Spanish King Of The Incas: The Epic Life Of Pedro Bohorques (Pitt Illuminations) 0822942402, 9780822942405

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SPANISH KING OF THE INCAS

Illuminations: Cultural Formations of the Americ as John Beverley and Sara Castro-Klarén, Editors

SPANISH KING OF THE INCAS The Epic Life of Pedro Bohorques

Ana María Lorandi Translated by Ann de León With a Foreword by Peter Klarén

UNIVERSITY OF PITTSBURGH PRESS

To my daughter Valentina without whose inspiration, love, and patience my life would not have any meaning

Published by the University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, PA  Translation copyright © , University of Pittsburgh Press Originally published as De quimeras, rebeliones y utopias: La gesta del inca Pedro Bohorques, copyright © , Fondo Editorial de la Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú. All rights reserved Manufactured in the United States of America Printed on acid-free paper This paperback edition, 014

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Lorandi, Ana María. [De quimeras, rebeliones y utopías. English] Spanish king of the Incas : the epic life of Pedro Bohorques / Ana María Lorandi ; translated by Ann de León ; with a foreword by Peter Klarén. p. cm. — (Illuminations) Includes bibliographical references (p. ) and index. ISBN --- (alk. paper) . Bohorquez, Pedro, ?-. . Diaguita Indians—Wars. . Impostors and imposture—Argentina—Tucumán—Biography. . Indians of South America—Wars —Argentina. . Utopias—Argentina. I. Title. II. Illuminations (Pittsburgh, Pa.) F.DL  '.—dc 

Contents

Foreword by Peter Klarén Acknowledgments Introduction

vii

ix 

I 

Ethnic Complexity and Social Conflicts

II The Incas in the Colony: The Construction of Memory

III Routes to the Utopia: The Magnificent Paytiti



IV Pedro Bohorques in Peru



V Calchaquí: The Restoration of the Tawantinsuyu

VI Death in Lima



Epilogue: The Saga of Pedro Bohorques Notes



Bibliography









FOREWORD

The saga of the late-seventeenth-century conquistador Pedro Bohorques is an extraordinary life story that has been pieced together from painstaking archival research both in Spain and America. It is a perplexing story, at once heroic and hallucinatory, fantastic and picaresque, that reveals many of the contradictions and excesses of baroque America. The book, I predict, will take its place in the historical literature of the period as one of the most complete, carefully documented, and interpretative biographies of a conquistador who proclaims himself Apo Inca and leads a rebellion against the colonial order. In this sense it is reminiscent in broad outlines of what we know about the shadowy life of Juan Santos Atahualpa, the famous eighteenth century self proclaimed mestizo rebel Inca, whose life story Bohorques in some ways resembles. Arriving in Peru sometime in the s, Bohorques, a young, penniless Andalusian adventurer, takes up a marginal life among the Indians and mulattos of the Viceroyalty of Peru. Like so many of his predecessors in the annals of the conquista, Bohorques, like the unsuccessful Lope de Aguirre before him, is drawn by the chimeras of an Amazonian Dorado and motivated by a burning ambition for power and status in colonial society. He launches an expedition of conquest or entrada into the fabled Amazonian Paytiti, which he describes in a series of memorials to the Viceroy whom he convinces to authorize an entrada to the famous Cerro de la Sal. Living among the Amueshas people, he claims the foundation of numerous cities in the Amazon while committing various assaults on Spanish property. As a result of these events Bohorques is arrested and sent to jail in Valdivia, only to escape confinement and flee to Tucuman. There, in the most astonishing turn of events, he draws on his knowledge of the indigenous people acquired earlier among the Amueshas and proclaims himself Inca. Embraced by the Paciocas Indians, he proceeds to negotiate with the Spanish authorities over claims to have discovered the long rumored, lost treasures of the region. In the end Bohorques is again arrested by the authorities, spends six years in a Lima prison where he is ultimately implicated in the Rebellion of the Curacas, and is executed in .

vii

In a society where the Inca by the seventeenth century had become a symbol of identity and liberation among the oppressed and splintered multi-ethnic groups of the Andes, Pedro Bohorques became one of the few Spaniards who attempted to cross the frontier that separated the dominated from the dominators, the vanquished from the victors. In Lorandi’s words he was, as Inca and Spanish governor of the province, a “man riding a horse between two worlds of the American spectrum . . . between two paradigms that were superimposed in the baroque mentality of the Europeans during the seventeenth century: one of fantasy and medieval ideologies and concepts, and one of the rationality of the Renaissance.” For her Bohorques’s epic personal actions “reflect on a micro scale the multiple cultural facets that permeated social life in the Americas during the seventeenth century and that continue up to this day . . . as described in the literary magicalrealist movement.” Furthermore, in Lorandi’s view these events resembled a theater representing the colonial pact hammered out between the dominant and dominated: Just as colonial authorities prohibited but tolerated the indigenous strategies to evade economic coercion and the corrupt practices of functionaries, they also prohibited but tolerated adventurous expeditions in search of Dorados [as well as] the entradas of the religious orders, groups that opened up pathways and armed hosts that were always defeated by the Indians they encountered. If these attempts failed, or if they had short-lived results, the authorities would look the other way or reprimand them, depending on the case. If they succeeded they expropriated the goods in benefit of the colony.

