but often, because they are not perfectly and fully informed about the practice, they condemn what, if they knew the fact[s], they would approve and apply very differently”] (Mercado 1569/72, II, XVIII, n. p.). In many examples drawn from quotidian business routines, Mercado showcases his proficiency in the mysteries of trade. When it comes to just price, he claims that the divergent demands of Spain and the colonies, as well as the risks of long and dangerous shipping routes, cannot allow for a unit price to be fixed: “[B]uscar el precio justo de contado para que sea regla y nivel, es buscar el Anticristo” [“[T]o look for the just cash price to be rule and level is to look for the Antichrist”] (Mercado 1569/72, Book II, Chapter XVIII: n. p.). So far, so sensible. But Mercado’s hands-on approach also derives from metaphysics. In his expositions on a just price, he clearly relies on the theories developed by Vitoria and another famous casuist, Martin de Azpilcueta (also called Doctor Navarro)11. Yet, Vitoria’s conception of justice as balance assumes a quite mercantilist undertone in Mercado’s adaption: “La enfermedad corporal consiste en la desproporción de los humores; la espiritual, en la transgresión y quebrantamiento de la justicia y en un agraviar al prójimo con quien se trata, cuya medicina única es la restitución” [“Corporal illness consists in the disproportion of the humors; spiritual illness consists in the transgression and violation of justice and in offending one’s neighbor with whom one is dealing, for which the only medicine is restitution”] (Mercado 1569/72, Prólogo: n. p.). This medical metaphor for the field of politics was a commonplace already familiar from Aristotle. In its Christian cladding, the nexus between spiritual healing and material compensation seems rather odd. But restitution, in fact, turns out to be one of Mercado’s major concerns, with almost 200 mentions in the text. This attests to what I would like to label an “economic turn” of penitential casuistry. Mercado even dedicates the whole of Book VI of his treatise to the concept of compensation. His rather pragmatic approach towards justice becomes disturbingly clear when he turns to capital crimes such as homicide, including his assertion that there must be some material restitution for the victim’s family (Mercado 1569/72: Chapter IV: n. p.).

 The chief work of this influential casuist is titled Manual de confesores y penitentes o Enchiridion confessariorum et poenitentium [Manual for Confessors and Penitents or Handbook of Confessors and Penitents], Salamanca 1556 (port. ed. Coimbra 1550). For the similarity between Azpilcueta’s and Mercado’s economic ideas, see Hutchinson (1952).

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Black-painting and Whitewashing the Spanish Colonists One could rightly assume that the question of restitution was a pressing issue when the treasures of Peru were at stake. Mercado first discusses the foundations of many different ethical aspects. He is sure to clarify that, principally, all things found underground belong to everybody, noting: “Tambien todas las minas de oro y plata que la tierra y el calor del sol engendran, comúnmente, de derecho común, son del que las descubre” [“Furthermore all the gold and silver mines that the earth and the heat of the sun produce, commonly, by common law, belong to the one who discovers them”] (Mercado 1569/72, Book VI, Chapter XV: n. p.). However, he goes on to stipulate that if the sources of these metals are part of Indigenous-owned property, their usurpation constitutes a sin. This penitential concern is immediately mitigated, as he adds that usually the mines are located outside of natives’ settlements and therefore may be exploited by the Spaniards: [C]asi en general se descubren las minas en montes tan agrios y ásperos que son inhabitables, aunque la codicia española es tan grande que do los indios, con ser algo silvestres, huyen de vivir, allí ellos, si ven interés, les parece alcázares y hacen su morada y habitación [. . .] regla ha de ser general a ellos, y a los jueces, no tomar minas en términos de pueblo, por do reciban daño los vecinos y naturales de él. [sic] (Mercado 1569/72, Book VI, Chapter XV: n. p.) [Almost in general, mines are discovered in mountains so acrid and rough that they are uninhabitable, although Spanish greed is so great that the Indios, being somewhat wild, flee from living [there], there those [Spaniards], if they see interest, find them to be palaces and make their dwelling and habitation [. . .] it must be a general rule for them, and for the judges, not to take mines within village limits, since their neighbors and natives would be harmed.]

This ironic exposure of the European treasure hunters’ greed contrasts with the peaceful state Mercado attributes at large to the Indigenous people. He describes them in terms reminiscent of the “noble savage”: accordingly, they would not require further spiritual attention. In a striking contrast to the evangelizing furor of other friars, Mercado instead opts for a peaceful cohabitation of colonizers and Natives, or even an (already extant) blending: Pero, cualquiera sea el derecho y senorío de aquel vastísimo imperio – resolución que nadie ha de esperar de nosotros en lugar tan estrecho –, se me ofrece decir [. . .] que [. . .] ya aquel imperio es de españoles e indios; ambos a dos géneros o linajes están mezclados y viven debajo de un gobernador y una audiencia real, todos vasallos de un rey [sic] [“Yet, whatever the right and dominion of this vast empire might be – a decision nobody can expect from us in this narrow space –, it allows me to explain [. . .] that

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[. . .] this empire already belongs to Spaniards and Indios; both are mixed in two kinds or lines and live under one governor and one royal council, all vassals of one king”] (Mercado 1569/72, Book VI, Chapter XV, n. p.). This early account of mestizaje, or racial mixing, is far from purporting any concept of blood purity or national superiority, and reads rather like an evocation of a delicate convivencia as practiced for centuries in Mercado’s homeland of Andalusia. This attitude might sustain the hypothesis of some scholars that Mercado was of converso origin, as trade and money operations were traditionally the domain of Jews. After their forced conversion in 1492, many converso merchants took advantage of opportunities to make a fortune in las Indias and to buy their way into the nobility. And even though most adventurers were “autochthonous” Spaniards (Mariscal 2001: 56), the omnipresent envy of those who remained in the homeland led to widespread hatred of the Indiano – those who return successful from overseas adventure – as Ámerico Castro stated: “La significación de las Indias para los españoles que permanecían en la Península está bien clara: enriqueserse en el Nuevo Mundo ponía en peligro la limpieza del linaje, convertía al indiano en un posible judío, interesado en acumular una fortuna individual y secular (no como aureola de su rango nobilitario o para fines religiosos)” [“The significance of the Indies for the Spaniards who remained in the Peninsula is quite clear: getting rich in the New World endangered the purity of the lineage, turned the Indiano into a possible Jew, interested in accumulating an individual and secular fortune (not as an aura of his noble rank or for religious purposes”] (Castro 1974: 233). Whatever the motivation for Mercado’s migration, he certainly held a rather disillusioned, “black” view of his compatriots, as his discussion of slavery further illustrates. Again, he unfolds an argumentation that at first seems to confirm all of Pascal’s arguments against casuistry as lax and arbitrary. Relying on ius gentium, he determines that “hay bastantes razones y causas por donde puede ser uno justamente cautivo y vendido” [“there are ample reasons and causes for which one can be justly held captive and sold”]. One of these causes is the takening as a captive a captive in war: “sin excepción quedar esclavo el cautivo, venderse y anejarse como tal” [“without exception, the captive is enslaved, sold, and incorporated as such”] (Mercado 1569/72, Book II, Chapter XXI: n. p.). He adds that the Indigenous people were also familiar with this common practice. After elaborating on two other licit forms of slavery, he applies juridical premises from the Portuguese slave trade with Cabo Verde: Demás de esto, como los portugueses y castellanos dan tanto por un negro sin que haya guerra, andan a caza unos de otros comos si fuesen venados, movidos los mismos etíopes particulares del interés, y se hacen guerra y tienen por granjería el cautivarse y se cazan en

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el monte [. . .] De esta manera vienen infinitos cautivos contra toda justicia. (Mercado 1569/ 72, Book II, Chapter XXI: n. p.) [In addition to this, since the Portuguese and Castilians give so much for a black man without there being war, that the Ethiopians themselves moved by interest, go hunting each other as if they were game, and they make war and take profit of capturing and hunting each other in the mountains [. . .] In this way infinite captives come, against all justice.]

The ethical limit is not trading slaves as such, but rather instigating war between African tribes purely for the sake of profit. In a way, Mercado anticipates the Marxist critique of imperialism labelled the Atlantic triangle trade. However, his blending of ethics and economics does not preclude him from seeing human beings as commodities, though this would perhaps be asking too much of Mercado given his historical situation of constant war and enslavement. Indeed, his considerations are not motivated by racial bias, as his telling analogy (a contemporaneous one) demonstrates: Después espantémonos de la crueldad que usan los turcos con los cristianos cautivos poniéndolos de noche en sus mazmorras; cierto, muy peor tratan estos mercaderes cristianos a los negros, que ya son también fieles, porque en la ribera, al tiempo de embarcarlos, los bautizan a todos juntos con un hisopo – que es otra barbaridad grandísima. (Mercado 1569/ 72, Book II, Chapter XXI, n. p.) [After that we should have been shocked by the cruelty that the Turks exercise with the captive Christians, putting them at night in their dungeons; indeed, much worse do these Christian merchants treat the black people, who are also faithful, because on the shore, at the time of embarking them, they baptize them all together with a hyssop – which is another great barbarity.]

Unfortunately, Mercado does not elaborate on this final clause. Nevertheless, conjoining the baptism of African slaves with the barbarity of the Europeans baptizers within a description of an “evangelization” practice is daring. In addition, he mentions drastic examples of the miserable conditions of detention onboard slave ships which led to many casualties. From all these – in his words – well-known facts, Mercado infers two momentous conclusions for his merchant audiences: ignorance of the conditions of enslavement does not serve as an excuse, nor does the high price for a slave mitigate the injustice of the trade: the transaction remains a capital sin. The only logical decision of any good Christian, therefore, must be to abstain from the slave trade. And after summarizing the premises of the task at hand, Mercado once again raises his major concern: restitution. In addition to representing a capital sin in terms of divine law, slavery in las Indias also constitutes a dilemma for natural law, since a just form of restitution remains impossible:

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Y aun se podría decir con verdad que en alguna manera peca más el que de su tierra los saca que el que dentro de ella injustamente los cautiva, porque aquél los imposibilita a cobrar su libertad desterrándolos y transportándolos de ella do no hay quien vuelva por ellos o los rescate, que en su tierra, aunque estuviesen injustamente cautivos, en fin tendrían esperanza de mejor remedio de libertarse. (Mercado 1569/72, Book II, Chapter XXI: n. p.) [And it could even be said with truth that in some way the one who takes them out of their homeland sins more than the one who unjustly captures them within it, because the former having them exiled and transported from the homeland makes it impossible for them to obtain their freedom, since there is no one to come for them or rescue them, who in their land, even if they were unjustly captive, would at last have hope of a better remedy of freeing themselves.]

It is my hope that these few illustrations of Mercado’s argumentation demonstrate what I consider to be the strength of early modern casuistry: a pragmatic, matter-of-fact rhetoric; concretely situated casos [cases] considering every circumstance of the topic raised; combined with complex reasoning in order to offer deductive conclusions for comprehensible procedural knowledge. Mercado’s text likely did not slow the flow of slaves to las Indias. Instead, the cause for the eventual decline of the slave trade was what Mercado underscores as the most characteristic features of his fellow Spaniards, avarice and greed: when the expeditions to Africa became too costly, when enough local working poor had been generated, and when new technologies reduced labor need, the slave trade would come to an end12. To a certain extent, Mercado and the other arbitristas represent the beginning of a system, the end of which we are experiencing now: economic liberalism. Most of their writings favor the then new dynamic of supply and demand, albeit with an outspoken imperative for ethical rules to underlie economic activities. Nevertheless, an equilibrium between the constraints of ethics and economy ultimately cannot be established through imperatives, but by carefully considering any and all possible aspects of a given transaction. This opens an enormous interpretative space – as the later praise of the arbitristas’ innovations by quite opposing economical theorists such as Hayek and Keynes proves (Cendejas Bueno 2020; 2021) – even though, obviously, their ideas of just price and how to stop inflation did not find much resonance among their contemporaries in seventeenth-century Spain.

 For a detailed history of the different phases of the slave trade in Latin America, see Del Rey/ Canales (2014).

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Indianos in a Blaze of Stage Glory But what came of Mercado’s tolerant view of coexistence and mestizaje? On the Iberian Peninsula itself, the feudal order under the hegemony of the Old Christians was re-enforced and became further consolidated through the expulsion of the Moriscos between 1609 and 1613, notwithstanding the agroeconomic disaster this entailed. Furthermore, the window of opportunity for social climbers closed, as echoed by the many despicable Indianos depicted in contemporaneous comedies. One significant exception is a trilogy about the Pizarro brothers by Tirso de Molina. Strictly speaking, its protagonists are portrayed as honorable conquerors, and not (merchant) Peruleros or Indianos who travelled to las Indias solely for the sake of money. The plots of the three plays interweave data from chronicles, the playwright’s personal knowledge of oversea settings, and an ideological program, indicative of the gloss with which Spain covered the dark sides of its colonial adventure. The action culminates in La lealtad contra la envidia [Loyalty versus Envy], the third play of the trilogy. This historical drama depicts the civil war between the Pizarro and the Almagro clans, without sparing mention of atrocities committed by Spaniards, for instance, the intended rape of the Indigenous girl Guaica, who slyly distracts the desire of the perpetrator Castillo to a well that conceals gold. Immediately, the object of Castillo’s craving changes and he climbs down into it. While Guaica disappears, two other Spaniards appear, seeking to retrieve the treasure from the well. Castillo – who is unable to climb out due to the weight of the gold and silver he seized – grabs the feet of the one soldier entering the well and scares the two of them: “GRANERO: ¡Jesús! / PEÑAFIEL: El diablo es. / GRANERO: ¡Qué feo! Fuego arroja. / PEÑAFIEL: Huye, Chacón” [“GRANERO: Jesus! / PEÑAFIEL: It’s the devil. / GRANERO: How ugly! He throws fire. / PEÑAFIEL: Flee, Chacón.”] (Tirso de Molina 1993 [1626–1630]: 112). The gold hunter as the devil in the well provides not only a hilarious scene for the stage, but also an opportunity to inject some morals, as represented in Castillo’s soliloquy following this encounter: Todo mal viene por bien; / la codicia me empozó / y ella misma me sacó / por siempre jamás amén. / ¡Oh Mamacoya bellaca! / ¿Así rescatas, maridos? / ¡Creed en llantos fingidos . . . ! / El cordel de la petaca / que el que huyó quiso sacar / y yo desde abajo así / al cuerpo me revolví, / su peso les dió pesar, / que estaba llena de plata / y de oro los escuché; / no en balde al pozo bajé / ni mintió la Coya ingrata, / puesto que pensó burlarme; / guardémoslo, que es mi vida. / ¡Oh venturosa caída / que así supo levantarme! / ¡Oh mondapozos buscón, / que aunque no eres santo, sacas / del purgatorio petacas / como cuenta de perdón! / Pues ya tus sufragios gozo, / el pozo a escribir me obliga / una comedia que diga,/ diga, “Mi gozo en el pozo”. (Tirso de Molina (1993) [1626–1630]: 112–114)

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[All evil comes for good; / greed got me into the well / and the same took me out / forever and ever amen. / Oh, wretched Mamacoya [Quechua, “mother queen”]! / Like this you rescue husbands? / Not to believe in feigned cries . . . ! / The string of the pouch / that the one who fled wanted grasp / and I from below thus / in a body reconverted, / its weight burdened them, / that it was full of silver / and of gold I heard them; / not in vain I went down to the well / nor did the ungrateful Coya [Queen] lie, / given that she wanted to fool me; / let’s keep it, that it is my life. / Oh, fortunate fall / like this I was able to ascend! / Oh, dodger of the world’s wells, / that although you are not a saint, you even take out / from purgatory pouches / like rosary pearls of forgiveness! / Since I already own by your aids, / the well forces me to write / a comedy that shall be called, / be called, “My joy in the well”.]

Thus, the play’s most outspoken criticism refers to greed, while the attempted violation goes without further consideration, since the girl is an astute Other. There are interesting indio figures throughout the whole trilogy, but they remain clearly othered, possessing positive and negative traits. An example is the battlefield where the indios comport themselves bravely. In such a situation, only the two emblems of the Reconquista can provide the conciliatory ending: the apostle Santiago and “Nuestra Señora” intervene in the battle of Cuzco to decide the fight for the Christian cause. Here we could effectively loop back to the beginning of this chapter, as Tirso de Molina had a veritable professional passion for the Virgin. Fray Gabriel Téllez – the author’s real name – undertook a journey to Santo Domingo on a mission to preach the mystery of the Inmaculada Concepción, which he himself later relates in the Historia Orden de Nuestra Señora de las Mercedes [History of the Order of Our Lady of Mercy]: “Especialmente, se introduce en aquella ciudad y ysla la deuoción de la limpieza preseruada de la Concepción puríssima de nuestra Madre y Reyna, cossa casi incógnito en los habitadores de quel pedazo de mundo descubierto” [“Notably, the devotion of the preserved purity of the most pure Conception of our Mother and Queen is introduced in that city and island, something almost unknown to the inhabitants of this swath of the discovered world”] (Tirso de Molina quoted in Sullivan 1989: 255). In fact, the second act of the play combines the irreconcilable contrasts of Christian mission with the atrocities of colonialism: the fighting between different Spanish camps, their mutual treason and one faction’s subsequent alliance with the Inca leader, the soldiers’ greed for gold, and the violence against the Indigenous and the female as Other, with the heavenly appearance of María Purísima to bring home the message of the eternal good of Christendom. As a result, the forceful penetration of Indigenous women and of the mountains of las Indias is covered by Mary’s shining mantle, and violence and injustice is whitewashed with her silver and gold adornments.

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Conclusions In juxtaposing the restorative Augustinian Marian propaganda with the progressive ethical theories of the arbitristas, it becomes apparent that early modern Spanish Catholicism was not a homogeneous ideology in service of existing power relations. It included both the knowledge and the intellectual mindset to foster the circulation of goods towards creating wealth in the service of the public. The writings of Dominican and Jesuit casuists betray a vivid concern for worldly matters and belie the idea of the backwardness of Iberian elites as a whole. However, it was abroad where their ideas fell upon fertile ground, whereas in Spain the old noble dynasties feared for their own hegemony. Thus, it was the old aristocratic elite that refused to acknowledge how times had changed, blocking economic and social dynamics. Ironically, this is how the Old Christians turned out to be the ones committing the vice of usury, since they refused to create any added value from all the precious metals they had sacked from their colonies – instead using these revenues either to buy overpriced goods they failed to produce themselves or ostentatiously to showcase their wealth in their palaces and churches. Any productive activity was further hindered by the Spanish Habsburgs’ bloated, and scheming, administration. Hence, most of the Indianos returning to Spain were only interested in buying into a feudal tenure, and discontinued their ill-regarded mercantile activities or manufacturing. Appearances overruled actions, and their self-absorbed exclusiveness was supported by Church authorities, who very often belonged to the same noble families. Christian rites, idols, and festivities catered to the idea of Spaniards as the “chosen people” and connected to the well-established narrative of othering the enterprising newcomers as Jews, Indianos, or heretics. In this context, the silver of the Marian statues and altars can also be regarded as whitewashing the guilt of the colonial enterprises – in contemporaneous reading most obviously the sin of usury, in our contemporary view the violence of physical harm and of epistemic othering.

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Sullivan, Henry W. (1989): “La misión evangélica de Tirso en el Nuevo Mundo: la Inmaculada Concepción de María y la fundación de los Mercedarios”. In: Ruano de la Haza, José María (ed.): El mundo del teatro español en su siglo de oro: ensayos dedicados a John E. Varey. Ottawa: Dovehouse, pp. 249–266. Tirso de Molina (1993) [1626–1630]: Trilogía de los Pizarros IV. La Lealtad contra la envidia. Ed. Miguel Zugasti. Kassel: Edition Reichenberger. Van den Berg, Hans (2015): “Introducción”. In: Ramos Gavilán, Alonso (2015) [1621]: Historia del célebre santuario de Nuestra Señora de Copacabana y sus milagros, e invención de la cruz de carabuco. Eds. Hans van den Berg/Andrés Eichmann. Sucre: Archivo y Biblioteca Nacionales de Bolivia, pp. 17–65. Velés Cipriano, Iván (2014): Sobre la Leyenda Negra. Madrid: Encuentro. Vitoria, Francisco de (2006) [1536–1537]: Contratos y usura. Ed. María Idoya Zorroza. Pamplona: Eunsa.

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Founders, Discoverers, and Conquistadors in the 1577 Relaciones geográficas of Colonial Mexico In preparation for battle against Hernán Cortés’s army, the inhabitants of Tetela and Hueyapan, two neighboring towns in the current Mexican state of Morelos, fled into crags and ravines. Their surrender seems to have come easily in the end. The “Relación geográfica de Tetela y Hueyapan” [“Geographical account of Tetela and Hueyapan”] (Acuña 2017 [1986a]: 175−180), composed between June 20 and July 9, 1581, recounts that upon Cortés’s promise that whoever dared “ahuyentar los indios” [“to scare away the Indians”] (Acuña 2017 [1986a]: 178) would receive them in encomienda (a royal grant of Indigenous tribute), a woman named María Estrada came forward on horseback and made them leave their strongholds unattended1. This passage answers question two − “Quién fue el descubridor y conquistador de la dicha provincia, y por cuya orden y mandado se descubrió y el año de su descubrimiento y conquista” [“Who was the discoverer and conqueror of said land, by whose command and mandate it was discovered and [what was] the year of its discovery and conquest”] (Solano 1988a: 81) − of a 55-item questionnaire or memoria that Juan López de Velasco, the royal cosmographer-chronicler of the Consejo de Indias [Council of the Indies], had designed in 1577. As stated in the royal commission of this questionnaire, the reports or relaciones containing all the replies were to be perused to make good governance and to “ennoble” those lands (Solano 1988a: 81). The belief that effective control and exploitation of territories depended on familiarity with the lands and their resources and peoples stands at the origins of López de Velasco’s questionnaire. The Council of the Indies, possibly weighing three options − whether to send royal envoys, like the protomédico Francisco Hernández, who led a medical and botanical mission in New Spain (colonial Mexico) between 1570 and 1577; whether to establish a permanent body of “specialists” who, ascribed to the audiencias (tribunal or courts) in Spanish America, would travel the territories far and wide collecting information; or whether to rely on the collaboration of Spanish authorities and other local actors in situ −, opted for this last strategy (Solano 1988c: xix; Sacchi 2000: 294). However, Spanish officials appear to have been repeatedly dissatisfied with the out-of-date and insufficient quality of the data; in the sixteenth century, from 1530 to 1592, eleven petitions

 All translations are the author’s. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110796308-008

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for information from New Spain, in the form of surveys, descriptions, and maps were submitted (Solano 1988c: xxii; Sacchi 2000: 293). Returned responses to these questionnaires, like the one dispatched in 1577, received the name Relaciones geográficas de Indias [Geographical Relations of the Indies, hereafter Relaciones] because they were formatted as accounts or reports, comprising natural and moral history – namely, data on topography, climate, flora, fauna, descriptions of Indigenous cultural traditions, government, and finance2. With the Relaciones, López de Velasco aspired to create a comprehensive chronicle-atlas, a Libro de las descripciones de Indias [Book of the Descriptions of the Indies] (Solano 1988b: 16) that ultimately never materialized, and yet, this exhaustive wealth of information could have proven a valuable resource for other purposes. Replies to his question two, for instance, named conquistadors and the locations they had invaded or which had surrendered to them. This knowledge could have ended up informing the resolution of hacienda rights and recompense claims by conquistadors and their families (McDonough 2021: 401). The quality of the Relaciones is a troublesome issue that scholars must tackle at present. Preceding the questionnaire, a brief “Instrucción” spells out that Spanish American authorities, – governors, deputy governors, local magistrates and, in the absence of these, churchmen − were tasked with the elaboration of reports which, more often than not, involved the appointment of Indigenous leaders as “personas inteligentes de las cosas de la tierra” [“people knowledgeable about the things of the land”] (Solano 1988a: 81). Once convened, the process of eliciting their answers and transferring them to the written medium required considerable skill and expediency. Due to its administrative nature, each Relación had to be titled with the toponym of the location where it was created and was to continue with a short paragraph containing the date and the names of those present, that is, the initiator of the assignment brief and the informants. These participants were urged to answer the questionnaire attentively, following numbered items in a brief and clear manner, and to abstain from pronouncing incorrect and false data (Solano 1988a: 81). For all the seeming clarity of the instructions, the truth is that a cursory reading of the Relaciones returned from New Spain suffices to understand that the attitude and the agency of the participants dictated the extent and quality of each account. A few Relaciones can be classed as “histories” in their own right and have  For a comprehensive introduction to the Relaciones, see Cline (1972), Solano (1988), and Mundy (1996). Around 206 responses to the 1577 questionnaire, 165 from colonial Mexico, reached Spain. Most of these manuscripts, including maps, are held at the Archivo General de Indias (Seville), the Real Academia de la Historia (Madrid), and the Benson Latin American Collection at the University of Texas (Austin) (Cline 1972: 193; McDonough 2021: 403).

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informed discussions on the legitimacy of cultural discourses in colonial historiography, such as the “Descripción de la ciudad y provincia de Tlaxcala” [“Description of the city and province of Tlaxcala”] (1585) by the Mestizo chronicler Diego Muñoz Camargo3, whereas others, like the anonymous “Relación geográfica de Tetela y Hueyapan” (1581), pose several challenges. In his versed capacity as editor of the Relaciones of New Spain in ten volumes, René Acuña calls into question the veracity of the events surrounding the conquest of Tetela and Hueyapan, recounted in the opening paragraph of this chapter. Upon examination of this Relación, Acuña proposes two Dominican friars as the most likely authors and argues that they might have copied the legend of the Cacica María Estrada from their fellow brother Fray Diego Durán’s Historia de las indias de Nueva España e islas de tierra firme [History of the Indies of New Spain and Islands of the Mainland] (ca. 1581) (Acuña 2017 [1986a]: 173). Besides, they incorporated scathing jibes of Lascasian tone aimed at their would-be readers, no less than Spanish officials at the Council of the Indies (Acuña 2017 [1986a]: 168−169). Aside from blaming the Spaniards for the catastrophic death toll of the Indigenous population, the authors lambast their lust for mineral resources, announcing that in those towns: “no hay canterías de jaspe ni de piedras preciosas, sino de muy buenos gatos pelados” [“there are no quarries, neither of jasper nor of any other precious stones, but there are very good hairless cats [mediocre people]”] (Acuña 2017 [1986a]: 178). As observed, the “Relación geográfica de Tetela y Hueyapan” manifests itself as paradigmatic of written and oral communication that can be selected arbitrarily and falsified. Based on this account, Acuña warns scholars who might be inclined to take the contents of this and other Relaciones at face value, proposing instead that they consider them testimonies to be examined with a critical lens (Acuña 2017 [1986a]: 174). In accordance with Acuña’s suggestion, most recent studies on Relaciones have been mining those of New Spain to gain insight into the confluence of discourses underpinning the production of their answers. By way of example, José Pardo-Tomás evaluates negotiations of meanings between participants with distinct medical cultures, providing interpretations to the multiplicity of voices and attitudes behind the replies to questions five and fifteen of the 1577 questionnaire, which sought to comprehend the causes of illnesses and demographic decline (Pardo-Tomás 2014). Centering on Indigenous practices and knowledge, Barry Isaac demonstrates that responses on the same topic were overwhelmingly secular and

 See Diego Muñoz Camargo’s “Descripción de la ciudad y provincia de Tlaxcala”, edited by Acuña in his first volume of Relaciones of Mexico (Acuña 1984), and studies like Espericueta (2017).

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rational – a far cry from religious belief on supernatural punishment (Isaac 2015) –, whereas Kelly McDonough examines the Indigenous respondents’ comprehension of natural resources, herbal medicines, and collective land memory (McDonough 2019). McDonough’s work on the Relaciones also stands out for her groundbreaking analysis of the circumstances under which Spanish authorities and other participants communicated during the process. Following Duccio Sacchi (2000) and Arndt Brendecke (2016), McDonough notes that, irrespective of their leverage, any active contributor could have engaged with an agenda. Their involvement in what she terms the “conceptual framework of technologies”, that is, complex systems of knowledge, practices, and products, originated from a colonial bureaucratic methodology. This “framework” promised them access to other Spanish authorities in New Spain and Spain, to whom they could convey thoughts and knowledge on behalf of their community, enabling them to further other personal interests (McDonough 2021: 401). In the case of the Indigenous participants, who can be classified as informants, witnesses, interpreters, scribes, cartographers, co-authors and authors (Stoll 2019: 221−225), they might have profited from a unique opportunity to sound out how to manage their relationship with the Spaniards who were placing trust in them and to see their authority recognized (McDonough 2021: 401). When the Relaciones are sparing in words, McDonough highlights the impossibility of knowing whether this lack of detail reflects the quality of the participants’ relationship, signals fear and discord, or is an indication that they had decided in advance what kind of information was to be shared (McDonough 2021: 401). In line with the aforementioned studies, which view the Relaciones as unparalleled repositories of collective memory, and in the spirit of this volume, which seeks to recover relations between conquerors and local actors, both distant and in-person, this chapter seeks to analyze data and narratives produced in the process of answering question two, on discovery and conquest, of the 1577 questionnaire in colonial Mexico4. The study delves into thirty-four known replies, focusing on the manner in which the participants, ranging from Spanish authorities like corregidores (magistrates), gobernadores (governors), and escribanos (clerks of court and notaries public), to Mestizo authors and Indigenous respondents, interpreted and replied according to their knowledge and potential motives5. In this sense, the “Relación geográfica de Tetela y Hueyapan” illustrates how its authors refused to comply with the official instruction of signing the document and ignored the

 The corpus for this study constitutes thirty-four Relaciones returned from the Archbishopric of Mexico in the sixteenth century, as edited by Acuña in volumes 1/VI (fourteen Relaciones), 2/VII (fourteen Relaciones), and 3/VIII (six Relaciones). See Acuña (2017 [1985], 2017 [1986a], 2017 [1986b]).  For the translation of official titles, this study follows Schwaller (2013).

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guideline to answer in a brief, clear, and truthful manner, taking the opportunity instead to throw a jibe at officials in Spain. The same approach will be used for the analysis of the other Relaciones. This study is based on the close reading of the answers to question two in their context of production, as pronounced and written by authorities and respondents, mostly Spaniards and Indigenous leaders – governors, judges, and other members of the elite – who interacted for the collection of data. The chapter offers a brief but revealing glimpse into what these participants understood, knew or were willing to tell when queried about “discoverers” and “conquerors”; whether their answers coincided in most points or differed if uttered by Spanish or Indigenous participants, and whether the respondents conveyed an implicit message to Spanish officials or other authorities of New Spain. In this vein, an analysis of the quality of the responses, that is, to what extent they observed the brevity prescribed in the “Instrucción”, will allow for discussion on whether the respondents perceived an opportunity to reach out to Spanish authorities to elevate their status and satisfy personal interests. Overall, the comparison of answers discussed here and of the circumstances under which they were articulated seeks to create an appreciation of how spatial distance and in-person collection of replies benefited some of those involved in the survey, and of how their replies can be useful to extract information about pre-Hispanic and colonial Mexico.

Answers to Question Two: From Cortés to the Chichimeca Most Relaciones from the Archbishopric of Mexico omit the dates of “discovery” and name Cortés as the main conquistador. He tends to appear as “Marqués del Valle” [“Marquess of the Valley”], in reference to the title of nobility that he was granted in 1529, and the Relaciones feature no historical allusion to his military actions and exploits. This succinctness possibly speaks of the respondents’ decision to keep the answer brief, as requested in the “Instrucción”, and their assumption that the response was common knowledge in New Spain and Spain. The “Memoria de los pueblos que se incluyen en el corregimiento de Tequizistlan y su partido” [“Report of the towns that are included in the jurisdiction of Tequizistlan and its district”] (Acuña 2017 [1986a]: 147−168), comprising the accounts of Tequizistlan (February 22, 1580), Tepexpan (February 23, 1580), Aculma (February 26, 1580), and San Juan Teotihuacan (March 1, 1580), is a prime example of the frugality of replies and the appearance of the “Marqués del Valle” as the only conquistador worthy of mention. For instance, in the most extensive document of this “memoria”, the “Relación de Aculma”, the corregidor Francisco de Castañeda, the fiscal

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(attorney) Don Alonso de Sandoval, the escribano Benito Martínez, and other Spaniards whose roles remain unspecified (e. g. Juan de Vera and Alonso de Solís), agreed that the following sufficed: “Fue descubridor del di[c]ho pu[ebl]o, y [de] Nueva Es[pañ]a, como es not[ori]o, el Marqués del Valle don Her[nan]do Cortés” (Acuña 2017 [1986a]: 149). Before progressing to the next question, they judged it necessary to state that: “No se pone aquí la orden y mando y año de su descubrimiento, porque, en la relación que se hiciere de la ciudad de Mé[x]ico, irá expresado por la pers[on]a a cuyo cargo es” [“The order of events, the authority involved, and the year of the discovery is not given here because this will be expressed by the person in charge of writing the account of the City of Mexico”] (Acuña 2017 [1986a]: 149)6. The disclaimer is echoed by the same authorities in Tepexpan and Tequizistlan and, following suit, the Chief Constable of the Inquisition in San Juan Teotihuacan, Don Antonio Bazán, did not pursue this issue further, let alone put effort into his wording and style. He merely annotated: “[d]escubrió el descubridor desta tierra, q[ue] fue el Marqués del Valle” [“[the town] was discovered by the discoverer of this land, who was the Marquess of the Valley”] (Acuña 2017 [1986a]: 153). When it comes to confining information to a minimum under the pretext that the Marqués del Valle’s celebrity and recognition as the main “discoverer” and conquistador was commonplace, the “Relación de Culhuacan” (Acuña 2017 [1986a]: 22−24) (January 17, 1580) is particularly telling. The Spanish co-authors, the corregidor Gonzalo Gallegos and the Augustinian Fray Juan Núñez, did not even name Cortés, merely jotting down that the said town and its region was defeated by the same conquistador of the City of Mexico (Acuña 2017 [1986a]: 22). The canonist Dr Francisco de Loya, who penned the “Relación de Iztapalapan” (Acuña 2017 [1986a]: 24−29) (January 31, 1580), which was dispatched together with the Relación of Culhuacan, formed a different view. In the presence of several Indigenous leaders, whom he did not name, he praised Cortés and his army of conquistadors who arrived to conquer the land “con ju[risdic]ción y mandato del invictísimo Carlos Quinto, emperador, [. . .] debajo de su bandera” [“with jurisdiction and mandate awarded by the invincible Charles V, Emperor [. . .] under his banner”] (Acuña 2017 [1986a]: 24). Loya’s heroic rhetorical formula operates as a captatio benevolentiae that would have sat well with readers sharing this patriotic sentiment in Spain. However, upon reading the rest of the Relación, they would have perceived its deficiencies and lack of strong Indigenous input. The respondents might have been reluctant to share data with Loya although, as Acuña contends, it is also likely that

 The account of the City of Mexico is lost.

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Loya took the lead to filter the information, disinterested in what the Indigenous leaders had to say (Acuña 2017 [1986a]: 18). Loya’s account contrasts with other Relaciones in which Indigenous authorities collaborated with the Spaniards in completing the questionnaire. A salient case is the “Relación de Atlatlauhca” (Acuña 2017 [1985]: 26−34) (September 17, 1580), for the creation of which the corregidor Gaspar de Solís7 took the official instruction to heart, proceeding as in a trial. First, he requested the presence of a robust group of Indigenous informants, naming seven of them and specifying their official status so as to prove the veracity of his report: Governor Don Lucas de Velasco, the judges Don Diego Jacobo and Don Pablo Hernández, and other principales or members of the Indigenous elite, including Don Pedro Ximénez, Don Andrés de Medina, Francisco de San Pedro, and Pedro Nicolás (Acuña 2017 [1985]: 26). Then, Solís interrogated them under oath, with the help of an interpreter of Nahuatl and Matlatzinca, Juan Lorenzo, who told that: [S]aben que habrá sesenta años, poco más o menos, se ganó esta tierra y [la] ciudad de México y que, asimismo, tienen noticia que de España vino mucha gente de Castilla q[ue] llaman españoles, y entre éstos, uno por capitán de todos y mayor y en nombre del Emperador, a lo que saben y les dijeron; y éste, con los demás españoles, ganaron esta tierra y [la] ciudad de Méx[i]co. Y este capitán se llamaba y nombraban don Hernando Cortés. (Acuña 2017 [1985]: 26) [They know that around sixty years ago, more or less, this land and the City of Mexico were won. And they likewise have knowledge that many people from Spain, from Castile, who are called Spaniards, came. And among these, one was captain of them all and of higher status, [coming] in the name of the Emperor, as they know and were told; and this man, together with the other Spaniards, won this land and the City of Mexico. And this captain was named and known as Don Hernando Cortés].

The passage shows striking similarities compared to the answer in the “Relación de Iztapalapan”. The Indigenous leaders reiterate the underlying points found in Loya’s report and, bearing the sign of their orality, to which Solís conceded importance, their answers are transcribed in a basic style: Captain Cortés was sent by the Emperor with “demás españoles”, in the Indigenous respondents’ own words “gente de Castilla q[ue] llaman españoles”, who conquered or “ganaron esta tierra”. Remarkably, their reply, like incidentally Loya’s, fails to address the involvement of Indigenous warriors (e. g. the Tlaxcalteca) in the fall of Mexico-Tenochtitlan, as the document records that it was only the Spaniards who “ganaron [. . .] [la] ciudad de Méx[i]co”

 Born in Mexico City around 1550, Gaspar de Solís was son and grandson of two conquistadors: Pedro de Solís and Francisco de Orduña (Acuña 2017 [1985]: 24).

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(Acuña 2017 [1985]: 26)8. For the composition of this Relación the Indigenous leaders clarified that their sources were “pinturas” (paintings) and oral accounts passed on to them by their ancestors (Acuña 2017 [1985]: 26). Whether these sources narrated the alliance of Indigenous and Spanish armies, and whether the Indigenous respondents refrained from revealing this to Solís, is open to speculation. The value of the Relaciones for the Council of the Indies, nevertheless, rests precisely on this possibility; at times, the Indigenous peoples did convey information only known by them, and which the Spanish officials would have found useful. Illustrative of this are the names of the conquistadors who arrived with Cortés, or were sent by him, to invade locations after the fall of Mexico-Tenochtitlan. For instance, in the “Relación de Chiconauhtlan y su partido” [“Account of Chiconauhtlan and its jurisdictional district”] (Acuña 2017 [1985]: 152−158) (January 21, 1580), the corregidor Pedro López de Ribera proceeded like Solís, convening several Indigenous authorities who were questioned individually: the governors Don Juan Bautista, Don Juan [of Tecama], Don Cristóbal Tlahuizotl, and Don Pedro de Aquino, and the judges Miguel Ximénez and Jerónimo de Rojas (Acuña 2017 [1985]: 152). All but one responded, through an interpreter, that their town had been conquered by the “Marqués del Valle” (Acuña 2017 [1985]: 153). When it was Don Juan Bautista’s turn, he added that Chiconauhtlan had been “discovered” and conquered by Francisco Hernández on Cortés’s command (Acuña 2017 [1985]: 153)9. Likewise, in the “Relación de las minas de Temazcaltepec” [“Account of the mines of Temazcaltepec”] (Acuña 2017 [1986a]: 87−102) (December 1, 1579–January 1, 1580), the Indigenous participants replied that Cortés had sent Captain Andrés de Tapia (Acuña 2017 [1986a]: 87)10, and in the

 For further information, see the edited volume Indian Conquistadors: Indigenous Allies in the Conquest of Mesoamerica (Matthew/Oudijk 2007), in particular, chapter 2 (Asselbergs 2007). Matthew Restall is also decentering the Spanish perspective and suggesting the use of “SpanishAztec war” (1519–1521) and “Spanish-Mesoamerican war” (1517–1550). See Restall (2018: xxxi). The involvement of Indigenous warriors, which is an object of study that goes beyond the scope of this chapter, is detailed in several Relaciones of the Archbishopric of Tlaxcala.  In his Sumaria relación de las cosas de la Nueva España [Abbreviated Account of the Things of the New Spain], Baltasar Dorantes de Carranza cites a conquistador by this name who “dejó un hijo y dos hijas: el hijo, que se dice Francisco Hernández, tiene 400 pesos de aiuda de costa en la Real Caxa, y cada una de las hermanas á 100 pesos; son mestizos y pobres” [“he left a son and two daughters: the son, who is named Francisco Hernández, receives support from the Royal House of 400 pesos, and each of his sisters 100 pesos; they are Mestizos and poor”] (Dorantes de Carranza 1902 [1604]: 442).  The conquistador to whom the informants allude, Tapia, is known for an account written in around 1539, the Relación de algunas cosas de las que acaecieron al muy ilustre señor don Hernando Cortés, Marqués del Valle, desde que se determinó ir a descubrir tierra en la Tierra Firme del mar Océano [Account of Some Things that Occurred to the Most Distinguished Lord Don Hernando Cortés, Marquess of the Valley, Since He Determined to Come to Discover the Land on the Mainland of the Ocean] (Tapia 1866 [ca. 1539]).