Either way the crown succeeded in expanding the territories under its control, thus liberating ambiguous spaces for these ambivalent marginal social types who, like Bohorques, were able to operate in the internal contradictions of colonial society. This is an important facet of post-conquest, colonial society that has heretofore escaped the gaze of historians. Lorandi adroitly combines the tools of the ethnohistorian and literary critic in order to unravel the personal complexities of Bohorques the man while uncovering the larger societal meaning of people like him who populated the margins of baroque Andean America. Peter Klarén Foreword viii

acknowledgments

This book’s gestation has not been an easy one. For four years I devoted myself to compiling materials and bibliography, and more broadly to working in a subject I was not familiar with; thus I gradually found myself in increasing debt to my colleagues and students. First I would like to acknowledge the unrestricted support of the University of Buenos Aires, which provided the funding for travel and research (I visited Spain twice to work in archives and libraries) that enabled me to gather a substantial part of the material I needed to write this book. The contribution from the OAS (Organization of American States) was equally important: a three-month grant for surveying archives in Peru and Bolivia. The Fundación Antorchas funded another portion of the research and a trip to Paris, which helped me to complete my bibliographical investigation. Also, as a CONICET researcher I had the privilege of carrying out my work in complete freedom, with funding that granted me access to some of the materials I would use. I must admit that my interest in studying Pedro Bohorques’s life started when I read Teresa Piossek Prebisch’s well-documented book, in which she sketched the personality of this peculiar character in a somewhat literary manner. Although her book referred only to Bohorques’s deeds in the Calchaquí valley (in northwestern Argentina), leaving out the events that occurred in the Peruvian Amazon, Piossek Prebisch displayed before my eyes a touching, dramatic setting that no doubt has been a significant source of inspiration for the work at hand. I have had many useful discussions about the exciting subject of Pedro Bohorques’s life. Without a doubt, the person who has shared my work most intensely and who has followed its progress step by step has been Roxana Boixadós, with whom I had already written an extended work on the Calchaquí valley. My deepest gratitude and affection go out to her. All the other team members of the Ethnohistory Program of the Faculty of Philosophy and Letters at the University of Buenos Aires have had the courtesy to read the manuscript and comment on it, and I am particularly indebted to Ana María Presta’s observations, because of their degree of detail and care.

ix

I must by all means acknowledge the daily cooperation of Emilio Dalvit, secretary to the Ethnohistory Section of the Faculty, who has encouraged and supported me with his faithfulness and honesty since he first joined the team in . I must also recognize the professional skills of Blanca Daus, our cartographer, who took care of the maps for this book. Among my faculty colleagues, I am particularly indebted to José Emilio Burucúa, who provided me with an interesting bibliography and who also enhanced the Spanish edition with a laudatory preface. My special thanks to Celina Manzoni for her thorough and accurate editing of the Spanish edition. Nor can I forget the erudite contribution of Gastón Doucet, of the Pontifical Catholic University of Buenos Aires, who has often helped me out by catching undetected errors and who has always been close to our team. My gratitude also for the support that Enrique Tándeter has always given to my work. In Peru I received the permanent encouragement and bibliographical cooperation of almost every one of my colleagues; their kindness has made my stay among them very pleasant. In Lima, I want to mention Franklin Pease and Luis Millones, who opened their libraries to me and offered perspectives that were fundamental to accomplishing my work, together with María Rostworoski, Luis Miguel Glave, Jaime Urrutia, Denise Possi Scott, Pilar Remy, Gabriela Ramos, Héctor Noejovich, Elías Mujica, Manuel Marzal, Marco Curatola, Paul Rizo Patrón, José Tamayo Herrera, and Liliana Regalado de Hurtado. In Cuzco, I express my deepest gratitude to Jorge Flores Ochoa and Carmen and Washington Rozas and his family for entertaining me in their home. The list in Bolivia is also large. In the first place, much respect goes to don Gunnar Mendoza for his outstanding work, which allowed me to easily submerge myself (as did dozens of other researchers) in the rich realm of the National Archive; my gratitude also goes to his kind secretary, María Eugenia. Also, in Sucre, my thanks to Gabriel Martínez and Verónica Cereceda. In La Paz, to my long-time friends Roxana Barragán and Ramiro Molina Rivero, Silvia Arze, Ximena Medinacelli, Clara López, Laura Escobari de Querejazu, Fernando Cajías, Ricardo Callas, Javier Albó, Teresa Gisbert, Silvia Rivera, Mary Money, Gilles Rivière, Luz Pacheco, Angelina Muñoz, and Cristina Buba. In Potosí, to Juan Jáuregui and his wife. I am indebted to the Universidad Complutense in Madrid for their kind invitation and for the help of Luis Ramos. Through his mediation, I was able to spend a whole month working at the university library, the

Acknowledgments x

archive, and the National Academy of History. To my university colleagues, thank you so much for opening your courses to my lectures. In Seville, I shall always remember Carmela Moguel’s warm hospitality, together with the enlightening discussion and interesting information provided by Juan Gil, one that abbreviated my work in the archive. I have often commented on the subject with my esteemed French colleagues, and with Nathan Wachtel in particular; thanks to his invitations, I had the opportunity to spend extended periods of time working in Paris. I must by all means mention the late Thierry Saignes, Teresa Boussy-Cassagne, Antoinette Fioravanti Molinié, Danielle Lavallé, Michele Julien, Susana Monzón, Carmen Bernand, and my friend Bernard Boudoin, who kindly offered me his home. In Mexico, a country I visited after I had finished writing this book, I heard very interesting viewpoints that allowed me to make corrections and to emphasize some topics that my Mexican peers considered of particular interest. I want to thank my colleagues from the Research Center and Higher Studies in Social Anthropology (CIESAS), particularly Teresa Rojas Rabiela, its director, my friend Dr. Virginia García Acosta, Juan Manuel Pérez Zeballos, and Hildeberto Martínez. Also my gratitude for the comments of our fine Argentine historian, Carlos Sempat Assadourian in Mexico, for Margarita Menegus’s points of view, and for those of the colleagues of the Michoacán School and the CIESAS at Guadalajara. Publication of this work in English is a result of the generous endeavors of Sara Castro-Klarén, of the Johns Hopkins University. She took a particular interest in the book and brought it to the attention of the University of Pittsburgh Press. Similarly, my special thanks to Niels Aaboe, my acquisitions editor, who was always there to respond to my countless questions. Certainly, this book would not have been written without the extensive collaboration I have just mentioned, although I claim sole responsibility for any possible errors and omissions. Ana María Lorandi Buenos Aires, 

Acknowledgments xi

SPANISH KING OF THE INCAS

Introduction

n August , , the governor of Tucumán, don Alonso de Mercado

O

y Villacorta, held a gathering with his vecinos (citizens) in Pomán at which he granted the Spaniard Pedro Bohorques Girón the titles of lieutenant to the governor and general captain. His purpose was to introduce Spanish jurisdiction over the Calchaquí valley, a region that had been politically autonomous for more than a century. Three days later, on August , the same authorities gave Bohorques the right to use the title of Inca and to introduce himself as such to the Indians in the Calchaquí valley. For the same man to hold both Spanish and Indian titles might seem contradictory, but even though it provoked suspicion and doubt such a conflation suited the objectives of the greedy functionaries who legalized these titles through ritualized ceremonies. (It also reflected a logic introduced by Bohorques himself.) They knew that as the Inca, Bohorques could extract secrets about the mines and mineral treasures that valley inhabitants had kept hidden for more than a century. As lieutenant to the governor, he could force rebellious Indians to fulfill the obligations they owed to the constantly mocked



encomenderos who waited from generation to generation to get some sort of work out of the indigenous peoples under their control. Gold and labor— these were the two riches of the Indies that people in the most populous and supposedly richest valley in the province of Tucumán had managed to keep out of the hands of the conquistadors. Pedro Bohorques had arrived in the Calchaquí valley fleeing from a prison in Chile, where he had been confined in punishment for his partially illegal adventures in the Peruvian Amazon. In the Calchaquí valley he had led many fruitless expeditions in search of the magnificent Paytiti, one of the many locations of El Dorado that Indians and Spaniards imagined to lie hidden in the green heart of South America. In Calchaquí Bohorques presented himself as a descendant of the Incas, just as he had done with the inhabitants of the Amazon basin. Going beyond the confines of his peninsular origins and inserting himself into the native world, Bohorques presented himself as a mestizo with ties to the royal panaca lineage of Cuzco. Bohorques always maintained a position between two worlds: one to which he belonged by birth and one to which he aspired, that is, a place of prominence in the natives’ world. To achieve it he presented himself as a defeated noble of Cajamarca, using the power of the Spanish Crown as he zigzagged between these two social and cultural spaces. He manipulated his audience with overt or covert logic, exploiting the ambitions of many functionaries, criollo and peninsular members of colonial society. Bohorques was a man who oscillated between two utopian fantasies, one of finding the Paytiti and another of revitalizing the Inca state crushed in  by Francisco Pizarro and his host. By the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, these two unfulfilled dreams, with their deep roots in the colonial period, would come to seem like embarrassments better forgotten. Only if we first understand the rebellions generated by this multiethnic colonial scene, its political and social conflicts, and the profound force of its utopian fantasies, can we correctly frame the character who synthesized these dreams in his persona and singular deeds and who embodied a utopian legacy for later events in Latin American history. Yet Pedro Bohorques has remained a marginal figure to whom historians have devoted only a few belittling lines.¹ In following the thread of Pedro Bohorques’s life, we may ask whether it is possible for one politically marginal character to help us reconstruct the social situation of seventeenth-century South America. The fertile relationships that are now developing among the social sciences enable us to