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“Relación de las minas de Tasco” (Acuña 2017 [1986a]: 70−84) (January 1 and March 6, 1581), that the region was left “llana y pacífica” [“subdued and pacific”] by Rodrigo de Castañega and Miguel Díaz de Aux (Acuña 2017 [1986a]: 71). Another account, the “Relación de Citlaltomahua y Anecuilco” (Acuña 2017 [1985]: 70−79) (January 2, 1580), goes further than simply naming the conquistadors and provides details about the Spaniards’ military forces. Every governor, judge, councilor, and principal man of both towns was interrogated by the corregidor Juan de Tolosa, who took charge of the record that two conquistadors had been sent to invade the region (Acuña 2017 [1985]: 71). One of them, Isidro Moreno, “vino por las montañas altas, conquistando hasta Tlacotepec” [“came from the high mountains, conquering [the land] up to Tlacotepec”], whereas the other, Juan Rodríguez de Villafuerte, came “conquistando [. . .] por la costa de la mar” [“conquering [. . .] from the side of the sea”] (Acuña 2017 [1985]: 71)11. These lines name two conquistadors who strategically organized their soldiers before the battle and executed a military plan of operation that entailed surrounding and attacking their target on two different fronts. The passage could also indicate that the Indigenous leaders had been aware of this disposition of forces at the time, and that they shared this information with their descendants. None of the Relaciones of Mexico consulted for this study either portray or allude to fierce battles and destruction at the hands of the armies headed by Moreno, Rodríguez de Villafuerte, Castañega, Díaz de Aux, or any other mentioned conquistador. The obliteration of the local culture, nevertheless, is a controversial issue that the Mestizo historian Juan Bautista de Pomar raises in his widely researched “Relación de Texcoco” (Acuña 2017 [1986b]: 36−90) (March 9, 1582)12. Comissioned by Don Lorenzo Suárez de Mendoza, Conde de Coruña, Pomar bases the authenticity of his document upon his collaboration with elderly, experienced, and knowledgeable Indigenous leaders, some of whom “a más de 80 a[ñ]os de edad no saben generalmente de todas sus antigüedades, sino unos, una y otros, otr[a]” [“at more than 80 years of age, do not usually know about all their antiquities; but some know about one, others about another”] (Acuña 2017 [1986b]: 37). In addition, he informs the Spanish officials to whom he addresses his document that he had mined information from “cantares antiquísimos, de donde se coligió y tomó lo más

 Detailed information on Moreno is available thanks to a proof of merits from 1525. He set foot in Mexico as a member of Cortés’s first expedition and his son inherited the encomienda of two towns, Utatlan and Huitzuco. For further reference, see the entry on Rodríguez de Villafuerte in Thomas (2001: 140−141).  For further reference on Pomar’s Relación, see Aldao (2021).

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q[ue] se ha hecho y escrito” [“very ancient songs from which was gathered and collected the most that has been done and written”] (Acuña 2017 [1986b]: 27). However, as Pomar takes the opportunity to denounce, the existence of some ancient sources or cantares does not redress the Spaniards’ burning of the Indigenous amoxtli, defined as “sus pinturas en q[ue] tenían sus historias” [“their paintings in which they had their histories”] (Acuña 2017 [1986b]: 37). Intertwining a narrative that simultaneously remembers by naming and blames the conquistadors for this terrible loss, Pomar writes: [A]l tiempo q[ue] el Marqués del Valle d[on] Her[nan]do Cortés, con los demás conquistadores, entraron la primera vez en allá, q[ue] habrá sesenta y cuatro a[ñ]os, poco más o menos, se las q[ue]maron en las casas reales de Nezahualpiltzintli, en un gran aposento q[ue] era el archivo general de sus papeles, en que estaban pintadas todas sus cosas antiguas, que hoy día lloran sus descendientes con mucho sentimiento, por haber q[u]edado como a oscuras, sin noticia ni memoria de los hechos de sus pasados. (Acuña 2017 [1986b]: 37) [At the time when the Marquess of the Valley Don Hernando Cortés entered, together with the other conquistadors, for the first time, around sixty-four years ago, more or less. They burnt the paintings in the royal houses of Nezahualpiltzintli, in a grand room that was the general archive for their papers, in which all their ancient things were painted. These days their descendants mourn this loss with great sentiment, for they have been left as in darkness, with neither accounts nor memories of the events of their ancestors’ events].

It is not known whether the Spanish officials reading this passage might have accorded with Pomar that the conquistadors’ reprehensible actions had resulted in the destruction of the Indigenous cultural memory, as was still lamented by the leaders and elders who supported Pomar in the composition of this Relación. One might equally wonder whether the Spanish officials would have perceived the contradictory nature of the Council of the Indies’ current command: Pomar is informing them that Cortés and his Spanish army are at fault for eliminating the sources that would have been vital to answer López de Velasco’s questionnaire. Apart from his staunch criticism of the conquistadors, Pomar’s Relación contains another compelling passage that would not have escaped readers interested in Cortés’s deeds and the narration of events related to the conquest. In the answer to question fifteen, on governance and warfare, Pomar recounts a dialogue between Cortés and the Nahua emperor, Moctezuma. Upon Cortés’s inquiry as to why the Nahuas had not defeated his army, Moctezuma disclosed that “para la conservación del ejercicio militar y tener a mano prisioneros de valor para [el] sacrificio de sus dioses, no había convenido sujetarlos” [“for the preservation of their military exercises and in order to have at their disposal prisoners of value to be sacrificed to their gods, [he had thought] it was more convenient not to subjugate them”] (Acuña 2017 [1986b]: 68). The Nahuas’ observance of this tradition,

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which prioritized capturing prisoners for rituals and ultimately disadvantaged them against the Spaniards, has long been studied13. Pomar highlights another tradition that likewise played in the conquistadors’ favour: Moctezuma resumes that “conforme a su uso y derecho de guerra, a los q[ue] se daban y rendían no les hacían ningún mal, antes los dejaban libremente, con sola la imposición de lo q[ue] habían de tributar” [“according to their custom and law of war, they did not do any harm to those who gave themselves up and surrendered. Instead, they left them free, with only the imposition of what they had to render as tribute”] (Acuña 2017 [1986b]: 68). After the fall of Mexico-Tenochtitlan, Cortés appropriated this “custom or law of war”, understanding that other locations would render themselves peacefully because, by simply acquiescing to continue paying tributes, their inhabitants would also escape plunder and death. This capitulation without resistance, as it had occurred in former times to avoid war with the Mexicas, is mentioned in several Relaciones from Mexico. Thus, the answer to question two in the “Relación de la alcaldía mayor de las minas de Zumpango” [“Account of the major municipality of the mines of Zumpango”] (Acuña 2017 [1986b]: 133−140) (March 10, 1582) informs that: “[P]or mandado del Marqués del Valle, fue conquistada esta provincia antiguamente, juntamente cuando la ciudad de Méx[i]co; porque los viejos dicen que, ganado Méx[i]co, se dejaron rendir y sujetar” [“by order of the Marquess of the Valley, this province was conquered in ancient times, at the same time as the City of Mexico; for the elders say that, once Mexico was won, they let themselves surrender and be subjugated”] (Acuña 2017 [1986b]: 134). Similarly, the respondents of the “Relación de Teutenango” (Acuña 2017 [1986a]: 182−190) (March 12, 1582) explained that when Cortés sent an army led by Captain Martín Dorantes, their ancestors welcomed their arrival in peace and provided for them (Acuña 2017 [1986a]: 182). Out of all the Relaciones referring to the peaceful capitulation of the Indigenous peoples, two stand out due to the surplus of material on display. The first one, the “Relación del pueblo de Iguala y su distrito” [“Account of the town of Iguala and its district”] (Acuña 2017 [1985]: 220−232) (September 1579), containing seven descriptions – those of Iguala, Cocula, Tepecuacuilco, Mayanala, Ohuapa, Taxmalaca, and Izuco –, was authored and handwritten exclusively by Captain Fernando Alfonso de Estrada, Deputy Governor of Iguala and Chief Justice of Ohuapa (Acuña 2017 [1985]: 229)14. To save time, in his seven reports Estrada

 This tradition was widely practised during the ritual battles of the “guerra florida” [“flowery war”], which the Triple Alliance (Tenochtitlan, Texcoco, and Tlacopan) waged with city-states like Tlaxcala up until the arrival of the Spaniards. On this, see Hassig (1988).  Captain Estrada is not related to Cacica Estrada. Acuña entertains the possibility that he was a descendant of the tesorero (custodian) Alonso de Estrada, who arrived in New Spain in 1524 (2017 [1985]: 219).

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answers question two in a repetitive fashion, copying verbatim the sentences “diéronse de paz” [“they made peace with each other”] or “fueron dados de paz” [“they rendered themselves in peace”] (Acuña 2017 [1985]: 222−229). He also names the conquistadors who became the first encomenderos, or holders of a royal grant of Indigenous tribute, of those towns. Thus, he adds that Iguala was granted in encomienda to Maese de campo (Colonel) Gonzalo de Sandoval; Cocula to Gonzalo Cerezo; Maynala and Taxmalaca to Juan de Cisneros; Ohuapa to Martín de Ircio; and Izuco to a conquistador bearing the surname of Burguillos (Acuña 2017 [1985]: 222−229). The presence of this information is also indicative of Estrada’s personal handling of the official commission. Contrary to Pomar’s “Relación de Texcoco”, which prioritizes Indigenous sources and therefore abounds in Indigenous data, Estrada takes full authority of the task, aware that it constitutes a unique chance to underpin his position as a member of the colonial elite and to communicate with the Spanish officials at the Council of the Indies. Oblivious to the guidelines of brevity, clarity, and pertinence, he does not begin his Relación with a short paragraph consisting of the date and the names of the participants. Instead, he, as the sole author, attempts to become the center of attention in a long, flamboyant foreword that situates him in an extraordinary historical moment, nothing less than: “[e]n los felicísimos tiempos de n[uest]ro gran monarca, rey y señor don Felipe, segundo sin segundo [. . .] predominador de todos los potentados del mundo, ansí de Asia como de Africa y [E]uropa, conservador univeral de las naciones” [“in the happiest times of our great monarch, king and lord Don Philip, the second but second to none [. . .], predominant amongst all the potentates of the world, in Asia as well as in Africa and Europe, universal preserver of nations”] (Acuña 2017 [1985]: 220). Likewise, in his closing paragraph, where most Relaciones only refer to the participants, Estrada boasts about the colonial authorities with whom he is familiar. He stresses that the completion of his report occurs during the reign of “el muy ex[celente] señor” [“the most excellent lord”] Viceroy Don Martín Enríquez and continues with an exhaustive list of his acquaintances and their highranking occupations. These include: the oidores de la Audiencia Real (the judges at the Royal High Court), Dr. Farfán, Dr. Lope de Miranda, Dr. Cárcamo de Valdés and Dr. Arévalo Sedeño; the alcaldes de Corte (judges at the Palace Court), Dr. Robles and Dr. Santiago de Vera; and the oficiales de la Real Hacienda (officials at the Royal Treasury), that is, Governor and Chief Magistrate Melchor de Legazpi, Chief Judicial Officer and Royal Tax Collector Martín de Irigoyen, and Treasurer Ruy Díaz de Mendoza (Acuña 2017 [1985]: 229). A similar approach prevails in some of Estrada’s replies to question two. He does not limit himself to naming the encomenderos; he also alludes to the members of the colonial elite with whom he rubs shoulders, possibly not so much as

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credentials to authenticate his report, but to place himself in that same milieu. Furnishing a briefing note about high society, Estrada paints a portrait of their genealogy, whom they had married, whether they had children or not, and what status or official roles they held in the colony. For instance, in the “Relación de Ohuapa”, this is what he reports knowing about the conquistador and encomendero Martín de Ircio and his family: [Ircio] fue paje del marqués don Fernando Cortés; casó con doña María de Mendoza, hi[j]a del visorrey desta Nueva España, don Antonio de Mendoza [. . .]. Hubieron por hijos a doña María de Ircio, que casó con el muy buen caballero don Luis de Velasco, hijo del ex[celente] señor don Luis de Velasco [. . .] que al p[re]sente posee los d[ic]hos indios. Tiene un hijo llamado don Fran[cis]co de Velasco, [d]igno caballero de la orden de Santiago, como su padre q[ue e]s casado con hija de Diego de Ibarra, caballero del mismo hábito. (Acuña 2017 [1985]: 226) [Ircio] was Don Fernando Cortés’s page; he married Doña María de Mendoza, daughter of the Viceroy of this New Spain, Don Antonio de Mendoza [. . .]. They had, as children, Doña María de Ircio, who married the very good gentleman Don Luis de Velasco, son of the excellent lord Don Luis de Velasco [. . .], who currently possesses said Indians [of Ohuapa]. [Velasco, the son,] has a son named Don Francisco de Velasco, who is a worthy knight of the Order of Santiago like his father, and who is married to a daughter of Diego de Ibarra].

Estrada is equally knowledgeable about some Indigenous leaders and Mestizos, for he claims that, in Tepecuacuilco, the most direct descendant of the Indigenous elite is a young man named Don Alonso de Santiago, who is married to the daughter of the Governor Don Francisco González. He also notes that, in Izuco all natural lords have passed away with the exception of Doña Cristina, who is married to a Mestizo, Juan Gutiérrez (Acuña 2017 [1985]: 225−229). This diligent incorporation of details about distinguished personalities is also present in the answer to question two of the “Relación de Ocopetlayucan” (Acuña 2017 [1986a]: 55−61) (October 6, 1580), but here the notable figures are neither Spaniards nor contemporary Indigenous or Mestizo members of the elite. Abiding by the official instruction, the corregidor Juan de la Vega summoned several Indigenous leaders, such as the Governor Don Gregorio de Tejada, the alcalde (judge) Don Juan de Gaona, and other principales of the region, such as Alonso de Herrera, Antonio de Sandoval, and Miguel de San Juan (Acuña 2017 [1986a]: 55). In answering question two, Vega did not produce a brief reply and permitted the respondents to declare through an interpreter, Francisco Hernández, the following: [D]ijeron que ninguna persona los vino a descubrir ni conquistar a este d[ic]ho pueblo, porque, al t[iemp]o que el marqués entró conquistando esta Nueva España, viniendo en el paraje y ciudad de Cholula, el cacique deste d[ic]ho pueblo [. . .] envió dos indios [. . .], los

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cuales fueron al marqués y le dijeron que ellos se venían a ofrecer a su servi[ci]o y que viese lo que era servido. Y que el marqués les preg[un]tó que en qué tierra estaban, y, sabido por el marqués, les dijo que se holgasen y se volviesen a su pueblo, que no había de ir por él por ser tierra áspera y de muchas quebradas [. . .]. Y esto pasó el año [en] que el marqués ganó esta tierra, y, después, el cacique y principales deste d[ic]ho pueblo acudían al servicio del marqués, a lo que se les mandaba. (Acuña 2017 [1986a]: 55) [They said that no one came to discover or conquer them in this said town because at the time that the Marquess entered conquering this New Spain, arriving in the region and the city of Cholula, the cacique of said town [. . .] sent two Indians [. . .], who went to the Marquess and said that they were coming to offer their services and so that he could see that he was served. And the Marquess asked them what land they were in, and once the Marquess knew, he told them to rest and to return to their town, that he would not go there because it was a rugged land and had many gorges [. . .]. And this happened in the year in which the Marquess won this land and, after this, the cacique and principales of this said town would go to pay services to the Marquess, to do whatever he requested].

Upon scrutinizing this passage, the Spanish officials would have remarked that the conquistadors did not venture into inhospitable territories when it was not worth the effort − the people of Ocopetlayucan posed no resistance −, but other comments might have caught their attention. If the officials anticipated reading of allusions to Cortés, to another conqueror sent by him, and to a peaceful surrender, like in other Relaciones, the rest of the answer voiced by the Indigenous leaders might have left them perplexed. They spoke about a former ruler, “Tecpanecatl chichtli”, who was later baptized as “Don Miguel”, and about two ambassadors who had belonged to the military elite: Tecpanecatl totec, que, en castellano, es que tenía, al lado derecho de la cabeza, el cabello largo hasta la cinta, y la otra mitad, del izquierdo, quitado; que era insignia y apellido de capitán valiente; y el compañero se llamaba Cuixcocatl, que quiere decir en lengua castellana “hombre alcoholado”, y tomó este apellido de haber muerto en la guerra de entre ellos [a] otro alcoholado, que era señal de valiente [. . .]. (Acuña 2017 [1986a]: 55) [Tecpanecatl totec, which in Castilian means the one who had, on the right-hand side of his head, long hair down to his waist and on the other half, on the left, was hairless; this was a sign and a name of a brave captain. And his companion was named Cuixcocatl, which means in the Castilian language alcoholado [a man with the surrounding of his eyes painted in black], who took this name after having killed, in war between themselves, another man who was alcoholado, which is a sign of bravery].

Contrary to the participants of other Relaciones, for whom question two demanded specific facts and names of Spaniards who had been the “discoverers” and conquerors, the Indigenous respondents of the “Relación de Ocopetlayucan” saw the need to explain why they had been neither discovered nor conquered and in the process inserted supplemental details on Indigenous military appearance, code, and symbols.

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This passage rightly proves McDonough’s argument that the manner in which question two was formulated in Spain – bereft of a clear phrase indicating that the only valid answers were “discoverers” and conquerors of Spanish origin – opened the door to different interpretations (McDonough 2021: 401). In this “Relación de Ocopetlayucan” the respondents believed, or took the liberty to believe, that they could merge a reply that would please the Spanish authorities, in this case the arrival of Cortés in neighboring Cholula, with an account about their own ancestors. In the “Relación de Tepeapulco” (Acuña 2017 [1986a]: 114−123) (April 15, 1581), the Indigenous respondents went a step further in that question two was misunderstood altogether (McDonough 2021: 401). As in other locations, the corregidor Don Juan López Cacho arranged for the Indigenous principales to be convened. Once again, in an attempt to certify the authenticity of its contents, the preface records them as a strong group: the Governor Don Baltasar de Santamaría, the judges Don Lorenzo de San Juan and Juan Maldonado, and other influential men, including Don Francisco de San Juan, Don Jacobo Aleazaro Mendoza, Don Francisco Elías, Don Hernando de Tejeda, Don Juan de Alameda, Marcos Vázquez, Diego Flores, Tomás de Aquino, Baltasar Juárez, Martín Méndez, and Miguel de Suero (Acuña 2017 [1986a]: 114). All of them agreed on this response: A este capítulo, respondieron que [fueron] cuatro indios principales chichimecos, que por nombre se llamaban, el uno Tlecolistle, y el otro, Chalotle, y el otro Epcoatle, y el otro, Tespotle, y que no saben por cuyo mandado se pobló, mas que, buscando tierras donde poblar, hicieron asiento aquí; y [que], esto que tienen dicho en esta pregunta, lo oyeron a sus antepasados, y que no fue por guerra [. . .]. (Acuña 2017 [1986a]: 114) [To this chapter, they answered that [there were] four Indian Chichimeca leaders, who were called, one Tlecolistle, and the other Chalotle, and the other Epcoatle, and the other Tespotle. And they do not know under which rule the land was populated, only that, seeking lands to populate, they settled down here. And what has been said to this question they learnt it from their ancestors, and that there was no war].

This omission of references to the Spanish conquest in the answer to question two and, conversely, the recognition of the Chichimeca as ancestors, first settlers, and founders, is not an exception found only in the “Relación de Tepeapulco”15. In the “Relación del pueblo de Atlitlalaquia” (Acuña 2017 [1985]: 36−42) (February 22, 1580)

 Chichimeca was a term applied to Indigenous groups who came from the north to settle in central Mexico in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Originally nomadic hunters and gatherers, they eventually adopted sedentary habits. Colonial sources and academic studies tend to label them as uncivilized barbarians. On this, see Navarrete Linares’s valuable work (Navarrete Linares 2011).

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several Indigenous governors, including Don Gabriel de la Corona and Don Domingo de Rojas, responded that: La noticia que se tiene de los fundadores deste pueblo es, aun para los naturales, inmemorial. Todos concluyen en que son chichimecas, venidos de fuera parte a poblar aquí [. . .]. Generalmente, se precian los indios desta jurisdicción [de] venir destos chichimecas. Los reyes y señores de México conquistaron esta tierra, donde este pu[ebl]o de Atlitlalaquia, y los demás desta jurisdicción, están asentados. (Acuña 2017 [1985]: 36−37) [The news that they have about the founders of this town is, even for the locals, immemorial. They all conclude that they are Chichimeca, hailing from elsewhere to settle here [. . .]. Generally, the Indians of this jurisdiction pride themselves as descendants of the Chichimeca. The kings and lords of Mexico conquered this land, where this town of Atlitlalaquia, and the other ones of this jurisdiction, are located].

It could be argued that the informants in Atlitlalaquia and Tepeapulco called the tune, interpreting what they were asked as an occasion to render homage to their own Indigenous ancestry, perhaps deliberately shadowing the conquistadors. As tempting as this possibility is, there are other explanations, including the interpreter’s or the Spaniards’ incorrect reading of question two. A salient example appears in the “Relaciones hechas en el pueblo de Coatepec, y en los pueblos de Chimalhuacan y Chicoaloapan” [“Accounts made in the town of Coatepec and in the towns of Chimalhuacan and Chicoaloapan”] (Acuña 2017 [1985]: 82−116) (November 16, 1579). The preface tells us that the comendador (commander) and corregidor Cristóbal de Salazar appointed the Spanish interpreter and escribano Francisco de Villacastín to interrogate a group of principales (Acuña 2017 [1985]: 84), and the report leaves no doubt that Villacastín inquired about their ancestors, not about the conquistadors. Satisfied with their reply, Villacastín eventually writes in the “Relación de Coatepec”: [S]egún los viejos antiguos, los primeros fundadores deste dicho pueblo de Coatepec fueron los tres caciques hermanos (que el primero y el mayor dellos se decía Totomihua Chichimecatl, y el segundo, Aculhua, y el tercero Acatonal) y su gente, los cuales fueron [ad]venedizos. Su origen no se sabe dónde sea, más de que, por las d[ic]has pinturas antiguas que tienen en el pueblo los naturales dél, que les dejaron sus ancianos y pasados, se dice haber venido de muy lejos tierras, que, según se tiene noticia por las d[ic]has pinturas, se dice Chichimecapa[n] Chicome Oztoc, que en la lengua castellana quiere decir “siete cuevas” [. . .]. (Acuña 2017 [1985]: 84−85) [According to the old, experienced men, the first founders of this said town of Coatepec were three brothers who were caciques, (the first and eldest of whom was called Totomihua Chichimecatl, and the second Aculhua, and the third Acatonal), and their people, who were foreigners. Of their origins not much is known, other than, from the old paintings that the locals of the town have, which their elders and ancestors left them, they are said to have come from very far-away lands. According to their paintings, [this land] is called Chichimecapan Chicome Oztoc, which in the Castilian language means “seven caves”].

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The previous quote lays bare a curious observation regarding terminology. Villacastín’s text does not describe the Chichimeca as “conquerors” or “discoverers” of the land; it speaks of “founders”, which is the term also used in the “Relación del pueblo de Atlitlalaquia”, produced under the supervision of the Spanish corregidor Valentín de Jaso. Both accounts were the final written translation into Spanish of the respondents’ answers in Nahuatl. Faced with the impossibility of knowing the exact words they pronounced in their original language, it is still remarkable to find that the writers of each final document – without connection between themselves, in separate locations and different times – chose to label the Chichimeca as “founders”. We can presume that the respondents respected them as the forefathers, as the forefathers who had travelled from remote territories to settle where they were now living. Interestingly, the respondents in the “Relación de Tepeapulco” clarified that, upon the arrival of the Chichimeca, when Tepeapulco was founded, “no fue por guerra” [“there was no war”] (Acuña 2017 [1986a]: 114), while in the “Relación del pueblo de Atlitlalaquia” they made clear that “los reyes y señores de México conquistaron esta tierra” [“the kings and lords of Mexico conquered this land”] (Acuña 2017 [1985]: 37). It is not known whether the Indigenous leaders of Atlitlalaquia, holding their Chichimeca ancestry in esteem, wished to express discontent with their former Nahua rulers or were simply stating a matter of fact. What remains of significance is that the respondents were offered the chance, or seized it, to speak about their history and about their relationship with other Indigenous conquerors. The response to question two in the town of Coatepec is an epitome of this. Immediately after translating “Chichimecapa[n] Chicome Oztoc” as “seven caves”, the Indigenous leaders decided that it was pertinent to explain to Villacastín that the phrase, literally meaning the seven caves of the land of the Chichimeca, was not the original one in the Chichimeca language, but its translation into Nahuatl. Their true ancestors had once spoken only Chichimeca, and they did so for many years, until the Mexica settled there and it was replaced by the Mexican language (Acuña 2017 [1985]: 84−85).

Conclusion Bringing this chapter to closure, the last three Relaciones of Tepeapulco, Atlitlalaquia, and Coatepec illustrate that the attitude adopted by the corregidores and escribanos, who were entrusted with their composition, together with the agency that the Indigenous informants held or were permitted during the interrogation process, resulted in responses that failed to answer question two “correctly”. The Spanish officials at the Council of the Indies would have been prepared to glean

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the names of Spanish “discoverers” and conquistadors from these Relaciones. Instead, they came across stories of Chichimeca founders and translations of Indigenous phrases that might have been immediately disregarded. In line with this volume, these answers show that relating continents in this fashion – specifically, the creation, in Spain, of a questionnaire and of instructions on how to conduct a survey in New Spain to garner information about Spanish discoverers and conquistadors, among other topics – brings to light a disconnect between them. On other occasions, nonetheless, the “encounters” between Spanish authorities and Indigenous leaders and old, knowledgeable men proved successful. As this chapter has demonstrated, Spanish officials on the other side of the Atlantic could learn that the “Marqués del Valle” was widely recognized as the main conquistador, and that to subdue various regions he sent conquistadors whose names appear in connection with the first encomiendas. In addition, sometimes waging wars was unnecessary because the Indigenous peoples surrendered themselves peacefully to conquistadors, whose names are also duly noted. For readers of the Relaciones these days, every answer is useful in its own right, furnishing an overview of stories and historical figures and, in some cases, carrying an implicit message for authorities in Spain or New Spain. Thus, an examination based on the quality of the answers, in particular of the long and superficially irrelevant responses, has exposed that authors who acted as recorders, and authors who acted as respondents, utilized question two to position their own interests. Possibly addressing the Spanish officials as eventual readers of their accounts, they were seeking to elevate their status in front of their community. By way of example, in his “Relación del pueblo de Iguala y su distrito” Captain Estrada expanded on his knowledge of genealogies, locating himself in the upper colonial elite. Likewise, the numerous Indigenous leaders summoned for the “Relación de Ocopetlayucan”, including governors, judges, and many other influential men of the province, contended that they had not been discovered, let alone conquered. In their exchange of knowledge about the arrival of the Spaniards, they connected their narrative with that of the Spanish conquest, leaving a written legacy of their ancestors and their military symbols. As the evidence presented in this chapter suggests, spatial distance and in-person collection of answers in New Spain, detached from the direct supervision of Spanish officials who otherwise would have undoubtedly censured unrequired data, created the right conditions for the articulation of replies in which, if only at times, ancient Indigenous leaders and founders shared space with Spanish “discoverers” and conquistadors.

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Pardo-Tomás, José (eds.): Medical Cultures in the Early Modern Spanish Empire. Farnham: Ashgate, pp. 41–65. Restall, Matthew (2018): When Montezuma Met Cortés: The True Story of the Meeting that Changed History. New York: Harper Collins. Sacchi, Duccio (2000): “Gathering, Organization, and Production of Information in Sixteenth-Century Surveys in Hispanic America”. In: Review (Fernand Braudel Center), 23, 2, pp. 293–308. Schwaller, John F. (2013): “Alcalde vs. Mayor: Translating the Colonial World”. In: The Americas, 69, 3, pp. 391–400. Solano, Francisco de (ed.) (1988a): “Cédula, instrucción y memoria para la formación de las relaciones y descripciones de los pueblos de Indias”. In: Solano, Francisco de/Ponce, Pilar (eds.): Cuestionarios para la formación de las Relaciones Geográficas de Indias, siglos XVI–XIX. Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigationes Científicas, pp. 79–87. —— (ed.) (1988b): “Ordenanzas para la formación del Libro de las Descripciones de las Indias. San Lorenzo de El Escorial, 3 de julio de 1573.” In: Solano, Francisco de/Ponce, Pilar (eds.): Cuestionarios para la formación de las Relaciones Geográficas de Indias, siglos XVI–XIX. Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigationes Científicas, pp. 16–74. —— (1988c): “Significación y tipología de los cuestionarios de Indias”. In: Solano, Francisco de/ Ponce, Pilar (eds.): Cuestionarios para la formación de las Relaciones Geográficas de Indias, siglos XVI–XIX. Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigationes Científicas, pp. xvii–xxvii. Stoll, Eva (2019): “La voz indígena en Relaciones geográficas del siglo XVI”. In: Cuadernos de la ALFAL, 11, 1, pp. 216–230. Tapia, Andrés de (1866) [ca. 1539]: “Relación de algunas cosas de las que acaecieron al muy ilustre señor don Hernando Cortés, Marqués del Valle, desde que se determinó ir a descubrir tierra en la Tierra Firme del mar Océano”. In: García Icazbalceta, Joaquín: Colección de documentos para la historia de México II. Mexico City: Librería de J. M. Andrade, pp. 554–594. Thomas, Hugh (2001): Quién es quién de los conquistadores. Barcelona: Salvat.

Native Agencies

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Encounters between Indigenous Communities and Vásquez de Coronado’s Expedition to the Northern Part of New Spain according to Pedro Castañeda Nájera’s Relación de la Jornada de Cibola Pedro Castañeda Nájera penned his Relación de la jornada de Cíbola in the early 1560s, around twenty years after the conclusion of Vásquez de Coronado’s expedition in 1542. However, the earliest available copy of his text, produced by an escribano in Seville named Bartolomé Niño Velásquez (Flint/Flint 2005: 382), was completed in 15961. More than two centuries later, in 1838, the manuscript was translated into French and published in Paris by Henry Ternaux-Compans, who at the time stated that it was in the collection of the Spanish bureaucrat and collector Antonio de Uguina (Ternaux-Compans 1838: iii–iv). In the 1840s, the American collector Obadiah Rich acquired the manuscript, after which it passed to the John Lennox collection, later to be deposited in the New York Public Library in 1897 (Brownrigg 1978: vii, 62). The year before, the American librarian and author George Parker Winship published a transcription and translation into English of the text; in his own words, he tried to offer a more accurate version that by Ternaux-Compans almost sixty years prior (Winship 1896: 413). His translation was reprinted several times in the United States during the twentieth century as interest in American Southwest studies grew and scholars focusing on this area recognized the foundational importance of Vásquez de Coronado’s expedition – the first Spanish exploration organized from New Spain into what is known today as the Southwestern United States; Castañeda Nájera’s Relación therefore became one of their main sources of information (Flint/Flint 2013: 49–53). In 1992, Carmen de Mora published a new transcription in Spanish of the manuscript (Castañeda Nájera 1992), to which James Craddock published a series of grammatical and lexical comments in 2010. In 2005, Richard Flint and Shirley Cushing Flint offered a new transcription of the Spanish and a translation into English (Castañeda Nájera 2005) along with a set of documents related to the Coronado expedition (Flint/Flint 2005). More recently, in 2017, Sonia Kania, Cynthia  This manuscript (Castañeda Nájera 1596) is available online. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110796308-009

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Kauffeld, and Israel Sanz-Sánchez published a new online transcription and concordance on the website of the Hispanic Seminary of Medieval Studies, offering what they consider “a new, linguistically faithful transcription” (Kania/Kauffeld/ Sanz-Sánchez 2017: 2). Currently, the manuscript of Castañeda Nájera’s Relación is in the New York Public library as a part of the Obadiah Rich Collection (Mss. Col 2570, no. 63), and is also available online. In addition to the complex history of the various appropriations of the manuscript, the Relación de la jornada de Cíbola has been the subject of abundant and outstanding scholarship. As mentioned, librarians, historians, and archeologists have considered this text as a fundamental source for the reconstruction of the events related to Vásquez de Coronado’s expedition. Some studies have connected Castañeda Nájera’s Relación with legal documents from the sixteenth century, and in particular, with documents related to the Vásquez de Coronado expedition (Flint/Flint 2005: 378–383; Flint 2008: 17). Other studies have focused on the effort to identity and clarify the route of Vásquez de Coronado’s expedition, using Castañeda Nájera’s text as one of their main sources (Flint/Flint 1997; Flint/Flint 2011: 105–422). More recently, scholars have highlighted the linguistic aspects of the text, advancing a more reliable and consistent transcription of the manuscript (Craddock 2010; Kania/Kauffeld/Sanz-Sánchez 2017), while others have analyzed its use of Indigenous vocabulary (Giménez-Eguíbar/Kania 2021). At the beginning of the 2010s, a particularly compelling line of scholarship was developed on the sixteenth-century Spanish explorations, usually called entradas, in the American Southwest and Southeast. Scholars such as Clay Mathers, Jeffrey Mitchem, and Charles Haecker emphasized the need for recognizing the existence of changing interactions between diverse groups during those entradas (Mathers/Mitchem/Haecker 2013), the multiple factors that affected those changing interactions (Mathers/Mitchem 2013: 2; Flint/Flint 2013: 52), and the relevance of Native perspectives in the understanding of events and texts produced during those events (Dongoske/Dongoske 2013: 33–35). Following a similar line, Dennis Herrick published a historical novel and a territorial description that focused on the perspective of the Pueblo communities during the events related to Vásquez de Coronado’s expedition, specifically during the Tiguex War, a conflict between the expedition and Indigenous communities in modern central New Mexico during the winter of 1540–1541 (Herrick 2013, 2016). Advancing in the direction of these last aforementioned scholars, this chapter proposes a reading of Castañeda Nájera’s Relación that examines the encounters between Vásquez de Coronado’s expedition and the Indigenous communities documented in the manuscript in terms of a confrontation between a conception of the land as territory to cross and exploit, on the one hand, and as a place to live, on the other. I argue that the conflict between these two conceptions was the reason for the failure of Vásquez de Coronado’s expedition, and twenty years later, for a

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reconsideration in Castañeda Nájera’s Relación about the expectations related to the Tierra Nueva [New Land], the term that he frequently uses to designate the territory that the expedition explored. To make this argument plausible, I will discuss, first, a conception of land as manifest in two Indigenous origin myths, as well as in narrations from the Pueblo people in New Mexico; and secondly, the mapping of the Tierra Nueva that Castañeda Nájera proposes in his Relación, along with the contrasts between that mapping and the Indigenous perception of the land.

Indigenous Conceptions of their Origins and the Land In March 2018, I had the opportunity to visit Acoma Pueblo and some other Native American pueblos located in the current US state of New Mexico. Acoma Pueblo, a village on a rocky hill, is one of the most emblematic places for the Indigenous communities living in New Mexico. Its current habitants proudly declare that they and their ancestors have lived in this territory for nearly one thousand years (Sky City Cultural Center, n.y.; Acoma Videos n.y./a, min. 0:39–0:42) – a claim supported by archaeological research demonstrating that Acoma mesa has been inhabited for at least eight hundred years (Garcia-Mason 1979: 452–453; Ruppé 1990: 191, 228). This long history of territorial tenure is outstanding given the exterminations, forced migrations, and cultural erasures that European conquest and colonization perpetuated on many Amerindian populations since the beginning of the sixteenth century. According to the narrative that the Acoma Community offers in videos posted in the Sky City Cultural Center & Haak’u Museum website, this long tenure has been possible due to the group’s connection to the land, as well as their ability to maintain their identity over many generations, through the complex and at many times traumatic encounters with other Indigenous groups, Spanish explorers, conquistadores, and missionaries from the sixteenth through the nineteenth century, and furthermore, with the US colonizers and authorities from the nineteenth century to the present day. In their own words, “Since the first European contact, Acoma people have been forced to adapt in order to survive. They have woven Spanish, Mexican, and American influences and culture into their lives” (Sky City Cultural Center, n.y.; Acoma Videos n.y./b, min. 2:25–2:37). Simón Ortiz, Lieutenant Governor of Acoma from 1969 to 1990, expressed this connection in the following terms: All the traditions that I’m familiar with, whether they being dramatic rituals, anecdotal historical narratives, cycles or specific incidents in history, speak about a source: where people

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came from. Wherever it all began, when elements came together there was fire, there was water, there was earth. When people recognize this beginning it gives them a significance. Land is the source of physical and spiritual life. People reaffirm their relationship to the land by telling of this relationship, making the telling their document for owning, protecting, or fighting for it. Never a moment, never a day passes by without telling something about the land. And not only how to plant it, not only its spiritual and religious nature, but giving it a political nature too. That’s what oral tradition does. It constantly reaffirms, it constantly gives substance to our development. (Ortiz in Minge 1991: 164, emphasis added)

This connection of the Acomas with the land is also discussed in another narration that a chief informant from Acoma shared with the ethnologist and archeologist Matthew Stirling in 1928 in Washington, D.C. With some minor modifications, the narration collected by Stirling was included in the history of the Acoma that Ward Alan Minge originally published in 1976, and in a revised edition of 1991, with the support and authorization of the members of the community (Minge 1991: xiii–xiv). According to this “Origin Myth”, in the beginning two women were born underground in a place called Shipapu (Stirling 1942: 1). These two women could not see, and they grew slowly due to the absence of light. However, when they grew enough to be able to think for themselves, they began to communicate with a spirit called Tsichtinako who told them that eventually they could abandon the underground. The spirit also gave each of them a basket containing seeds of many plants and images of many animals. The narration then discusses how the two women acquired their names, Iatiku and Nautsiti. They learned from Tsichtinako how to bring to life the seeds and images of animals that they found in the baskets using their voices. With the help of those plants and animals, which opened a hole in the land, the two women were able to come to the surface, sustaining themselves by sowing the plants, feeding the animals, and producing the mountains that they and their clans needed to live (Stirling 1942: 1–10). Even though Stirling’s report is written in English, his record of the origin myth includes a significant amount of words in Keresan – the language spoken by Acoma and Laguna Pueblo in New Mexico – to name animals, plants, and mountains that are common in this region. The myth describes a sequence of persistent growth and expansion in the four cardinal directions, in which the sunrise, the plants (particularly corn), and the animals are fundamental elements organizing the land in which the Acomas live. Toward the end of the narrative, Tscichtinako tells Iatiku and Nautsiti, “Now that you have your mountains around you with your plains, mesas, and canyons, you must take the growing things to those places” (Stirling 1942: 8), inviting them to continue the process of populating the land with plants and animals. Interestingly, there is no mention of metals in this Keresan narrative about the origin of the Acomas, even though the underground is a key spatial

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layer throughout the text. It is rather the cultivation of the plant species of the region and hunting that are relevant for the Acomas in this myth. More recently, in Pueblos, Spaniards, and the Kingdom of New Mexico, historian John Kessell offers what he calls a “Paraphrase of a Tewa Pueblo Indian Creation Story”, recounting a creation myth in the Tewa language spoken in some pueblos northeast of Acoma in the proximity of Santa Fe (Kessell 2008: 7–8). This story allows us to identify certain enduring ideas about the relationship between humans and the land among the Pueblo people of New Mexico. According to this creation myth, the Tewas used to live beneath the surface of Sandy Place Lake; a petition by the mothers of summer and winter (named Blue Corn Woman and White Corn Maiden) allowed a man to find an exit to the surface, where he saw that the world was “hazy and unfit” (Kessell 2008: 7). With the help of several animals as well as the mothers of summer and winter, the man found a way to survive and live in the world, becoming the first Tewa Made person on earth, who was called Mountain Lion or Hunt chief. Using corn, he created Summer and Winter chiefs. They were the second and third Tewa Made people in the world, and they asked for six pairs of brothers to explore the earth in the four cardinal directions and above and below (Kessell 2008: 7). Five of those six pairs of brothers found that the earth was “soft”, and therefore inhabitable for the Tewas who used to live under the lake. However, the sixth pair found harder earth and a rainbow, so under the leadership of the Summer and Winter chiefs, people came out, leaving behind the original corn mothers, other gods, and predator animals and birds (Kessell 2008: 8). While moving southward, many people got sick and they had to return to live under the lake once again. There, the Hunt chief discovered “a corn mother full of pebbles, ashes, and cactus spines, sure omens that witchcraft, evil, and death were afoot” (Kessel 2008: 8). He replaced these nonedible things with seeds, and entrusted the people’s health to a medicine man. Three more times the people tried to emerge from the ground but failed. Before the final attempt to send the people out, the Hunt chief split them into two groups. He sent “the gathering and farming Summer People” to the west side of the Rio Grande, and the “hunting Winter People” to its east side. Each group established eleven settlements on either side of the river. At their twelfth and last stop, in a place now called Ojo Caliente, Posii in the Tewa language (Parmentier 1979: 609), both groups got together and built a town that was long a prosperous settlement. However, “dislodged by an epidemic, six groups, each one containing Summer and Winter and the necessary Made people, came to found six Tewa

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pueblos we know today” (Kessel 2008: 8)2. Like in the Keresan narration, there is no mention of metals in this Tewa creation myth. Plants and animals play a fundamental role in the initial organization of reality; human beings emerge from the underground, and after several attempts, they are able to survive and thrive on the dry surface of the earth. This absence of references to metals establishes a strong contrast with the priority that, according to Castañeda Nájera’s Relación, Vásquez de Coronado gave to the search of precious metals as main if not unique reason that motivates his expedition. I visited Acoma and other pueblos in New Mexico and read about the origins of these settlements because I had previously read the Relación de la jornada de Cíbola by Pedro de Castañeda Nájera. By visiting the pueblos in New Mexico and reading these narrations, I wanted to acquire contextual information about the chronicle, and more specifically, about the land – the Tierra Nueva that Castañeda Nájera describes profusely in his Relación. However, it soon became clear that instead of a context, these narrations offer a way of perceiving and describing the land which is very different from the one that Castañeda Nájera offers in his text. These two conceptions of the land describe it either as a place in which living beings, including humans, emerge from under ground and engage in diverse ways of life through their interaction with animals, plants, and sunlight; or, in Castañeda Nájera’s Relación, as a territory of promise, deception, and passage toward another place. The visit to New Mexico and the reading of Keresan and Tewa creation myths, and more specifically about the connection between human beings and the land, motivated me to revisit Castañeda Nájera’s text to think about how his Relación offers a cartography of the land, as well as to consider the limitations of that cartography in relationship with an Indigenous conception of the territory.