Introduction 

ask anthropological questions about historical events. The originality of recent historical approaches lies in having incorporated people from all social groups as legitimate agents for investigating the past. In this way we can try to understand global structures by taking into consideration individual actions in combination with the cultural norms accepted by a given community; in effect looking at culture and social behavior as anthropology has always done. Those who study social history recognize that the everyday lives of individuals, who alone or in groups are the active agents of the social process, cannot be understood through large-scale periodization. Many historians have taken up microhistory, or history “from below,” whose methodological objective is to visualize with greater precision the articulation of individual or group conflicts within the structure of a society.² Georges Balandier notes, following the French sociologist Gurvitch, “The social is both created and the creative”; social actors are both active or passive protagonists of the great political processes, and by the same token, they can act as generators or as obstacles to change.³ From this point of view, chaos theory conceives of society as a drama that manifests itself both in a horizontal sense, within social groups, and vertically, among other hierarchically differentiated groups. These two coordinates of the drama can be expressed both in conflicts as in alliances, thus breaking with Marxist theory, which accepts conflict only in vertical situations. This point is essential to understanding networks of relationships and loyalties, as they are determined more by the interests of each community and by specific circumstances than by the relative position of each segment of society. Rivalries among members located at the same hierarchical level can be just as important, if not more important, than class conflict. In this history of Bohorques’s rebellion I will try to reconstruct the ambitions of an individual trying to find a place on the new American social map by placing himself in open conflict with his own desired social stratum in his effort to be a conquistador and founder of cities. How this came about and through what networks of interests he maneuvered his ambitions are two questions that I will try to address here. This book deals with the chimeras, utopian ideals, and rebellions brought to light by the struggle of one man to find a place in the world. It also deals with the construction of the imaginary by those Spaniards who emigrated to the New World, as well as the imaginary elaborated by the Native Americans within the colonial context. Linking both cultures are

Introduction 

the efforts of Bohorques, a socially marginalized individual who constructed a space for himself where he could reign with full autonomy. He is an example of extreme peninsular individualism, a man who played astutely (if sometimes naively) with power in order to establish himself in the fissures of society. Sometimes he took illegal alternatives (often tolerated by those in power). Bohorques’s skill consisted in discovering how to enter these fissures. It was not the fight of a man against the world, but rather the struggle of a man who manipulated the accepted, semi-accepted, and legally prohibited options available to him. It is the story of a man who navigated the ambiguous space between the colliding projects of two distinct societies. Chimeras, myths, and utopian fantasies feed off one another, even though they draw from different categories of the universal imaginary. Utopian fantasies, especially colonial ones, perhaps deserve special consideration, because they are held prisoner between the movement of the collective imaginary and the practices of society. There are various types of utopian ideals, and here we find two that partially intersect. The first, reflecting discontent with present conditions, involves designing a new place of order and happiness. Fulfillment of this fantasy is postponed to an uncertain future, either undefined or within reach, depending on the fulfillment of certain conditions. The imaginary of the American baroque saw many of these spaces hidden in the jungle—El Dorado, the Paytiti, Manoa —and hundreds of men went in search of them, only to find hardship and frustration. The second kind of utopian dream is rooted in an idealized historical past. Many scholars today denigrate this type of utopia, seeing the past as something that deserves questioning. They argue, for example, that the Inca state was itself an oppressive state. At this point in the debate, however, one needs to take into consideration the politics of modernity and tradition. Utopias should not be considered as an effort to achieve an accurate portrayal of history by a people. A utopian fantasy is an instrument of power and, as such, seeks to crystallize and idealize the past, not because the past is perfect or because society has remained unchanged through centuries of colonization, but rather because the past needs to be manipulated as if actual changes had not occurred. A call to mobilize the will of the people depends on the attractiveness and verisimilitude of its proposals, not on their actual veracity. If the deeds and heroes evoked show their strengths and weaknesses, if the ambiguities and conflicts of political practices are revealed, this call will fail. Actors and

Introduction 

heroes from the past must become archetypes of conduct; past events must become examples for the future. This is an essential condition for the “invention of tradition” as Eric Hobsbawm defined it.⁴ In other words, a utopian fantasy is an ideological construction that involves a relative falsification of the past, and its objective is to break with present misfortunes. Utopian fantasies are political instruments to be used by our protagonists at a certain historical moment, or by intellectuals for their own political battles. Recognizing these realities does not make them false. Ultimately, objective history does not exist; it is always constructed from the perspective of whoever writes it. Postmodern theory makes much of the power of the word and of discourse. In this book we shall see repeatedly how Bohorques used this power, or even how those gathered at the meeting in Pomán used words and rituals as foundational instruments: to establish cities, create knights, to invest oneself with the symbols of power of the Incas in order to reign as an Inca. The acts and actors alluded to in utopian fantasies are intellectual constructs. In our story, certain protagonists from colonial society used utopian ideals as instruments of power. More than simply rejecting a model of society, they wanted to find their own space, to be legitimately recognized in the social and political sphere. The life of Pedro Bohorques is the axis of this story. His epic deeds, the twists and turns of his life, his complex personality, and the actions of other participants in his life may reveal much about the general practices of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries in these conquered (and being conquered) territories of colonial America. The first three chapters will frame the history of an individual in the global context of the period. First I describe the social map of early Peru and offer other examples of certain marginal or deviant individuals who created “spurious alliances” with the natives, not unlike Bohorques. Chapter  describes the utopian goal of preserving the history of the Incas and the social, political, and juridical practices of the descendants of the cuzqueño elite who sought to preserve historical memory and ethnic identity. These were conditions that enabled a marginal Spaniard like Pedro Bohorques to slip through the system. Chapter  analyzes both European and native beliefs in the existence of golden kingdoms hidden in the Amazon jungle—indications of the coexistence of a fantastic medieval mentality, which accepted the possibility of marvelous places and monstrous beings, with seventeenth-century rationality. Chapters – narrate Bohorques’s epic deeds. His life reflects important

Introduction 

meanings of the imaginary and the practices of individuals during this unique stage of American history. I will describe the situation of the indigenous populations, especially the strong Calchaquí resistance and its effects on the politics of colonial Tucumán. The last chapter reviews this history and the multiple facets of Pedro Bohorques’s personality, which fits no stereotype, except, perhaps, the extreme individualism of peninsulares who like Don Quixote sought heroism by jousting with windmills. Yet Bohorques is not a literary Quixote; he is real, and he also evokes less sympathy than Quixote, as we shall see in the episode when he intervenes in Calchaquí, putting into play dangerous regional politics competing for the conquest of a vast territory. Through the many episodes of his life, from his adventures in the Peruvian Amazon to the Calchaquí valley, we follow Bohorques’s hallucinatory search for the Paytiti until he becomes himself a false Inca and appoints himself a leader of a native rebellion. He was undoubtably a demihero, but this does not lessen his importance in the colonial context. If he is unknown today, it is because historians have attempted to denigrate him, successfully erasing him from the official colonial and national history, just as they have done with the native past. In colonial history, native society has been turned into a mestizo population—marginal, cultureless people incapable of autonomously reconstructing their own identity and history. With respect to national history, in my own country (Argentina) historians have failed to recognize that the native populations of the north achieved a high degree of cultural and social complexity. Furthermore, the national territory was “whitened” both by the founding fathers’ emergent positivism and by force of repression. The Indians, Spaniards, and criollos of the nineteenth century either could not or did not want to reconstruct the history that had affected and mobilized the whole viceroyalty of Peru, of which modern Argentina was then a part. In the Peruvian jungle, Bohorques’s steps dissolved into various frustrated attempts at finding the Paytiti. Bohorques did no more than to emulate hundreds of other wishful thinkers, but he committed an unforgivable act: he attempted to establish his own empire, just as Gonzalo Pizarro had tried a century before. He tried to escape from the patterns of conquest and subjugation that have prevailed to this day on the South American continent. In the Peruvian Amazon, as in Calchaquí, Bohorques tried to weave spurious political alliances: he aligned himself with the enemy to liberate

Introduction 

them from the dominion of the Crown, and he tried to design a new independent (and possibly Christian) society. He paid the price with his head for having the audacity to assume a seat of power over the Indians. His zeal to transcend his marginality in a world where all was possible allowed him to play different roles to achieve his objectives. For Bohorques, life was worth nothing; yet at the same time everything was worth it if he could carry out his dreams.

Introduction 

I Ethnic Complexity and Social Conflicts

[From] small sparks are great fires easily set alight, and it is more prudent to remedy the damage in its beginning than to attempt to quench it when difficult or impossible. Letter from the bishop of Cuzco, 

E

ven though most of the events in this book took place in the seven-

teenth century, they were sustained by an imaginary with roots in the previous century and even earlier, from pre-Hispanic times. Since the social structures of Spain’s new overseas kingdoms were designed in the sixteenth century, the narrative will sometimes return to earlier periods to provide a better conceptual framework for the problems I will discuss.¹ The Andes during the seventeenth century have often been characterized as socially stable. However, scholars have debated whether there may have been an economic crisis,² and historians have shown that the century was fraught with conflicts and adjustments between dominant and dominated groups in which different segments of colonial society used various adaptive strategies to recover relics of their pre-Hispanic past.³ Scholars of Peru who assume that the seventeenth century was generally stable contrast this period with the traumatic age of conquest of the sixteenth century. The native population suffered terrible hardships after the coming of the Spanish conquistadors. Their troubles were further aggravated by continuing political turmoil and civil war, in particular, the war between