Castañeda Nájera’s Relación as a Record of the Land According to the concordance that Kania, Kauffeld, and Sanz-Sánchez made for Castañeda Nájera’s Relación, the most frequently used noun in the text is “tierra” (“land”) (Kania/Kauffeld/Sanz-Sánchez 2017: n.p.). It appears 214 times in singular form and 14 times in plural form, mostly designating the territory explored by

 In The Tewa World: Space, Time, Being, and Becoming in a Pueblo City, Alfonso Ortiz offers a lengthy analysis of this narration, emphasizing how this way of conceiving the beginning of the Tewa defines how they organized society (Ortiz 1969: 13–28).

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Vásquez de Coronado’s expedition. In the “Proemio” of his Relación, Castañeda Nájera emphasizes the cartographic aspects of his text. Even though his main purpose is to narrate the events related to Vásquez de Coronado’s expedition to the area north of New Spain, he makes explicit that the description of the territory covered by the expedition is a fundamental part of his account. At this point, Castañeda Nájera shares the aim that Hernán Cortés expresses in his Cartas [Letters] to produce what Ricardo Padrón has characterized as a “discursive cartography” in which the text functions as a narration of events but also as a description of the land (Padrón 2004: 92–116). As mentioned before, Castañeda Nájera designates this land as “Cíbola” or Tierra Nueva (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 1r–1v, 2005: 384)3. He states that he has decided to write an account of this expedition around 1562 – twenty years after the events have passed – because he had been asked several times about the land by others who had received misinformation from other sources. Therefore, he introduces himself as an experienced, well-informed witness and writer who intends to clarify the imprecise information that some people have spread about the Tierra Nueva. Specifically, he wants to examine three beliefs (“nobelas”) about this territory: (1) Some people believe that it is inhabitable, an idea that Castañeda Nájera aims to at least partially challenge; (2) Other people consider that it is contiguous with Florida and Greater India, or “India mayor” in his own words, which he considers plausible. “India mayor” is the name that he assigns to the territory that earlier European travelers such as Marco Polo, Odorico de Pordenone, and Niccolò dei Conti visited and wrote about; it is also the name of the territory that first Columbus and later Cortés were seeking in their westward nagivations. Finally, (3) in his Relación, Castañeda Nájera discusses whether it is possible to find strange animals in the “tierra nueva”, an issue that he addresses by focusing mostly on what we know today as the bison (“animales bien remotos”, Castañeda Nájera 2019: 2v, 2005: 385). Therefore, from the very beginning, Castañeda Nájera makes clear that cartography is his main purpose for writing the text, and not the mere narration of events related to Vásquez de Coronado’s expedition. Richard Flint and Shirley Cushing Flint consider that Castañeda Nájera wrote his Relación as a way to persuade oidor (appellate judge in the Real Audiencia, the main juridical authority of New Spain) Alonso de Zorita in New Spain that he, Castañeda Nájera, had the knowledge to lead a new expedition to the north of New Spain – at a moment when silver mining operations in Zacatecas were inspiring the search for new places to extract this metal (Flint/Flint 2005: 379–380).

 In this chapter, I use the transcription of the Spanish text edited by Kania, Kauffeld, and SanzSánchez (Castañeda Nájera 2019) and the English translation by Flint and Flint (Castañeda Nájera 2005).

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In addition, Castañeda Nájera believes that, for many people, the direction in which the provincias of Cibola are located and the specific customs of the Indigenous groups in the region are unclear (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 2v, 2005: 385). This interest in the description of the populations that live on the land is a common feature that this Relación shares with other texts such as Cortés’s Cartas and Cabeza de Vaca’s Relación as Spanish authorities wanted to learn about the Indigenous peoples. Castañeda Nájera is well aware of this, to the point that he specifically dedicates the whole second part of his Relación to this topic. However, the most important issue for Castañeda Nájera is to demonstrate that Cibola is a habitable place for Spanish colonizers (“Buena tierra que poblar”, Castañeda Nájera 2019: 5 v), and that it is the route toward the Greater India that Columbus and Cortés had previously sought, and which Castañeda Nájera considers to be connected with New Spain through the Tierra Nueva that Vásquez de Coronado partially explored during his expedition (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 96r; 116r–117r, 2005: 414; 421–422). In that sense, Castañeda Nájera abandons the dream to find the Seven Cities of Gold, an idea that had been fundamental for the organization of Vásquez de Coronado’s expedition twenty years before. In an analysis of Castañeda Nájera’s Relación, Maureen Ahern characterizes this emphasis on the description of the territory in the following terms: “On the northern frontier of New Spain, the relation or written report preceded the map, assuming a normative role in establishing a spatial order for resolving the articulation of the territory traveled, its alterity, and above all, its future place in universal cartography” (Ahern 2003: 274). As stated, from the very beginning in the Relación Castañeda Nájera is explicit that one of his main purposes is to develop a map for the region and the people who inhabit it through the narration of the events related to Vásquez de Coronado’s expedition. In this sense, Castañeda Nájera announces in the “Proemio” that his Relación is divided into four sections, calling the readers’ attention to the geographical elements that he will explore in each. In the first section, he narrates the expedition’s northward advance; the names and distances of the expedition’s trajectory are fundamental. In the second section, Castañeda Nájera discusses “los pueblos y prouinçias que se hallaron y en que rrum-bos y que rritos y costumbres los animales fructas y yer-bas y en que partes de la tie-rra” [sic] (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 3v) [“the pueblos and provincias and in which directions they were found; the habits and customs; the animals, fruits, and pastures; and in what parts of the land [they were found]” (Castañeda Nájera 2005: 385)]. This is where he most explicitly discusses the geography of the Tierra Nueva. In the third section, Castañeda Nájera narrates the return of the expedition to New Spain, after Vásquez de Coronado’s decision to discontinue further exploration of the territory and not to establish any kind of settlement in the region. Castañeda Nájera judges this decision as disappointing given the region’s potential, he believes,

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in terms of possible new resources and settlements to be found. Finally, in the fourth section, returning to his interest in describing certain aspects of the region, Castañeda Nájera briefly discusses what he considers to have been the expedition’s significant discoveries, and the possible route that an eventual new expedition could follow in order to access by land the territory in the west that Cortés had tried unsuccessfully to find by sea years before. The cartographic information that Castañeda Nájera offers in his Relación is abundant and diverse. It ranges from the identification of specific places such as settlements, rivers, and valleys to the description of the ways of life of some communities that the expedition encounters during its travel through the region. Maureen Ahern has explored this issue, advancing two complementary approaches to it. In the following section of this essay, I will discuss these approaches, supplementing them with my discussion of how Castañeda Nájera’s map presents a strong contrast with Indigenous conceptions of the land.

Mapping North of New Spain In two separate essays, Maureen Ahern has explored the cartographic aspects of Castañeda Nájera Relación. The first, “La Relación de la jornada de Cíbola: Los espacios orales y culturales” (1994), identifies four kinds of spaces in the text, while the second, “Mapping, Measuring, and Naming Cultural Spaces in Castañeda’s Relación de la jornada de Cíbola” (2003), proposes an understanding of the second part of Castañeda Nájera’s Relación that I will discuss first. In her 2003 essay, Ahern emphasizes the role of cartography in the Relación, and therefore, the importance of the second part of the text in Castañeda Nájera’s writing; she considers it as a “hinge” between the first part which narrates the hopeful but finally deceptive advance of the northward expedition and the third part which narrates the sad and mostly shameful return of the expedition to Mexico-Tenochtitlan (Ahern 2003: 280). She argues that “Part 2 of Castañeda’s Relación de la jornada de Cíbola is an important example of the way written reports of Spanish exploration carried meaning that was crucial to cartography and, subsequently, expansion” (Ahern 2003: 279). Ahern also points out many flaws in Castañeda Nájera depiction of the territories and Indigenous populations that he describes in his Relación (Ahern 2003: 280). In spite of that, and going far beyond the report that a Franciscan friar named Fray Marcos de Niza penned in 1539 for the viceroy Antonio de Mendoza after visiting the area north of New Spain for a few months (Marcos de Niza 2005: 78–88; Ahern 2003: 281), she recognizes that the second part of the Relación “manifests the capacity rather than the incapacity to accommodate a

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model of representation comprising a plurality of terms: central Mexicans, Spaniards, Sonoran Desert and coastal peoples, western and eastern Pueblos, and the Plains groups, among whom nomadic bison hunters are differentiated from the more sedentary farmers” (Ahern 2003: 281). She concludes her essay stating that “[t]he Relación de la jornada de Cíbola seized the epistemological challenges of a time when the chronicler functioned as cartographer and language stumbled before the plurality and vastness of the American terrain” (Ahern 2003: 282). Castañeda Nájera maps, measures, and assigns names to most of the places covered by the expedition (Fig. 1), creating a representation of a region beyond what Vásquez de Coronado’s expedition covered: namely, some paths through a mostly unknown territory, and brief meetings with the Indigenous communities, mostly under very precarious and conflictive circumstances. In spite of these adverse conditions, and considering his position as a soldier who was neither part of Vásquez de Coronado’s closest entourage nor part of any of the advanced groups that he organized during the expedition, Castañeda Nájera has recorded significant amounts of cartographic information.

Fig. 1: Approximate reconstruction of Vásquez de Coronado’s expedition route. Source: Datawrapper.

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He names the towns, rivers, and valleys that the expedition covered, including names with Christian assocaitions (“Compostela”), Mexica names (“Chichilticale”, which means “red house” in Nahuatl), and names that he had heard and later modified, using the information provided by the habitants of the region (“Acuco” by the Acoma, and “Tiguex” by the Tiwa). This list of names is the backbone of Castañeda Nájera’s text in the sense that it indicates the path that Vásquez de Coronado’s expedition followed from Compostela on the Pacific coast of central Mexico to Quivira in the current US state of Kansas, and then from Quivira to Mexico-Tenochtitlan, including the infamous “despoblado” (“uninhabited place”) that is known today as the Sonoran Desert, which Castañeda Nájera mentions at least 24 times in his Relación (Kania/Kauffeld/Sanz-Sánchez 2017). He articulates this list of names with an indication of the distances that the expedition covered from one place to other, using leagues and jornadas (a temporal term that indicates the number of days that an expedition spends in a place or advancing in certain direction) as units of measure, which according to Castañeda Nájera, were obtained by counting the steps. Describing the path that the expedition followed in the plains, he writes: “[E]n esta barranca holgo el cam-po muchos dias por buscar co-marca hicieronse hasta aquitreinta y siete jornadas de ca-mino de a seis y de a siete le-guas porque se daba cargo aquien fuese tasando y [^a]vn con-tando por pasos” [sic] (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 84v) [“In this barranca the expedition rested for many days in order to explore the region. Up to this point [the members of the expedition] had completed thirty-seven days of travel of six to seven leagues each. [This is known] because one person was given the responsibility of making an estimate, and one was counting the paces” (Castañeda Nájera 2005: 410, emphasis added)]. Another element that Castañeda Nájera included in his Relación is the information he knows of other expeditions. He was aware of Hernán Cortés’s failed attempts to advance westward from the coast (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 4r; 156v, 2005: 385; 434), as well as conflicts with Nuño de Guzmán (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 9r, 2005: 387). Castañeda Nájera expresses his admiration for Cortés (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 145v, 2005: 431), and includes information from Pánfilo de Narváez’s 1527 expedition, though it is unclear whether he had read Cabeza de Vacas’s 1542 Relación (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 10v; 32v; 81r–82r; 2005: 386, 393, 409). Castañeda Nájera also makes several references to Hernando de Soto’s 1539 expedition to Florida (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 51v; 89v; 119r; 123v–124v; 153v; 155v; 2005: 400, 412, 422, 424, 433, 434), even though Castañeda Nájera believed that this region was closer to the territory that Vásquez de Coronado had explored than it actually is. Finally, he mentions Ruy López de Villalobos’s 1542 expedition to the Philippines, which he thought had arrived in China (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 117r; 2005: 422). Each of these references demonstrates that Castañeda Nájera had some knowledge

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about other expeditions, considering them to be part of the cartographic corpus of Spanish expeditions that he was enriching with his Relación. The textual cartography that Castañeda Nájera produces in his Relación depicts the north of New Spain as a place to cross in search of another place: the promising Quivira that, according to Castañeda Nájera, Francisco Vásquez de Coronado did not dare to look for. Castañeda Nájera is aware that the Seven Cities of Gold were not there, and knows that, beyond the despoblado, there are some settlements that he calls poblados with diverse sedentary groups that he characterizes as “gentes bien entendidas” [“These people are very intelligent”] (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 105r; 2005: 417). In fact, he identifies 71 pueblos in named fourteen locations in what is today the US state of New Mexico: Cibola, Tusayan, Acuco, Tiguex, Tutahaco, Quirix, Sierra Nevada, Ximena, Cicuye, Hemes, Aguas Calientes, Yuqueyunque de la sierra, Valladolid, and Chia (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 115r–115v, 2005: 421). In addition, Castañeda Nájera believes that humans who live in these pueblos came from Greater India (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 116r, 2005: 421). However, he holds firm to the idea that these pueblos are part of a road – a path that would conduct future Spanish expeditions to other places, such as Greater India or Quivira. In this sense, this territory that Indigenous narrative identified as a place to live in, establishing a connection with the land through creation myth and ancestry, becomes in Castañeda Nájera’s Relación a stop to rest and to acquire resources for future Spanish expeditions to continue their advance toward other regions. This divergence between two conceptions of the land produces a tension in Castañeda Nájera’s text that I will discuss in the next and last section of this essay.

The Four Spaces of the Relación Revisited In her 1994 essay, Ahern identifies four kinds of spaces in Castañeda Nájera’s Relación: (1) Cibola: the space of the orality; (2) the space of the captains; (3) the pueblos: the space of transgression and violence; and finally (4) Quivira: the cultural space. In the next paragraphs, I will explain this division and how it establishes the increasing tension between the two conceptions of land that are present in Castañeda Nájera’s text. According to Ahern, the space of orality comprises all the information that motivated viceroy Antonio de Mendoza to organize the expedition to the regions north of New Spain under Francisco Vásquez de Coronado’s leadership (Ahern 1994: 188–191). This space is created on the basis of four sources: (1) the information that Tejo, an inhabitant of Oxitipar valley, provided to Nuño de Guzmán in the early 1530s; (2) the report that Cabeza de Vaca, Castillo Maldonado, and Dorantes de

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Carranza (the only survivors. along with the African captive Estevanico, of the disastrous expedition that Narváez led to Florida) provided to the viceroy Antonio de Mendoza when they arrived in Mexico-Tenochtitlan in 1536; (3) the information that Estevanico and his Indigenous partners provided to Fray Marcos de Niza in 1539; and finally, (4) the report that Fray Marcos de Niza wrote for viceroy Antonio de Mendoza once he returned to New Spain (Marcos de Niza 2005: 78–88). Castañeda Nájera includes all this information in his Relación, producing a first representation of the north of New Spain as a place where allegedly Vásquez de Coronado’s expedition was to easily find the Seven Cities of Gold, which they never did. However, beyond Castañeda Nájera’s deception about this, it is clear that his Relación identifies the existence of an established route for travel and trade between Mexico-Tenochtitlan and the area north of New Spain through the west of what is today Mexico. Along with their Indigenous allies, Cabeza de Vaca, Castillo Maldonado, Dorantes de Carranza, and Estevanico covered part of this route during the last stretch of their travels from Florida to Mexico-Tenochtitlan. A few years later, Estevanico and some of his Indigenous allies from Mexico and Xalisco returned to this route when Antonio de Mendoza sent them as guides for Fray Marcos de Niza in 1539. In fact, Estevanico and his Indigenous allies knew both the northward path of this route and the ways of trading that allowed them to advance through the region. In this sense, the oral space is not only the space that Fray Marcos created on the basis of vague news about the existence of the golden cities and that Castañeda Nájera denounces as discordant with the things actually found by Vásquez de Coronado’s expedition (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 95v, 2005:414). It is also and foremost a route to the north that existed before and beyond what the Spanish explorers found. Estevanico and his Indigenous allies from Mexico and Xalisco quickly identified and tried to use this path for their own purposes. Beyond his evident despise for Estevanico, whom he considers as a sort of rogue guide, Castañeda Nájera recognizes his ability to handle this route in the following terms: ydos los dichos frayles y el negro Esteuan pa-rec’e que el negro no yba a fabor de los frayles porque lleuaba las mugeres que le da-ban y adquiria turquesas y ha-çia balumen de todo y aun los indios de aquellos poblados por do yban entendiasen major con el negro como ya otra uez lo auian uisto que fue causa que lo vbieron hechar delante que fuese descubriendo y paçifi-cando para que quando ellos llegasen no tubiesen mas que entender de en tomar la rrela-cion de lo que buscauan [sic]. (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 11v–12r) [When the said friars and the Black man, Esteban, had gone, it seems that the Black man was not going with the support of the friars because he [was in the habit of] taking the women [the Indians] gave him, collecting turquoise, and amassing a quantity of both. Still, the Indians of those settlements through which they were going understood the Black man

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better, because they had already seen him before. For this reason [the friars] had sent him ahead, reconnoitering and pacifying [the land], so that when they arrived they would have nothing to think about other than collecting reports about what they were searching for.] (Castañeda Nájera 2005: 387–388)

Therefore, beyond Castañeda Nájera’s denunciation of the information that Estevanico and his Indigenous allies gave to Fray Marcos de Niza and its discordance with Vásquez de Coronado’s findings, it is clear that they – Estevanico and the Indigenous allies from Mexico and Xalisco that accompanied him from Mexico-Tenochtitlan – created a first route for Vásquez de Coronado’s expedition. This route allowed the expedition to advance northward from Compostela, which was then the capital of the Kingdom of New Galicia, toward Cibola from February to July 1540. The reasons that motivated all these informants to tell the Spanish explorers about the existence of the Seven Cities of Gold to the north of New Spain are unknown. What is known is that Indigenous guides and Estevanico created this route for and according to the ambition of the Spanish explorers and authorities that were hopeful to find cities wealthier than Mexico-Tenochtitlan in the area north of New Spain. This route served as a guide until Vásquez de Coronado arrived at Cibola (today Hawikuh, in west New Mexico) and discovered that the town in no way met his expectations. Vásquez de Coronado then had to figure out a new route, and motivation, to continue their journey. The second space that Ahern identifies is that of the captains (Ahern 1994: 191–192). This is the space produced by Vásquez de Coronado and the captains he had sent with smaller groups in the vanguard of the expedition to explore some specific places. According to Castañeda Nájera’s Relación, Vásquez de Coronado advanced until arriving at the Indigenous settlement of Cibola (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 29v–34r, 2005: 393–394). His arrival was highly disappointing because this allegedly first of the Seven Cities of Gold was, in fact, “vn pueblo pequeño a-rriscado y apeñuscado que de lejos ay estancias en la Nue-ua España que tienen me-jor aparençia” [sic] (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 31r–31v) [“a small pueblo, cramped and spilling down a cliff. In Nueva España there are estancias (small towns) which from a distance have a better appearance” (Castañeda Nájera 2005: 393)]. In what seems to be a strategy by Castañeda Nájera to maintain the interest of the reader and highlight the value of the expedition beyond Vásquez de Coronado’s failure, he introduces in his Relación four accounts about each of the parties that Vásquez de Coronado had sent to explore specific regions to prepare for his subsequent arrival with the expedition’s largest contingent. The text narrates the following accounts: Melchor Dias’ exploration to the Tison River (today Colorado River) while looking for Hernando de Alarcón and his ships (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 35v–39r; 2005: 394–395); the exploration that Pedro de Tovar conducted northwest from Cibola to Tusayán (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 41v–44v; 2005: 397); Garcia Lopes de Cardenas [sic]

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exploration of the same region that advanced until he arrived with his men at what is today the Colorado Canyon (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 45r–47v; 2005: 397–398); and finally, the exploration that Hernando de Alvarado conducted to Cicuye (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 49r–54r, 2005: 398–401)4. These four explorations produce a secondhand space of narration in the Relación as Castañeda Nájera did not participate in any of these advanced parties because he was marching with the largest group at the back of the expedition. Castañeda Nájera thereby relied on the second-hand information of the captains. In this second space, the dream of the Seven Cities of Gold has disappearred completely. In fact, the four expeditions took place after Fray Marcos de Niza, the main source of cartographic information for the route from Compostela to Cibola, had returned to Mexico-Tenochtitlan, fearing for his life once the members of the expedition had figured out that his information about the existence of wealthy cities north of New Spain was false (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 34v, 2005: 394). While Vásquez de Coronado appears in the text as a leader who is still hopeful about the possibility of finding the Seven Cities of Gold, Castañeda Nájera, as narrator, is well aware in retrospect that the value of the expedition was its exploration of a territory that several Indigenous populations inhabited, reacting in diverse ways to the presence of the explorers. With the exception of Hernando de Alvarado’s party, none of these explorers found anything promising remotely similar to the Seven Cities of Gold. The Indigenous presence and agency acquires a particular relevance in this second space of the text. Once Vásquez de Coronado realized that the cartographic information he had used at the beginning of the expedition was no longer valuable, he had to rely on guides and interpreters from the Indigenous communities that he encountered during his march through the region. The problem with this change in information sources is that, on the one hand, the relationship between the expedition and the Indigenous groups increasingly deteriorated because the Spaniards took, usually by force, most of the resources that the latter needed to survive; thus, the reliability of the Indigenous informants was always problematic for the expedition leaders (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 24r–25r, 2005: 391). On the other hand, the expedition was forced to rely on the contradictory information that diverse informants

 The exact location where Lopes de Cardenas and his men arrived in what we know today as the Colorado Canyon is virtually impossible to identify. However, given the fact that Castañeda Nájera states that Lopes de Cardenas arrived at the canyon (barranca) coming from Tusayán (Hopi in northeast Arizona), it is possible to argue that he and his men arrived at the canyon someplace in what is today known as the east section of the canyon in northern Arizona. Cicuye is currently known as Pecos, New Mexico, situated around 40 kilometers east of Santa Fe, New Mexico.

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supplied them. As Ahern notes, at this point “[l]a presencia del propio Coronado y los otros capitanes es relegada a un segundo plano por la de los nuevos personajes indígenas: Bigotes, el Cacique, El Turco, Ysopete y Xabe” [“The presence of Coronado himself and other captains is overshadowed by that of new Indigenous characters: Bigotes [Mustaches], the Cacique, El Turco, Ysopete, and Xabe”] (Ahern 1994: 192, my translation). Therefore, beyond Castañeda Nájera’s complaints about the uncertainty that surrounded the information that the Indigenous informants provided to Vásquez de Coronado and his men, what I would like to highlight in my reading of the Relación is that the Indigenous groups of Cibola began to acquire control of the events and, in certain way, of Castañeda Nájera’s narrative. They knew the land and began to use that knowledge either to make alliances with Vásquez de Coronado or simply to get rid of him and his expeditionary allies as part of their attempt to protect the space in which they were living. The third space that Ahern identifies in Castañeda Nájera’s Relación is Tiguex, the group of twelve Southern Tiwa Pueblos against whom Vásquez de Coronado declared war during the winter of 1540/41 when they rejected the abuses perpetrated by Vásquez de Coronado and his men. Ahern characterizes Tiguex as the space of transgression and violence (Ahern 1994: 193–197), episodes of which were present during the whole trajectory of Vásquez de Coronado’s expedition. Recently, Richard Flint and Shirley Cushing Flint have emphasized that the expedition was not a military enterprise, though comprising a group of well-trained and coordinated soldiers (Flint/Flint 2019: 124–127). However, Castañeda Nájera records several episodes of Vásquez de Coronado attacking the Indigenous towns that the expedition encountered if those towns resisted receiving the expedition in their houses and/or refused to surrender their provisions, particularly food and clothing. These episodes were related to the fact that the expedition leaders had asked many of these towns for provisions, but once some towns refused to acquise, the expedition subjugated them militarily, taking their provisions by force. This happened, for instance, in Chiametla (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 23v–24r; 2005: 391), Cibola (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 32r–32v; 2005: 393), and Tuyasán (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 43r–44v; 2005: 396–397). In addition to these acts of pillage, Vásquez de Coronado, acting on information that a guide called “El Turco” had given him, captured treacherously two leaders from Cicuye (Bigotes and an elder of that pueblo) who approached him in a friendly manner, breaking the trust of that town and initiating a conflict (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 54r–55r, 2005: 400–401). There were three events in Tiguex that marked the end of the possibility of any friendly relationship between Vásquez de Coronado’s expedition and the Pueblos of New Mexico: First, the people of Tiguex resented the capture of Bigotes and the elder from Cicuye (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 58v; 2005: 402). Second, Vásquez de Coronado asked a leader from Tiguex for upward of three hundred items

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of clothing for his troops. According to the Relación, the Spanish explorers called this leader “Juan Alemán” because he physically resembled someone they knew in Mexico-Tenochtitlan (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 58v, 2005: 402). Juan Alemán answered to Vásquez de Coronado that it was impossible for him to ask that of the twelve towns surrounding Tiguex, and recommended that Vásquez de Coronado send his captains to do so themselves. The Relación indicates that Vásquez de Coronado did exactly this. However, the captains did not ask for the clothing; instead, they took by force most of the clothes from the people in the towns, leaving them with no protection from the winter cold (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 58v–59v, 2005: 408). Third and finally, one of Vásquez de Coronado’s men, whose name Castañeda Nájera knows but opts not to make explicit in his Relación, raped the spouse of a leader (“persona de calidad”) from Tiguex; when the leader informed the Spanish captains about what happened, they refused to enact justice and ridiculed him instead (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 60r–60v, 2005: 402–403). Even though Castañeda Nájera’s Relación tries to minimize these actions as individual incidents, events resulting from the unusual circumstances that the expedition confronted, or even as mere misunderstandings, the actions of the explorers against the interests and the will of the Indigenous communities is a motif that persists throughout his narration. What sets the case of Tiguex apart is that the inhabitants of these pueblos decided to respond by taking matters into their own hands. They killed and stole some horses and mules belonging to the Spanish explorers, preparing themselves for military conflict (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 61r–61v, 2005: 403). Once the second-in-command of the expedition, Garcia Lopes de Cardenas, noticed what was happening, he, along with captains Pablo de Melgosa and Diego Lopes [sic], organized an attack against the Tiguex with the support of some Spanish soldiers and Indigenous allies mostly coming from New Spain (Flint and Flint 2010: 128–130), killing the men that had surrendered and burning others alive (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 62v–63v; 2005: 403). The Spanish attacks on the pueblos continued for fifty days during the winter of 1540/41, using mostly siege tactics. As consequence of these attacks, a peaceful relationship between Vásquez de Coronado’s expedition and the Pueblos became impossible. From that point on, the expedition had to rely on three informants from the Plains: “El Turco”, Ysopete, and Xabe. This space of violence and transgression is the consequence of the confrontation of two different conceptions of the land. On the one side, Vásquez de Coronado and his men considered this land, the Tierra Nueva, in the short term as a source for food, temporary shelter, clothing, and informants, and in the long term as a pool of Indigenous labor and a source of precious metals. Knowing the disastrous results of the expedition, Castañeda Nájera seems skeptical about the possibility to find that kind of wealth in this region. However, he sees in it some

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possibilities for exploring routes to other places in Asia and Europe: Greater India in the west, and Norway in the east (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 156v–157v; 2005: 434). In other words, he sees the land as a place to stop, rest, recharge, and continue the route toward other and better places, particularly a place he calls Quivira. In contrast with this view of the land, on the other side, we find an Indigenous conception of the land that we can trace in Castañeda Nájera’s Relación through the actions of the Pueblos once the explorers had arrived in their lands, particularly, in Tiguex and their decision to confront the abusive actions of the Spanish explorers. According to that conception, the land is a place to live with others; it offers means for subsistence through gathering, agriculture, hunting, and trading with neighbors in a region with limited natural resources. In the second part of his Relación, Castañeda Nájera recognizes some features of that way of life and the Pueblos’ relationship with the land. He describes the habits of the Pueblos encountered with some detail, as well as the existence of special rooms (kivas) in the center of some houses in the settlements they visited. Such a kiva, a ceremonial chamber often underground and round in shape, allowed the community to remember and celebrate their connection with the land in a way related to the origin myths discussed above. The fact that Castañeda Nájera mentions the existence of these kivas demonstrates that the connection with the land was fundamental for the Indigenous groups. However, Castañeda Nájera equivocally denominates these rooms as estufas, or stoves. The Indigenous conception of the land was dramatically shaken when Vásquez de Coronado, along with his Spanish compatriots, Indigenous allies, and African servants which formed a group of at least thirteen hundred people, arrived in Pueblo territory in 1540. The expedition made unbearable demands of resources in order to continue its advance toward the Seven Cities of Gold. After trying to adapt to the demands and abuses from Vásquez de Coronado’s expedition, some of these Pueblos, and particularly Tiguex, which Castañeda Nájera characterizes as the kidney (“riñón”) of the region (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 115v, 2005: 421), fought an uneven war to defend their land against an army greater than themselves in number of combatants and weapons. The Tiguex lost almost everything. Other Indigenous groups decided to flee their pueblos, abandoning their land for a time until Vásquez de Coronado and his expedition had left the territory. Finally, some Pueblos decided to send informants to Vásquez de Coronado who led him and his expedition toward the Plains and a place called Quivira. Quivira is the fourth and last space that Ahern identifies in her 1994 essay (Ahern 1994: 197–198). She notes that Castañeda Nájera proposes some routes to return to this space, characterizing it as a place of hope that could make good on the broken promises of the Seven Cities of Gold and help overcome the “failure” of Vásquez de Coronado’s expedition (Ahern 1994: 198). It is important, however,

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to point out that the function of Quivira, located in what is today the US state of Kansas, is complex in the Relación. On one hand, this space works as a limit for Vásquez de Coronado’s expedition as it was here that he decided to suspend his explorations and return to New Spain. In other words, Quivira was the space in which he had to accept that his enterprise had dramatically failed when he became aware that the Pueblo informants had been deceitful. When “El Turco”, the guide whose words appeared to be most reliable, confessed that those Pueblos entrusted to him the mission to guide the expedition into the plains, hoping that Vásquez de Coronado and his men would be lost there forever, the last illusion of finding the Seven Cities of Gold completely vanished (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 87r–87v, 2005: 411). From that moment, the Relación narrates the painful and shameful return of the expedition to New Spain. On the other hand, Quivira is the space in which Vásquez de Coronado and the few men with him, desperately seeking the Seven Cities of Gold, found the Querechos and the Teyas, two nomad groups that inhabited the plains east of the pueblos. Their description in the Relación establishes strong contrasts not only with the Pueblo people, but with all the other groups that the expedition had encountered during its advance. Unlike the others, the Querechos and Teyas moved incessantly through the plains following and living off herds of bison, leaving helpful but transitory marks of their trajectories through the plains: “[C]omo es gente que no para por aquellas tierras en pos del ganado todo lo saben. Guiaban desta manera luego por la man~ana miraba a donde salia el sol y tomaban el rrumbo que auian de tomar y tiravan vna flecha y antes de llegar a ella tirauan otra por enc’ima y desta manera yban todo el dia hasta las aguas adonde se auia de hac’er la jornada y por este orden lo que se auia andado a la yda” [“Because these people don’t stop following bison herds, they know everything. They guided this way: in the morning the looked toward the place the sun came out and they took the course that they had to take, then they shot an arrow, and before they arrived to it, they shot another one above. By doing this, they spent the whole day walking to the waters they had to go, and they knew what they had walked to get there] (Castañeda Nájera 2019: 88v; 2005: 423). Interestingly, these nomads – against the purpose of the Pueblos who sent the Spanish explorers to the plains to get rid of them – helped the Spanish explorers return to the pueblos and reconnect with the paths that they had previously travelled, and from that point, return to Mexico-Tenochtitlan. Therefore, in the Relación, Quivira appears not only as the space that makes evident the failure of Vásquez de Coronado’s expedition, but also as the space in which Castañeda Nájera’s narration recognizes that the explorers survived due to the ephemeral but effective strategies that nomads created in order to find their way in the plains while following bison herds. All the information about the routes and the places that Vásquez de Coronado and his expedition had collected since having left

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Mexico-Tenochtitlan became useless at this point. It was only a nomadic cartography that allowed them to return to a territory in which their cartography once again worked.

Conclusions In this essay, I have invited the reader to consider Castañeda Nájera’s Relación de la jornada de Cíbola as a cartographic text that can be read in connection with two Indigenous origin narratives of the Acoma and Tewa peoples of present-day New Mexico. By establishing this connection, I consider it possible to discover three interesting features of Castañeda de Nájera’s Relación. First, the Relación offers a literary map of the Tierra Nueva that combines information collected by the author as a participant in Vásquez de Coronado’s expedition, information that he obtained from other Spanish expeditions of the sixteenth century, and information that he picked up from many Indigenous sources which he includes in his text but only indirectly recognizes. In this sense, the Relación is a hybrid text that synthesizes several sources of information, both European and Indigenous American, to create a discursive map of the region. Thus, Castañeda Nájera’s text can be considered as a text that confronts the two different ways to conceive and appropiate space: on one hand, a Castilian cartography trying to capture the space in the north of the New Spain as a source of metal precious and as the route to Greater India; on the other, a set of ancestral knowledges and practices considering space as the source of life in all its forms. These two approaches to space produce several instances of conflict in the Relación. However, there is a moment of deep contact between them. In one occasion, Castañeda Nájera remembers in his writing that it was the wisdom and solidarity of the nomads which helped Vásquez de Coronado and his men to survive when they were lost in the middle of the plains. Second, through the Relación it is also possible to recognize the confrontation of at least two different ways of conceiving of the land. On one side, the Indigenous conception perceived the territory north of New Spain as a place to live and to grow, and on the other side, the Spaniards’ conception perceived that same territory, initially, as a place that concealed the Seven Cities of Gold, and later, as a place to traverse in order to reach richer territories far beyond. These two conceptions confront each other in several passages of the Relación, particularly where the Spanish explorers tried to overtake Indigenous settlements and provisions, and the Indigenous populations came up with diverse strategies to protect themselves from the rapacity of the explorers. In these passages, Castañeda Nájera’s writing showcases the ability of humans involved in a conflict to create ways

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to protect their way of life, using strategies that involved either the protection or the appropriation of the space. This is a point that will need further exploration. Third and finally, the nomads in the text play a fundamental role. Even though Castañeda Nájera dedicates a significant part of his Relación to the encounter between the Spanish explorers and the Pueblos of New Mexico, in his narration the Spanish explorers’ encounter with the inhabitants of the plains, that is, the Querechos and the Teyas, designates a limit both to Vásquez de Coronado’s expedition and to a narration that is well aware that a stable cartography, or the creation of a map beyond the travelled territory, is not always possible. In that sense, the nomads appear in Castañeda de Nájera’s Relación as those who show Vásquez de Coronado the limits of his expedition, and Castañeda Nájera the limits of his cartography.

Archival Sources Castañeda Nájera, Pedro (1596) [post-1562]: Relación de la jornada de Cíbola, conpuesta por Pedro de Castañeda de Naçera donde se trata de todos aquellos poblados y ritos, y costumbres, la qual fue el año de 1540. Historia del conde Fernando Gonzalez impressor. Licenciado Bartolomé Niño Velasquez, Sevilla. New York Public Library, MssCol 2570, no. 63. (last visit: 10/01/2021).

Bibliography Acoma Videos (n.y./a): “Acoma History Part 1”. In: Youtube. (last visit: 08/04/2023). —— (n.y./b): “Acoma History Part 2”. In: Youtube. (last visit: 08/04/2023). Ahern, Maureen (1994): “La Relación de la jornada de Cíbola: Los espacios orales y culturales”. In: Ortega, Julio/Amor y Vásquez, José (eds.): Conquista y contraconquista: La escritura de Nuevo Mundo. Mexico City: El Colegio de México/Brown University, pp. 187–199. —— (2003): “Mapping, Measuring, and Naming Cultural Spaces in Castañeda’s Relación de la jornada de Cíbola”. In: Flint, Richard/Flint, Shirley Cushing (eds.). The Coronado Expedition: From the Distance of 460 Years. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, pp. 265–289. Brownrigg, Edwin Blake (1978): Colonial Latin American Manuscripts in the Obadiah Rich Collection: An Inventory and Index. New York: The New York Public Library. Castañeda Nájera, Pedro (1992): “Relación de la jornada de Cíbola”. In: Mora, Carmen de (ed.). Las Siete Ciudades de Cíbola: Textos y testimonios sobre la expedición de Vázquez de Coronado. Sevilla: Alfar, pp. 57–144.