the followers of Francisco Pizarro and Diego de Almagro, and later between Gonzalo Pizarro and the encomenderos who had received land grants from the Crown (encomiendas) as a reward for service in the process of conquest and colonization. Encomenderos were also in charge of the conquered Indians, from whom, in the name of the Crown, they collected tribute either in goods or labor, and for whose material and spiritual welfare they were responsible. This system produced an economy of plunder as its by-product, creating a privileged stately elite. After many hardships, in late  Francisco Pizarro and his followers reached Cajamarca, where they found Atahuallpa. Atahuallpa and his half brother, Huáscar—sons of Wayna Cápac, the last reigning Inca—were engaged in a bloody struggle for power. Atahuallpa had grown up in Quito, whereas Huáscar already governed in Cuzco, considered the heart and center of the great Andean state. Thanks to his skillful military strategy, Pizarro captured Atahuallpa, and although fabulous riches were collected and brought to Cajamarca as ransom for his life, Pizarro put him to death. When the famous Cajamarca treasure was distributed, Diego de Almagro, Pizarro’s principal associate in the conquest, was excluded simply because he had not been present when the Inca was captured. There had already been friction between Almagro and Pizarro, but this insult added to the growing mistrust between them. They fought over the distribution of territory, and particularly the question of who should control Cuzco, the ancient capital of the Inca empire. Pizarro gained legal title to Cuzco after sending his brother, Hernando, to Spain, to modify the terms of the agreements. A spiteful Almagro tried to compensate for the loss of Cuzco by conquering Chile, but when this expedition failed, he renewed his determination to seize the city. Almagro had carried out his Chilean expedition with the help of Paullu Inka, a son of Wayna Cápac, whose presence guaranteed Almagro the support of the Incas for his army. On April , , the old rivals met at the battle of Salinas, where Hernando Pizarro defeated Almagro and had him executed, for which he later served a lengthy prison sentence in Spain. Almagro’s death was avenged two years later by his illegitimate mestizo son Almagro, “El Mozo,” who assassinated Francisco Pizarro at his home in Lima on June , . “El Mozo” and his followers then took over the government of Peru. Meanwhile, the Crown had sent the lawyer Vaca de Castro to govern Peru and charged him with defeating and executing the young Almagro. Almagro El Mozo was killed in the battle of Chupas on September , . Ethnic Complexity and Social Conflicts 

Clearly, the conquest and colonization of Peru was a series of bloody events. While most of these conflicts took place among the Spaniards themselves, the new Inca sovereign enthroned in  by Francisco Pizarro, Manco Inca, was criticized and humiliated by the brothers of the conquistador. Resenting his mistreatment, he escaped from Cuzco in  and laid siege to the city. After approximately six months, the site was abandoned by the natives. The population was further dispersed by the intervention of Diego de Almagro after his return from his disastrous Chilean expedition. Manco Inca fled to the yungas (the forested eastern slopes of the Andes) and took refuge in Vilcabamba, where he founded what has been called a “neo-Inca state.” His successors remained in the area until , when Viceroy Francisco de Toledo finally defeated them. Clearly, Charles V of the House of Hapsburg had serious difficulty installing Spanish rule in Peru. Although the colonial governor, Vaca de Castro, did not achieve complete pacification, he managed to continue the work begun by Francisco Pizarro. He pursued territorial expansion by sending exploratory military missions along the four major Inca roads, and he founded cities to be settled by the new waves of Spaniards who would soon be attracted by dreams of achieving fame and riches like those amassed by the first conquistadors. At this time in Spain, intense debates raged over the nature of the New World Indians and the right to evangelize them by violent means. The Indians’ champion in these debates was the Dominican priest Bartolomé de Las Casas, who persuaded Charles V to proclaim the “New Laws.” These laws prohibited handing Indians over to the new encomiendas in all of Spain’s American territories, and in the case of Peru, gave amnesty to those natives owned by individuals who had participated in the wars between Pizarro and Almagro. When Blasco Núñez Vela arrived in  as the first designated viceroy of Peru, he was firmly disposed to apply the New Laws. The encomenderos immediately rejected him, and his stubbornness resulted in a fierce war among his few allies. Gonzalo Pizarro, brother of Francisco, named himself governor and led the encomenderos’ resistance. A series of dramatic events followed, and the viceroy was murdered in the battle of Añaquito, near Quito, on January , . Gonzalo Pizarro remained at the head of the government with the idea of crowning himself king of Peru, but his project failed, thanks to a new arrival sent by the Crown: the lawyer Pedro de La Gasca, president of the

Ethnic Complexity and Social Conflicts 

Audiencia de Lima. La Gasca brought orders from the king to suspend the most irritating articles contained in the New Laws. After two years of diplomatic work, he resolved to put an end to the unruly ways of the encomenderos and Gonzalo Pizarro’s allies, ultimately defeating Pizarro in the battle of Jaquijahuana on April , . These battles had virulent reverberations on the Bolivian altiplano of Charcas, where the recently discovered mines of Potosí had attracted a large number of encomenderos and unruly soldiers who competed for the rich silver deposits there. Even though Gonzalo Pizarro was defeated, uprisings against the Crown continued, both in this area and in Cuzco, until . The second viceroy, Don Antonio de Mendoza (who had successfully governed in Mexico), fell gravely ill almost upon his arrival in Peru. His mandate lasted from September  until his death in July , whereupon the government fell into the hands of the Audiencia, and the rebellions of  finally came to an end. In  the Marques of Cañete, Andrés Hurtado de Mendoza, became Peru’s third viceroy and the real initiator of the colonial enterprise. By implementing a new administrative and judicial system, he laid the foundations for the new colonial state. After five years, King Philip II inexplicably replaced him with the count of Nieva, don Diego López de Zúñiga y Velasco. Unlike Cañete, López de Zúñiga y Velasco was corrupt and had little inclination to carry out the difficult mandate given to him. Notorious for his love affairs (which would eventually cost him his life), he was replaced in  by Lope García de Castro, who arrived in Peru with the title of governor and president of the Audiencia. Evidently, Philip II wanted to take his time before appointing a new viceroy, for García de Castro governed only temporarily until November , when he was replaced by Francisco de Toledo, the great organizer of the Peruvian viceroyalty. Toledo took firm control of almost all activities and social groups. His most important measures included inaugurating the visita general, in which the viceroy toured the colony, usually accompanied by jurists, clergy, and retainers, to inspect the regulation of tribute; the mita, a system of forced labor (comprising one-seventh of all able-bodied male Indians) intended to provide a constant supply of workers for the mines of Potosí; the settlement of Indians in new small villages; and replacing indigenous technology in metal processing with amalgamation with quicksilver, changes that required new technology and infrastructure. Significantly, Toledo defeated the last Incas at Vilcabamba, a conflict that ended with the execution of the

Ethnic Complexity and Social Conflicts 

last rebel sovereign, Túpac Amaru I, in . Toledo headed the viceroyalty until , leaving to his successors an established administrative, legal, and judicial apparatus through which to govern the new viceroyalty of Peru. Thus the seventeenth century in Peru appears to have established a stable political climate. The indigenous communities were organized or, to be more precise, reorganized by the Toledo government. Nonetheless, an insatiable appetite for riches—and the distance from the metropolis—often led to corruption on all sides, frequently carried out by lower officials of the colonial order. These included the ethnic chiefs (curacas) themselves, the corregidores (chief district magistrates and Indian agents), and the priests. They were able to form alliances through which they could escape the control of the administrative and judicial apparatus installed by Toledo. The Hapsburgs flooded their overseas kingdoms with laws, orders, and decrees that paradoxically loosened their grip over their Spanish subjects. The famous saying, “I listen, but I do not carry out orders,” was beginning to be heard. There was an implicit, and often explicit, consensus that the Crown did not have enough information about local situations to have any authority, although this may be disputed. Spain’s colonial subjects believed that the Crown did not understand or respect their interests, nor their efforts to sustain these kingdoms that contributed such vast riches to the metropolis. Among the major conflicts between the Crown and its colonies were the following: . Spanish authorities annulled any sort of alliance between Inca royalty and their conquerors, thus breaking with the traditional Andean rule that would have enabled a sort of collaboration as a reward for those who participated in the power scheme. The Crown respected the social preeminence of the noble Incas, but only on condition that the Spaniards have dominion over their kingdoms. The viceregal authorities lost no time in setting limits to the Andeans’ legally recognized rights and continued to inflict frequent humiliations upon them. . Overseas Spanish subjects and their children born in the colonies, that is, criollos and mestizos, found themselves excluded from positions of authority through legal, political, and social means. They were not allowed to have a seat at the court of Castile and therefore were treated as secondclass subjects, a situation that grew worse as power in the peninsula gradually become more centralized and hegemonic, frustrating the colonizers’ hopes of enjoying a certain autonomy over local decision making. This resulted in many corrupt practices by the colonists. Ethnic Complexity and Social Conflicts 

. As a result, relations between Spaniards and Indians degenerated. Laws designed to give general protection to the native population were constantly disputed and disobeyed by the colonists. In addition to flagrant abuses, new alliances were formed between curacas and various public and private participants, especially corregidores and priests, as well as encomenderos, hacendados, and miners. These alliances ran contrary to the larger interests of both communities, particularly the Crown, creating a general climate of tension and unrest. These tensions heightened conflicts throughout the seventeenth century, just as the legal apparatus grew less practicable. Francisco de Toledo’s age-old dream of maintaining two republics—a Spanish and an Indian one, interdependent yet separate—gradually disappeared with the rise of new actors: mestizos and criollos (whose interests were often at odds with those of the Crown), marginalized Spaniards, and African slaves. Peruvian society became more complex, and the colonists’ ideal binary structure for Peruvian society (rich Spaniards on one side and Indians subject to forced labor on the other) lost whatever credibility it ever had. After the Conquest political alliances between Spanish authorities and descendants of the Inca monarchs never actually occurred.⁴ This lack of cooperation helped to plant the seeds of conflict that matured in the seventeenth century and flowered in the eighteenth century—a topic to be addressed in the next chapter. The massive migration of Spaniards to the New World, attracted by the vast opportunities and reports of gold in Peru, brought about vast changes in the social structure. The first new ethnic category in post-Conquest Andean society were the mestizos, or castas, those of mixed Spanish and Indian blood. Products of consensual or forced sexual relations, mestizos were growing rapidly in number in a society that refused to grant them legal status. Discrimination eventually provoked new dilemmas and contradictions. Individual mestizos could find a place in society, but acceptance depended on the circumstances of their birth, the parents’ social status, and the sociocultural milieu and the period in which they lived. In addition to a growing number of mestizos, other actors also appeared whose social role and status had not been legally considered. However, even in the sixteenth century some observers had warned of the potential dangers posed by these new elements, such as the criollos. Although they considered themselves Spanish, criollos were often denied appointment to high government posts, which were reserved for peninsulares. Rivalries among Ethnic Complexity and Social Conflicts 