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—— (2005): “Report on the Expedition to Cibola”. In: Flint, Richard/Flint, Shirley Cushing (eds. and transl.): Documents of the Coronado Expedition, 1539–1542: “They Were Not Familiar with His Majesty, nor Did They Wish to be His Subjects”. Dallas: Southern Methodist University, pp. 384–434. —— (2019): “Relación de la jornada de Cíbola”. Transcribed by Sonia Kania, Cynthia Kauffeld, Isreal Sanz-Sánchez. In: Hispanic Seminary of Medieval Studies. Digital Library of Old Spanish Texts, Colonial Texts. (last visit: 10/05/2022). Craddock, James (2010): “Pedro de Castañeda y Nájera, Relación de la Jornada de Cíbola: Acotaciones gramaticales y léxicas”. In: eScholarship, UC Berkeley, Research Center for Romance Studies, Cibola Project. (last visit: 15/04/2021). Dongoske, Kurt E./Dongoske, Cindy E. (2013): “Crossing the Corn Line: Steps toward and Understanding of Zuni Communities and Entradas in the Sixteenth-Century Southwest”. In: Mathers, Clay/Mitchem, Jeffrey M./Haecker, Charles M. (eds.). Native and Spanish New Worlds: Sixteenth Century Entradas in the American Southwest and Southeast. Tucson: The University of Arizona Press, pp. 31–44. Flint, Richard (2008): No Settlement, No Conquest: A History of the Coronado Entrada. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Flint, Richard/Flint, Shirley Cushing (eds.) (1997): The Coronado Expedition to Tierra Nueva: The 1540–1542 Route Across the Southwest. Niwot: University Press of Colorado. —— (2005): “Introduction to The Relación de la Jornada de Cíbola, Pedro de Castañeda de Nájera's Narrative, 1560s (Copy, 1596)”. In: Flint, Richard/Flint, Shirley Cushing (eds.). Documents of the Coronado Expedition, 1539–1542. Dallas: Southern Methodist University, pp. 378–383. —— (eds.) (2011): The Latest Word from 1540: People, Places, and Portrayals of the Coronado Expedition. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. —— (2013): “Catch as Catch Can: The Evolving History of the Contact Period Southwest, 1838–Present”. In: Mathers, Clay/Mitchem, Jeffrey M./Haecker, Charles M. (eds.). Native and Spanish New Worlds: Sixteenth Century Entradas in the American Southwest and Southeast. Tucson: University of Arizona Press, pp. 47–62. —— (2019): A Most Splendid Company: The Coronado Expedition in Global Perspective. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Garcia-Mason, Velma (1979): “Acoma Pueblo”. In: Ortiz, Alfonso (ed.). Handbook of North American Indians, Vol. 9. Washington: Smithsonian Institution, pp. 450–473. Giménez-Eguíbar, Patricia/Kania, Sonia (2021): “Los indigenismos léxicos en la Relación de la jornada de Cíbola: la americanización del español”. In: Revista de Filología Española, 101, 2, pp. 331–359. Herrick, Dennis (2013): Winter of the Metal People: The Untold Story of America’s First Indian War. Mechanicsburg: Sunbury Press. —— (2019): Faded Pueblos of the Tiguex War: Coronado and America’s First Indian War. Lexington: Kindle Direct Publishing/Sterling Publications USA. Kania, Sonia/Kauffeld, Cynthia/Sanz-Sánchez, Israel (2017): “Texts and Concordances of the Relación de la jornada de Cíbola (1596). New York Public Library, Mss. Col. 2570, no. 63. = “Introduction (PDF)” at: (last visit: 10/05/2022). Kessell, John L. (2008): Pueblos, Spaniards, and the Kingdom of New Mexico. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Marcos de Niza, Fray (2005) [1539]: “Relación”. In: Flint, Richard/Flint, Shirley Cushing (eds.): Documents of the Coronado Expedition, 1539–1542. Dallas: Southern Methodist University, pp. 80–88.

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Mathers, Clay/Mitchem, Jeffrey M./Haecker, Charles M. (eds.) (2013): Native and Spanish New Worlds: Sixteenth Century Entradas in the American Southwest and Southeast. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Mathers, Clay/Mitchem, Jeffrey M. (2013): “Entradas in Context: Sixteenth-Century Indigenous and Imperial Trajectories in the American South”. In: Mathers, Clay/Mitchem, Jeffrey M./Haecker, Charles M. (eds.): Native and Spanish New Worlds: Sixteenth Century Entradas in the American Southwest and Southeast. Tucson: The University of Arizona Press, pp. 1–27. Minge, Ward Alan (1991) [1976]: Ácoma: Pueblo in the Sky. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Ortiz, Alfonso (1969): The Tewa World: Space, Time, Being, and Becoming in a Pueblo City. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Padrón, Ricardo (2004): The Spacious Word: Cartography, Literature, and Empire in Early Modern Spain. Chicago/London: University of Chicago Press. Parmentier, Richard J. (1979): “The Mythological Triangle: Posemeyu, Montezuma, and Jesus in the Pueblos”. In: Ortiz, Alfonso (ed.): Handbook of North American Indians, Vol. 9. Washington: Smithsonian Institution, pp. 609–622. Ruppé, Reynold J. (1990): The Acoma Culture Province. New York: Garland Publishing. Sky City Cultural Center: “The Story of Acoma”. In: Sky City Cultural Center & Haak’u Museum. (last visit: 18/06/2022). Stirling, Matthew W. (1942): Origin Myth of Acoma and Other Records. Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office. Ternaux-Compans, Henri (1838): Voyages, relations et mémoires originaux pour servir a l’histoire de l’Amérique. Vol. 9. Paris: Arthus Bertrand. Winship, George Parker (1896): The Coronado Expedition, 1540–1542. Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office.

Allison Bigelow

The Crossroads of the World Centering Indigenous Knowledge in Colonial Iberian Histories of Mining and Metallurgy From the first moment when early modern European minds, maps, and ideologies “encountered” the Americas, the region was constructed discursively and practically as the crossroads of the world1. On his aspirational route to the markets of Asia, admiral Christopher Columbus made landfall among Lucayos, Taínos, Arawaks, and Kalinagos of the Antilles and converted linguistic evidence from the Caribbean into proof of landing in Asia (Colón 2011: 59–71). His initial impressions underscored the novelty of the place, with toponyms recorded in Indigenous languages on October 11 and 17, 1492, such as “una isleta de los lucayos, que se llamava en lengua de indios Guanahaní” [“a small island of the Lucayo people, which is called in the language of the Indians Guanahaní”] and “la isla que ellos llaman Samoet” [“the island that they call Samoet”]2 (Colón 2011: 59, 68). But Columbus quickly realized that taking geographic data literally from Native informants would not advance his argument that he had, in fact, found a new route to Asia. On October 15, he began to impose his own place names, fashioning a Catholic geography that honored the patrons of his voyage with names like Santa María de la Concepción and Fernandina, a feminized remaking of King Ferdinand that signaled the island’s linguistic gender in Spanish and its conceptual availability for masculine domination. By October 19, he re-christened the island named Samoet to Isabel and on October 21, he simply called places by their East Asian referents: “[D]eve ser Çipango” [“[I]t should be Japan”] and “la ciudad de Quisay” [“the city of Kin-Sai (Hangzhou)”] (Colón 2011: 75). Within one week, Columbus enacted a discursive strategy to make Latin America – what was clearly not Asia – into a geographic imaginary that could be read as such. Whereas the earliest South-South connections between Asia and Latin America existed in the space of language and imagination, transatlantic connections with Africa were marked by biopolitical realities. Throughout more than three centuries of Spanish and Portuguese colonialism in the Americas, three out of

 On the history of terms to describe what is alternately called the discovery, conquest, invasion, encounter, and invention (encubrimiento) of the Americas, see for instance O’Gorman (1958), the response to O’Gorman in Dussel (1992), and the response to both authors in Mignolo (2003, 2012). For a discussion centered within the history of mining, see Dries (2022).  All translations in this article: Allison Bigelow. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110796308-010

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every four people who crossed the Atlantic Ocean were enslaved Africans. The gendered nature of these violent separations from ancestral homelands, kinship structures, and sacred spaces was even more pronounced. According to historian James H. Sweet, between 1500 and 1820, four out of every five female passengers in the Atlantic world were enslaved Africans (Sweet 2011: 5)3. When enslaved African women, men, and children arrived in the Americas, they made their homes in places where Indigenous people formed the majority of the population. In some regions, such as central Mexico and coastal Yucatán, Indigenous populations were native to the place (Bennett 2009; Restall 2009). In other contexts, such as the Caribbean and the Andes, they were relocated from unaffiliated kinship networks, language families, and regions (Bigelow 2020: 50–62; Revilla Orías 2021; Gutiérrez Brockington 2006). In both situations, newly forged communities of Africans, African descendants, and Indigenous people created uniquely interconnected Afro-Indigenous religious practices, healing rituals, and technologies that redefined South-South connections in the colonial era4. From the discursive and imaginary to the embodied and real, Asian and African languages, knowledges, plants, and people were entangled with those of Latin America and the Caribbean from the very moment that the Americas entered the printed record of world history. Despite the interconnected histories of what is now called the Global South, scholars have not often attended to the African and Indigenous knowledges that shaped life on the ground in the early Americas5. This omission is striking for two main reasons. First, Indigenous, African, and AfroIndigenous communities represented the largest sectors of colonial Latin American society; the continued silencing of their ways of knowing contributes to ongoing misreadings of the past across all areas of human existence and expression. Second, and more specifically to the history of science and technology, practitioners in Europe and the Americas specialized in the same areas, such as botany, medicine, and metalwork. After 1492 they were connected by the same imperial economic structures and legal frameworks, what historian Toby Huff identifies as “the nonscientific domains of culture” that are critical to understanding early modern scientific thought and practice (Huff 2017: 12). Omitting the institutional and “nonscientific” histories of non-European actors in the Americas leaves us with an incomplete

 Sweet cites Eltis (2002: 33–74).  Science, technology, medicine, and religion are interconnected domains of human experience, belief, and practice, although the constraints of publication often require that they be separated into discrete areas of study. Examples of Afro-Indigenous scholarship in each field during the colonial era include Gómez (2017), Norton (2017), and Jaque Hidalgo/Valerio (2022).  For an example of recent scholarship that places colonial Latin America and Latinx Studies within the Global South, see Martínez-San Miguel/Arias (2021).

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understanding of the relationship between colonial science and society. A more nuanced appreciation of the interlock between human culture and the culture of science can lead to important redefinitions of the core terms of the field, including science, technology, and knowledge. In recent years, scholars have attempted to address these gaps by attending to Indigenous and African knowledge production throughout the early Americas. These new lines of inquiry have led to important transdisciplinary debates about overlaps and divergences in Iberian, South Asian, Native American, and African diasporic epistemologies. Some scholars, such as political scientist Arun Agrawal, conclude that “there are no simple or universal criteria that can be deployed to separate indigenous knowledge from western or scientific knowledge” (Agrawal 1999: 177)6. Others, such as anthropologist Héctor Manuel Enríquez Andrade, argue for culturally- and locally-specific ways of sensing nature, with examples from Africa, Asia, the Americas, and diasporic and displaced communities around the world (Enríquez Andrade 2014). Along these lines, art historian Barbara Mundy demonstrates how Nahua perceptions of “strong” or “powerful scents” (ihyāya) – especially those related to foodways in the famous markets of Tenochtitlan – were mistranslated by Spanish writers as “bad odors” (Mundy 2021: 84). Although the raw materials, such as sounds and smells, were the same, the culturally-informed perceptions of such matter were different, leading to notable divergences in Indigenous and European ways of knowing and communicating insights about the natural world. A third group of scholars, somewhere between the two other camps, argues that critical differences in European and non-European ways of reading the Book of Nature were collapsed within an early modern conceptual framework that prioritized sameness over difference (Čermáková and Černá 2018: 72; Černá 2016: 216; Foucault 2001: 30–35)7. What these disagreements make clear is that we cannot make claims about similarities and differences in Indigenous, Iberian, and African and Asian diasporic ways of knowing in the early Americas without attending seriously to the role of scientific communication – that is, how insights and ideas about raw materials were shared through speech, writing, and practice in multiple languages throughout the early modern world. As a contribution to these debates about the nature of knowledge production in colonial Latin America, and to the broader field of South-South connections in the lands colonized by Spain and Portugal, this chapter offers two cases studies of transdisciplinary methods that scholars can use to identify Indigenous storytelling

 Cited in Whitt (2009: xvi–xvii).  Although Černá argues that the practice is “(central) European”, her examples include physicians from Southern Europe who were connected through the Spanish empire (Černá 2016).

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traditions, epistemologies, and technical practices that are described within Spanish colonial documentary sources. The methodological challenges of working with such archives have been treated in different ways by scholars of Indigenous and Africana history, such as sitting with archival silences, reading between the lines and against or along the grain, and using all available resources in a scholar’s toolkit, namely juxtaposing linguistic, material cultural, literary, and ethnohistorical data with theories and frameworks developed from other regions and beyond the colonial era8. This more nuanced understanding of science and technology emerges from recent scholarship that has redefined core terms like “technology”. Historian Sherwyn Bryant argues that the most important technology in the gold mines of colonial Ecuador and Colombia was not a handheld tool, washing device, or engineering apparatus, but rather the institution of slavery, what he calls “one of the chief European technologies used to exercise dominion over the Indies” (Bryant 2014: 3). Viewing racial slavery as a European technology invented by Iberian colonists allows scholars to consider the entangled operations of mining, knowledge production, and coerced labor in a new light, one that Marcy Norton underscores in her call for historians to analyze technology as a “process and product” or “a set of practices and processes designed to transform matter [. . .] as well as the transformed matter itself” (Norton 2017: 26). These critical and capacious definitions of technology throw into sharp relief the Indigenous and African miners whose humanity was forcefully and consistently denied by colonial administrators, inventors, and property owners, even as they appropriated and adapted the scientific, technical, and medical ideas of Black and Brown women and men. The following case studies of Indigenous and Afro-Indigenous histories of gold and silver mining use historical linguistics and translation analysis to shed new light on the history of science and technology in the mining industries of colonial Latin America9.

Mining the Language of Gold in the Colonial Caribbean In 1525, Pedro López de Mesa, a resident of Concepción de La Vega, a mining town located in the heart of what is now the Dominican Republic, traveled to Spain to petition the Crown to alter the seasons for gold refining in La Vega. For the past  See for instance Fuentes (2016; silence and theory); Stoler (2010; modes of reading); Bleichmar (2012; art history and history of science); Rappaport/Cummins (2012; language, art history, ethnohistory); Sweet (2017; language and book history).  The sections below are adapted from Bigelow (2020: 23–101; 229–321).

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three years their refinery, one of two on the island, had processed gold in November and December. But, he said, if the Crown would instead let them refine gold in June, miners could harvest another crop: cañafístola (Senna fruticosa), a fragrant, yellow-leafed tree with medicinal properties (Oviedo y Valdés 1959 [1851– 1855]: 289). López de Mesa’s term for gold refining, “coger oro” [“to gather gold”], linked the two colonial projects of mineral processing and extractive agriculture into a shared discourse. The Taíno and Afro-Taíno origins of that link become apparent when we examine the proposal in more detail10. López de Mesa presented his ideas on colonial extractions in a 27-point proposal. Most of those points were dismissed by imperial councilmembers who variously ignored ideas, doodled in the margins, and marked passages as “no puede ser” [“this cannot be”]. But they liked the idea of harvesting gold and cañafístola so much that they underlined it, almost in its entirety. On October 13, 1525, the policy was enacted into law11. From the perspective of the Spanish empire, which was an empire dedicated to the extraction of colonial wealth, the change in the timing of gold processing makes little sense. By shifting the official calendar from December to June, refiners would now melt gold over open flames in thatched-roof huts (bohíos) during the beginning of the hurricane season in the Atlantic world. These are hardly the optimal conditions for maximizing gold production. It is therefore hard to understand the Crown’s decision when the case is viewed from the perspective of the Spanish empire or its local agents on the ground. In contrast, the proposed change in the timing of gold processing aligns with Taíno understandings about the relationship between metals, plants, and seasons. According to a creation myth told to Catalan friar Ramón Pané while he was in La Vega, the first Taíno people emerged from a cave called Cacibajagua, whose roots are formed by the Taíno terms for “hole” and “jagua tree”, an important source of black dye used in body painting (Pané 2001: 5–6). This cave was located in Caonao, meaning “place of gold”, in the center of the island. One day, some of these first people went outside to fish; when they returned, the entrance to the cave had been

 AGI (Archivo General de Indias), Patronato, 18, N. 1, R. 4, “Petición de ciudad de la Concepción: mercedes” (1525): 1r–6v. While the petition states that smelting occurs in November, most of the documents state December. See footnote 17 below.  AGI (Archivo General de Indias), Indiferente, 420, L. 10, F. 120r–120v, “Real cédula a los oidores de la Audiencia de La Española” (13 October 1525, Toledo); 420, L. 10, F. 118v, “Real cédula al veedor de las fundiciones de la Isla Española y justicia de la ciudad de la Concepción” (13 October 1525, Toledo). See also AGI (Archivo General de Indias), Indiferente, 420, L.10, F.74v–75r, “Informe sobre la petición de Pedro López de Mesa” (18 August 1525, Toledo).

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sealed shut. The Sun transformed them into jobo trees (Spondius mombin), which bear yellow fruit when ripe, but the people inside the cave were unchanged. One of these men, the powerful ruler Guahayona, needed an herb to wash himself after the event. He sent a man named Yahubaba to complete the task. But upon entering the transformed world, Yahubaba was turned into a hummingbird and never returned. Guahayona was thus forced to exit the cave. For an unspecified reason, he took with him all the women of the cave, promising that they could return to their families after gathering the herb. Notably, he also took women from the cacique Anacacuya [“Central Star”], whose name is thought to refer to the North Star and the Ursa Major constellation. When observed from the Caribbean, Ursa Major dips below the horizon between the months of April and August, marking the beginning of the rainy, hurricane season (Arrom 1997: 76)12. The Maya deity Jun Raqan [“Hurricane”], whose name is formed by the morphemes “one” and “his/its foot/leg”, reinforces the connection between Indigenous natural knowledges, whether astronomical, botanical, or mineralogical, and the hurricane season in the extended Caribbean world. In the K’iche’ narrative Popol Wuj, Jun Raqan forms part of the deity group Uk’u’x Kaj, meaning “heart of sky”, and at times they are called one and the same: “[V]qux cah huracan”, or as the surviving manuscript’s parallel column in Spanish puts it, “el corazon de el zielo, q’se llama huracan” [“the heart of the sky, who is called Hurricane”] (Nim Chokoj k’ut chuwach Kaweqib’ et al. n.y.: 1v). After removing all of the women from the cave, Guahayona left them in an unpopulated island, and he placed their children in a ravine far away. The hungry children cried out for their mothers, yelling “toa, toa” [“water, water”]. With this act, the men were forever separated from the women, and the children were transformed into frogs (Pané 2001: 7–9). Archaeologist José Oliver notes that at this point in the story, rainfall replaces the sun as the transforming agent. This second stage of transformation of the Taíno world, now beyond the cave, establishes the rhythm of the seasons and a new social order, what Oliver specifies as the “rule of exogamy” (Oliver 2000: 210). Guahayona continues westward to the land of Guanín, the Taíno word for a copper-gold alloy. Taínos valued mixed metallic objects like guanín more than pure gold or copper because the metals’ different melting points made such objects very difficult to produce. Through multiple colors, sounds, and scents, bimetallic objects imparted what archaeologist Nicholas J. Saunders calls “a multisensory world of phenomenological unity” that both reflects and reveals a “holistic universe” (Saunders 2011: 81). According to Dominican friar Bartolomé de Las Casas, guanín alloys

 Arrom cites Robiou-Lamarche (1984).

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were almost purple-hued at times, and “por el olor conocían ser fino y de mayor estima” [“by its scent they knew it to be fine and of great esteem”] (Las Casas 1994: 641). While processing guanín metals, Indigenous refiners in the extended Caribbean region added herbs that colonial writers like Las Casas and natural historian Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo y Valdés, overseer of the gold mines of La Española, were unable to identify. Contemporary archaeologists and ethnobotanists have identified oxalic acid, possibly from the Costus spicatus plant, as a potential distilling reagent used by Indigenous metalworkers, but further research is needed (Gordon 2009: 147). What is clear is that the Taíno story of Guahayona’s journey to the land of Guanín links gold and women with the east, and guanín and men with the west. This cosmological connection might explain why Indigenous informants pointed Columbus eastward when he first inquired about metals, although Columbus was speaking with Lucayos rather than Taínos13. Although it is not known whether such a view of the spatial domain of metals extended to other Indigenous communities in the region, Columbus took this symbolic connection as literal information and duly headed to the southeast. In contrast to Columbus’s travels, the Taíno hero journeys westward toward Guanín (Pané 2001: 11). There, he finds a woman whom he had left behind, called Guabonito, and they reunite. Immediately after, he looks for somewhere to wash himself, because he is covered in the kind of bumps “que nosotros llamamos mal francés” [“which we call the French pox”]. She puts him into quarantine and only allows him to leave after enough time passes14. In his emergence, he takes a new name, Albeborael Guahayona, although Pané notes that his father, Hiauna, calls him Híaguaili Guanín, “que quiere decir hijo de Hiauna, y desde entonces se llamó Guanín, y así se llama hoy día” [“which means son of Hiauna, and since then he was called Guanín, and so he is called today”] (Pané 2011: 13). The confusion between the names and places of Taíno political and spiritual authority might stem directly from Pané’s shaky command of the language (“ni yo puedo escribirlas bien” [“nor can I write them well”]) or of variations from storyholder to storyholder in oral traditions that he dismissed as less accurate than alphabetic writing (“como no tienen letras ni escrituras, no saben contar bien tales fábulas” [“as they do not have letters or writing, they do not know how to tell such tales well”]) (Pané 2011: 13). It could also be that Albeborael Guahayona was the public name of the hero used after he survived

 On October 13, 1492, one day after making landfall, Columbus learned from Native informants to “ir al Sudueste a buscar el oro, y piedras preçiosas” [“go to the Southeast to search for gold and precious stones”] (Colón 2011: 62).  Oliver adds enthusiastically that “this skin condition was metaphorically used by the Taíno to express an extraordinary, numinous condition associated with gold!” (Oliver 2000: 211).

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the journey, and that his father preferred a family name that more clearly signaled his lineage and connection to gold-copper mixtures, Híaguaili Guanín. In any event, Pané was less confused about what he was told of the exchange of metals following the hero’s journey. In the conclusion of the story, Guabonito, who some scholars think is his sister, gives Guahayona/Albeborael Guahayona/Guanín displays of guanín metals and cibas (stones) to signify his role as a cacique, or chief 15. In other words, when the hero violates the incest taboo with Guabonito without punishment from the gods, he effectively defeats the old Taíno social order of the cave and instantiates a new kind of world. This new era of Taíno social life contains with it a particular marriage of cosmovision and political authority, as Guahayona’s power is signified through shimmering jewelry that reflects the fruits of human transformations of plants and minerals. Notably, his copper-gold ear spools are called taguagua, a term that shares the same root as the tagua-tagua plant (Passiflora foetida), a stinky flower whose yellow-orange fruit becomes red when ripe. If this is beginning to sound familiar – a story in which golden metals and fragrant yellow plants emerge as part of a new world order of seasonal cycles, gendered life, and political organization in a time of hurricanes – it may be because we heard something similar from Pedro López de Mesa. These overlapping terms of seasonality, agriculture, and metallic harvests are precisely what López de Mesa invoked when he petitioned the Crown to change the season of gold refining to accommodate the harvest cycle of a purgative yellow plant. His key term for metallurgical processing, “coger oro”, displays how Spaniards in majority Taíno and Afro-Taíno spaces came to speak of gold refining in agricultural terms, as if the metal were a plant with a specific harvest season. According to the Corpus Diacrónico del Español (CORDE), the historical database prepared and updated by the Real Academia Española (RAE), the expression “coger oro” appears 53 times in the Spanish lexicon, divided among 18 documents16. The earliest is from Columbus, whose diary entry from November 12, 1492 records that Indigenous men in Baneque (Inagua Island, Bahamas) told him through signs  There are similar stories of incestuous relationships that create life in the Caribbean, as documented among Kalinagos, Arawaks, Guaraos, and Amazonian Waiwais. Linguistic evidence provides additional insight into naming patterns. In the Island Karib language spoken on the island of Dominica, for example, Douglas Taylor has observed that híali means “He-who-has-been-madebrilliant” (Pané 2001: 13fn44). Oliver reads guanín as “the fusion [. . .] of sibling metals” (Oliver 2000: 211).  One writer used the term “coger oro” in 1432, but 94% of the cases (seventeen out of eighteen authors) appear after 1492 in texts written from or about the Americas. The document from 1432 was written by medieval notary Juan Péres d’Otalora, a native of the Basque town of Azpeitia, in a mix of Euskara and Spanish, regarding taxes and the local fair. The phrase is likely attributed to language contact rather than a novel idea about mining techniques or processes.

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that “La gente d’ella coge el oro con candelas de noche en la playa y después con martillo diz que hacían vergas d’ello [sic]” [“The people there gather gold by candlelight at night along the beach, and afterward it is said that they hammer it into rods”] (Colón 2011: 90–92). Throughout his first month in the region, Columbus had used conventional terms like “finding gold” and “seeking gold”. His new vocabulary marks the moment when Indigenous ideas about gold processing, from the timing of the activity (aligned with the cycles of the moon) to the techniques (hammering), shaped Columbus’s travels. Some thirty years after Columbus first made landfall, “coger oro” had become the canonical language of gold mining in the region. This expression not only contains the seed of Taíno cosmologies about the relationship of different kinds of organic matter; it also explodes imperial and colonial fantasies about a New World of permanent and eternal bloom. In 1525, when López de Mesa travelled to Spain, the new political organization was not the coming into being of a Taíno world, as it was with the transformation of life outside of the cave in the creation narrative. Instead, some 30 years after the earliest Spanish gold strikes on the island, the petition of 1525 emerges during a key moment in the post-boom years in the mining town of La Vega. Colonial life as Taínos had known it was being radically reorganized, and the demographics of the town shifted considerably. As Spaniards left La Vega for other economic opportunities on the island, Taínos and Afro-Taínos once again outnumbered Iberian settlers17. Historians have long described Taínos as “a vanished people” whose way of life collapsed immediately upon the arrival of Europeans and Africans in the Caribbean (Abulafia 2008: 137–138). However, archaeological research conducted within the past twenty years in Haiti and the Dominican Republic has shown greater patterns of continuity than the traditional narrative of collapse suggests (Deagan 2004: 600–603). For many years, archaeologists focused on studying changes to the landscape and public plazas in order to understand Taíno social dynamics. Because Taínos were matrilineal, this traditional approach ignored household-unit analysis that contained important evidence of daily life, foodways, and material cultures. By attending to household structures with a renewed attention to gender and class, scholars like Kathleen Deagan have radically revised the traditional scholarly narrative of “near-immediate and monolithic Taíno social collapse” (Deagan 2004: 600). Until then, this idea of collapse had served as “the standard historical assessment,” but such an assessment was only possible because archaeologists had largely

 The demographics of La Vega shifted around the time that López de Mesa authored his proposal. See Mira Caballos (1997: 154), who cites AGI (Archivo General de Indias), Santo Domingo, 77, R. 4, N. 88, “Capítulos que llevó Gonzálo Fernández de Oviedo a Su Majestad” (28 September 1535).

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overlooked the role of gender in shaping “intercultural interaction” like that observed between and among Taínos, Africans, Iberians, and the many non-Taíno Indigenous peoples who were brought to La Española under Spanish rule in the aftermath of Colón’s landing (Deagan 2004: 598)18. This chapter, and the book from which it is drawn, builds from the methodological frameworks of scholars like Deagan, but it applies such approaches within the domains of narrative, archives, and stories. The case of Pedro López de Mesa and his Taíno-inspired petition indicates that Taínos used ancestral storytelling traditions as a strategy to bring meaningmaking coherence to a world turned upside down. Historians, and especially historians of science and technology, have not often looked to Spanish imperial laws like the one enacted in October of 1525 to find evidence of Taíno influence upon colonial life. But by analyzing the material dimensions of archival documents, such as underlines and doodles, and juxtaposing a colonial petition, imperial law, and Indigenous creation narrative, we can see how elements of Taíno cosmovision influenced operations in the sixteenth-century gold industry. These elements include aspects of human and other-than-human interactions that have always formed a part of the history of science, but have not often been analyzed within the historiography, such as the golden metals, fragrant yellow plants, and rainfall that marked the emergence of the Taíno people. Locating evidence of Taíno agencies and survivance strategies in colonial archives does not deny the asymmetries of power or the force of Spanish colonial violence that they fought against. Rather, it provides one small but powerful example of Taíno presence in the

 Scholars across the disciplines, including anthropologists, archaeologists, and historians, have often studied the subject of collapse because, as the editors of a recent volume on the subject explain, we “want our stories to make a larger point about how our fellow humans lived in the past and about the variety of human experiences in reference to environmental interaction. We believe optimistically that an examination of the lives of others may lead to better understanding of how we might live today”, in a world marked, perhaps curiously, by “a rich diversity of peoples” that “continues to exist today despite the homogenizing forces of globalization” (McAnany/ Yoffee 2009: 1). Despite the popularity of works like Jared Diamond’s Collapse, McAnany and Yoffee, alongside the fifteen authors in their volume, insist that societies rarely collapse; instead, it is more often the case that “elements of a society (including belief systems and ways of making a living) retain their basic structure and function within longer cycles of change” (McAnany/Yoffee 2009: 10). The narrative of collapse or failure is generally applied to non-Western contexts, whether they are eighth-century Yucatán or nineteenth-century China. In contrast, when English-speaking visitors stand before the archaeological ruins of Stonehenge, they “don’t feel a twinge of cultural loss, but simply a sense that things were very different 5,000 years ago” (McAnany/Yoffee 2009: 6). The narrative of Taíno collapse, then, is not only historically inaccurate, as documented by archaeological and historical sources; it is also part of a long tradition of reading non-European social structures in ways that reinforce European claims to superiority, stability, and successful continuity.

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ordinary yet extraordinary processes of the colonial gold industry. Taínos did not just disappear after 1492. They regrouped and found ways of inserting their worldviews into colonial life, even within the colonial gold industry – the heart of the engine that produced untold wealth for the Spanish empire.

Amalgamating Languages and Knowledge Systems in the Andean Silver Industry Indigenous miners represented the majority of the workforce in the Andean silver industry, but without texts written in Quechua and Aimara it has been difficult to trace the ideas of mining women and men with the same degree of detail as we have charted their labor (Bakewell 1984). Historians of science in early modern Europe have long documented the sophisticated technical skills and experiential, embodied knowledges of artisan craftspeople (Smith 2004, 2022). What is proven for Europe is most likely the case for the Americas, but without the same documentary source material scholars have not been able to definitively make the case for artisan labor as a site of knowledge and exploitation, rather than just the latter. As a possible solution to this well-known problem, I offer translation and mistranslation as a method to convert colonial sources into evidence of Indigenous knowledge production. The case study below centers upon a new reading of technical descriptions of amalgamation, a refining technique that uses mercury (Hg) to extract silver (Ag) from refractory ores. Traditional smelting methods required considerable fuel, an environmental and ecological disadvantage for many mining centers in the early Americas. European methods of amalgamation involved mixing mercury with partially-processed gold and silver that had collected in slag heaps. Miners pressed those mixtures through cheesecloth-like fabrics to separate the precious metals from the mercury, using only the finest-grade metals to justify the time-intensive process (Biringuccio 1540: 14v, 22v, 142). In contrast, the colonial Latin American method of amalgamation used sunlight as the only catalyst and operated on a large scale – typically processing 5,000 pounds (about 2270 kg) of material in a single cajón (mixing bin) (Bakewell 1984: 21, 195). These new amalgamation technologies, and the exploitative colonial labor systems that underpinned them, radically reshaped the economics of silver mining in the early modern Iberian world. Even if one quintal (100 pounds or about 45 kg) of material excavated from a mine yielded only 1.5 ounces (or about 42 gram) of silver, operators would still come out ahead (Bakewell 1971: 138). The invention of the new method of amalgamation (nuevo beneficio de azogue) is credited to a merchant, not a miner, although Indigenous mining and metallurgical

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traditions clearly informed the success of the technology. As the story goes, sometime in the 1550s, Sevilla-based trader Bartolomé de Medina left his wife and children in Spain and departed for Mexico after hearing from a German miner that a more costeffective form of amalgamation was possible. Medina settled in Pachuca, a center of Indigenous mining expertise in the pre-Columbian period and a site where Mexica imperial officials had long drafted the local Otomí population into tribute labor in mines and refineries (Ruvalcaba Mercado 1984: 433). Archaeological data from postclassic Mesoamerica indicate that 90–98% of the obsidian traded in Tenochtitlan was routed through Pachuca, suggesting that the region was well-networked for supplies of metals, stones, and the artisans who worked with them (Smith et al. 2007: 445–446)19. Medina undoubtedly drew upon these established traditions and mobilized local knowledge networks to work in a new way. Very little is known about Medina’s life or his choice to set up operations in Mexico, rather than Peru. Almost all of what scholars have documented comes from a single relation that Medina signed in Jilotepec on December 29, 1555 (Bargalló 1969: 54–55). Although he does not explain his decision-making process in the brief text, historical information about the mining industry in colonial Latin America may provide some clues. Spanish mining operations began earlier in Mexico than in Peru, so for an outsider like Medina, the first-mover advantage of the Mexican mining industry may have proven especially attractive. Medina’s new method of amalgamation, the “patio” process, so named because refiners mixed metals on sun-drenched patios to reduce heating costs, was a tenstep process. First, miners ground the silver into a fine powder and formed it into piles (“montones”) of 18–35 quintals (steps 1–2). Next, they added a series of reagents to each pile: 2.3–3 pounds (1–1.3 kg) of salt per quintal and 8–12 pounds (3.5–5.5 kg) of distilled copper (magistral) per pile (steps 3–4). The critical fifth step was the incorporation of mercury, at a rate of 10–12 pounds (4.5–5.5 kg) per pile. Then, Indigenous miners would stomp the piles of toxic reagents with their feet to mix (repasar) all of the ingredients. Once the mercury had bound to the silver, they washed the piles to separate the amalgams (pella) from the rest of the slurry-like mixture (steps 7–8). The final stages were to fire the amalgams, usually called piñas because the liquid mixture was poured into pineapple-shaped molds, typically weighing 100 pounds (about 45 kg) each, which allowed miners to separate the mercury from the silver and reuse the mercury in future rounds of amalgamation. Then, those heavy molds were sent to refining houses (casas de apartado) for official counting and cataloguing for taxation (Bargalló 1955: 127–128).

 Smith et al. (2007) cite Braswell (2003: 157).

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We do not know exactly when the “patio” method became operational and costeffective on a large scale, but Medina’s statement provides an approximate date of 1555. What is known is that by the 1570s, the central Mexican technology was transferred to Peru by Portuguese printer-entrepreneur Enrique Garcés, Peruvian miner Pedro Fernández de Velasco, and Mexican miner Pedro de Contreras, all of whom adapted techniques of mercury distillation taught by an unnamed Native man (Bargalló 1969: 171; Dries 2022: 121–122). In the Andes, as in Mexico, refiners used mercury to extract silver from even the most refractory ores. The different metallic mixtures and colder ambient temperatures of the Andes required that metallurgists adapt the patio method to local conditions. One key change between the Mexican method and the practice in Alto Perú came in the fifth step of the amalgamation method. Instead of adding the mercury all at once, they incorporated it in two rounds so that it would absorb more of the silver and form less sediment along the bottom of the mixing bin. As Andalucian priest and metallurgist Álvaro Alonso Barba (1640: 53v) put it, “y mientras mas fuere menos conchos se causaràn” [“the more they do this, the fewer conchos will be produced”]. The term conchos is a clue that we can use as evidence of Indigenous knowledge production. Typical Spanish terms for “sediment”, such as heces and asientos, are derived from the Latin fex and pausāre, respectively (RAE, “hez”; “asiento”). Instead, Barba accommodates the Quechua term qqunchu, meaning “sediment”, into a word that Spanish speakers could pronounce: “[C]onchos” (González Holguín 1989: 67). If the technique or the idea originated with Spanish speakers, Barba would have used a Castilian term. Instead, he provides clear evidence of where Andean knowledge contributed the key intellectual and practical terms of the technology. English, German, and French translators of Barba’s book, working in 1674, 1676, and 1730, struggled to understand neologisms like “conchos”. They assumed it was a printer’s error for “concha” [“sea shell”], and translated it as “Oyster Shells” and “Auster Schalen” [“oyster shells”] (Montagu 1674: II, 72; Lange 1676: 184). The first French translator, Hautin de Villars (1730), omitted the passage, but mid-eighteenthcentury editions corrected the omission and translated “conchos” as “corps” [“body”] (Lenglet du Fresnoy 1751: 191). The confusion of “concha” and “concho” occurs simultaneously with the completion of the gender shift in English, a process that began with Romance language contact in the Middle Ages and ultimately produced an early modern English grammar that no longer used linguistic gender (Curzan 2003). The German mistranslation of “concho” as “Auster Schalen” suggests that Johann Lange modeled his work on the English-language translation of Barba’s book. Although they shared a common origin, the two books circulated in different ways throughout the eighteenth-century Atlantic world. Lange’s book was reprinted by the German Pietist community of Ephrata, Pennsylvania, in an edition that became part of the library of US President George Washington (Washington et al. 1891: 133).

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This genealogy suggests how the perceived power and prestige of languages, as well as their translations, mistranslations, and grammatical genders, have shaped colonial scientific writing in ways that the historiography of mining and metallurgy has not always acknowledged. Such historians have not often analyzed the discursive particulars of technical treatises or their translations. The preeminent twentieth-century scholar of mining in the colonial era, Modesto Bargalló, famously dismissed such vocabularies as “palabras de sentido poco preciso” [“words of little precision”] (Bargalló 1969: 221). Literary scholars who are trained to focus on language – especially phrases with fuzzy registers and ambiguous meanings – tend not to spend a lot of time with books about metallurgy. As a result, these texts fall into the gap between history and literature, and important evidence of Indigenous knowledge production goes unexamined. This is not just a story about translating Andean technical literacies out of the scientific record in London, Hamburg, and Madrid. It is also about the terms that translators chose to replace Indigenous classifications of metallic matter. Underground, Andean miners classified ores by space, in relation to one another: top, bottom, and in-between, which is chaupi mitta, pactas mitta, or pactasak in Quechua (González Holguín 1989: 584), and taypirana in Aimara (Bertonio 1984: 311). Spanish speakers translated this spatial logic into a color-based classification scheme for what they called metallic “castas” [“castes”], recalling the colonial sistema de castas and its system of organizing people into racial and ethnic groups. The classification system had three main components, organized spatially and discursively. Closest to the surface were “pacos”, silver chlorides whose name is derived from the Quechua term for “red”. Ores at the deepest profundities were called “negrillos”, silver sulfides whose name is derived from the Spanish term for “black”. In-between the two, in a kind of transitionary or liminal zone, were “mulatos”, whose color Barba described in humoral terms as “de color bazo” [“the color of the spleen”] (Barba 1640: 39v). According to overseer García de Llanos, pacos transitioned to mulatos, and mulatos to negrillos, every “dos o tres estados” [“length of two or three men”] (Llanos 1983: 85), suggesting how Andean men used their bodies to measure metallic deposits underground. Once aboveground, Spaniards then converted those spatial relations into a racialized colonial taxonomy. Although this vocabulary was grounded in local ideas about space, color, and race, mining vocabularies from the Andes circulated in published translations throughout the Atlantic world. The English, German, and French translators who worked with Barba’s book interpreted the terms in ways that revealed their own cultural definitions of race and color. They were remarkably consistent with paco, and always left it in the source language. The English (and therefore German) translator’s response to negrillo was less consistent; sometimes Montagu and Lange

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left the term as “negrillo” and sometimes they translated it literally as “black Oar” [sic] or “black silver Oar” [sic] (Montagu 1674: I, 39–41), and “Schwartz erze” [sic] [“black ore”] or “schwartz silber erze” [sic] [“black silver ore”] (Lange 1676: 33). Both French sources translated negrillo literally as “la couleur noir” [“the black color”] (Hautin de Villars 1730: 31; Lenglet du Fresnoy 1751: 137). Montagu’s and Lange’s response to mulatos is the most telling. They replaced metales mulatos, which Barba assigned in humoral terms to the “color of the spleen”, with the hue that they associated with mixed-race people. Montagu wrote that the metal is “of a Brown colour” (Montagu 1674: II, 9), and Lange followed: “[E]s ist einer braunen Farbe” [sic] [“[I]t is of a brown color”] (Lange 1676: 135). Neither of the two French translators opted to assign a color to mulatos, which could reflect different attitudes among Francophone audiences about race and color or changes in scientific theories between the late-seventeenth century, when Montagu and Lange published their works, and the mid-eighteenth century, when Hautin de Villars and Lenglet du Fresnoy translated Barba’s book. Most likely, the differences stem from a combination of the two possibilities. What is certain is that when European translators showed confusion, either by rendering “conchos” as “Oyster Shells” or translating the same word in different ways within the same chapter, the source of their confusion reveals the influence of Indigenous miners and metallurgists whose ideas were translated into a hybrid Spanish-Andean colonial discourse. In turn, the key terms of amalgamation theories and practices were translated from Hispanized forms of Quechua and Aimara into English, German, and French. By using translation and mistranslation to recreate this colonial variation on the children’s game of “telephone”, I propose a method to document the existence and erasure of Indigenous knowledge production. Attending to the gaps and inconsistencies as ideas moved from Quechua spoken in mines and refineries to Quechua-inflected Spanish in technical manuals, colonial mining discourse reveals how Andean ways of knowing shaped technology transfers from Mexico to Peru. Tracing mistranslated terms from authors like Barba into early modern translations of his book adds a second layer to the story, demonstrating how Indigenous miners’ technical literacies were removed from scientific writing in Europe and replaced with European ideas about racial and color categories.

Conclusions Colonial archives are fraught spaces whose physical and intellectual infrastructures are shaped by histories of exploitation, violence, and white supremacy – as well as resistance, survival, and meaning-making strategies to bring coherence to

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the chaos of severed communities. By approaching colonial archival materials with a literary attention to language, armed with historical linguistic data, and using material cultural and visual analysis, this chapter and the book from which it is drawn suggest two ways to identify the intellectual work of mining women and men who have not often been recognized in the history of science and technology. Although it is not possible to fully recover the stories of people whose humanity was unrecognized by the lettered officials who recorded their stories, this chapter suggests that it is possible to tell more complete stories about the past. Historians of science and technology can do so by identifying culturally specific elements of subaltern contributions, such as Taíno and Afro-Taíno cosmologies and Andean artisanship. These very different forms of knowledge production, from the esoteric and sacred to the technical and mechanical, gesture to the kinds of epistemologies and material practices that can be documented using colonial sources when they are read against and along the grain. In turn, this more complete understanding of the non-European roots of two important mining techniques and technologies suggests how diverse knowledge systems converged in Latin America and helped to give rise to new ways of thinking and doing. While working within the heart of a brutally exploitative industry, Indigenous and African diasporic miners found ways to make metals matter to them. Documenting their stories contributes to a richer understanding of the history of science and a better appreciation of Latin America as the crossroads of the early modern world.

Archival Sources “Capítulos que llevó Gonzálo Fernández de Oviedo a Su Majestad”, 28 September 1535. MS Seville, Archivo General de Indias (AGI), Santo Domingo, 77, R. 4, N. 88. “Informe sobre la petición de Pedro López de Mesa”, 18 August 1525, Toledo. MS Seville, Archivo General de Indias (AGI), Indiferente, 420, L.10, F.74v–75r. “Petición de ciudad de la Concepción: mercedes”, 1525. MS Seville, Archivo General de Indias (AGI), Patronato, 18, N. 1, R. 4 (1525). 1r–6v. “Real cédula al veedor de las fundiciones de la Isla Española y justicia de la ciudad de la Concepción”, 13 October 1525, Toledo. MS Seville, Archivo General de Indias (AGI), Indiferente, 420, L. 10, F. 118v. “Real cédula a los oidores de la Audiencia de La Española”, 13 October 1525, Toledo. MS Seville, Archivo General de Indias (AGI), Indiferente, 420, L. 10, F. 120r–120v.

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Tiahuanaco and Sacsayhuamán Creating Early Modern World Histories through Pre-Columbian Andean Buildings In the German compendium of the world’s major cities, Civitates Orbis Terrarum from 1572, we find an image of the city of Cuzco (Fig. 1) as imagined after an Italian engraving that first appeared in the third volume of Ramusio’s Delle Navigationi et Viaggi [On Travels by Sea and Land] (1556), and was reprinted in the French chorographical treatise Plantz, pourtraitz et descriptions de plusievrs villes et forteresses tant de l’Europe, Asie, & Afrique, que des Indes, & terres neuues [Plans, portraits, and descriptions of several cities and fortresses both in Europe, Asia, and Africa, and in the Indies and new lands] by Du Pinet in 1564. The heading cartouche of the image, included as the last entry of the first tome, reads: “Cusco. Regni Peru Novo Orbe Caput” [“Cuzco: Capital [lit. “head”] of the Kingdom of Peru in the New World”] (Braun/Hogenberg 1612 [1572]: 58r)1. In the Civitates, Cuzco appears among other great cities of the Old World: Lisbon, London, Seville, Rome. The Peruvian capital is depicted as a walled city in a valley surrounded by mountains. Inside its walls, an organized grid of streets and buildings is crowned by another walled structure on the left side. This idea of Cuzco as a walled city is an invitation to think about the different roles pre-Columbian buildings had in creating early modern world histories. Buildings were dynamic objects through which conceptual, geographical, and historical connections between different parts of the world took place. The Civitates was a project of the German scholar Georg Braun (1541–1622), canon in Cologne, and the Flemish engraver Frans Hogenberg (1535–1590). It was an effort to describe and depict the main cities all over the world, including places, such as Peru, that had been charted only recently for the first time in European geographical thought. The Civitates was created with information drawn from the numerous travel reports and maps that appeared in the context of European overseas expansion (Ellenblum et al n. y.)2. In the case of Cuzco, its earliest

 All the translations from the Civitates are my own. This chapter was developed with the support of a Mellon International Dissertation Research Fellowship from the Social Science Research Council (United States), which funded my research stay in Peru and Bolivia in the spring of 2022.  While the Civitates was composed with some original engravings, it also brought together and modified engravings already circulating in the works of various other authors (Rosen 2021: 240–244). This work of comparative urban cartography forms part of an early modern interest in https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110796308-011

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Fig. 1: “Cusco. Regni Peru in Novo Orbe Caput”. In: Civitates Orbis Terrarum, 1572, 58r. Courtesy of the John Carter Brown Library, Providence, Rhode Island.

European source was a report by the Spanish conquistador Pero Sancho de la Hoz that was translated into Italian and included in Ramusio’s Delle Navigationi et Viaggi, a compilation of travel narratives published in Venice in 1556 (Bellini

visualizing different locales of the world (Boutier 1997). As noted, the depiction of Cuzco that served as a model for Hogenberg’s engraving was first published in Ramusio’s Delle Navigationi et Viaggi (1556).

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2001; Arocena 1986: 18–19). The Civitates Orbis Terrarum [Urban Centers of the Orb of the World] was intended to serve as an urban addition to the rising genre of world map books, such as the famous Theatrum Orbis Terrarum [Theater of the Orb of the World], considered the first modern atlas, produced by Abraham Ortelius in Antwerp in 1570 (Robey 2006). These works comprising visual and written information sought to know and to represent the geography of the world, comprehending the Americas as part of a world harmoniously shared with the Old World within a single framework (Ramachandran 2015: 1–18). As a walled city with walled buildings located in the middle of a mountain range, Cuzco in the Civitates stands in contrast with another great city of the Americas: Mexico. Arranged to face each other in the book, the depiction of Mexico as an urban center floating in the middle of a lake is based on the famous Nuremberg Map of 1524 (Braun/Hogenberg 1612 [1572]: 57v). In these pre-Columbian imaginings of Cuzco and Mexico – the only cities of the Americas included by the Civitates’ editors – the watery and the lithic are complementarily opposed urban landscapes shown as Spanish conquerors first saw them. The understanding of Cuzco and, by extension, of Peru as a lithic environment reinforced a metaphorical comprehension of the area as a mining haven that originated in the first Spanish narratives about this region, such as Francisco de Xerez’s 1534 Verdadera relación de la conquista del Perú y provincial del Cuzco, and quickly transferred into maps and atlases such as the Civitates and the Theatrum Orbis Terrarum. The geopolitical place in the so-called New World termed Peru became an object of global imagination in the early modern period in relation to its lithics and minerals. In the sixteenth century, new descriptions and representations of the Andean region in Western formats, such as maps and books, and through Western concepts, such as urbis [city], were included in works that had the broader world, termed Orbis Terrarum [orb of the world], as their object of interest. It is in these works where, for the first time, a settlement such as Cuzco was thought about in its relationship to other cities of the world and conforming to a new way of imagining the world globally3. But beyond European formats, concepts, and genres, the pre-Columbian buildings, the constructive qualities, and the Indigenous narrative traditions related to them also determined how the Americas became part of early modern global imagination. The massive edifices made of gigantic stones were fundamental for this transmission.

 Similar efforts in Spain resulted in the rewriting of the medieval cosmographical treatise by Johannes de Sacrobosco, De Sphera Mundi (Sacrobosco 1472); for instance, Jerónimo de Chávez’s reworking known as Tractado de la sphera included the Americas (Sacrobosco 1545 [1472]). In addition, the global historical project Historia general de los hechos de los castellanos en las islas y tierra firma del mar océano by Antonio de Herrera y Tordesillas narrated the history of Spain through the lens of its overseas expansion (Herrera y Tordesillas 1601–1615).

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The German engraving of Cuzco brings together the different elements that I want to discuss in this chapter: the appearance of the Andean region in early modern world-historical writing, and the fundamental relevance that its Indigenous architectural landmarks had in this process. To do so, I will explore the early narratives and depictions of the Andean buildings of Tiahuanaco [Tiwanaku] on Lake Titicaca, and Sacsayhuamán, the citadel of Cuzco. My objective is to exemplify how, through preColumbian buildings, the Andean region became part of the early modern world’s geographical and historical imagination. These edifices were salient features of a remarkable architectural prowess and were also the object of Indigenous historical and mythological narratives. The early Spanish chroniclers were compelled to generate new conceptual interpretations of these architectonic structures to describe their characteristics and histories in Western formats. Such an intellectual endeavor required observing and acquiring information about these buildings and then transforming such information into innovative pieces of knowledge and visual imaginings: interpreting and depicting the pre-Columbian world demanded the creation of connections between continents. As worldly buildings of the Americas, these architectural landmarks were not perceived by Spanish conquerors to be archaeological objects as we consider them today. Nowadays, we understand pre-Columbian material culture as an objective source for the study of ancient human groups of the Americas, their technologies, and their social lives (Alconini/Covey 2018). In the early modern period, this was not the epistemology at work, and these were not the questions asked about these buildings. I will analyze these buildings – specifically, two famous pre-Columbian buildings of the Andes, Tiahuanaco and Sacsayhuamán – in dialogue with two of the many early modern historical and geographical paradigms involved in comprehending pre-Columbian structures: the study of the ancient Aetate Mundi, or Ages of the World, and the depiction of the Orbis Terrarum as a global world map (Ramachandran 2015; Dunphy 2010). The periodization scheme known as the Ages of the World sought to understand the world’s past based on biblical and classical historical books; and the world map sought to fit all the parts of the world into a single geographical representation. This chapter will explore how creating knowledge about the pre-Columbian Americas implied also creating new world-historical knowledge. These buildings thus served as flashpoints for thinking the connections between the different parts of the world. Sacsayhuamán, a massive walled structure in Cuzco, was thought to be a landmark in novel geographical imagination and contributed to new reflections on the Orbis Terrarum. Tiahuanaco, an abandoned pre-Inca city in the Titicaca region, was instead seen as an ancient building and thus provoked questions about the world’s antiquity. Through Tiahuanaco, it was possible to reflect on what were perceived as the most ancient times, and to understand how the

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Americas had been both a part of this world since the beginning of times and related to other ancient societies of the Old World. This interest was influenced by early modern antiquarianism, a historical practice focusing on exploring objects and buildings from previous historical epochs, and societies rooted in the world’s deep past. Adherents aimed to trace salient figures and major events of the past through their material remains (Schnapp 2014). Different from modern archaeology, for early modern antiquarians, the past was seen through a Bible-based chronology according to the Six Ages of the World paradigm suggested by Augustine of Hippo (354–430 CE)4. Antiquarians explored a historical past that began with the Creation through the Almighty God and was demarcated by major events of Christian history, such as the Flood, Abraham’s and King David’s times, the Babylonian captivity, and the birth of Christ. During the sixteenth century, the scope of the Ages of the World was expanded to include events – such as the Trojan War and the expeditions of Alexander the Great – that were not recorded in the biblical books, but in the histories of great ancient societies: Egyptians, Persians, Greeks, Romans, etc. (Momigliano 1950: 290–291; Miller 2012). As Tiahuanaco and Sacsayhuamán for the first time became the object of narratives and depictions in Western formats, their histories and qualities also had to be integrated into the historiographical and geographical principles of early modern thought. But it was not possible to unilaterally impose European paradigms on these territories. The Americas had never before been noted in any authoritative Western source (Grafton/Shelford/Siriasi 1992: 1–4), so in the context of the conquest and colonization of the Americas, it was also necessary to create new experimental interpretations of pre-Columbian abodes that would allow their qualities and histories to be integrated into early modern world-historical and geographical thought. In the first part of this chapter, I present a study the buildings of Tiahuanaco, situated on the southern shores of Lake Titicaca, between the contemporary countries of Peru and Bolivia. In the second part, I analyze the structure Sacsayhuamán, located on one of the hills surrounding the city of Cuzco, the former main urban center of the Inca. Both are monumental constructions erected during different epochs from enormous boulders. Archaeological studies consider Tiahuanaco to be an architectural landmark of the Tiahuanaco-Huari culture that was constructed from around the fifth century and was abandoned in the thirteenth century (Protzen/Nair

 Augustine of Hippo elucidates the ages paradigm most clearly in his De Catezhicandis Rudibus [On the Catechizing of the Uninstructed], Chapter XXII. For its early modern receptions, see, for example, the Chronographia, o Repertorio de los tiempos (Chávez 1566).

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2013: 3–22). Sacsayhuamán is an Inca building whose monumental sections were built in the fifteenth century and were still under development when the 16thcentury Spanish invasion took place (Bauer 2004: 98–105). Both sites have been the object of many important archaeological studies (Bauer 2004; Hyslop 1990; Makowski 2016; Vranich/Stanish 2013; Protzen/Nair 2013; Jennings/Yépez Álvarez 2015). Still, their relevance in the writing of early modern world history and their interpretations as part of early modern historical and geographical genres have not yet been the object of any study. In the first section of this chapter, entitled “Peru in World History”, I introduce the context in which the earliest written and visual depictions of these constructions appeared in Western formats. In early Spanish writings about the geopolitical locale then recently termed Perú, descriptions of Andean buildings can be found and gained relevance. These descriptions are placed in works that consider world history and geography, and at the same time narrate the conquest and colonization of the Americas. In the second section, “The Aetate Mundi of Tiahuanaco”, I analyze a passage by the Spanish conquistador and historian Pedro Cieza de León from his 1553 work Primera Parte de la Crónica del Peru5. I focus on the author’s description of Tiahuanaco, its surrounding landscape, and the worldhistorical reflections found in Cieza de León’s comparison of Indigenous narratives about this place with the first ages of Biblical history as recorded in the book of Genesis. In the last section, “Orbis Terrarum’s Sacsayhuamán”, I explore the comparative interpretations and translation strategies displayed in the earliest depictions of this Inca building complex. I analyze the Italian translation and visual interpretation, made by an anonymous engraver in Venice in 1556, based on a report by the Spanish conqueror Pero Sancho de la Hoz, now lost for centuries, that is found in the third volume of Ramusio’s Delle Navigationi et Viaggi. This Italian translation is the only surviving testimony of Sancho de la Hoz’s early Spanish manuscript about the Andes. An English version was created in 1917 by Philip Ainsworth Means for the Cortés Society. As I will show, this Italian translation of Sancho de la Hoz’s account was a source for the Latin text and the woodcut in the German compilation Civitates Orbis Terrarum. In sum, by studying Pedro Cieza de León’s Spanish account of Tiahuanaco, and the Italian translation of Sancho de la Hoz’s Spanish report of Sacsayhuamán alongside its Latin and visual interpretations, I aim to highlight how early modern transatlantic knowledge circulations defined these pre-Columbian buildings in Western terms, thus transforming them into sources for world histories.

 For the English translation, I use Clements Markham’s 1864 translation for the Hakluyt Society (reprinted in 1969).

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Peru in World History The first epoch of Spanish writing about the Andes (from the first contacts in 1525 to the assassination of Atahualpa in 1532) was mainly devoted to narrating the conquerors’ deeds, focusing on episodes of conquest and the recognition of places previously unknown to Europeans. In most cases, these authors were the conquistadors themselves (Pease 2010: 71–90). In general, the leaders selected a literate member of their group to serve as the scribe or secretary, whose duty it was to keep a log of events and record the participants in their various explorations and military interventions. They were also tasked with writing letters to superiors in other parts of the Americas or in Europe and, in a few cases, long descriptive reports, which could include descriptions of the landscape, objects, and people (Mignolo 1992). This was the case with both Pero Sancho de la Hoz and Pedro Cieza de León. Until 1530, written references to the southern landmass of the Americas were vague and contained information about coastal encounters with seafaring groups or descriptions of the meandrous shores. In 1532, Peru irrupted into the European geopolitical imagination through reports describing a land of such riches that the walls of its temples were covered in gold. The assassination of the Inca ruler Atahualpa by Pizarros’ army on the Cajamarca plains in November of that year, the unimaginable amounts of precious metals acquired as ransom, the references to the abundant Andean population, and their mirabilia-like constructions rapidly reached audiences on the other side of the Atlantic and shaped the first European imaginings of Peru (Seed 1991; MacCormark 1989: 141–168). Pero Sancho de la Hoz was among the first groups of conquistadors that arrived on the Andean coasts led by the Pizarro clan. In the 1530s, he served as Francisco Pizarro’s secretary and scribe, and participated in the kidnapping and killing of Atahualpa in Cajamarca. Alongside Francisco Jerez, Miguel de Estete, Cristobal de Mena, and Pedro Pizarro, he is one of the few writers to write a firsthand narrative of Peru before the fall of the Incas. After the events of Cajamarca, Sancho de la Hoz participated in the so-called Civil Wars of Peru (1537–1554), in which different groups of conquistadors fought against each other and the Imperial emissaries and troops that sought to organize a Spanish royal government in Peru. As part of the disputes between conquistadors for the rights to conquer Chile, Sancho de la Hoz plotted against the famous conquistador Pedro Gutiérrez de Valdivia, but his strategy failed, and he was publicly executed as punishment (Lockhart 1972: 276–289). Pedro Cieza de León was likely born in the Spanish city of Llerena around the year 1520 and embarked for the Indies at a very young age. After a short period in the Caribbean, he joined the conquistadors’ legions on their advances in

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Peru. His work as a writer began when he left the conquistadors to join the royalists, followers and emissaries of the Spanish Crown. Seeking to abate the Civil Wars, the Spanish priest Pedro de la Gasca was named the second viceroy of Peru in 1547. La Gasca appointed Cieza de León as a scribe, and he began to write the Crónica del Perú on La Gasca’s orders. The Crónica del Perú was the first major Western historiographical project about Peru that covered the histories of Inca and non-Inca Andean Indigenous people, the conquest of Peru, and the history of the Civil Wars. Cieza de León returned to Spain, where his work was quickly printed. The first part of the Crónica del Perú appeared in Seville in 1553, but the author died the following year, leaving the remaining parts of his historiographical project unpublished (Pease 2010: 197–232). The works of both Sancho de la Hoz and Cieza de León are testimonial narratives. Sancho de la Hoz’s report focuses more on the actions of the conquistadors, while Cieza de León’s displays a historical interest in the Indigenous people of the Americas. Yet, as early chroniclers of Peru, both deal with the various epistemological and conceptual problems of composing a written account of a landscape, people, and objects not previously known in any Western written source. The unstable terminology, adjectives, comparisons, and metaphors employed demonstrate how these societies and geographies posed a significant challenge for early modern historical thought. Sancho de la Hoz’s text was a manuscript report of the conquest of Peru, which was lost already in the sixteenth century after having been translated into Italian and incorporated into the third tome of Giovanni Ramusio’s compilation of travel reports from all over the world, the Navigationi et Viaggi. The loss of the original manuscript in no way hindered the circulation of the work’s contents. Through inclusion in this successful Italian compilation, De la Hoz’s account became the source for the first European engravings depicting Cuzco. Moreover, it was synthesized in Latin for its inclusion in the Civitates. In this way, Sancho de la Hoz’s report triggered early modern Italian and German understandings of Peru as part of the now broader world. In the meantime, Cieza de León’s Crónica del Perú had been printed and reprinted in Spanish intellectual centers and read by conquistadors, missionaries, and chroniclers as a privileged source of information about the southern landmass of the Americas. This authoritative text on Peru connected Iberian and Spanish American intellectual networks, and even today it is considered a fundamental part of the Andean literary canon and a source of objective ethnographical information for the study of pre-Columbian cultures (Pease 2010: 220). Sancho de la Hoz’s and Cieza de León’s descriptions of Sacsayhuamán and Tiahuanaco, respectively, shine light on how pre-Columbian buildings prompted

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different world-historical questions and how, through them, new global ideas were developed in the early modern period.

The Aetate Mundi of Tiahuanaco The site of Tiahuanaco, located south of Lake Titicaca on contemporary Bolivian territory and nowadays called Tiahuanaco-Huari [Wari] by archaeologists, was a main urban center of a pre-Columbian Andean society that flourished between 500 and 900 AD (Protzen/Nair 2013: 3–22). The now partially reconstructed site comprises a series of buildings, gateways, and sculptures made of stone. Its most prominent monumental constructions are a square structure (Kalasasaya), two pyramidal structures (the Akapana and the Pumapunku), and two monolithic sculptures of humanlike figures. The architecture of Tiahuanaco is considered an exceptional early expression of the masonry and stone-based construction technologies that developed in the pre-Columbian Andean highlands (Protzen/Nair 2013: 23–82). In Cieza de León’s Crónica del Perú, Tiahuanaco appears in Chapters CIII and CV, in which the author narrates the history and geography of the Southern Andean region called “Collao”. In Chapter CII, Cieza de León describes this region and its great lake, the Titicaca (Cieza de León 1553: 117v). Chapter CV contains descriptions “[d]el pueblo de Tiahuanaco, y de los edificios tan grandes y antiguos q [ue] en el se vee[n]” (Cieza de León 1553: 119r) [“[o]f the village of Tiahuanaco, and of the great and ancient edifices which are to be seen there” (Cieza de León 1969 [1864]: 374)]. The lake and the buildings are seen together as a reflection of the same historical landscape. We can observe in these chapters how the location of Tiahuanaco, the qualities of its construction, and its surrounding environment are understood by the author to connect this place to the period of the biblical universal Flood, which he sees as one of the most ancient epochs in world history. Cieza de León’s narrative offers a historical ekphrasis of the Tiahuanaco site and an exposition on the antiquity of the lake, which lead to two possible worldhistorical theorizations concerning the ancient origins of Tiahuanaco. In Chapter CV, Cieza de León writes that the town of Tiahuanaco is of no interest but that the ancient buildings for which the town is famous are remarkable and worthy of being seen. In his description, these buildings include, first, a handmade slope constructed over enormous stone foundations. Next to it are two humanlike “ydolos” [“idols”] made of stone. These idols also exhibit large dimensions and excellent artistic qualities. According to Cieza de León, they “parecen pequeños giga[n]tes” (Cieza de León 1553: 119r) [“seem like small giants”] (Cieza de León 1969

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[1864]: 375). Because of their clothing and appearance, it is possible to think that these giants represent humans different from the Native people of the Collao region, where Tiahuanaco is situated. This differentiation between the Natives and the stone-made giants will be fundamental in the forthcoming historical reflection. The description of a second building also presents some historical problems. Cieza de León recognizes it as another vast construction of enormous foundations and solid walls, but remarks that it is not possible to know when was it made or to establish any knowledge about its antiquity because the Indigenous people were illiterate and es causa para que no se sepa que gentes hizieron tan grandes cimie[n]tos y fuerças: y que tanto tiempo ello ha pasado: que de presente no se vee mas que una muralla muy bien obrada, y que debe de aver muchos tiempos y edades q[ue] se hizo [sic] (Cieza de León 1553:119r) [are the causes why it is not known who built such vast foundations, and how much time has since elapsed; for at the present there is only a wall very well built, and which must have been standing for many ages] (Cieza de León 1969 [1864]: 375)

Cieza de León notes that the very building in its material holds some information about its past. It seems to have been erected in a very distant time: though very strong, the wall shows signs of deterioration. Yet, for Cieza de León, the question of who made these structures cannot be inferred from their material aspects. The third and final structure recorded by Cieza de León in Tiahuanaco is described in the following way: En otro lugar mas hazia el ponie[n]te deste edificio esta[n] otras mayores antiguallas, porque ay muchas portadas gra[n]des con sus quicios, umbrales, y portaletes, todo de una sola piedra [. . .] que es cosa de mucha grandeza bien considerada esta obra. La q[ua]l yo ni alcanço ni entie[n]do con q[ue] instrume[n]tos y herramie[n]tas se labro [sic]. (Cieza de León 1553: 119v) [In another, more to the westward, there are other ancient remains, among them many doorways, with their jambs, lintels, and thresholds, all of one stone [. . .] The work is one of grandeur and magnificence, when well considered. For myself I fail to understand with what instruments or tools it can have been done.] (Cieza de León 1969 [1864]: 376)

Again, every structure seems to be of remarkable antiquity. Also, their dimensions and the high quality of their constructions bring the author to think about the technologies involved in their creation. The monoliths that constitute each element of the structures are enormous, even the doorjambs. According to Cieza de León, some unknown instruments or tools must have been used to form them. With each building, the historical problems accumulate, and Cieza de León appears to be caught in a vortex of antiquarian considerations. Every element of

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Tiahuanaco, including the size of the stones and the structures, the crafting of the wrought blocks – some depicting humanlike figures –, and the apparent lack of any nearby quarry prompt new interrogations. For these reasons, having traveled throughout the Andes and comparing Tiahuanaco with other grand edifices of the region, Cieza de León states: “Yo para mi te[n]go esta a[n]tigualla por la mas Antigua de todo el Peru” [sic] (Cieza de León 1553: 119v) [“My belief [is] that this ruin is the most ancient in all Peru”] (Cieza de León 1969 [1864]: 378). For Cieza de León, the so-called New World seems to be full of antiquities, elements that refer to the most distant past, and among those antiquities, he considers Tiahuanaco to be the most ancient of all. While this consideration concludes his ekphrasis on the material qualities of the buildings, it brings with it more questions than answers. Understanding the origins and antiquity of Tiahuanaco would require new world-historical hypotheses to be created. This obviously ancient place causes Cieza de León to ponder the most ancient epochs of world-history, namely the biblical times of the universal Flood. Haunted by the riddles that these overwhelmingly large and ancient buildings represented, Cieza de León attempted to acquire some information about their construction from the local people of Collao. The answer he received was laughter: Yo pregunté a los naturales [. . .] si estos edificios se avian hecho en tie[m]po de los Ingas: y riéronse de esta pregunta, afirmando lo ya dicho: que antes que ellos reynasse[n] estaban hechos: mas que ellos no podian dezir ni afirmar quien lo dizo: mas de que oyern a sus passados que en una noche remaneció hecho lo que allí se veía [sic]. (Cieza de León 1553: 119v) [I asked the natives [. . .] whether these edifices were built in the time of the Yncas, and they laughed at the question, affirming that they were made before the Yncas ever reigned, but that they could not say who made them. They added that they had heard from their fathers that all we saw was done in one night.] (Cieza de León 1969 [1864]: 379)

Cieza de León wondered if these monuments were made by the Inca because, in his understanding, the most remarkable group in the Andes was the Inca. Yet, he is ridiculed by the Natives, who dismantle his inquiry with laughter. Though Cieza de León had travelled all over the Andes, their laughter implies that, for the people of Collao, his knowledge of Andean history was very vague and lacking. In an episode studied by Grafton, Shelford, and Siriasi in New World Ancient Texts, the renowned Spanish missionary José de Acosta remembered Aristotle’s cosmographical theorization when traversing the Equator and laughed (Grafton/Shelford/Siriasi 1992: 2). Here as well, laughter appears as a reaction to a seemingly bizarre idea. Likewise, that Cieza de León considered the Inca ancient enough to have built Tiahuanaco is seen as absurdity by the Native Collaos. But their reply,

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instead of clarifying the history of the buildings, seems to provoke another set of questions. For the contemporary Collaos, Tiahuanaco is a mysterious construction whose origins are rooted deep in a now-forgotten past about which no knowledge remains. About these unknown times, long before the Inca, the Collao Natives could offer no answers. Then, since Tiahuanaco is obviously ancient, was not made by the Incas, and is associated with times so long past as to be mythical, Cieza de León generates new hypotheses concerning its origin. He posed antiquarian questions of Tiahuanaco, which had never before been the object of any Western-style historical reflection: when exactly were the ancient ages of Tiahuanaco? And who during those ages were the builders of Tiahuanaco? For the historian, these were two crucial problems to be solved, spurning new interpretations. The trope of relating Tiahuanaco to “dark times” might be a pre-Columbian narrative tradition linked to these buildings, probably entangled with the biblical creatio ex nihilo6. But for early modern historians pondering the Americas, like Cieza de León, these “dark times” posed complex historical questions. Though he notes that there is no writing in the Americas, Cieza de León finds himself in front of a building inscribed with physical clues that memorialize oral narratives related to the Tiahuanaco complex. To understand its history, the author does not reflect on the edifice as an isolated object. He considers it as part of a broader historical landscape that includes Lake Titicaca a few miles to the north of Tiahuanaco, also in the Collao region. Located in the Peruvian-Bolivian highlands, Titicaca is the world’s highest lake. In Chapter CIII, Cieza de León describes this body of water as “una laguna la mayor y mas ancha que se ha hallado ni visto en la mayor parte de estas Indias” [sic] (Cieza de León 1553: 118r) [“the largest and broadest Lake that has been found in the Indies”] (Cieza de León 1969 [1864]: 370). According to Cieza de León, Lake Titicaca and Tiahuanaco are the largest of their kind in the Andes, and he cannot give an accurate account of their possible origin for either of them. Thus, Cieza de León interprets the qualities of the building, the nature of the lake, and the Indigenous narratives about them to create the following two miniature world-historical narratives in order to understand the distant past of this region.

 There are many narratives in early modern Andean writing that refer to a pre-historical period of darkness. Spanish missionaries call some of them fables, supposedly based on the Andean peoples’ ignorance of true history, see for example, Cristóbal de Molina’s Relación de las fabulas y ritos de los incas (Molina 2010). In other cases, these narratives of darkness appear entangled with Christian perceptions of history, see for example Chapters 1 to 5 of the Manuscrito de Huarochirí (Salomon/Urioste 1991).

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In the first one, these monumental buildings were created by a transoceanic society that had arrived in the Americas in a very distant past: [La gente de Collao] dizen aver visto en la ysla de Titicaca ho[m]bres Barbados, y aver hecho el edificio de Vinaque semejante gente, digo q[ue] por ventura pudo ser que antes q [ue] los Ingas mansassen, devio de aver alguna ge[n]te de entendimie[n]to en estos reynos, venida por alguna parte que no se sabe, los quales harian estas cosas, y siendo pocos y los naturales ta[n]tos, serian muertos en las guerras. (Cieza de León 1553: 119v) [They [the people of Collao] also speak of bearded men on the island of Titicaca, and of others who built the edifice of Vinaque, it may, perhaps, be inferred that, before the Yngas reigned, there was an intelligent race who came from some unknown part, and who did these things. Being few, and the natives many, they may all have been killed in the wars.] (Cieza de León 1969 [1864]: 379)

According to the author, a pre-historical group of people arrived in the Americas and developed their material culture in the Andes before disappearing. This sequence of transoceanic navigation, development, and disappearance explains the origins of the architecture of the Collao region. In Cieza de León’s imagination, they could be from an overseas land (to avoid repetitive term) given that Indigenous informants described these people as bearded. Crafting this narrative in accordance with his scarce collection of oral and material sources, Cieza concludes that these bearded men had arrived and disappeared before Inca rule in the Andes (Cieza de León 1969 [1864]: 379). Because of their material qualities and the Indigenous narratives surrounding them, the monumental architectural landmarks of the southern Andes permit Cieza de León to create a historical narrative about ancient transatlantic navigation and population of the Americas. Cieza de León reinterprets the built landscape of Collao as a testimony to the transatlantic circulation of people and knowledge, and I consider it possible to reconstruct Cieza de León’s theorization of such a lost world-historical connection: for Cieza de León, “alguna ge[n]te de entendimie[n]to en estos reynos, venida por alguna parte que no se sabe, los quales harian estas cosas” [sic] (Cieza de León 1553: 119v) [“an intelligent race who came from some unknown part, and who did these things”7] (Cieza de León 1969 [1864]: 379). Following Cieza de León’s logic, the built structures at Tiuhuanaco testify to the pre-Columbian transoceanic interaction of a great society that navigated to the Americas during a previous historical epoch. Accordingly, for Cieza, the buildings demonstrate that the world had been connected since ancient

 This 1864 translation is certainly very questionable today. A new translation following contemporary standards could be as follows: “Any people of understanding in these kingdoms, coming from some unknown place, who would do these things”.

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times. It was then necessary for Cieza de León somehow to clarify in which epoch of the ancient past this interaction had taken place. Cieza de León’s second world-historical interpretation is based on an understanding of Tiahuanaco and Lake Titicaca through the biblical book of Genesis, considered by early modern Christians to be the authoritative account of world history and geography (Shalev 2003: 69). Taking into account that Titicaca is located in a highland, and is so immense that it appears to be a sea, Cieza is unable to fathom from where all the water could have arrived at such an altitude: “Podría ser que del tiempo del diluvio quedo assi con esta agua que vemos: porq[ue] a mi ver si fuera ojo de mar, estuviera salobre el agua y no dulce: q[ua]nto mas que estara de la mar mas d[e] sessenta leguas” [sic] (Cieza de León 1553: 118r) [“It may be that, after the deluge, this lake remained with the water we now see in it, for if it communicated with the sea, the water would be salt and not fresh; besides it is at a distance of sixty leagues from the sea” (Cieza de León 1969 [1864]: 371)]. Here Cieza de León suggests that the water of Lake Titicaca is a vestige of the Flood, relating this landscape to one of the most ancient epochs of Christian historical understanding. The lake’s unique characteristics beg the question of how it came into being, similar to that posed by Tiahuanaco. This geographical problem finds a world-historical solution in Cieza de León’s theorization by relating Titicaca to the Flood as narrated in Genesis. As the universal Flood is an event that encompassed the whole world, and if the Americas have been part of the world since the beginning of times, then these lands also suffered the Flood. Thus, Cieza de León suggests having found material traces of the earliest episodes of human history (according to his early modern conception) in the Collao region8. Cieza de León’s inquiry into the age of Tiahuanaco gave rise to novel ideas about the ancient past of its region, and by linking it to one of the most significant events of biblical antiquity, he created a historical connection between the Andes and other parts of the known world. Following Cieza de León’s estimation concerning the water of Lake Titicaca, the lands of Collao and the Old World are equally ancient as they both experienced the universal Flood – an event that connects both in time. Cieza de León’s hypothesis would be received by subsequent scholars as a fundamental clue for the development of a theory that located the antediluvian biblical world in the southern Americas, as explained in Paraíso en el Nuevo Mundo by the seventeenth-century polymath Antonio de León Pinelo (León Pinelo 1943 [1650]).

 In 1947, the pseudoarchaeologist H.S. Bellamy published a book on this same topic in dialogue with the Cosmic Ice theory entitled Built before the Flood: The Problem of the Tiahuanaco Ruins.

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Orbis Terrarum’s Sacsayhuamán The second site investigated in this study, Sacsayhuamán, is considered one of the most important archaeological sites of the Andes (Hyslop 1990: 51–56). Like most Inca monumental buildings, it is located near Cuzco, atop a hill that overlooks the urban center of the city of Cuzco. Archaeological research has revealed that this site was occupied before the Inca, and was greatly expanded into a monumental complex in the last decades of Inca dominion. It is divided into three different zones; the zone that became an object of early modern world-historical thought was the edifice comprising three massive terrace walls built of stones even more prominent than those used in any other buildings of the Andes, including Tiahuanaco (Hyslop 1990: 51–56, Bauer 2004: 98–105). Nevertheless, the name Sacsayhuamán does not appear in Sancho de la Hoz’s early modern account, in which it is simply called “Fortezza” (Sancho de la Hoz 1556: 413), “fortress” (Sancho de la Hoz 1917: 155). I will use Sacsayhuamán to identify the structure and analyze its designation as a “fortress” in Sancho de la Hoz’s account. Sacsayhuamán was first described in a Western language in the Pero Sancho de la Hoz’s lost report, which was preserved in an edited Italian translation in the third tome of Giovanni Batista Ramusio’s Delle Navigationi et Viaggi (1556)9. The passage in which Sacsayhuamán appears is titled – perhaps by Pero Sancho himself or by the Italian translator: “Descrittione della Città del Cusco, & della sua mirabil fortezza, & de costume de suoi popoli” [sic] (Sancho de la Hoz 1556: 413) [“Description of the City of Cuzco, and its wonderful fortress, and the customs of its inhabitants” (Sancho de la Hoz 1917: 155)]. My aim in this section is to highlight the effort to conceptualize Sacsayhuamán as a fortress and so, through this building, to create a comparative understanding of Cuzco as one of the cities of the world. First, I will look at the written description of the building and the efforts Sancho de la Hoz took to conceptualize it using the antiquarian idea of Herculean architecture. Then, I will analyze the visual depiction of Sacsayhuamán engraved by an anonymous artist and printed in the 1556 edition of Delle Navigationi et Viaggi. Finally, I will discuss this image’s usage and the synthesized translation of the description found in the Civitates orbium Terrarum of 1572. I argue that in these two compilations, Delle Navigationi et Viaggi and Civitates, Sacsayhuamán became a monumental landmark in a new early modern imagining of the global world map.

 I use the 1556 Venetian edition of Delle Navigationi et Viaggi, and the English translation published by Phillip Ainsworth Means in 1917. I follow Arocena (1986) in all the references to the history of Pero Sancho de la Hoz’s report.

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As related in Pero Sancho de la Hoz’s report, Delle Navigationi et Viaggi describes Cuzco as a royal urban settlement inhabited only by the elite members of Inca society. As a city of rulers, the text mentions its many palaces, its organized streets, and its magnificent houses made of stone and adobe that are something “degna da veder” (Sancho de la Hoz 1556: 314) [“worthy of admiration” (Sancho de la Hoz 1917: 155)]. While the colorful palaces of the noblemen seem grandiose, according to Pero Sancho, nothing in Cuzco is comparable with the fortress: [È] una fortezza di terra & di pietra molto bella, che ha le sue finestre grandi che guardano verso la Città, che la fa parer piu bella, dentro d’essa sono molti alloggiame[n]ti, & una torre principale del mezzo fatta a modo di cuba, e di quattro o cinque gironi, uno piu alto dell’altro [sic]. (Sancho de la Hoz 1556: 314) [[T]here is a very beautiful fortress of earth and stone with big windows that look over the city and make it appear more beautiful. In it, there are many chambers and a main round tower in the center made with four or five stories, one on the other.] (Sancho de la Hoz 1917: 155)

The terming of Sacsayhuamán as a fortress relates it to a supposed military usage. Through its location, construction materials, and forms, the author understands this structure to be something like a Western citadel or castle: a place created for military purposes, to defend a strategic position and where military garrisons could be kept. Nowadays, archaeologists agree that Sacsayhuamán was probably used militarily only in the confrontations between the Incas of Cuzco and the Spanish conquistadors in the 1530s. Before that, it most probably never served any military function (Hyslop 1990: 53; Bauer 2004: 103). Pre-Columbian buildings that served Indigenous ritual purposes were termed “temples” and associated with religious practices to be extirpated by Christian missionaries (Bernand/Gruzinski 1988; MacCormack 1989), but Sancho de la Hoz calls Sacsayhuamán a “fortress”. The chronicler reinforces the idea of warfare by claiming that: “Tutta questa Fortezza era un deposito d’armi, mazze, la[n]cie, archi, frezze, azze, rotelle, giubboni di bombaso imbottiti forti, & alter armi di diverse maniere” [sic] (Sancho de la Hoz 1556: 413) [“This entire fortress was a great storehouse of arms, clubs, lances, bows, arrows, axes, shields, heavy jackets of quilted cotton, and other weapons of different types” (Sancho de la Hoz 1917: 157)]10. With this, Sancho de la Hoz not only offers the first written description of Sacsayhuamán but also identifies its function with warfare. Once understood as a fortress, its most remarkable feature are its walls:

 This idea of a military fortress has persisted and is still at work in a recent entry on Sacsahuamán in the Encyclopedic Dictionary of Archaeology (Kipfer 2000).

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La piu bella cosa che si possa veder p[er] edificio in quel paese sono questi gironi, perches ono di pietre cosi gra[n]de come pezzi di mo[n]tagne sassole & scogli, che ve ne sono molte d’altezza di treinta palmi, & altre tanti di lunghezza, & altre di venti, & venticinque, & altre de quindici, ma niuna ce ne è di si picciola gra[n]dezza che la possino portar tre carrette: q[ue]sta no[n] è pietra liscia, ma assai ben incassata et tessura l’una con l’altra [sic]. (Sancho de la Hoz 1556: 413) [These walls are the most beautiful thing that can be seen of all the constructions in that land. This is because they are of such big stones that no one who sees them would say that they have been placed there by the hand of man. They are as big as pieces of mountains or crags, and they are some thirty palms high and others as wide, and others of twenty-five palms and others of fifteen, but none of them are so small that three carts could carry them. These stones are not flat, but very well worked and fit together.] (Sancho de la Hoz 1917: 156)

Following the logic of a fortress, the walls are admired for their strength and permit Cuzco to be imagined as a fortified city of the Orbis Terrarum, similar to great walled European cities like Nuremberg or Toledo, emblems of medieval warfare, and other royal urban centers. This association is not only terminological but also elaborated comparatively. Sancho de la Hoz records how some European individuals in the Andes related to this remarkable abode: “[E]t multi Spagnuoli che l’hanno vaduta, et sono andati in Lombardia, & in altri Regni strain, dicono non haver veduto un’altro edificio come questa Fortezza, ne castello piu forte” [sic] (Sancho de la Hoz 1556: 413) [“And many Spaniards who have been in Lombardy and other foreign kingdoms say that they have never seen another fortress like this one nor a stronger castle” (Sancho de la Hoz 1917: 155)]. Considered a fortress or castle from the viewpoint of Europeans who saw it, Sacsayhuamán evoked comparison with other significant structures of its kind in the Old World. Yet, according to the Spaniards, this “fortress” in Cuzco was the greatest of them all. The acknowledgment of the greatness of Cuzco’s “fortress” among the strongholds of the world called for another comparative reflection, this one in antiquarian terms: “Gli Spagnuoli che la veddono, dicono che nè il po[n]te da Segovia, nè d’altri edificii che fece Hercole, nè i Romani, no[n] sono cosi degni da vedere come questo” [sic] (Sancho de la Hoz 1556: 413) [“The Spaniards who see them say that neither the bridge of Segovia nor any other of the edifices which Hercules or the Romans made is so worthy of being seen as this” (Sancho de la Hoz 1917: 156)]. How comparison with Rome and Roman accomplishments served as an overarching paradigm for historical references and metaphors in understanding the Incas and Cuzco has been studied as a part of the early modern European reception of classical tradition (MacCormack 2007). Yet, in this case, the reference to Hercules opens a window into how antiquarianism and its classical metaphors are reframed through comparison with monuments in the Andes. Among early modern

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Spanish antiquarians, the ancient buildings of Hercules and the world’s marvels were considered the most magnificent architectural landmarks11. Here they are deemed less impressive than the Incas’. The Indigenous material cultures of the pre-Columbian Americas set a new paradigm of architectural greatness. In works of early modern Spanish antiquarianism, such as Pedro de Medina’s Libro de grandezas y cosas memorables de España (1548), Francisco Bermúdez de Pedraza’s Antigüedades y excelencias de Granada (1608), and Rodrigo Caro’s Antiguedades y principado de la ilustrissima ciudad de Sevilla (1634), the most remarkable material vestiges of the ancient past, especially those of the southern Iberian Peninsula, are described as the buildings attributed to Hercules. By interpreting the mythical narrative of Hercules’ labors historically, some of the most outstanding buildings were identified as having been constructed by this classical hero. In early modern antiquarian thought, Hercules was a founder of cities who erected the “Non Plus Ultra” columns at the Strait of Gibraltar and built the walls of Seville. Hercules was a key figure of magnificent and historically relevant constructions (Navarro 2008: 208). So, when Sancho de la Hoz affirmed that for him and his fellow Spaniards, Sacsayhuamán was even more incredible than Hercules’ constructions, he simultaneously understands this Andean edifice as ancient and as something superior to the most fabulous craftsmanship of Mediterranean antiquity (Urquízar Herrera 2017: 1–23). Sacsayhuamán, supposedly the world’s greatest fortress surpassing the marvels of antiquity, was object of another depiction in Sancho de la Hoz’s report. Along with its translation into Italian, Delle Navigationi et Viaggi also included a visual version of the city of Cuzco based on Sancho de la Hoz’s written description. In the image, created by an anonymous engraver in Italy – probably Francesco Valesio (López Parada 2013: 175) –, the city and its most salient architectonical features were de-ekphrasized: the woodcut is not a depiction of Cuzco or Sacsayhuamán, but rather an attempt to visualize the urban landscape described in Sancho de la Hoz’s report. This Italian woodcut which circulated in the 1556 Delle Navigationi et Viaggi was copied and reprinted by Du Pinet in his Plantz, pourtraitz et descriptions de plusievrs villes et forteresses (1564). For Civitates Orbis Terrarum, Hogenberg slightly modified his copy of this engraving, adding the informative cartouche in Latin and the kingly procession of Atahualpa in the foreground (López Parada 2010: 169–190). In sum, the Italian engraving in Delle Navigationi et Viaggi was a

 On early modern theories of the Seven Marvels of the World, see Estienne (1567) in his Introduction au Traité de la conformité des merveilles anciennes avec les modernes, ou Traité préparatif à l’apologie pour Hérodote.

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visual interpretation of the Spanish written account by Pero Sancho de la Hoz. Its French manifestation in Du Pinet’s Plantz was a reprint of the Italian engraving, but with a French text. And in the German-produced Civitates, this image with a Latin text was included among a collection of world cities. Thus, this engraving became one of the first Western visualizations of Cuzco in works interested in compiling the cities of the world in a global perspective. On the left side of the Italian engraving of the walled city of Cuzco (Fig. 2), we see an architectural feature located next to a sloping hill. It is composed of three rectangular terraced walls that form a pyramid-like base. This structure is topped by another rectangular structure, castle-like in appearance, with a tower at each corner and a higher domed building at its center. Each of the terraces is populated by groups of individuals carrying arms, reinforcing the idea of a military complex. Below, within the city, a group of people carrying a litter approach this stepped construction. The engraving in Delle Navigationi et Viaggi contains an inscription naming the figure on the litter as “Atabalipa”, referring to Atahualpa

Fig. 2: “Cusco”. In: Delle Navigationi et Viaggi, 1556, pp. 411–412. Courtesy of the John Carter Brown Library, Providence, Rhode Island. Available online at: https://archive.org/details/terzovolumedel le32ramu/page/411/mode/2up?view=theater.

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(Ramusio 1556: 411). This label does not appear in the engraving included in the Civitates, which instead includes a larger, second version of Atahualpa’s litter procession in the foreground. Reflecting another layer of historical fiction, the Inca Atahualpa never exerted his rule over the city of Cuzco. In the early sixteenth century, the city was disputed between him and his half-brother Huascar, both of whom claimed to be ruler of the Inca, that is, capac or sapa Inca. When the Spanish conquistadors arrived, Cuzco was under the dominion of Huascar, his family, and followers (Rostworowski 2013: 153–197). Yet, the European conception of the city of Cuzco includes Atahualpa, the “last” Inca sovereign who was executed in 1533, heading towards the city’s great “fortress”. Based on a written description and read across translations, this depiction is also mediated by the concepts involved in its understanding. Its designation as a “fortress” not only dictated the image’s creation, but also interferes in comparative reflection about the building and guides its visual reinterpretation. In this way, the engraving also reflects other elements from the early modern repertoire of visual forms, such as the dome-like temple – reminiscent of other domes elsewhere in the Civitates, where the dome-like structures reappear in the depiction of salient landmark edifices of non-Christian locales, such in Cairo’s and Istanbul’s engravings (Braun/Hogenberg 1612 [1572]: 51r, 55r). It also includes Atahualpa’s royal entrance, thus bringing together multiple visual references that conceive kingship and other ideas related to the Inca. It was Sancho de la Hoz’s Cuzco with its fortress, included in Ramusio’s volume, that was selected by the editors of the Civitates to be listed and portrayed as one of the great cities of the Orbis Terrarum. All accounts in the Civitates are summarized translations of other written descriptions of cities12. The source for Cuzco’s entry is the “Descrittione della Città del Cusco, & della sua mirabil fortezza, & de costume de suoi popoli” [sic] (Sancho de la Hoz 1556: 413) [“Description of the City of Cuzco, and its wonderful fortress, and the customs of its inhabitants” (Sancho de la Hoz 1917: 155)] from the Italian compilation Delle Navigationi et Viaggi. The first lines sum up the place of Cuzco in the global landscape of urban centers that the German editors envisioned, seeking to create connections between the cities of the world’s different continents and offering a guide for thinking them comparatively: Huius Metropolis, & praecipua est civitas Cusco, ea amplitudine, fortitudine, & magnificentia, ut cum pulcherrimis etiam vel Galliae, vel Hispanie urbibus, invicta arcis munitione [. . .] contendere queat. (Braun/Hogenberg 1612: 58)

 For example, in the case of Jerusalem, see Rubin (1996), and for London, see Huck (1912).

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[Of this Metropolis, the most important is the city of Cuzco, of such size, strength, and magnificence, that it can contend with the most beautiful cities, either of Gaul or of Spain, with an invincible fortress fortification.]

By doing so, the Civitates aimed to address the same set of questions that, according to Sancho de la Hoz, emerged in the conquistadors’ minds: is Cuzco like the cities of Lombardy, or Segovia; are the buildings like those of Hercules or of the Romans? The Civitates notes that the southern part of the Americas comprises Peru and Brazil, and its great city was Cuzco: “[E]a amplitudine, fortitudine, & magnificentia, ut cum pulcherrimis etiam vel Galliae, vel Hispaniae urbibus” [sic] [“Of such grandeur, fortitude, and magnificence, as the most beautiful cities of Gaul or Spain”] (Braun/Hogenberg 1612 [1572]: 58). While thinking of the cities of the Americas as belonging to the world’s cities, the text in the Civitates is considerably shorter than its source. Both describe the city as a rectangular royal settlement with walls and aqueducts, but most of the text in the Civitates is devoted to one single building: Cuzco’s arx. The term arx appears in the Civitates as a translation of “fortezza” [fortress]. Derived from the Greek word άκρα [end, extremity], the term was used to refer to the principal elevation in a city (Smith/Wayte/Marindin 1890: 139). Due to its topography, arx could easily be applied to the Sacsayhuamán envisioned in the engraving, also because it also denoted military structures: “A stronghold, castle, citadel” (Lewis/Short 1879: 169). The term arx, which is typically associated with the citadel of Rome, emphasizes the notion that Sacsayhuamán was not only a fortified section of the city but also a potential autonomous stronghold that could have functioned as a defensive military center, or as a hub for religious or civil activities, much like ancient Roman urban settlements. The editorial choice of this term synthesizes the available information about Cuzco to highlight its most salient architectural feature. The text in the Civitates describes Cuzco’s arx located at the top of a high hill as an unmatched architectonical feature of the Orbis Terrarum: In clivoso & difficili montis ascensu, admirandae pulchritudinis arx spectabilem, arque amoenam hanc urbem reddit, cuius sive pulchritudinem, sive ingentem aedificii molem consideres, perpaucae similes in universa Europa illis sunt visae, qui terra squam plurimas perlustratunt [sic]. (Braun/Hogenberg 1612 [1572]: 58) [In the steep and difficult summit of a mountain, an arx of admirable beauty renders this city a sight to behold, whether [by] its beauty or the enormous dimensions of the building. Very few similar ones have been seen in all Europe by those who have travelled the vast majority of the earth.]

Both its size and its beauty made of the arx of Cuzco as described in the Civitate a novel admirable landmark of the world.

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Final Remarks Taking as a point of departure the engraving of Cuzco found in the Civitates Orbis Terrarum from 1572, I have explored in this chapter how pre-Columbian edifices were depicted and theorized in the early modern period through the lens of a world-historical perspective – how they were understood as part of the broader history and geography of the known world. In his 1553 Crónica del Perú, the Spanish conquistador Pedro Cieza de León understood Tiahuanaco as a material vestige of an ancient overseas society that had navigated to the Andes, settled, and disappeared, leaving no trace other than Tiahuanaco. The adjacent Lake Titicaca was additionally reflected upon as a possible geological remnant of the biblical universal Flood. Framed by these historical questions, ancient overseas navigation and major events of biblical history, Tiahuanaco demanded that the history of the world be rewritten through a perspective based in the Americas. Thus, edifices unknown in Western written traditions and historical epistemologies posed a complex challenge for early modern historians. They demanded novel approaches that brought together ideas and objects not previously thought of as belonging to the same world history. Sacsayhuamán appeared in an early Spanish account by Pedro Sancho de la Hoz, which was translated into Italian for Ramusio’s Delle Navigationi et Viaggi of 1556. Based on this text, engravers in Europe without any contact to the Americas were tasked to depict the monumental edifice of Cuzco. In a process of conceptualization and translation, they turned the terms used in the written account into visual imaginings. Sacsayhuamán was engraved as a walled “fortress” with three extraordinary walls. In the Civitates, this salient feature became the key element in both the written description and the visual depiction of Cuzco. Through its inclusion in the Civitates as the main monument of a city of the New World, the Cuzco “citadel” became a landmark of world-historical thought, alongside other great monuments of the Old World. Pre-Columbian material culture stimulated new connections between the Americas and other parts of the world. For early modern Europeans, creating knowledge about these edifices implied a creative process and a transformation of their intellectual paradigms, tracing new possible pre-historical connections between continents and comparative reflections between cities of the world, ultimately revealing a new paragon of global architectural prowess. The mysterious antiquity of Tiahuanaco and the magnificent qualities and dimensions of Sacsayhuamán claimed their place as remarkable and challenging landmarks in a new epoch for world-historical thought.

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Kipfer, Barbara Ann (ed.) (2000): Encyclopedic Dictionary of Archaeology. New York: Springer. León Pinelo, Antonio de (1943) [1650]: Paraíso en el Nuevo Mundo. Lima: Imprenta Torres Aguirre. Lewis, Charlton/Short, Charles (1879): A Latin Dictionary. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Lockhart, James (1972): The Men of Cajamarca. A Social and Biographical Study of the First Conquerors of Peru. Austin: University of Texas Press. López Parada, Esperanza (2010): “El mapa y el Imperio: la representación de la ciudad de Cuzco”. In: De Mora, Carmen (ed.) Humanismo, mestizaje y escritura en los Comentarios reales. Madrid: Iberoamericana/Vervuert, pp. 169–190. —— (2013): “La cartografía como relato: intervenir los mapas, narrar las ciudades”. In: Orbis Tertius, 18/19, pp. 158–186. MacCormack, Sabine (1989): “Atahualpa and the Book”. In: Dispositio, 14, 36/38, pp. 141–168. —— (2007): On the Wings of Time: Rome, the Incas, Spain and Peru. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Makowski, Krzysztof (2016): Urbanismo andino: centro ceremonial y ciudad en el Perú prehispánico. Lima: Apus. Medina, Pedro de (1548): Libro de grandezas y cosas memorables de España. Seville: Casa de Domenico de Robertis. Mignolo, Walter (1992): “Cartas, crónicas y relaciones del descubrimiento y la conquista”. In: Iñigo Madrigal, Luis (ed.): Historia de la literatura hispanoamericana I: Época colonial. Madrid: Cátedra, pp. 57–116. Miller, Peter (2012): “Major Trends in European Antiquarianism, Petrarch to Peiresc”. In: Rabasa, José/Sato, Masayuki/Tortarolo, Edoardo/Woolf, Daniel (eds.): The Oxford History of Historical Writing. Volume 3: 1400–1800. Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 244–260. Molina, Cristóbal de (2010): Relación de las fabulas y ritos de los incas. Eds. Paloma Jíménez del Campo, Paloma Cuenca Muñoz, Esperanza López Parada. Madrid: Iberoamericana/Vervuert. Momigliano, Arnaldo (1950): “Ancient History and the Antiquarian”. In: Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 13, 3/4, pp. 285–315. Navarro, Andrea Mariana (2008): “Pasado y antigüedad clásica en los discursos sobre ciudades: Las Laudes en la historiografía andaluza”. In: Temas medievales, 16, pp. 201–239. Ortelius, Abraham (1570): Theatrum Orbis Terrarum. Palantin: Antwerp. Pease, Franklin (2010) [1995]: Las crónicas y los Andes. Lima: Fondo de Cultura Económica. Protzen, Jean Paul/Nair, Stella (2013): The Stones of Tiahuanaco: A Study of Architecture and Construction. Los Angeles: Cotsen Institute of Archaeology Press. Ramachandran, Ayesha (2015): The Worldmakers: Global Imagining in Early Modern Europe. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Ramusio, Giovanni Battista (1556): Delle Navigationi et Viaggi: volume terzo. Stamperia del Giunti: Venice. Robey, Jessica Chiswick (2006): “From the City Witnessed to the Community Dreamed: The Civitates Orbis Terrarum and the Circle of Abraham Ortelius and Joris Hoefnagel”. Doctoral dissertation. Santa Barbara: University of California. Rosen, Mark (2021): “Words Apart: The Four Continents and the Civitates Orbis Terrarum”. In: Cline Horowitz, Maryanne/Arizzoli, Louise (eds.): Bodies and Maps: Early Modern Personifications of the Continents. Leiden: Brill, pp. 238–255. Rostworowski, María (2013) [1988]: Historia del Tahuantinsuyu. Lima: Instituto de Estudios Peruanos. Rubin, Rehav (1996): “Jerusalem in Braun & Hogenberg Civitates.” In: The Cartographic Journal, 33, 2, pp. 119–129. Sacrobosco, Johannes de (1472): Sphaera mundi. Ferrara: Andreas Belfortis.

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—— (1545) [1472]: Tractado de la spher que compuso el doctor Ioannes de Sacrobusto; con muchas additiones; agora nueuamente traduzido de latín en lengua castellana por el bachiller Hieronymo de Chaves. Sevilla: Casa de Juan de León. Salomon, Frank/Urioste, George (eds.) (1991): The Huarochirí Manuscript: A Testament of Ancient and Colonial Andean Religion. Austin: University of Texas Press. Sancho de la Hoz, Pero (1556): “Descrittione della Citta del Cusco, & della sua mirabil Fortezza, & de costumi de suoi popoli”. In: Ramusio, Giovani (ed.): Delle Navigationi et Viaggi: volume terzo. Venice, pp. 414–413. —— (1917): An Account of the Conquest of Peru. Transl. Phillip Ainsworth Means. New York: Cortes Society. Schnapp, Alain (2014): “Introduction: The Roots of Antiquarianism”. In: Schnapp, Alain/Von Falkenhausen, Lothar von/Miller, Peter N./Murray, Tim (eds.): World Antiquarianism: Comparative Perspectives. Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute, pp. 1–10. Seed, Patricia (1991): “‘Failing to Marvel’: Atahualpa’s Encounter with the Word”. In: Latin American Research Review, 26, 1, pp. 7–32. Shalev, Zur (2003): “Sacred Geography, Antiquarianism and Visual Erudition: Benito Arias Montano and the Maps in the Antwerp Polyglot Bible”. In: Imago Mundi, 55, 1, pp. 56–80. Smith, William/Wayte, William/Marindin, G. E. (1890): A Dictionary of Greek and Roman Antiquities. London: John Murray. Urquízar-Herrera, Antonio (2017): Admiration and Awe: Morisco Buildings and Identity Negotiations in Early Modern Spanish Historiography. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Vranich, Alexei/Stanish, Charles (eds.) (2013): Visions on Tiwanaku. Los Angeles: Cotsen Institute of Archaeology Press. Xerez, Francisco (1534): Verdadera relación de la conquista del Perú y provincia del Cuzco. Seville.

David Tavárez

Contemplative Devotions in Colonial Mexico A Nahuatl Commentary on Kempis’s Imitation of Christ as a University Sermon In 1570, the prominent Franciscan Jerónimo de Mendieta placed in the hands of Juan de Ovando, president of the Council of Indies, a bound manuscript in Nahuatl whose authors enthusiastically described it as being yuhq[ui]nma teocuitlayo ynic cenca qualli ynic tleyo ynic mavizyo [“like a golden thing: it is very good, it is fire and wonder”1]. This manuscript, whose extraordinary nature matched such an exalted introduction, was a scholarly commentary and gloss of three of the four books that comprise De Imitatione Christi [On the Imitation of Christ], a celebrated early fourteenth-century Latin devotional work written by Thomas à Kempis that rivaled the Bible in popularity. By the late sixteenth century, the Imitation had already been translated into most Western European languages, and it would also be rendered into Japanese by Jesuit missionaries before the collapse of their efforts at that century’s end (Elison 1988; Moran 1993). This chapter provides a close analysis of the significance of a singular intellectual project that showcases the vibrant religious and humanistic discourse that issued from several Nahua-Franciscan partnerships in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. As argued below, this Nahuatl exegesis of On the Imitation of Christ depicts the fine editorial guidance of the Franciscan Luis Rodríguez, and the extraordinary collaboration of Nahua scholar Hernando de Ribas with the Franciscan Alonso de Molina. This chapter presents novel evidence regarding the identity of the authors of two manuscript versions of the Imitation in Nahuatl, one held at the Escorial Library in Spain, and the other at the John Carter Brown Library in the United States. It also presents innovative information regarding the structure of a Nahuatl adaptation of On the Imitation of Christ. While the original manuscript of Kempis’s Imitation opens with a concise first chapter, the Nahuatl adaptation held at El Escorial turned this chapter into an impressive rhetorical salvo: an adaptation of its contents into a six-part university sermon, a public mode

 All translations in this chapter from the Nahuatl, Latin, and Spanish are my own, unless otherwise indicated. I thank Barry Sell for generously sharing his transcription of a section from the Escorial Nahuatl Imitation, and for discussing this manuscript with me. I also thank Richard Conway for providing me with digital images of AGN Inquisición, volume 43, and Bérénice Gaillemin for her kind support in recording watermarks in the volume that contains the John Carter Brown Library’s Imitation. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110796308-012

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of engagement and performance favored by preachers and academics in late medieval times, and which was recast to conform to the intellectual terrain of sixteenthcentury Nahua audiences. The establishment of the Colegio de Santa Cruz, the first European school in the Americas, by the Franciscan Order in 1536 allowed for the development of close educational and intellectual ties between young Indigenous elites and their Franciscan mentors. At Santa Cruz, Nahuas were taught the liberal arts, trained as amanuenses and print composers, and became acclaimed Latinists (Kobayashi 1974; Mathes 1982; Osorio Romero 1990; SilverMoon 2007; Pollnitz 2017). Through collaborative efforts between prominent Franciscans and Nahua scholars, several important works were composed, including catechetical works and grammars, as well as Bernardino de Sahagún’s monumental Historia General, also known as the Florentine Codex; the Codex Badianus, a treatise on New World plants and their healing properties; and the first dictionary in a language of the Americas, a Nahuatl-Spanish work first published by Alonso de Molina in 1555 and then substantially expanded in 1571. Other Nahuatl works produced in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries included sermons, traditional songs and poetry, devotional plays, historical chronicles, and fables (Sahagún 1950–1982; Kutscher/ Brotherston/Vollmer 1987; Chimalpahin 1997; Sell 2008; Schroeder 2010; LeónPortilla 2012; Alcántara 2019; Sánchez Aguilera 2022). Although these sixteenth-century Nahuatl works have been the focus of scholarly analyses and translations by several generations of scholars, the study of a set of foundational manuscripts and imprints by Indigenous and Franciscan authors began only in the past decade, their existence previously being noted merely in footnotes (Weckmann 1992; Gruzinski 2002). These texts include Nahuatl versions of contemplative works such as On the Imitation of Christ and Luis de Granada’s Libro de la oración y meditación [Book of Prayer and Meditation]. More notably, they also include scholarly commentaries on two Biblical books, the Proverbs of Solomon and Ecclesiastes, which were confiscated by the Mexican Holy Office in 1577 after the Inquisition asked Molina, Sahagún, and the Dominicans Juan de la Cruz and Domingo de la Anunciación whether translations of the Bible in Indigenous languages were absolutely essential for evangelization purposes. While Molina and Sahagún defended the utility of such translations as tools for missionaries, the Dominicans thought them less necessary. The suppression of the Nahuatl Proverbs was an important decision that signaled a tightening in Counter-Reformation scrutiny (Nesvig 2009, 2011).

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The Two Nahuatl Commentaries of On the Imitation of Christ The fact that the Franciscans of Mexico decided to render into Nahuatl Kempis’s Imitation, the signature work of the spiritual movement known as the Devotio Moderna, suggests that they were swayed by this work’s popularity, and also convinced that its focus on an intimate encounter between devout readers and Christ would nurture the faith of Indigenous neophytes. The first prominent promoter of the Devotio Moderna was Geert Groote (1340–1384), a preacher who inspired his collaborators to establish the Broeders van het Gemene Leven [Brothers of the Common Life] in 1386 (Fuller 1995: 81–93). The Latin text now known as De imitatione Christi or Imitatio Christi, which also circulated in Spain and elsewhere with the more generic title of De contemptu mundi [On Contempt for the World] or Contemptus mundi, was written by Thomas à Kempis between 1424 and 1427 as a work comprising four books. Kempis, who was born in the German-speaking town of Kempen, first encountered Groote’s teachings at the famed Latin school at Deventer in the Netherlands, which also counts Erasmus among its alumni. Kempis was eventually ordained and joined the Congregation of Windesheim, founded by followers of Groote, which thrived at the monastery of Mount Saint Agnes in Zwolle (Van Engen 2013). Between 1470 and 1520, 120 print editions and 800 surviving manuscripts of this work appeared in its original Latin and in translations into Spanish, Catalan, French, German, English, and Italian (Creasy 2007: xiii). In a development that resembles the debate over Shakespeare’s authorship, some publishers attributed the Imitation to the celebrated French theologian Jean Gerson, as they reasoned that only a celebrated author could have produced such an admired work (Post 1968: 525–531). There exist only two renderings of the Imitation into Nahuatl, both produced under the supervision of Mexican Franciscans: the manuscript that Mendieta gave to Ovando in 1570, and which is archived at the Escorial library in Spain under the call number RBE d-IV-7, and a second, shorter manuscript now preserved at the John Carter Brown Library (JCB) in Providence, Rhode Island. There is at least a five-chapter discrepancy for Book III between the Imitatio’s canonical edition, a 1441 Latin manuscript bearing Kempis’s signature, and some early print editions of this work, as the canonical edition has 59 chapters, and the print editions up to 65. The Escorial Imitation records commentary and glosses for Books I and II, and for two-thirds of Book III, ending at Chapter 412, which corresponds to

 For instance, an Imitation printed in Augsburg by Gunther Zainer circa 1473 (Houghton WKR 1.2.13) has a Book III with 61 chapters. Other editions feature a Book III with 64 chapters: among

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Chapter 36 of the 1441 canonical manuscript. Therefore, the Escorial Imitation must have been based on an early Latin edition with a non-canonical Book III. The Escorial Imitation is a 172-folio Nahuatl text in a round humanist hand with illuminated initials and three carefully rendered color illustrations of the Crucifixion, Saint Jerome, and a rose of the winds. As documented by Mendieta in his Historia eclesiástica Indiana [Ecclesiastical History of the Indies] compiled by the early 1600s, he personally brought from Mexico to Spain this manuscript, which he described as “un libro del Contemptus mundi, vuelto en lengua mexicana, escrito en letra de indio, tan bien formada, igual y graciosa, que de ningún molde pudiera dar más contento a la vista” [“a volume on the Contemptus mundi translated into the Mexican tongue and written by an Indian scribe in script so well-formed, even, and gracious that no other lettering would have pleased one’s sight any better”]; according to Mendieta, Ovando, president of the Council of Indies, “agradóle tanto, que se quedó con él, diciendo que lo quería dar al rey D. Felipe” [“was so taken by it that he kept it, saying that he wished to give it to King Philip”] (Mendieta 1997-II: 74–75). On the same trip, Mendieta also brought manuscripts written by Sahagún, including a summary of his Historia General, as well as a work on Nahua “idolatries” for Pope Pius V (Mendieta 1997-I: 32–33). The momentous gift of this Nahuatl Imitation was meant to let Ovando and other advisors to Philip II see for themselves the fruits that Franciscan liberal-arts education and Latin training had borne on Mexican soil. After all, the circulation of manuscripts – some as highly polished works, others as copies made for private study or editorial purposes – was a common practice in university and scholarly circles in sixteenth-century Spain (Bouza 2001). The other Nahuatl Imitation is a 165-folio manuscript that is bound with a collection of sermons written for inhabitants of Tlaxcala, and is now preserved at the John Carter Brown Library as Codex Indianorum 23. The JCB Imitation contains commentary and glosses for Kempis’s Book I and the first 11 chapters of Book II, ending in the middle of chapter 12. This manuscript reflects a different version of the same Latin text; as will be noted below, the two Nahuatl commentaries diverge frequently in how they gloss and provide comment on Kempis’s work. There is also a marked contrast in terms of the hands and physical attributes of the Escorial and the JCB Nahuatl Imitations: while the former features an

these editions are a 1487 Latin version (JCB F487–I32t) that features, as do other early editions of the Imitation, both Kempis’s work and a short treatise called De meditatione cordis and attributed to Gerson; a 1496 Spanish-language version entitled Libro de remedar a Christo that was printed in Seville and attributed to Gerson (Houghton Incunabula 9523.5); an edition printed in Antwerp in the 1480s and also attributed to Gerson (Houghton Incunabula 9412); and a 1592 imprint from Cologne (Houghton GC.T3610.1592).

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elaborate hand and no corrections, the orthography of the latter text was revised, and it contains interlinear and marginal Spanish glosses of the Nahuatl text to facilitate its reading by Spanish speakers. In addition, the JCB Imitation follows a pattern found in other Nahuatl commentaries, such as those on the Proverbs of Solomon: it systematically lists Latin citations from Kempis’s work in red ink, with Nahuatl commentary and glosses in black ink (Tavárez 2013b). In contrast, the Escorial Imitation rarely includes Kempis’s Latin citations, rendering only the corresponding Nahuatl glosses; when a citation is copied, it appears in black ink. In sum, while the Escorial version is a highly polished Nahuatl manuscript, the JCB version was first composed of Latin citations and Nahuatl commentary, and then revised by copyists who made changes to its orthography (Tavárez 2013a, 2013b). These two Nahuatl versions of the Imitation differ, sometimes significantly, in their glosses and commentary on Kempis’s original Latin. In his Historia eclesiástica, Mendieta cautiously avoided any mention of the name of the Franciscan editor(s) behind the Nahuatl Imitation he gave to Ovando. There are two possible candidates: Luis Rodríguez and Alonso de Molina, and they could have worked with each other. Molina’s authorship is supported by a section of the anonymous Códice Franciscano, which states not only that Molina was “la mejor lengua mexicana que hay entre españoles” [“the best speaker of the Mexican language among the Spaniards”], but also that he had worked for many years on translating into Nahuatl “las Epístolas y Evangelios que se cantan en la Iglesia por todo el año, el libro de Comptentu Mundi [sic], las Horas de Nuestra Señora con sus oraciones y devociones, y otros tratados provechosos” [“the Epistles and Gospels that are sung in church throughout the year, the book of Comptemptu mundi, the Hours of Our Lady with their prayers and devotions, and other useful treatises”] (Códice Franciscano 1941: 60; see also Weckmann 1992: 517). Thus, the Códice Franciscano identifies Molina as the author of at least one Nahuatl version of the Contemptus mundi, a term commonly used to refer to Kempis’s Imitation. Another crucial piece of information, as will become apparent below, appears in Bautista Viseo’s well-known preface to his 1606 Nahuatl sermonary, which contains brief biographies of eight Nahua scholars who assisted Franciscan authors. This preface extols the work of Hernando de Ribas, an alumnus of Santa Cruz from Tetzcoco who, before his death in 1597, assisted several Franciscans, including Juan de Gaona, Molina, and Bautista Viseo. The preface notes that: Con su ayuda compuso el Padre fray Alonso de Molina el Arte, y Vocabulario Mexicano, y el Padre fray Ioan de Gaona los Dialogos de la paz y tranquilidad del alma: y yo he compuesto el Vocabulario ecclesiastico [. . .] y gra[n] parte delas vanidades de Estel[l]a, del Flos Sanctorum, o Vidas de sanctos, dela Exposicion del decalogo, y otros muchos tratados, y libros, que procuraré sacar a luz [sic]. (Bautista Viseo 1606: vii v)

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[With [Ribas’s] help, the Father fray Alonso de Molina composed the Arte and the Vocabulario Mexicano, as Father fray Juan de Gaona did his Dialogos de la paz y tranquilidad del alma, and I have composed the Vocabulario ecclesiastico [. . .] and most of the Vanidades by Estella, the Flos Sanctorum, or lives of the saints, the explanation of the Ten Commandments, and many other treatises and books that I will endeavor to publish.]

Ribas stands out as one of the most noted Nahua assistants to several prolific Franciscan authors, and his important role as a co-author or collaborator in various translations projects will be discussed below. As noted by Bautista Viseo, an early partnership between Ribas and Juan de Gaona resulted in a Nahuatl manuscript composed in the 1540s, Colloqvios de la paz y tranquilidad. This work is now preserved as Ms. 35–22 of the Biblioteca Capitular de Toledo (Téllez Nieto 2019). A revised and edited version of the Colloqvios was eventually published in 1582 by Miguel de Zárate (Ganoa 1582). In contrast with the boldness of the Nahuatl Imitation, the Colloqvios reflected Gaona’s cautious approach to introducing Scripture to neophytes (Laird 2019). Ribas and Gaona also adapted contents from a speculum – a “mirror,” which belonged to the genre of early modern edifying works that sought to provide instruction and advice, as Niccolò Machiavelli did in The Prince, to noblemen, gentlemen, clergy, and other specific audiences. The work that Ribas and Gaona translated into Nahuatl was Speculum secularium [A Mirror for Seculars] by the renowned theologian Denys the Carthusian (1402–1471), which is included in Ms. 35–22 in Toledo. In a further display of the close relationship between various Franciscan translation and editorial projects from the 1540s to the 1570s, Molina also adapted into Nahuatl an Aristotelian political treatise by Denys the Carthusian (Tavárez 2013b, 2020). Given their theological, contemplative, and admonitory contents, these ambitious texts ventured well beyond the elementary instruction that Franciscan, Dominican, and Augustinian catechisms dispensed. In addition, there is an important line of evidence that ties the beginning of the Escorial and JCB Nahuatl Imitations with Molina’s dictionary and with Ribas’s multiple efforts as Molina’s collaborator. As shown in a previous article (Tavárez 2013a), the presence in the Escorial Imitation, composed before 1570, of metaphors that later appeared in Molina’s 1571 dictionary demonstrates that Molina’s and Ribas’s lexicographic work was an important component in the Nahuatl Imitation project. In addition, these metaphors also appear in the JCB Nahuatl Imitation. In their first folios, both the Escorial and the JCB manuscripts feature more than a dozen metaphors or idioms that were eventually deployed by Molina in his 1571 dictionary. For instance, the highly specific metaphor ҫa iuhquiy[m]ma tetl yhuiti quahuitl yhuinti yc timochiuaz that appears with minimal changes in the Escorial text, and verbatim in the JCB text, is listed in Molina’s dictionary as iuhquimma tetl yuinti quauitl yuinti ic timochiuaz, and given the Spanish gloss “Seras assi

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como el que toma palos o piedras para se matar. i. haras mucho mal a ti mismo. Metaphora” [sic] [“You will thus be like one who grabs sticks or stones to kill oneself; you will greatly damage yourself. A metaphor”] (Molina 1571-II: 43v). Moreover, as discussed further below, a marginal note bears the partial gloss “mas asi como piedra te haras” [“but you will make yourself like a stone”] (JCB Imitation, 1v). Since it is known that the Escorial text was completed before 1570, it follows that only Molina and Ribas, or someone closely associated with them, could have inserted into that text a set of metaphors that appeared in print in Molina’s dictionary only a year after Ovando received the Escorial Imitation. Lastly, the recurrence of the same phrases in Nahuatl grammars and in translations of European works has been previously attested, a fact that confirms that the authors of these grammars also deployed select lexicographic examples in other works that bore no relation to grammatical treatises. Thus, several complex Nahuatl terms appear both in Horacio Carochi’s 1645 Nahuatl grammar, and in “The Animal Prophet,” a Nahuatl translation of a play by Golden Age playwright Lope de Vega that is attributed to Carochi’s contributor and ecclesiastic author Don Bartolomé de Alva (Sell 2008: 31). But Molina was not the sole Franciscan editor or author in the Nahuatl Imitation project. In his Historia, Mendieta asserts that the Franciscan Luis Rodríguez, who was active as a missionary in Mexico between 1538 and his return to Spain in 1562, also authored a Nahuatl version of the Imitation. Without stating directly that Rodríguez was responsible for the manuscript he gave to Ovando, Mendieta does state that Rodríguez translated: los Proverbios de Salomón de muy elegante lengua, y los cuatro libros del Contemptus mundi, salvo que del tercero libro faltaban los últimos veinte capítulos, y estos tradujo de poco tiempo acá Fr. Juan Baptista, que al presente es guardián del convento de Tezcuco, y todos cuatro libros los ha corregido y limado de muchos vicios que tenían por descuido de los escribientes que los habían ido trasladando, y los tiene muy a punto para imprimir. (Mendieta 1997-II: 239) [the Proverbs of Solomon in a very elegant manner, and the four books of the Contemptus mundi, except that the last twenty chapters of Book III were missing, and those were recently translated by Juan Baptista, who is currently guardian of the monastery at Tetzcoco, and he has polished all four books, correcting many mistakes made by the scribes who had copied them, and he has them ready to be printed.]

Mendieta’s description of this Nahuatl translation, and particularly regarding a partially finished Book III, corresponds very closely to the structure of the Escorial Imitation, which ends with Book III, Chapter 41, and lacks chapters 42 to 61. In the end, Rodríguez seemed to have a pessimistic vision regarding future prospects for Franciscan translation enterprises. When he chose to leave New Spain in 1562, he also

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wrote a piercing but indirect critique of the obstacles that had been placed before the Franciscan Order as it endeavored to educate Indigenous peoples (González Rodríguez 1992: 127–130). Bautista Viseo himself noted in his Sermonario that his version of the Nahuatl Imitation was in print (Bautista Viseo 1606: vii r), but there is no evidence that this book was ever published. As the Franciscan Agustín de Vetancurt stated in his 1698 chronicle Teatro Mexicano regarding Bautista Viseo’s translation of the four books of the Imitation, “no los he visto impresos; de mano y buena letra los tengo en mi poder, con un tratado breve de Via Crucis” [“I have not seen them printed; in written form and in a good hand I have them in my possession, with a brief treatise on the Via Crucis”] (Vetancurt 1982 [1698]: 140). This manuscript, owned by Vetancurt, is the JCB Imitation, for this text bears Vetancurt’s signature where the work ends, on folio 165r. As noted above, on the strength of the evidence regarding metaphors that recur in Molina’s 1571 dictionary and in the Nahuatl Imitation manuscripts, a previous publication suggested that Molina could have been one of the authors or editors of the Escorial Imitation (Tavárez 2013a: 230). A newly available line of evidence, based on an analysis of Molina’s handwriting, demonstrates that Molina himself was the author of a set of annotations found on the margins of the JCB Imitation. These annotations, written in a clear sixteenth-century hand, provide Spanish glosses, some rather elaborate, of Nahuatl phrases throughout the manuscript, including the previously cited gloss “but you will make yourself like a stone.” The hand that authored these annotations is extremely similar to the hand in which Molina drafted and signed his response to the Inquisition in 1577, during the inquiry that resulted in the banning of the Nahuatl Proverbs and Ecclesiastes, and which is preserved in a document in AGN Inquisición, volumen 43, expediente 43. The annotations on the JCB Imitation by a hand that matches Molina’s, and Mendieta’s identification of a translation with the same structure as the Escorial Imitation as Rodríguez’s work may lead to a clear-cut attribution of editors for each manuscript: Molina would have worked on the JCB text, and Rodríguez would have been responsible for the Escorial work. Nonetheless, the fact that both works relied on Molina and Ribas’s lexicographic labor indicates that the editorship and authorship question is a complicated one, and further work on both manuscripts is needed. For the time being, assuming that Mendieta’s remarks regarding Rodríguez were accurate, a working assumption would be that, while Molina, Ribas, and Rodríguez may have shared drafts or translations as they worked

 The comparison of this specimen of Molina’s hand with the marginal annotations in the JCB Imitation is discussed in detail in a work in progress by the author of this chapter.

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on their Nahuatl commentaries on the Imitation, Rodríguez’s editorial hand shaped the Escorial manuscript, and Molina read attentively and annotated the JCB work for his own use. Our capacity to reach an emphatic conclusion regarding the authorship of the Nahuatl versions of the Imitation is hampered by the fact that only two manuscripts of these translations have survived. There once existed other copies of the Nahuatl Imitation that are not known to have survived. First of all, the text that Bautista Viseo was editing and completing circa 1606 reportedly included all four books of Kempis’s treatise, and neither of the two extant versions include all four books. Moreover, the highly polished Escorial manuscript may have been based on a draft whose contents are certainly not reflected by the JCB, given the multiple differences in translation choices between the JCB and the Escorial manuscripts.

The Escorial Nahuatl Imitation as an Academic Sermon The sermon format traveled the world as missionaries sought to convert Indigenous neophytes through persuasion (Johnson/Shelby/Young 2018). The introduction to the Escorial Nahuatl Imitation, as will be argued below, was structured as a formal, six-part academic sermon, a rhetorical genre that was widely employed by preachers in late medieval and early Renaissance times. As is well known, the Rhetorica ad Herennium, an influential and anonymous first-century BCE treatise, proposed a six-part structure for formal rhetorical performance: exordium (an introduction to draw the audience’s attention), narratio (narrative regarding arguments or facts), divisio (a review of the main arguments), confirmatio (proof in favor of arguments, often in sets of three), confutatio (a refutation of counterarguments), and conclusio (summary and final remarks). In contrast, in his De Inventione Rhetorica and in De Oratore, Cicero listed seven, adding digressio (digression). Quintilian, in his celebrated first-century CE compendium Institutio Oratoria, prescribed only five parts, proemium, narratio, probatio, refutatio, and peroratio, as he considered partitio (or divisio) a trait of speeches, rather than a separate component (Anderson 1996: 58–59). This six-part arrangement informed a standardized set of Latin sermons prepared at the University of Paris in 1230–1231, which deployed a theme – a Biblical citation – followed by an intricate development of amplifications of the opening citation. The “university-style sermons” informed the writing of a broad spectrum of artes praedicandi (Davy 1931; Murphy 1971: xviii). These preaching manuals converged on the notion that a well-formed sermon had six parts: theme, a citation

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from Scripture; protheme, which introduced the citation and often included a prayer; antetheme, which laid out the sermon’s objectives; a division of the theme in multiples of threes, with corroboration provided by citations from auctoritates; the subdivision of the theme; and a final amplification of each of the sermon’s divisions (Murphy 1971: xix; Copeland 2001: 469–479, 477). The six-part structure was widely employed in late medieval times. Not all late medieval sermons followed the six-part model rigidly, but their foundation was at least tripartite – theme, antetheme, and division – and it was followed by other sections in multiples of three. There was the option of restating the main theme if supported by citations from auctoritates, or theological authorities or authors from classical antiquity. Another possibility for supporting the theme was the inclusion of an exemplum, an edifying narrative (Davidoff 1988: 33). As they prepared a translation and commentary from Latin to Nahuatl of the first chapter of the Escorial Imitation, its authors used a six-part structure that bears a strong resemblance to the six-part paradigm of late medieval universitystyle sermons. Their commentary was divided into six sections, each one headed by a scriptural citation that also provided Kempis with a beginning for his work: John 8:8, Ego sum lux mundi [“I am the light of the world”]. The first section, which I previously analyzed (Tavárez 2013a: 219–224), describes the brightness and clarity that emanates from the word of Jesus in couplets that Nahua neophytes would easily recognize, such as in tlavili in ocotl [“the brightness, the torch”]. It also likens the Christian word to coyahuac tezcatl necoc xapo [“the broad mirror polished on both sides”], which was the mirror of divination and wisdom wielded by the Central Mexican deity Tezcatlipoca, and introduces the Holy Cross. The vivid figurative language renders this section a successful theme or exordium. The second section functions as a protheme by stating that itonameyo Christo, a figuration of the Word as Christ’s solar ray, spreads everywhere. It also addresses directly its implied listeners, Nahua neophytes, and challenges them to explain themselves if they do not agree to hear this word. The Escorial Imitation’s third section, the antetheme, reiterates that the light of the Word continues to spread out and refers both to saints and to sinners, and the sixth section, the amplification, extends the topic to include a brief discussion of the Christian heaven, angels, and the Gospel. I now turn to the fourth and the fifth sections, division and subdivision, to examine in detail how the Escorial Imitation expanded Kempis’s concise first chapter, which is rendered verse by verse in the JCB Imitation, into a full scholarly sermon. The fourth part, as expected, introduces a tripartite division of the theme with support from auctoritates. It provides a brief explanation of the contents of Kempis’s work, which is strikingly characterized as having three books rather than four, and of the structure of the glosses and commentary:

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Fourth Section, Division: Ego sum lux mundi. &. Ca cemanavac tlaca nintlanex. yn aquin nechnemiliztoca itech yetiuh yn yoliliztlanextli. O ca yevatl. y. in tocō mocaquiltia ȳ cenca mavizauhqui yn ihiyotzin tot.° i. x.°  nicā Av in axca ȳ quenin oc cenca vel ticmonemiliztoquiliz yoliliztonatiuh tot.° ihū xp tilhuilo nican timachtilo yn ipan ic çe amoxtontli. vncan mitoa ȳ quenī vel ixquich centlatzilhuiloz tlalticpacayotl. ynic vel nemiliztocoz yn tot.° i. x.° Av in ipan yc. 2. amoxtontli vncan mitova ȳ quenin [5r] çan teitic teotlaçotlaliztica itech cenpachiovaz tot.° i. x.° ynic vel teixcoyā. teitic teoyotica nemovaz. Av in ipāyc. 3. amoxtontli vncan mitoa yn quenin çan imitic q’nmononochilia tot.°  o yn aquique vel itlaçovan ȳ vel quimocenmacatinemi to.° dios. (Nahuatl Escorial ihū xp Imitation, 4v-5r) [I am the light of the world, etc. Truly I am the light of the people of the world, and whoever imitates me in his life goes about near the light of life, they who are drawn close to and made to hear the very wondrous breath of our Lord Christ. And now as to how you will imitate the sun of life, Our Lord Jesus Christ, particularly well, here in this first little book you are told, you are taught. Here it says how it is a just thing to make oneself hold worldliness in contempt, so that Our Lord Jesus Christ will be imitated. And the second little book says how only through having divine love inside oneself, one will be satisfied with Our Lord Jesus Christ so that one will live in a divine way inside oneself. And the third little book says how Our Lord God administers life through his love only to those whom Our Lord Jesus Christ admonishes inside themselves].

This prefatory note describes the division of Kempis’s Imitation as if it only contained three books, rather than the canonical four, and this omission is not explained in the text. Afterwards, the placement of glosses and commentary for the Latin text is described as a tripartite arrangement: a Spanish gloss, a Nahuatl gloss, and a Nahuatl phrasis, or exposition “with many metaphors and synonyms” (Nahuatl Escorial Imitation, 5r). Nonetheless, only the second and third parts appear systematically in the text, which neither contains Spanish glosses nor systematically transcribes the Latin phrases in Kempis’s work, using instead Nahuatl literal translations of these phrases:

Fourth Section, Division: Av inic vel nematca cacoz. ynic vel nematca yttoz. Etlamantitiuh ȳ navatlatolli yn itech o tlamantli mexico tlaantli. Latin tlatolli. Centlamantli Ro.ance. iz can vell iuhca. Texto. ynic  tlatolli ȳ quivicatiuh Romance yn çan vel iuh ca. texto. Jnic. 3. phrasis tlatoquilitiuh. yn vel iuh mexica tlatollo. yn vel iuh ca quiztitiuh mexica tlatolli. yvan miec methaphoras. yvan sinonomas neliuhtiuh. Av in ye mochi ȳ yetlamanixti navatlatolli ȳ tech. [m]°nequi yn india tlaca ynic tlapoviz yn imix ȳ yollo. Ualle. Inin amoxtli yuhq’.nma teocuitlayo ynic cenca qualli ynic tleyo. ynic mavizyo. (Nahuatl Escorial Imitation, 5r)

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[And so that they will be heard and seen carefully, the things unearthed from the Latin language will go along in three different parts in the Nahuatl language: The first part, in Spanish, as the text just below. And the second part in the Mexican language, as the Spanish goes taking the Nahuatl along, as the text just below. And the third one, the phrasis goes at the very end, it is said in Mexican, it comes out in the Mexican language. Thus, it truly goes along with many metaphors and synonyms. And all three parts are woven in the Nahuatl language, as the people of the Indies require so that their faces and hearts will heed them. Vale. This book is like a golden thing: it is very good, it is fire and wonder.]

The fifth section, which canonically would have been a subdivision of the theme, is devoted to a relatively literal translation of Chapter One of Book 1 of Kempis’s Imitation, which had not been fully glossed or explained in any of the preceding four sections.

Fifth Section, Subdivision [Kempis, Imitation, Chapter 1, Parts 1–2]: Ego sum lux mū di. qui sequitur me non ambulat in tenebris. sed habebit lumē vite. Joanis. 8.6. Q.n. Cemanavac tlaca nintlanex. ȳ aquin nechtocatiuh. amo tlayovay ā yn yatiuh. çan  o. yc tinemachtilo ynic tictocaitech yetiuh yn yoliliztlanextilli. Jnin itlatoltzin yn tot.° ihū xp tiazque yn inemiliztzin. yvan yn iqualnemachiliztzin yntla nelli titotlavilillani. yvan intla nelli titomaquixtillani yn itech [5v] pa ixquich ixpopoyotiliz toyollo. Ma yevatl toveic ē necuitlaviliz. mochiva ynic ynemilizp ā titlalnamictinemizque. ih ū  o. ca yn itemachtiltzin q’cenpanavia yn ixquich yntemachtil sanctosme. Av in aquin xp  o. vmpa ihitic quimottiliz. yn man  a teoavializtli. hiytic yez yespiritu ihū xp Yeçe miecpa mochiva. ca miequintin ynic ye miecpa quicaqui Euangelio. cenca achiton  o. Jn aquin vel cenca quixaxilizȳ quelevia ynyollo. yehica ca amo imitic ca yn iespū ihū xp nequi4 yn itlatoltzin t.° i. x.° itech moneq’ vel q’mocuitlaviz ynic yqualnemiliztica vel cō neneviliz. yn inemilizt o. (Nahuatl Escorial Imitation, 5r–5v) zin ihū xp [I am the light of the world. They who follow me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life. John 8:65. It means, “I am the light of the people of the world, and whoever goes following me, does not walk in darkness, and walks next to the light of life”. With these words of our Lord Jesus Christ, we are notified; through them, we will follow his life, and

 This verb is parsed as qu-ix-axili-z-nequi, OBJECT-face-understand-FUTURE-want. This construction stresses that neophytes should not merely understand the word of Christ, but that they should wish to understand it. This verb also includes ix-(tli), “face” as a morpheme, which recurs in other Nahuatl verbs related to knowledge or cognition, such as ix-i-mati, “to know oneself, to know something” (Molina 1571-II, 45v).  In modern versions, this famous passage is found as John 8:12.

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his good works, so that we give ourselves good light, so that we save ourselves well with respect to all the blindness of our hearts. May He provide our great carefulness by means of His life. We will go thinking about Jesus Christ, for His teachings exceed all the teachings of the saints. And for they into whom the spirit of Jesus Christ enters, manna and divine joy will be pointed out inside them. However, it often happens that many people who often hear the Gospel, their hearts desire it very, very little because the spirit of Jesus Christ is not inside them. For they who wish to understand extremely well the word of our Lord Jesus Christ, it is necessary, and they have the obligation, to be similar to His life by means of good living.]

While the text has a close rendering of Kempis’s piercing question regarding the contrast between theological wisdom and humility, it does not provide a direct translation of Kempis’s famous Opto magis sentire compunctionem quam scire definitionem [“I opt to feel contrition, rather than to know how to define it”]. Rather than defining contrition or using a Spanish loan word, the translators instructed readers to wish that they could recognize, and listen to, “the weeping of sin” within themselves. The next paragraph marks a return to a more literal translation:

Fifth Section, Subdivision [Kempis, Imitation, Chapter 1, Part 3]: Tle mitzonquixtiz yn itechpa titetlatzoviliznequi yn sanctissima trinidad. yntlaca tle monecnomatiliz? ca çan ic ticmoyollitlacalhuiz. vel nelli yn vei ynovi tlatolli amo tesanctotilia. amo teyecnemiliztia. çan ye iyo yn cenquizca qualnemiliztli. quimovellamachtilia yn to.° dios. Ocçenca quelevia [i]n noyollo ȳ ma vel nitic noc ō mati. tlatlacolchoquiztli. amo yuh quelevi ā noyollo. ȳ ma çan nicmati yn quenami. vel icaquiztica. Jntla nel vel ixquich niccemaçicamatini yn ixquich biblia ypan onoc teotlatolli. yvan yn ixquich intlatol phos.e yntla cayemo notech ye teotlaçotlaliztli yntlaca[m]° nitic ye ygr a dios. tle nechonquixtiz? (Nahuatl Escorial Imitation, 5v) [What will you derive from wanting to have a dispute regarding the Holy Trinity without your humility? With that, you will only offend [the Trinity]. It is true; the Word is a very difficult thing. Neither living like a saint nor living religiously6 nor even an entirely good living pleases our lord God. My heart mostly desires that I may recognize the weeping of sin inside me. If my heart does not desire it, may I know how to listen for. If I were to perfectly know everything, all of the divine words that are placed on the Bible, and all the words of the philosophers; but if the divine love is not near me, if the grace of God is not inside me, what do I derive?]

 Literally, “to cause someone to live well”. See yecnemiliztli, “religion” (Molina 1571-II: 103r).

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It is at this point that the Escorial text makes a significant editorial decision: rather than decrying the corrosive effect of vanitas [“vanity”] on the human conscience, it substitutes “vanity”, which was rendered as nenquizcayotl or nenquizqui, with the word for “misery”, nenquiçaliztli:

Fifth Section, Subdivision [Kempis, Imitation, Chapter 1, Part 3]:  c moCa çā motquitica nenquiçaliztli. ixq’ch itech peuhticac nenquiçaliztli. yn ixquich tp chiuhtocani: çā vel iyo amo nenq’zqui yn itlaçotlaloca dios. yvan ȳ çan izeltzin ytlayecoltiloca. Jnin ca tlacenpanavia tlamatiliztli ynic tlalticpacayotlatzilhuiliztica ilhuicacpa tlamelaova. ynic ye ivicpa netototzalo ilhuicac tlatocayotl. (Nahuatl Escorial Imitation, 5v) [It is only entire misery; all of it begins with misery. And [misery] is the sole maker of all Earth. But the love with which God is loved or one’s service of Him is not useless at all. This is the wisdom that surpasses all: to go straight to heaven by means of despising earthly things, to be hurried along towards the heavenly rulership.]

The focus on misery, in lieu of vanity, continues in the rest of this section, which is a faithful rendering of Kempis’s work:

Fifth Section, Subdivision [Kempis, Imitation, Chapter 1, Part 4]:  cayotl. ȳ çam polivini yvan ynic ytech netemachilo. Ca nelli çā nenquiçaliztli yn itemoloca tp No yvā çan nenq’[ç]aliztli. yn ieleviloca mavizotl. yvan ynic cenca ahco nevecapanollo. Çā nenquiçaliztli yn itepotztococa yn itlayeleviliz tenacayo. yn iquelevilo yn tleȳ çatepā mone c vecauh nemiliztli. qui tlapanavia ic techichinatzaloz. Çan nē quiçaliztli yn iyeleviloca tp  lnemiliztli. amo tle cenca onnecuitlavilo. av in ye itechpa q  c nemiliztli. av in ye tlein çatepa Ca no nenquiçaliztli. ynic çan yeh iyo nematca ytto tp mochivaz çatepan. amo achtopa ytto. Çan nē quiçaliztli in tlaçotlalo ȳ tleȳ çan içiuhca quiztiquiça. yvan ynic amo vmpa netototzalo. yn ompa ca cemicac papaq’liztli. Miecpa xiquilnamiqui ȳ tenonotzaliz tlatolli. Ca niman aic tlachializtica pachivi yn ixtelolotli.7 yvā nimā [6r] aic tlacaquiliztica temi yn tenacaz. Av in axcā ma vel xicmocuitlavi ȳ moyollo ynic ytechpa tiqualvillanaz. yn itlaçotlaloca tlalticpaccayotl. yn ittoni. Auh ye ivicpa  c ittoni. ca yn aquique q’tocativi ytlanequiliz yn xictlachialti yn ilhuicacayotl yn amo tp

 In Classical Nahuatl, body parts are inalienable – they are always possessed, or bear a possessive suffix. Here, te-nacaz, literally, “someone’s ear” follows this rule, but ixtelolo-tli does not, which suggests the editorial role of a non-native speaker of Nahuatl.

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nacayo: quicatzava yn inneyolliximatiliz: yvā quipollova yn ygraçia dios. (Nahuatl Escorial Imitation, 5v–6r) [Misery truly is the investigation of earthly things, and for perishable things to be trusted by someone. Moreover, misery is the desire for honor, and for people to extol themselves very highly. For misery is the being completely buried in, and the desire of, the human flesh, the desiring for [a] thing for which it will be necessary to be severely tormented in the end. Misery is the desire for a long life on Earth, but for people to not be at all concerned about the good life. Moreover, misery is for life on Earth to not be seen with prudence, and for that which will be done later to not be seen at the beginning. Misery is that things that pass quickly and rapidly are loved, while people are not hurried along towards eternal enjoyment. Remember often the words of advice, “The eye is never satisfied by seeing, and the ear never becomes full by hearing”. Well then, may your heart care for the love of the earthly domain on which you crawl [like a child],8 and which is visible; but also look in the direction of the heavenly domain, which is not visible on Earth. For those who go following the will of the flesh taint their consciences9 and lose the grace of God.]

Rather than being a mistake, this emphasis on misery and on the desire for tlalticpacayotl [“earthly things”] seems to be a deliberate effort to interpret Kempis’s assertions through the lens that Franciscans judged a fundamental theme in this work: contemptu mundi, or contempt for the world. Such a focus is introduced in the Escorial manuscript, where it is stated that this work shows in quenin huel telchiualoz tlalticpaccayotl [“how earthliness will be despised”], with the further observation, above, that wise Christians could aspire to access Heaven tlalticpacayotlatzilhuiliztica [“by despising earthly things”] (Nahuatl Escorial Imitation, 1r). While the JCB Imitation takes each of the verses in Kempis’s first chapter, provides concise glosses and commentaries, and moves on to Chapter Two, the Escorial Imitation turns Kempis’s first chapter into a Protean and slowly unfolding six-part academic sermon. In addition, the JCB commentary and glosses appear to be more concisely edited versions of the sprawling commentary found in the Escorial text. Various important terms that are deployed in the Escorial version do not appear in its JCB counterpart. For instance, the Escorial manuscript prominently uses the term santa cruz [“Holy Cross”], in connection with the couplet in pochotl in ahuehuetl [“the silk cotton tree, the cypress”], which refers to respected elders in traditional Nahua rhetoric. It also employs a strikingly hybrid phrase, ysolio itlatocaicpaltçin [“the solio or canopied throne of the ruler’s high-backed seat”] as a description of the Christian heavenly kingdom that was revealed  Huilana meant “to drag oneself on all fours on the ground” (Molina 1571-II: 157v), but also, metaphorically, to do childish things (Molina 1571-I: 89r).  Literally, in-ne-yolli-xi-mati-liz, “their knowledge in their life force”. Compare with ne-yoll-amamal-ti-liz-tli, “a burden in one’s conscience” (Molina 1571-II: 66r).

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through the word of Christ. But neither the cross nor the canopied throne appear in the terser JCB Imitation.

Conclusions The two extant sixteenth-century Nahuatl commentaries and glosses of Kempis’s On the Imitation of Christ provide a fascinating vantage point on the adaptation of an introspective work that enjoyed great popularity among European audiences in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and which provided a focus for meditating on the life of Christ for both Catholic and Protestant believers (Rozenski 2022), even as Counter-Reformation measures attempted to demarcate clearly the boundaries of Catholic worship, education, and praxis, and to regiment the printing and circulation of popular devotional works. As shown above, the Franciscan Alonso de Molina and his Nahua co-author Hernando de Ribas contributed material to both the Escorial and the JCB Nahuatl Imitations. While Molina himself annotated the JCB manuscript, Mendieta identified his correligionary Luis Rodríguez as the main editor of the Escorial text. This state of affairs does not preclude consultation and collaboration among Molina, Ribas, and Rodríguez, with the support of other Nahua scholars as amanuenses or co-authors, before Rodríguez returned to Spain in 1562. Both the Escorial and JCB manuscripts predate Bautista Viseo’s unsuccessful attempt in the first decade of the seventeenth century to complete and publish a revised Nahuatl Imitation, which was never printed. The opening section of the Escorial Imitation featured a rhetorical tour de force: a recapitulation of the importance of Christ’s word, and a translation and commentary for Chapter 1 of Kempis’s Imitation that was ordered as a formal, six-part academic sermon, with each part introduced by a repetition of the John 8:6 verse with which Kempis opened his treatise. The six-fold repetition of this verse, and the progression of the sermon from theme or exordium to amplification, provided a rhetorical structure that brought together a number of meditations based on Kempis’s Book I, Chapter 1. In doing so, the Escorial text imitated the number of canonical parts of a sermon – six –, but while its first and last section provided a more conventional theme and amplification, the rest of the sections did not quite follow the spirit of each of the canonical elements in late medieval university sermons. As I showed above, the fourth section, the division, was devoted, in a non-canonical turn, to describing how the Nahuatl glosses and commentary were placed in the text. The fifth section, the subdivision, contained a fairly literal translation of Kempis’s inaugural chapter, but no further treatment of the theme, as prescribed by the academic sermon format.

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By the 1570s, glosses and commentaries like those found in the Nahuatl Proverbs were transgressive in any vernacular, but more so in Nahuatl, as they opened up Biblical scholarly commentary to literate Indigenous audiences. The exegesis of Kempis’s work in Nahuatl would not have attracted the same censorious interest that resulted in the 1577 confiscation of the Nahuatl Proverbs, but the possibility that Bautista Viseo’s edition of the Imitation was suppressed by ecclesiastic or inquisitorial officials circa 1606 cannot be ruled out. Moreover, the reappraisal of Ribas and other Nahua scholars as intellectuals in their own right in this chapter challenges a received image of placid Christianized Nahuas who limited themselves to following the lead of Franciscans in terms of reciting the catechism, and eventually drafting devotional plays and prayers for their own use. In contrast, the Nahua scholars who collaborated with Rodríguez and Molina embodied a new position beyond that of Native chroniclers or lexicographers: they became Nahua theologians and tlamatinime [“wise men”], who could be as eloquent as the preconquest Nahua ruler and author Nezahualcoyotl, but who also aspired to the meditative wisdom of Kempis. By the late sixteenth century, this proposition was transformative for Nahua elites, exhilarating for certain Franciscans, but growingly worrisome for inquisitors and archbishops.

Archival Sources Escorial Nahuatl Imitation = De imitatione Christi [On the Imitation of Christ]. Nahuatl commentary and translation. MS San Lorenzo de El Escorial, Biblioteca del Real Monasterio de El Escorial, RBE d-IV-7. John Carter Brown (JCB) Library Imitation = De imitatione Christi [On the Imitation of Christ]. Nahuatl commentary and translation. MS Providence, John Carter Brown Library, Codex Indianorum 23. Molina, Alonso de (1577): Response to the Mexican Inquisitors. MS Mexico City, Archivo General de la Nacion (AGN), Inquisición, volumen 43, expediente 4.

Bibliography Alcántara, Berenice (2019): “La ‘mala nueva’. La llegada del cristianismo en sermones en lengua náhuatl de la primera mitad del siglo XVI”. In: Iberoamericana, 19, 71, pp. 77–98. Anderson, R. Dean (1996): Ancient Rhetorical Theory and Paul. Kampen: Kok Pharos Publishing House. Bautista Viseo, Juan (1606): Sermonario en lengua mexicana. Mexico City: Casa de Diego López Dávalos. Bouza, Fernando (2001): Corre manuscrito: Una historia cultural del Siglo de Oro. Madrid: Marcial Pons. Chimalpahin Quauhtlehuanitzin/Domingo Francisco de San Antón Muñón (1997): Codex Chimalpahin. 2 volumes. Transl. and eds. Arthur J. O. Anderson, Susan Schroeder. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press.

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Index Academia Brasílica dos Esquecidos [Brazilian Academy of the Forgotten] 17, 27, 39–41, 43 Academia dos Anónimos de Lisboa [Anonymous Academy of Lisbon] 43 academic conferences, contests (in Brazil) 39–43 Acapulco (New Spain/Mexico) 14–16 Acarete du Biscay 66 Acoma mesa (New Mexico, USA) 183; see also Pueblos; pueblos Acosta, José de 18, 75, 76, 87, 89, 97, 118–119, 122, 127, 133, 235 Aetate Mundi [Ages of the World] 228–230, 233, 236, 238 Aethiopia; see “Ethiops”, “Ethiopians” Africa, Africans: – albinism in African culture, communities 106–107 – see also Blackness; slavery, slave trade; Estevanico (African captive) Afro-Indigenous, Afro-Taíno communities 205–206, 220 agudeza [sharpness] 33, 42–43 Aguilar, Jerónimo 3 Aimara (language) 215, 218–219 albinism, “albino” 93, 100, 106–112 alcoholado (face painting) 172; see also Indigenous traditions Alfonso V of Portugal 83 Alfonso X of Portugal 86 Algeria 51 allegory, use of 6, 124–125, 127, 141 alliances (Spanish-Indigenous) 2, 155 (Peru), 166, 169 (Mexico), 193–194, 196–197 (north of New Spain) Alto Perú 217 Alva, Don Bartolomé de 257 Alvarado, Hernando de 195 Amaguemecan, Kingdom of 132–133 Ambrose, Saint, see Church Fathers Amazon 7, 15, 31, 79, 212 ambassadors – from China 39 – from Ocopetlayucan (Mexico) 172 https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110796308-013

– of Spain 60, 62 Americas, centering of 14–16 American Southwest studies 181–182 amoxtli (“pinturas”, Indigenous historiographic paintings) 124, 166, 168, 174 Andalucia (Spain), Andalucian 55, 59, 217 Andes 206, 217–218, 228, 230–231, 235–241, 246; see also mines, miners; Tihuanaco; Sacsayhuamán Angola 10, 44, 76–77, 84, 97 Angolans 100, 106, 108–110 animals, fauna 6, 14, 79, 119, 133, 160, 184–188, 257 Anthropocene 73 anthropology, anthropologists 77, 120, 128, 141, 207, 214 anthropologies (text genre) 141–142 – qualities of relaciones 188; see also Relaciones de Indias antiquarianism 229, 234, 236, 239, 241–242 antiquity (Greco-Roman, Mediterranean) 101, 119, 122–123, 125, 127, 242, 246, 260; see also Greeks (ancient), Romans (ancient – classical metaphors of 239, 241–242; see also Hercules anti-Black thought, stereotypes 94, 96–99, 105, 112 Antilles 205 Antwerp 227, 254 Anunciação, Friar Francisco da 32 Anunciación, Domingo de la 252 appointment – of Indigenous leaders 160 – of priests (Portuguese to India) 32, 36–38 Apollo (classical mythology) 130 apostasy 51, 60 apostles 77, 95, 144, 145, 155 Aquinas, Thomas 76, 86 Arabia 10, 101 Arawaks (Indigenous group, Caribbean) 205, 212 archaeology, archaeologists 118, 183, 210–214, 216, 228–230, 233, 239–240 archbishop, archbishopric 267 – of Goa; see Inácio de Santa Teresa, Friar Don

272

Index

– of Mexico 4, 162–163 – of Seville; see Castro y Quiñonez, Pedro – of Tlaxcala 166 Aristotle 42, 76, 81, 86, 104, 146–147, 149, 235 arbitristas 140, 147, 153, 156 armazones, see ships, for slave trade Asian-Portuguese art 27–31 Atahualpa, see capac Atlantis, Atlanteans 119, 122, 126–127, 133 atlas 9, 160, 227; see also maps atrocities 51, 145, 154, 155 audiencias (tribunal or courts) 159, 170 Augustine of Hippo, Saint; see Church Fathers Augustinians (religious order) 38, 141 Austin, Benson Latin American Collection at the University of Texas 160 Australia 11, 15 autobiographical narrative 14–15, 50 authorship of texts 19, 93–94, 162–176, 253, 255, 258–259 Babel, Tower of 129 Babylon, Babylonian 33, 94, 139, 229 Bahia de Todos os Santos (Brazil) 4, 27–32, 34–45 bailadeiras [devadasi] 32 Balthasar, Saint 79 baptism 75–77, 102, 144, 152 Barba, Álvaro Alonso 217–219 Barbosa Machado, Diogo 33, 88 Barco Centenera, Martín del 50, 52 Bardez (North Goa, India) 38 Barlaam and Josaphat 79 Bazán, Don Antonio (Chief Constable of Inquisition) 164 beatus ille 50 Belleforest, François de 9 Benavides, Doña María de 142 Bermúdez de Pedraza, Francisco 242 Bernardes, Manuel 33 Bible, biblical stories 6, 76, 86, 101, 117–118, 121–122, 124, 126, 131, 143–144, 228–230, 251–252, 256, 259–260, 263 – age, biblical antiquity 238 – apocryphal book of Esdras 119 – Book of Genesis 94–95, 100–101, 129, 146, 230, 238; see also Flood, biblical

– creation 9, 117, 229 – exegesis 96, 99, 112 – race in the 94, 101, 113 – Virgin Mary, see Virgin Mary Biscayans 123 bison 187, 190, 199 Black Legend [leyenda negra] 140, 145–146 Black voices 93, 105–113 Blackness 93–96, 98–102, 105–6, 109–112; see also Ethiopia; “Ethiops”, “Ethiopians”; Africa, Africans; Ham, Curse of black skin, see skin tone, skin color Bodin, Jean 86, 87 Bolivia, Bolivian 19, 142, 225, 229, 233, 236; see also Titicaca, Lake; Potosí (Bolivia) borders, boundaries (social) 17, 49–52 – their creation in writing 50 – racial 109 bound books 34, 35, 251, 254 – see also codex Brandão, Ambrósio Fernandes 28 Brandon, Father Luys 84 Braun, Georg 225 Brazil 3, 4, 9, 10, 12, 14, 15, 17, 27–45, 56, 245 – rivalry with Portuguese India 42–44 – transfer of Portuguese capital there 45 Brazilians, Indigenous 7 Brazilian (religious) art 27–31 Brito, Bernardo de 33 Brito, Father João de 32 Brittany 59, 60 Brunengo, Angelo (Corridor de lonja) 147 buccaneers 9, 13, 17, 49, 52, 58, 65, 66 Buenos Aires 14, 59, 60 Buffon, Comte de 108, 110–111 Burgos (Spain) 148 burial, death rituals 44, 82–83 Byzantine novels 50 Cabeza de Vaca 4, 192–193 – 1542 relación of 188, 191 cabildo (council, Mexico City) 124 Cabo Verde 151–152; see also slavery, slave trade Cabrera, Pablo Félix 128–135 cacique (Indigenous leader) 171–174, 196, 210, 212 – Cacica María Estrada 159, 161, 169

Index

– “Caziques” 139 – see also Indigenous voices Cafres 35, 100, 105 Cajamarca plains 231 Calancha, Antonio de la 18, 127, 142–146 California 133 Camões, Luis Vaz de 12 Canaan (son of Biblical Ham) 94, 96, 131 cañafistola (as a crop) 209 Canary Islands 120 cannibalism 51, 144 Cantabria 60 Caonao (Cuba) 82, 209 capac (sapa Inca, Inca sovereign); see also Inca – Atahulapa 231, 242–244 – Huascar 244 – Huayna Capac 143 – Manco Cápac 5–6 Cape of Good Hope 8, 14, 15, 35, 44 Cape Verde 13 capitán cautivo [captive captain] 50 capitalism 73, 96–99, 105, 112 capitalocene 73 capitulation, surrender (to Spanish) 159, 168–170, 172, 176 captatio benevolentiae 164; see also rhetoric, rhetorical exercise captive, captives 15, 51, 65, 86, 151–153, 193 Caribbean 9, 49, 52, 54, 93, 112, 123, 205, 206, 208, 210, 212 Carletti, Francesco 13–15 Caro, Rodrigo 242 Carochi, Horacio 257 Carpentier, Alejo 135; see also Latin American fiction/literature (modern) Carreras, Joseph 60–62 Carreri, Giovanni Gemelli 17 cartas [letters] (text genre) 2–3, 16, 31–32, 57–58, 76, 81, 86, 187–188, 231 Cartagena de Indias (Colombia) 13, 14, 18, 71–72, 83, 93–95, 97, 105–106, 108–110 – Jesuit School, College 72 Cartesian ego cogito 82 Carthage, Carthaginians 120, 122, 126, 133, 136 cartography; see also geographies (literary genre) – textual (Castañeda Nájera) 186–192

273

– limits of 199–201 Casa de Contratación [House of Trade], see Seville (Spain) casta genre (painting) 109–110; see also skin tone, skin color Castañeda (corregidor) Francisco de 163 Castañeda Nájera, Pedro and relación of 18, 181–183, 186–201 Castañega, Rodrigo de 167 caste 58, 100, 109, 218; see also race; Jews; metallurgy Castro y Quiñonez, Pedro (Archbishop of Seville) 77 Castellanos, Juan de 50 Castile, Castilian, Castilians 10, 123, 152, 165, 172, 174, 200, 217 Castillo Maldonado 192–193 casuistry, casuists 18, 139, 146–147, 149, 151, 153, 156 Catalan, Catalans 123, 209, 253 catechism, catechizing 34, 72, 75–76, 100, 102, 229, 252, 256, 267 Catholic Church, see arbitristas; pope, papacy – Tercer Concilio de Lima [Third Council of Lima] 76 Catholic religious orders 32–38; see also Augustinians; Dominicans; Jesuits caves, caverns 6, 131, 142 (worship, Titicaca), 174–175 (Chichimeca), 209–210, 212–213 (Taíno myth) Central America 54 censorship 36, 42, 87, 267 Cerda, Tomás de la (viceroy of New Spain) 124 Cerezo, Gonzalo 170 Cervantes, Miguel de 50–51, 60 César de Meneses, Vasco Fernandes (First Count of Sabugosa) 36, 38, 42 Ceylon 14, 33, 34, 35, 38 charity 81; see also virtues, Christian Charles II of England 53, 63 Charles V (Holy Roman Emperor) 4, 88, 164 Chiapas (Mexico) 15, 130, 133 Chichimecas 131–132, 163, 173–176 Chile 15, 15, 56, 58–59, 63–64, 231 China, Chinese 4, 15, 16, 31, 32, 39, 44, 122, 130, 191, 214 – Jesuits in 39

274

Index

– Tartars, “Tartary” 122, 130 Chivim; see Votán (mythical founder) cholera 33 Cholula (Mexico) 171–173 Christianity: – Christ 28, 29, 31, 143–145, 229, 261–263 – Christian compassion (caritas), love, morals 72–74, 80, 81, 149; see also ethics – Christian universalism 45, 79; see also evangelization – Christian view of history, world 107, 118–119, 121, 127, 229, 236, 238 – Christian writings, writers 87, 94–95; see also Church Fathers; Bible, biblical stories crónica [chronicle] (literary genre) 2, 8, 75–76, 154, 160, 186, 252, 258 chroniclers 190, 228, 267; see also Herrera y Tordesilla, Antonio de; Santa Cruz Pachacuti; López de Velasco, Juan; Muñoz Camargo, Diego; Sancho de la Hoz; Cieza de León; Indigenous voices Church Fathers 101, 104 – Ambrose 87, 104 – Augustine of Hippo 76, 86, 104, 229 – John Chrysostom 104 – Gregory 143 Cicero 86, 259 Cieza de León, Pedro 230–238, 246 circumnavigation 11, 12–14 Cisneros, Juan de 170 citadel (of Cusco) 228, 240, 245–246 Classical sources, world 49, 87; see also Greeks (ancient), Romans (ancient) Claver, Pedro 71 cloth, fabrics 28, 31, 215; see also luxury goods clothes, clothing 55, 111, 112, 196–197, 234 codex (book form) 34, 38; see also bound books codex 13185 (National Library of Portugal) 36–38 Codex Badianus 252 Codex Florentine 252 Codex Indianorum 23 254 Coimbra, University of 32, 41, 44 Colegio de Santa Cruz (Mexico) 252, 255 collaboration, Indigenous-Spanish 159, 165, 167, 251–253, 256, 267

Collao (Andean region), and people of 143, 233–238 collapse, historiographic narrative of 214–215 collective memory 162; see also origin myths Colombia 13, 71, 93, 108, 112, 208; see also Cartagena de Indias colonial authorities/officials, elites 39, 41, 45, 49; 53, 57, 59, 109–110, 121, 162, 170–171, 176; see also conquerors, conquistadors colonies: – Portuguese; see Brazil; Mozambique; India – Spanish; see New Spain; Mexico; Peru; Colombia color symbolism; see skin color; caste; metals Columbus, Christopher 123, 188, 205, 211–213 commerce 40, 59, 62–63, 148; see also slavery, slave trade – commercial goods, objects 27, 45, 58, 67, 139–140, 146, 156 – commercial dynamics, relations 64, 146 – commercial ventures 53 Companhia de Jesus [Society of Jesus]; see Jesuits compassion; see Christian compassion Compostela (Mexico) 191 Concepción de La Vega 208–209, 213; see also La Española confiscation 252, 267 (of biblical commentaries in Nahuatl) Congo 80, 100 conquerors, conquistadors 4–5, 18, 117, 154, 159–160, 162–176, 183, 226–228, 230–232, 240, 244–246; see also Cortés, Hernán; Pizzaro, Francisco; Cieza de León; Sancho de la Hoz; Vásquez de Coronado Consejo de Indias [Council of the Indies] 159, 161, 170 Consulate of Seville 58 contact zones 105 Conti, Niccolò dei 187 contraband; see smuggling; trade, illicit; see also slavery, slave trade contrabandistas; see smuggling, smugglers converso; see New Christian convivencia 139, 151 Corpus Diacrónico del Españo (CORDE) 212

Index

corregidor (chief magistrate of a town, Mexico) 163, 165, 166, 171, 173–175 corruption 53, 67 – moral 56 Cortés, Hernán 3, 82, 133, 159, 163–169, 171–173, 187–189, 191 cosmography (text genre) 8–10, 227 cosmovisions, Native 5–7, 212, 214 Council of the Indies, see Consejo de Indias counternarratives 107, 167–168, 172–176 Counter-Reformation strategies 139, 252, 266 Covarrubias, see dictionaries Coya (Quechua ‘queen’) 154–155 creation stories; see origin myths (Indigenous); cosmographies; Bible, biblical stories Criollo, criolloismo 109, 124–128 crisis, moment of 82 Croatians 65 crónica [chronicle] (literary genre) 2–3, 8, 75–76, 154, 160, 186, 230–233, 246, 252, 258 Cruz, Juan de la 252 Cruz, Sor Juana Inés de la 125–127, 135, 252 crypto-Jews 56, 63 Cuauhtemoc (Aztec ruler) 125 Cuba 15, 82 Cubero Sebastián, Pedro 15–17 cult images 31, 36, 144 Curse of Ham myth; see Ham customs duties 55, 62 customs of non-European Indigenous peoples 32, 93, 120, 188, 239, 244 Cuzco [Cusco] 5, 9, 142–143, 225–230, 232, 239–246 – battle of 155 deception 52, 55–58, 61, 65–66, 186, 193 decrees 41, 142, 147; see also papal bull dehumanization 52, 102; see also slavery, slave trade “de-indianization” 128 Del Pozo, Mauricio 58–60 Denmark 62 Denys the Carthusian 256 desencuentro (distancing) of Indios 123–124, 128, 134–136 destruction/erasure, loss of Native institutions, memories 36, 128–129, 161, 167–168, 183

275

– Visitas de Idolatría [Idolatry Visits] 144 Devotio Moderna (spiritual movement) 253 Díaz de Aux, Miguel 167 dictionaries (early modern) 218, 252 – Covarrubias’ Spanish 82, 100, 143 – Molina’s Nahuatl-Spanish 252, 256, 258 diffusionism, diffusionist anthropological theories 119–121, 135; see also origin of Indios Diogenes 81 diplomatic gifts 39, 62, 254 “discovery” 1, 13, 16, 114, 117, 133, 159, 162–164, 205 disease, illness 161; see also cholera, epidemic Dominican Republic 208, 213 Dominicans (religious order) 4, 38, 73, 121, 144–147, 156, 161, 210, 252, 256 Don Quijote 50 Dorantes de Carranza, Baltasar 166, 192–193 Dorantes, (captain) Martín 169 Drake, Sir Francis 9, 50, 52 drought 39 Du Pinet, Antoine 242–243 Duke of Orange 53–54 Durán, Fray Diego 161 East India, see India Ebed–Melech 79 Efigenia, Virgin Santa 79 Egypt, Egyptians (ancient) 77, 94, 126, 127, 134, 229 – Isis (deity) 126, 130 – Osiris (deity) 130 Elcano, Juan Sebastián 11 electrum (metal alloy) 143 embodied agency 93, 100, 107 embodied knowledges, narratives 18, 94–96, 105–112, 206 emplotments 1 encomienda [royal grant of Indigenous tribute], encomenderos 159, 167, 170, 176 encuentro [encounter] 117, 123, 125, 134–136, 176; see also desencuentro encubrimiento [invention] of the Americas 205 England, English 15, 34, 35, 50, 53–57, 60–65 engravings 103, 110–112, 225–226, 228, 242–246 Enriques Clerque, Carlos 63–67

276

Index

Enríquez, (viceroy) Don Martín 170 Enríquez Gómez, Antonio 33 entradas, see expeditions (Spanish) environmental impacts on people 122, 214 – climate theory of Blackness 95, 104, 108 epidemic 33, 72, 185 (in origin myth) epideictic 42–43 Escorial Library 251, 253 escribanos [clerks of court and notaries public] 162, 164, 174; see also scribes; writing; authorship Espronceda, José de 50 Estevanico (African captive) 193–194 Estrada, (captain) Fernando Alfonso de 169–170 ethics: – Christian 89, 147–148, 152–153 – debates concerning colonization 13, 81, 146 – economic, trade 146–147, 150, 152–153, 156 – see also slavery, slave trade Ethiopia 13 Ethiopian language 10 “Ethiops”, “Ethiopians” as a term for darkskinned people 72, 75–78, 95, 100–101, 104, 105, 152; see also Aethiopia Euphrates River 119 Eurocentrism 105–109, 120–121 evangelize, evangelization 34, 38, 41, 44, 55, 72, 75–79, 95, 99, 102, 123, 141, 144, 150, 152, 252; see also Jesuits; Dominicans Exquemelin, Alexander 49, 52, 66 expansion, European imperial/colonial 1, 19, 73, 81, 83, 96, 121, 189, 225, 227 expeditions [entradas], Spanish 182, 191–193, (reports on); see: – Vásquez de Coronado (1542, American Southwest) 18, 181–183, 186–201 – Cortés (Mexico); see Cortés, Hernán – Pánfilo de Narváez, (1527, Florida) 82, 191–193; – for survivors of, see Cabeza de Vaca, Castillo Maldonado, Dorantes de Carranza; Estevanico (African captive) – Hernando de Soto (1539, Florida) 191 – Ruy López de Villalobos (1542, Philippines) 191 expulsion – from the Catholic Church 60 – of the Chichimecas 131–132 – of the Moriscos 154

Ezekiel (prophet) 143; see also Bible, biblical stories faith, the (Catholic) Faith 34, 41, 51, 60, 119, 121–122, 141, 145, 152, 253 fantastical, fantasy (in literature) 123–124, 128, 133–135 Faro, Algarve (Portugal) 38 East, East Asia, Far East 40, 118; see also China, Japan, Siam female perspective in literature 50 Fernández de Velasco, Pedro, see mines, miners Ferdinand II of Aragon 141, 205 Fifth Empire (universal Christian empire) 45 Figueiredo, Manoel de 10 first-person narrative 2–3, 50, 53, 81, 93 Flood, biblical 5, 94, 117–118, 129, 229, 233, 235, 238, 246 Florida 3, 187, 191, 193 foreigners, in Spanish colonies 53–59, 65–66 foreigners, Indigenous 135, 174 forgery 61, 101 fortress [fortezza] (of Cuzco) 239–246 France, French 3, 4, 9, 10, 11, 16, 34, 35, 50, 54–57, 59–60, 62–63, 65, 66, 108, 123, 139, 146, 211, 225, 243, 253 Froes, Father Luís 32 Fuentes, Carlos 134 Galicians 49, 60, 123 Gallegos, (corregidor) Gonzalo 164 Gama, (Custódio) Antônio da 35–36 Gaona, Juan de 255–256 Garcés, Enrique (entrepreneur) 217; see also mines, miners Garcia Lopes de Cardenas 194–195, 197 García, Fray Gregorio 18, 118, 121–124, 126, 134–135 Gaza 94 genealogy 171, 176 – genetic expression, see skin tone, skin color; mestizaje; casta genre (painting) – linguistic 217–218 genre (literary) 2, 31, 40–43, 50; see also anthropologies; cartas; cosmography; crónicas; historias; geographies; relaciones; sermons; speculum; teatro

Index

gentlemen 51, 52, 57, 60, 171, 256 Gentiles [pagans] 34, 35, 95 geographies (literary genre) 8–10, 54–55, 225–230, 238; see also Relaciones de Indias (geográfica) geography (physical), geographic 12, 15, 66, 110–111, 188–189, 211, 225, 232–233, 246 – gendering 205, 210–211 Germany, Germans, German-language 107–108, 139, 216–219, 225, 228, 230, 232, 243–244, 253 Gerson, Jean 253–254 Gibraltar 242 Glissant, Édouard 2 Global South 206; see also South-South Goa [Velha Goa] (India) 14, 15, 16, 31–35, 38, 41–45 – Archbishop of, see Inácio de Santa Teresa, Friar Don gold 44, 45, 79, 87, 139, 142–144, 150, 154–155, 208–215, 231, 251, 262; see also mines, Seven Cities of Gold good works 32, 262–263 goods; see commerce Gracián, Baltasar 33, 42 Granada, Friar Luis de 33, 252 Granada (Spain) 14, 141, 242 Greater India 187–188, 192, 200 Greco-Roman mythology/traditions, see antiquity Gregory, Saint, see Church Fathers Greeks (ancient) 45, 101, 104, 122, 130, 229 Greeks (17th-century) 65, 66, 123 Groote, Geerte 253 guanín (copper-gold alloy) 210–212 Guaraos (Indigenous group, Caribbean) 212 Guatemala 14, 128 Guerrero, Gonzalo 3 Guevara, Antonio de 49–50 Guinea 10, 14, 76–77, 83–85, 99–100 Guzmán, Nuño de 191–192 hacienda rights 160 hagiography 79, 104 hair 94, 107, 172; see also albinism; Indigenous traditions of war

277

Haiti 80, 213 Ham (son of Noah, Bible) 94, 131 – Curse of 94–96, 98–102, 104–113 Hamburg, Hamburgers (German state) 55, 60–62, 65, 218 harvest 209, 212 Hayek, Friedrich 140, 153 Hautin de Villars (translator) 217, 219 Hebrew; see Jews, Judaism Henry the Navigator 83 Hercules (Greco-Roman mythology) 133, 241, 242, 245 heresy, heretics 36, 51–52, 55–56, 60–61, 141, 144, 156 l’Hermite, Jacques 54 Hernández, protomédico Francisco 159 Herrera y Tordesillas, Antonio de 10, 11, 227 Hesperides 123 Hespero (mythical king of Spain) 123 Hindus, Hindu customs of Goa 32, 33, 36 Hippocrates 104 Hispaniola, see La Española historias [history, histories] (literary genre) 2–3, 14, 72, 75, 82, 118, 123, 155, 160–161, 227, 252, 254–257 historical linguistics 208 history of science 207–208, 214–215, 220 Hogenberg, Frans 225, 242 Holland 55, 60, 63 Hudson Bay 133 Huitzilopochtli (Nahua deity) 125, 132 human body as metaphor 74 humanitarianism, humanitarian narrative 72, 74–75, 80–83, 89 – of Jesuits 79–80 hurricane, hurricane season (Caribbean) 209–210 Ibarra, Diego de, daughter of 171 Iberian Muslim narratives 101–102 Iberia, Iberian Peninsula 5, 11, 13, 16, 50, 102 154, 242 imaginings (European), of New World 205, 227–228, 231, 246 Inácio de Santa Teresa, Friar Don (Archbishop of Goa) 27, 32–45

278

Index

Inca Garcilaso de la Vega 1, 5–7 Inca 5–6, (origin myth), 134, 142–143, 155, 229–232, 235–237, 239–240, 242, 244; see also capac; Sacsayhuamán (Cuzco) incest 212 Indias, las [Indies] 54, 117 India 4, 8–9, 14, 31, 33–36, 38–45, 61–62, 187–189, 200 – as the opposite of Brazil 43–44 Indianos [those returning to Spain] 146, 151, 154–156 Indies 9–11, 40, 49, 54–58, 61, 65–67, 82–83, 88, 119, 236 – East Indies 14, 49, 66 – West Indies 13, 14, 49, 66, 121–122, 151, 208, 231, 262 Indigenous Americans, see Indios Indigenous ancestors, ancestry 172–175; see also origin myths; Chichimeca Indigenous leaders, elites, principales; see also caciques; noblemen, nobility (Indigenous) – in Mexico 160–162, 164–167, 171–174 – Tecpanecatl chichtli, Tecpanecatl totec, Cuixcocatl 172 – north of New Spain (Tiguex) 195–196 – “Juan Alemán” (Tiguex leader) 195–196 – “El Turco” (Plains informant, guide) 196–197, 199 – Bigotes [Mustaches], “the Cacique”, Xabe, Ysopete (Plains informants) 196–197 Indigenous knowledge 160–163, 166–176, 195–196, 199, 205–220, 235–236; see also metals, metallurgy Indigenous property: – restitution of, Mercado on 149–150, 152–153 – usurpation of, sinfulness of 150 Indigenous scholars 246–267 Indigenous songs (cantares) 167–168 Indigenous traditions, customs 78, 160, 188 – of war 168–169, 172–173 Indigenous vocabulary: – in Portuguese texts 44 – in Spanish texts 182, 184–185, 205, 217–219 Indigenous/Native voices, histories 44, 124–125, 127–128, 129–134, 159–176, 182–184 (Acoma Pueblo), 236; see also origin myths;

Chichimeca; Indios; Santa Cruz Pachacuti (chronicler) – European perception of 118–119, 123–124, 134, 236 – European reliance on 161–176, 195–200 – Kolla people, myth of 142–144 Indios (“Indians”, Indigenous Americans) 5, 76, 117, 135–136, 144, 150–151, 155, 159, 173–174, 193 – origin of 118–124, 126, 128–136, 192 Inquisition 56, 145, 164, 252, 258 interpreter, interpretation 3, 6, 54, 162, 165–166, 171, 195, 228–230, 236, 243–244 (visual) invented sources 62 Ircio, Martín de 170 Ireland 62 Isabella I of Castile 141 Italy, Italians 16, 65, 76, 128, 242; see also Venice, Venetian ius gentium; see law, international Jacobeia 32 James II (formerly Duke of York) 63 Jansenism (Catholic controversy) 32 Japan, Japanese 4, 10, 13, 32, 205, 251 Jaso, (corregidor) Valentín de 175 Jerusalem 8, 244 Jesuits, Society of Jesus – in Africa 84 – in Asia 38, 41, 66, 251 – on Black Africans 93–97, 104 – in Brazil 31, 41, 105 – in China 39 – in India 32, 34, 35, 41 – in Peru 71, 72 – literary production, writing 4, 40–41, 77–79, 81, 89, 93, 98, 118–119, 132, 156 – service to destitute 80–83 – support of slave trade 98–100 Jews, Judaism 55–56, 60–65, 94, 95, 101–102, 113, 119, 122–123, 126, 130–131, 133–134, 151, 156; see also New Christians (conversos) John V of Portugal 34, 36, 38 John VI of Portugal 45 Josephus 96, 101 Juvenal 86

Index

Kalinagos (Indigenous group, Caribbean) 205, 212 Kangxi (Chinese emperor) 39 Kansas (US state) 191, 199; see also Quivira Kashmir 80 Kempis, Thomas à 251–255, 259–267 Keresan (Pueblo language) 184–186 Keynes, John Maynard 140, 153 K’iche’ (language) 210 kiva (ceremonial chamber) 198 Kolla (Indigenous group, Titicaca) 142–144 Krenak, Ailton (Native activist) 7 La Española [Hispaniola] 133, 209, 211, 213–214; see also Concepción de La Vega La Gasca, Pedro de (viceroy of Peru) 232 La Peyrère, Isaac 129 land, perceptions of (Indigenous vs. Spanish) 182–201 land-bridge theory 118–119 Lange, Johann (translator) 217–219 Las Casas, Bartolomé de 4, 75–76, 82, 84, 86, 88, 210–211 – on enslavement of Indigenous population 75 Latin American fiction/literature (modern) – baroque 66, 79, 108, 112, 118, 128, 134–135, 139 – real maraviloso [marvelous real] 135 – see also fantastical, fantasy (in literature) Latour, Bruno 2 law, laws 31, 35, 56, 85, 88, 97, 105, 122, 209, 214 – canonical 41, 128 – civil 41, 71, 128, 147, 148 – common 150 – divine 148, 152–153 – international (ius gentium) 72, 151 – natural 85, 88, 146–148, 152–153 – Spanish imperial in colonies 214 – of war 169 Le Moyne de Morgues, Jacques 4 Le Testu, Guillaume 9 León Pinelo, Antonio de 238 Lenglet du Fresnoy (translator) 217–219 Leitão Ferreira, Francisco 43 letters of marque 61; see also piracy, pirates Lezama Lima, José 134

279

libraries, private 33, 217 Libya 126 Lima (Peru) 14, 53–54, 57, 64, 71–72, 76–77 Lisbon 10, 27, 31, 33–34, 36, 39, 43–44, 225 – National Archives of Torre do Tombo 33–34 – National Library of Portugal 36 Loanda (Angola) 84 Lombardy 241, 245 London 12, 61–65, 134, 218, 225, 244 Lope de Vega 50, 257 Lopes, Diego 197; see also Vásquez de Coronado López Cacho, (corregidor) Don Juan 173 López de Mesa, Pedro (gold miner) 208–209, 212–214 López de Ribera, (corregidor) Pedro 166 López de Velasco, Juan (cosmographer-chronicler) 159–160 Lorenzo, Juan (interpreter) 165 Loya Francisco de 164 Loyola, Ignacio of 17 Lucayos (Indigenous group, Caribbean) 205, 211 Macau 13, 34–35 Macrobius 86 Madrid 10, 12, 72, 77–78, 160, 218 – Real Academia de la Historia 160 – Spanish National Library, Biblioteca Digital Hispánica 72 Magalhães, Father Antonio 39 Magellan, Ferdinand 11–12 Malabar Coast 33 Malacca 32, 33, 41 malaria 33 Malaysia 15, 80 Maluco 32 manuals: – evangelization manual 75–76, 78–79 – preaching 259–260 – technical (mining, metallurgy) 217–219 maps, mapping 8–9, 28, 160, 183, 188–190, 200–201 (literary), 205, 225 – mappae mundi 8 – Nuremberg Map (1524) 227 – world map (early modern) 9, 227–228, 239 Marathas (India) 33 María Estrada, see cacique

280

Index

Marianism 140; see Virgin Mary Marqués del Valle [Marquess of the Valley], see Cortés, Hernán Marxist critique of imperialism 152 Mary Sabina 108–112; see also albinism, albino Maya 118, 130, 134, 210; see also Palenque Mbembe, Achille 72 medical cultures 161 Médecins sans frontiers 80 Medina (Spain) 148 Medina, Bartholomé de 147, 216–217 Medina, Pedro de 242 Mediterranean 8–9, 83, 131, 242 Melgosa, Pablo de 197; see also Vásquez de Coronado memoria [questionnaire] 159, 163; see also Relaciones de Indias (geográficas) memory 124, 133, 162, 168, 235–236; see also Indigenous voices, histories; orality; origin myths; destruction of Indigenous institutions, memories Mendes Pinto, Fernão 15–16, 33–34 Mendieta, Gerónimo de 251, 253–255, 257–258, 266 Mendoza, Antonio de (viceroy of New Spain) 189, 192–193 Mercado, Tomás de 18, 73, 76, 83–84, 97, 147–154, 157 mercantilist economics, markets 79, 96–98, 106–107, 112, 146–149, 156; see also slavery, slave trade merchants, merchant community 1, 49, 53, 54–55, 59–61, 63–64, 67, 84, 88, 97–99, 146–148, 151–152, 154, 215 Mesoamerica 128, 216 mestizaje [“racial mixing”], mestiza/o 105–106, 109, 135, 151, 154, 161–162, 166–167, 171 metals, metallurgy 140, 143–144, 150, 154, 187, 197, 200, 209–220; see also mines, mining, miners; gold; silver – absence of 184–185, 187 – extraction, amalgamation (technical process) of 144, 215–217, 219 – vocabularies for, classification of metal ores 218–219 metaphor: – of black as evil 101

– classical for New World 241–242 – of holy war 141 – human body as 74 – metallurgical 143–144 – in Nahuatl 256–258, 261–262 – pirates as contagion 67 – see also Virgin Mary Mexica (Indigenous group) 32, 124–127 (history of), 132–133 (emblem), 135, 169 – language 175, 191, 216, 254–255, 262; see Nahua, Nahuatl Mexico 3, 9, 13–19, 120, 128, 130–132, 159–176, 216–217, 219, 251–267 – Archbishopric of 4, 162–163 – Central 190–191, 206, 217, 260 (deity Tezcatlipoca) – Indigenous allies from, see alliances (SpanishIndigenous) – see also Relaciones de Indias; expeditions (Spanish) Mexico City (Mexico-Tenochtitlan) 4, 49, 53, 124, 147, 227 – Iglesia Metropolitana de México 126 – Mexico-Tenochtitlan 165–166 (fall of), 169, 189, 191, 194–195, 199–200, 207, 216 Mezzabarba, Monsignor Carlo Ambrogio (Patriarch of Alexandria) 39 Milan, Ambrosiana Library 11 military campaigns, strategy (Spanish) 38, 167, 196–197, 231 mines, mining, miners 10, 13, 45, 143–144, 150, 166, 169, 208–211, 215–220 – Contreras, Pedro de 217 – Fernández de Velasco, Pedro 217 Miramontes y Zuázola, Juan de 50 missionary, missionizing 17, 34, 38, 41, 66, 81, 84, 88, 93, 95–96 – language of instruction 38 – Jesuit missions in the East 4, 32, 38, 43, 66, 251 – in Americas 141, 144, 155, 183, 232, 236, 240, 252, 257, 259 “mixed race”; see also mestizaje – European-African 107–108, 142, 219 – Indian-Portuguese 38 Molina, Alonso de 25–252, 255–259, 266 Molina, Luis de 73, 76, 83–84, 88, 97–100

Index

Moluccas 38 Mondego river 41 monopoly 49, 147 Moreno, Isidro (conquistador) 167 Morgan, Henry 49 Mormugão (Portuguese India) 33 Moteuczoma [Montezuma] 3, 133 mother, maternity 106 Mother of God, see Virgin Mary Mozambique, Mozambicans 14–15, 34–36, 44 Mughal court, emperor 38, 62 mulatos 94, 218–219 Muñoz Camargo, Diego 4, 161 Münster, Sebastian 9 Murcia (Spain) 51 Muslim, Muslims 36, 96, 101–102, 123 – expansion to Iberia 102 Nahua, Nahuatl 4, 5, 19, 22, 23, 118, 120, 127–128, 131–134, 165, 168, 175, 191, 207, 251–267 – grammatical treatise 257 Nahua-Franciscan partnerships 254 Narborough, John 64, 67 natural law, see law, natural natural world, nature 6, 73, 88, 207 (Book of Nature); see also origin myths Neptune (Roman deity) 125–127 Netherlands 63, 253 New Christians (conversos, recent converts) 55–56, 63, 141, 144, 151, 156 New Galicia, Kingdom of 194 New Holland 15 New Mexico 4, 133, 182–186, 192–201 New Spain 15–18, 53, 55–58, 118, 121–128, 159–176, 181–201, 257 New York Public Library 181–182 “New World” 1, 5, 11–12, 41, 50, 55–56, 59, 63, 65, 89, 117, 121–122, 140, 151, 213, 225, 227, 235, 246, 252 Nezahualcoyotl (Nahua ruler, author) 267 Nieremberg, Juan Eusebio 65 Niño Velásquez, Bartolomé (escribano) 181; see also Castañeda Nájera, Pedro Niza, Fray Marco de 189, 193–195 Noah 6, 94, 101, 117, 129, 131; see also Flood, biblical; Bible, biblical stories

281

“noble savage” 150 noble families, rank; nobility; noblemen (Spanish/Portuguese) 28, 39, 44, 86, 139, 151, 156, 163, 256 noblemen, nobility (Indigenous) 240; see also Indigenous leaders nomads, nomadic (Indigenous Americans) 173, 190, 199–201 Noort, Juan de 102–103 Northern Deccan (India) 33 Nunes, Pero (cosmographer) 10 Núñez de la Vega, Fray Francisco 129 Núñez, Fray Juan 164 Ochoa, Hernando de 83 offices, buying and selling 56 O’Gorman, Edmundo 135, 205 Old Christians (in Spain) 141, 154, 156 “Old World” 1, 117, 122, 130, 225, 229, 238, 241, 246 orality, oral 165, 192–193 – falsification of oral communication 161, 193, 211 – life-giving power of 184 – oral histories, narratives 7, 18, 96, 107, 109, 161, 165–166, 183–184, 211, 236–237 – public hearings of letters 32 – speech in scientific communication 207 – see also origin myths Ordóñez de Ceballos, Pedro 14–15 Ordóñez y Aguilar, Ramón de 129 Orduña, Francisco de 165 O’Reilly, Justo Sierra 50 Origen of Alexandria 95 origin myths 5–6 (Inca), 7 (Tikuna, Amazon), 18, 129–133 (in Tzendal), 174–175 (Chichimeca), 183–186 (Acoma Pueblo, Tewa), 192 (Greater India), 200 (Acoma, Tewa), 209–214 (Taíno); see also Indios, origins of Ortelius, Abraham 227; see also atlas Ortiz, Juan 3 Ortiz, Simón (Acoma Pueblo) 183–184 Other, othering, otherness 50, 66, 72–75, 80–82, 89, 107, 117, 155–156 Otomí 216 Ovando, Juan de (Council of the Indies) 251, 253–255, 257

282

Index

Ovid 131 Oviedo y Valdés, Gonzalo Fernández de 123, 211, 213 Oxitipar valley (Mexico) 192 Pachamama (Andean goddess of fertility) 141 Pachuca (Mexico) 216 Pacific 9, 13, 14, 15, 49, 54, 58, 63 – coast of Mexico, Spanish America 57, 67, 191ey painting, see Asian-Portuguese art; amoxtli; casta genre Palenque (Mexico), ruins of 130, 132, 134 Panama 9, 54 Pané, Ramón (Catalan friar) 209 papacy, papal bulls 41, 61, 83, 117, 139, 141 – Tribunal of the Holy Office 32–33 – see also popes; Rome (papacy) parade (Seville, 1617) 139 Paraguay 14, 56, 59–60 Paris 9, 11, 181 – University of 259 – French National Library 72 Pascal, Blaise 151 Patagonia, Patagonian 12–13, 64 patronage – of viceroy of Brazil 39–41 – of Charles II of England 63–64 Paul, Apostle 95 performance, rhetorical, of texts 251–252, 259 Pernambuco (Brazil) 14, 28 Persia 14, 16, 38 Perú [Peru], Peruvian 6, 10, 13–15, 19, 53–54, 56–59, 63, 72, 80, 121–122, 141–144, 150, 216–217, 219, 225–227, 229–236, 245 – Peruvians (of European descent) 65 Peruvian-Bolivian highlands 236; see also Titicaca, Lake; Tiahuanaco Phaulkon, Constantine 66 Philip II of Spain 10, 254 Philippines 11, 13–17, 51, 191 Philo of Alexandria 95 Phoenician, Phoenicians 120, 122, 130–131, 133–134 picaresque 15, 50 Pigafetta, Antonio 11–13, 15 “pinturas” (Indigenous historiographic paintings); see amoxtli

piracy, pirates 49, 50–52, 54 – liminality in Seyxas’s writings 52–53 – reception in Hispanic letters 49–52 – see also borders, boundaries (social); heresy, heretics Pizarro, Francisco 154, 231 Pizzaro, Pedro 142, 231 plains, the Plains (North America) 184, 190–191, 197–201 Plata, Isla de la [Silver Island], see Titicaca, Lake Plato 86, 119 Pliny the Elder 76, 104 poetry 33, 39, 43, 252 (Nahuatl) Polo, Marco 187 Pomar, Juan Bautista de 167–169 popes, pontiff 4, 39, 61, 139 – Benedict XIV 33 – Leo XIII 71 – Nicholas V 83 – Paul III 117 – Pius V 254 Popol Wuj 210 Pordenone, Odorico de 187 Portocarrero y Lasso de la Vega, Melchor (count of Monclova and viceroy of Perú) 58 ports, port city – in Africa 34, 78, 84–85 – in the Americas 15–16, 35–36, 40, 55, 59, 63–64, 71, 78, 83, 85–86 – in Asia 62, 66 – in Europe 55, 59, 61 Portugal 10, 12, 27, 32, 34, 38, 42, 45, 56, 60, 65, 207 – king of 39, 40, 45; see also John V Portuguese Crown 33, 38, 40, 56 – expansion, empire 40–45 Portuguese (language) in Africa, Americas 44 Potosí (Bolivia) 59 Pratt, Mary Louise 2, 105 precious stones 45, 161, 211–212, 216 precious metals, see gold; silver; electrum; guanín; metals, metallurgy Prince of Orange 53–54 prisoner-taking (Nahua) 168–169 “propagation of the faith”, see missionary; evangelization; Jesuits proto-ethnography 75, 77, 79, 93, 232

Index

Providence, Rhode Island (USA), John Carter Brown Library 251, 253–254 Ptolemy 10, 12 Pueblo people 183, 196–199, 201; see also expeditions, Vásquez de Coronado; war, Tiguex; origin myths – relationship with land 183–186, 198 pueblos (New Mexico, USA) 183, 185–186, 192 (fourteen locations), 197–199 – Acoma 186, 191, 200 – Chiametla 196 – Cibola 187–188, 192, 194–196 – Cicuye 192, 195, 196 – Hawikuh, see pueblos, Cibola – Tusayán 192, 194, 195 – Tiguex 196–198; see also space, imagined/ created; war, Tiguex Quechua (language) 142, 155, 215, 217–219 Queen of Sabba (Sheba) 79 Querechos (Indigenous group, Plains) 199, 201 Quevedo, Francisco 50 Quijano, Aníbal 1 Quintilian 259 Quivira (Indigenous inhabited space) 191–192, 198–199 race, racial categories 93–113, 218–219 (for metal ores); see also mestizaje, Blackness, casta genre Ramalho, João 3 Ramos Gavilán, friar Alonso 142–144 Ramusio, Giovanni 232, 239, 244, 246 Real Academia Española (RAE) [Royal Spanish Academy] 117, 212 Recife (Brazil) 35 relaciones [relations], Relaciones de Indias (text genre) 2, 8, 15, 18, 75, 159–176 (geográfica), 181–183, 186–201, 227, 236 – Atlatlauhca (Mexico), relación of 165 – Atlitlalaquia (Mexico), relación of 173–176 – Chiconauhtlan (Mexico), relación of 166 – Coatepec, Chimalhuacan y Chicoaloapan (Mexico), relación of 174–175 – Citlaltomahua y Anecuilco (Mexico), relación of 167 – Culhuacan (Mexico), relación of 164

283

– Iguala (Mexico), relación of 169–170, 176 – Iztapalapan (Mexico), relación of 164–165 – de la jornada de Cíbola; see Castañeda Nájera, Pedro – Ocopetlayucan (Mexico), relación of 171–173, 176 – Ohuapa (Mexico), relación of 169–171 – Tasco (Mexico), relación of the mines of 167 – Temazcaltepec (Mexico), relación of the mines of 166 – Tepeapulco (Mexico), relación of 173–176 – Tequizistlan, Tepexpan, Aculma, San Juan Teotihuacan (Mexico), memoria of 163–164 – Tetela and Hueyapan (Morelos, Mexico), relación of 159, 161–162 – Teutenango (Mexico), relación of 169 relectiones [lectures] 146 renegade, renegades 51–53, 60; see also piracy, pirates rhetoric, rhetorical exercises 42–43, 49, 124–127, 134–135, 148, 153, 164, 251, 259–260 (sermon), 266 – Nahua 265 Ribas, Hernando de (Nahua scholar) 251, 255–258, 266–267 Río, (Captain) Antonio del 130 Rio de Janeiro 35, 39 – National Historical Museum 28 Río de la Plata 56 Rio Grande (river) 185 Robles, Gregorio de 66 Rocha Pita, Sebastião da 39–40 Rodríquez, Luis (missionary, Mexico) 251, 255, 257, 266 Rodríguez de Villafuerte, Juan (conquistador) 167 Romans (ancient) 45, 101, 104, 120, 125, 127, 130, 229, 241–242, 245 Rome (papacy) 33, 76, 129, 225, 241, 245; see also popes, pontiff royal administrators, civil authorities – Portuguese in India 33–34, 36 – Portuguese in Brazil 39, 45 – Spanish in New Spain 53, 55, 56 ruins in the Americas 122, 130, 235; see also Palenque; Tihuanaco

284

Index

Sacsayhuamán (Cuzco) 228–230, 232, 239–246 Sacrobosco, Johannes de 10, 227 Sahagún, Bernardino de 252, 254 sailors 49, 54–55, 62, 64, 126, 141 Salamanca 144 (School of) 144 – University of 147 Salazar, (corregidor) Cristóbal de 174 Salvador (Brazil) 27–28, 34–36, 38–40 salvation 32, 76, 78, 93, 95, 102–103, 111, 146 Sanchez de la Hoz, Pero 226, 230–232, 239–246 Sánchez Ferlosio, Rafael 117 San Esteban Emperor 79 San Moses “the Ethiopian” 79 San Serapion 79 Sandoval, Alonso de 17–18, 71–113 Sandoval, (Colonel) Gonzalo de 170 Santa Cruz Pachacuti (chronicler) 142–143 Santa Fe de las Corrientes 59 Santo Domingo 155; see also La Española [Hispaniola] Santiago, apostle 155 satire 50 scholars (pre- and early modern) – ancient 102, 104; see also Greeks (ancient); Romans (ancient) – in Brazil 27, 39–41, 43, 45 – German 225 – Nahua 251–252, 255–256, 266, 267 – Spanish 83, 104, 125–127, 238, 251, 254 scribes 231–232, 254 Scripture; see Bible sculpture 28–31, 120 (Hellenistic), 143 (Virgin de Copacabana), 233 (Tiahuanaco) seasons, seasonality 185, 196–197, 208–210, 212; see also harvest Seminoles (Indigenous group) 4 Seneca 86 Senegal 107 Sephardic 63, 140; see also Jews, Jewish community; Judaism sermons 19, 31, 33, 251–252, 254, 258–260 (rhetorical format), 265–266 Seven Cities of Gold 188, 192–195, 198–200; see also expeditions, Vásquez de Coronado Seville (Spain) 13–14 (as world center), 51, 72, 139–141, 147–148, 181, 225, 232, 254 – Archivo General de Indias 160

– Casa de Contratación [House of Trade] 83, 140, 147 – Consulado de Mercaderes [merchants’ guild] 58, 147 Seyxas y Lovera, Francisco de 17, 49–50, 52–67 Sharp, Bartholomew 49 ships (also vessel) 45, 62, 67, 194 – Portuguese 27, 31, 34–36, 38, 40, 45 – foreign 58, 61, 63–64 – multinational crews 52–53 – repairs to 35–36 – shipyard 36, 39 – for slave trade, 4, 71, 74, 76, 78, 84, 85, 152 – Spanish 49, 54–55, 59 – warships 63–64 Siam 15, 66 Siberia 118 Sigüenza y Góngora, Carlos de 15, 18, 50–51, 60, 66, 118, 124–128, 134–135 Silva Pires, Jorge da 45 silver 13, 28, 31, 54, 79, 87, 139–145, 150, 154–156, 187, 208, 215–219 silversmiths (Seville) 139–141 skin tone, skin color 93, 96–111 slavery, slave trade 13–15, 18, 34–36, 71–89, 93–113, 206, 208 – as a European technology 208 – inhumane treatment of slaves 80–83, 89; see also suffering – Jesuit support of 98–99 – legal and moral foundations/status of 72, 73, 74, 78–79, 83–89, 94–96 – liberty, liberation of slaves 74, 85, 88 – natural slavery 87–88 – Sandoval on 71, 73–79, 84–86 – (just) titles, justification for enslavement 83–84, 87, 88, 94–96, 97–99, 151–153 – see also Curse of Ham myth; ships, for slave trade smallpox 4 smuggling, smugglers 35, 49–50, 53–54, 57–58, 66–67, 83 social boundaries; see borders, boundaries (social) social disorder, instability 93, 108; see also boundaries, social

Index

social inequity 74, 87, 89, 214 social justice 94, 96, 100 social order 156, 210, 212 social standing 60, 124, 140, 154 Society of Jesus, see Jesuits Sofala (Mozambique) 44 soldiers (European) 1, 31, 36, 54, 61, 63–64, 154, 155, 167, 190, 196–197 Solís (corregidor) Gaspar de 165–166 Solís, Pedro de 165 Solor 38 Sonoran Desert 190–191 Sontag, Susan 82 Soto, Domingo de 76, 83, 88, 97 Soto, Hernando de 191 South America 66, 118 South-South connections – Asia-Americas 205; see also Inácio de Santa Teresa, Friar Don – Africa-Americas 205–206; see also slavery, slave trade space, imagined/created 135, 176 (shared), 192–201 – spatial classification of ores 218 Spain 4, 14–18, 49, 52–55, 58, 59, 62–64, 66, 71–72, 76, 95, 102, 121, 123, 128–129, 139–140, 147, 149, 153–154, 156, 162–165, 173, 176, 207–208, 213, 216, 227, 232, 245, 251, 253–254, 257, 266 – southern coast of as a liminal space 55 – see also New Spain Spanish Crown 54, 55–57, 60, 64, 83, 123, 125, 128, 208–209, 212, 232 speculum [mirror] (literary genre) 256 spies 54, 67 spiritual “whitening” 93, 102 storms 14, 35, 39, 122 Strait, Bering 118, 133 Strait of Gibraltar 242 Strait of Lemaire 63 Strait of Magellan 12–14, 54, 63–64 Suárez, Francisco 33, 76, 83 Suárez de Mendoza (Conde de Coruña), Don Lorenzo 167 subalterns 93, 100, 109, 220 Sub-Saharan Africa, Sub-Saharan Africans 83, 101–108, 112

285

Sudan 83 suffering 71–73, 80–82, 89, 107 superiority – European, White 13, 44, 112, 214 – of Goa or Bahia 42 – nationalist 151 Tabari (Persian historian) 95, 102 Tacuba (Mexico) 53 Taíno (Indigenous group, Caribbean) 209–214, 220 Tapia, (Captain) Andrés de 166 teatro [theater] (text genre) Tenochtitlan, see Mexico City, MexicoTenochtitlan Teresa de Jesús (of Ávila), Santa 11 Ternaux-Compans, Henry 181 Tetzcoco (Mexico), monastery at 255, 257 Tewa Pueblo, Tewas 185–186, 200; see also origin myths Teyas (Indigenous group, Plains) 199, 201 Thevet, André (cosmographer) 9–10 Thomas Apostle, Saint 77 Thucydides 86 Tiahuanaco-Huari [Tiwanaku] 228–230, 232–238, 246 Tierra Nueva [New Land] (American Southwest) 183, 186–188, 197, 200; see also pueblos, Cibola Tiguex, see Pueblo; pueblos; Indigenous leaders; war, Tiguex Tikuna (Indigenous group, Amazon) 7 Timor 38 Tirso de Molina [Fray Gabriel Téllez] 18, 154–155 Tison River (today Colorado River) 191 Titicaca, Lake 142, 228–229, 233, 236–238, 246 Tito Yupanqui, Francisco (sculptor) 143 Tlaxcala, Tlaxcalteca 161, 165, 169, 254 – Archbishopric of 166 Tocumán (South America) 59–60 Toledo (Spain) 61–62, 71–72, 241 – Biblioteca Capitular de 256 Tolosa, (corregidor) Juan de 167 Tolteca, Toltecas 127, 133 trade (in material goods) 13, 140–141, 216; see also slavery, slave trade – ethics 147–149

286

Index

– illicit, illegal 53, 56–57, 58, 65–66, 83 transgression, transgressive 51, 149, 192, 196, 197, 267 translatio imperii (Portuguese) 45 translation (as methodology) 208, 215 – mistranslations 207, 217–219 translations (early modern writings) 9–12, 14–15 – into English, French, German 181, 217–219, 239, 253 – into Italian 230–231., 239 – into Nahuatl, Indigenous languages 252–258 – into Spanish 130, 174–176, 207 – into visual media 230, 239, 242–244, 246 translators, Spanish reliance on 71 (African), 160–161, 174, 195 tribute, tribute labor 159, 169–170, 216 Triple Alliance (Tenochtitlan, Texcoco, and Tlacopan) 169 Tripoli, Syrian (Valum-Chivim); see Votán (mythical founder) Turin, University of 128 Turkey, Turks 10, 152 Tzeguil nation 129; see also Votán (mythical founder) Tzendal [Tzeltal] language 129 Uguina, Antonio de 181 underground 131, 150, 184–186, 198, 218 universalism (Christian) 8–9, 17, 79, 81, 85, 170; see also cosmographies; Fifth Empire; Flood, biblical usura (Catholic doctrine), usury 146, 156 Valderrama, M. Pedro de 104 Valdivia (Chile) 64 Valdivia, Pedro Gutiérrez de 231 Valencians 123 Valum-Votán; see Votán (mythical founder) Vásquez de Coronado, see expeditions, Vásquez de Coronado Vega, (corregidor) Juan de la 171 Velasco, Don Luis de and son 171 Venice, Venetian 51, 65, 226, 230, 239 Veracruz (New Spain/Mexico) 16 Vetancurt, Agustín de 258 viceroys, viceroyalty

– of New Spain/Mexico 16, 53, 57, 124–125, 170–171, 189, 192–193 – of Peru, of Lima 53–54, 57–58, 63, 232 – of Brazil 36, 39, 41–42 – of India 38, 42 Vieira, Father Antonio 33, 36, 45 Villacastín, Francisco de (escribano) 174–175 violence 2, 53, 58, 73, 75, 82, 87, 89, 97, 117, 145, 155, 156, 192, 196–197 (Tiguex), 214, 219 – representation of 81–82 Virgin Mary [Virgen Inmaculada, María Purísima, Nuestra Señora, Nossa Senhora] 16, 28, 30, 139–146, 155 – and the color black 111–112 – and limpieza de sangre [purity of blood] 141, 151, 155 – and silver production 144 – Inmaculada, immaculate conception 139, 141–142, 144–146, 155 – Nossa Senhora [Our Lady] images 28–30 – Virgen de Copacabana 142–143 – see also Bible, biblical stories virtues – princely 124–125 – theological/Christian 81, 112; see also Christian love, Christian compassion – vs. vice 43–45 Viseo, Bautista 255–256, 258–259 Viterbo, Johannes Annius of 101–102 Vitilleschi, Padre Mutio 95 Vitoria, Francisco de 76, 83–84, 97, 144, 146–147, 149 Votán (mythical founder) 129–135 Vulcan (Roman deity) 104 war, warfare 52, 80, 86, 141, 151–152, 154, 166, 168–169, 172–173, 175, 229; see also capitulation, surrender (to Spanish) – Civil Wars of Peru (1537–1554) 231 – “just war” 96–99 – ritual battles 168–169 – Tiguex 182, 196–198 Washington, George, library of 217 West Indies; see Indies white skin, see skin tone, skin color writing 16, 160, 163–164, 187

Index

– act of as “phármakon” (Derrida) 75 – authority, prestige of 124, 129, 176, 211, 217–218 – falsification, manipulation of 161–163, 175–176 – lack of 215, 234 – in scientific communication 207 Xalisco, Indigenous allies from 193–194 Xavier, St. Francis 41 Xerez, Francisco de 227

287

Yemen 80 Yucatán 3, 15, 206, 214 Zayas, María de 50 Zorita, (oidor) [judge] Alonso de 187 Zumárraga, Juan de (Archbishop of Mexico) 4