criollos and peninsulares provoked conflicts even in the religious orders, which had to opt for “alternating” in filling the post of governor for their convents and evangelical provinces.⁵ The majority of criollos never traveled to their parents’ homeland, and they continued to build a network of social and political representations in the new overseas kingdoms, as communication with Spain was difficult.⁶ Decisions were made in the colonial homeland, where personal and family interests took priority over the general interests of some faraway place. New immigrants from Spain also had to compete for a place in the colonial spectrum. James Lockhart describes their attempts at integration into the complexities of Andean society.⁷ A favored group were the “nephews,” already part of family networks, or contemporaries of those already established, who arrived with a solid base on which to found their new lives in the colony. A minority of these newcomers lacked local support and occupied a distinctly marginal place within the social and economic structure. Lockhart establishes a clear succession in the hierarchies being constructed, subtle layers and dynamics that determined the inclusion or exclusion of criollos and mestizos in society. What mattered most was the proximity of kinship, family conditions, and, in the case of immigrants, opportunities at the time of their arrival. Equally important was the political situation and how well these individuals introduced themselves into new economic and social networks or embarked on adventures of conquest if opportunities did not meet their expectations. Vagabonds comprised another group. While Lockhart provides a good picture of those on the lowest rungs of the colonial hierarchy, he seems somewhat indifferent toward their social plight. For him the so-called vagabonds were mainly muleteers and petty merchants who followed “established routes with the reasonable hope of finding opportunities, not wandering around like vagabonds.”⁸ He points out that these persons were frequently well received in the houses of the noble elite, who considered hospitality an obligation of the wealthy nobility. In contrast, the viceregal authority regarded individuals without a clear status or role in society as a threat to the system. What created such alarm concerning the “general interest” of the public? First, vagabonds, lacking means of support, put such pressure on the economic system that they forced the clients of the encomenderos and hacendados to intervene in the civil wars. These were groups of unruly mercenaries, called soldadescas, who hoped to enrich themselves in these conflicts and thereby establish them-

Ethnic Complexity and Social Conflicts 

selves. The second threat concerned the control of the indigenous population, in particular the noble Incas, who in one way or another sought to join the upper ranks of the colonial power or to recover their lost kingdom. “Vagabonds” became a threat because if they could not adapt to the system they could perhaps alter it, seeking to obtain rank by subversive means. These concerns pertain to the central theme of this book, because Pedro Bohorques was one of these subversive Spaniards. An immigrant without ties to the colonial society, bringing as baggage only a richly idealized conception of the American hero, the conquistador, he pushed forth to fulfill his ambitions in ways that transgressed the rules. To summarize, instead of a two-level society, there emerged a multifaceted one with more social ranks than had been intended, as more and varied participants came to realize their dreams of nobility and wealth. Nonetheless, to reach a high position, one had to relegate others to the lower ranks using multiple strategies and power plays. Conquerors and conquered had to adapt themselves to the new rhythms of power that were being endlessly constructed and reconstructed in a changing new society. Despite certain weaknesses of the Crown, and even though some power had to be reserved for those coming to the colonies, what was robbed from both Indians and Spaniards in Peru was legal jurisdiction over themselves. The Crown retained exclusive rights to the colonial judicial system. The conflict over the initial occupation of the colonies reveals the ideological keys used to design a new society. The curacas could not maintain legal jurisdiction over their indigenous subjects any more than the new colonists could reproduce in America peninsular feudal practices that had been revived in Spain with the re-conquest of the last Arab kingdoms. As a result, both groups failed to control the social dynamics in which they were embedded. The symptoms of conflict appeared in the viceroyalty of Peru in –, above all in the bloody civil wars that ended with Gonzalo Pizarro’s outrageous murder of the viceroy. These wars had two objectives: () although it was never openly discussed, some conquistadors hoped to break ties with the Crown of Castile; and () many also desired grants in perpetuity, by means of which they could impose a model of nobility, thus bequeathing to their descendants the domains and power over the Indians that had been given to them as vassals of the Crown. With the arrival of Pedro de la Gasca in  as president of the Audiencia in Lima, Peru ap-

Ethnic Complexity and Social Conflicts 

peared to be pacified. Problems also seemed to have disappeared with the arrival of Viceroy Francisco de Toledo in the decade of the s, who politically and fiscally organized the colony. However, these problems remained latent and resurfaced during the second decade of the seventeenth century.

Ideological Keys The ideology constructed during the first century of colonization contained the seeds of future uprisings. Sentiment in favor of Bartolomé de Las Casas provoked much concern at the Court of Castile. Concern at the Court was also caused by the Peruvian civil wars and the demands of the encomenderos who wanted to obtain permanent grants by defying royal decisions. These demands were the result of the gross disparity between the money obtained through paltry public funds vs. the potential wealth that could be obtained by replicating a Spanish feudal system in Latin America. The Dominicans in Peru took up the flag of Las Casas. Friar Domingo de Santo Tomás, who had been in Spain between  and , was authorized by Philip II to survey the opinions of the Peruvian caciques regarding grants in perpetuity.⁹ A royal warrant of February , , authorized Viceroy Conde de Nieva to assemble the caciques to debate the problem. Fearing the pro-Indian sentiment of the Dominicans, the viceroy enlisted the help of a lawyer, Polo de Ondegardo, who favored the colonists’ desire for possession in perpetuity. As a result of these proceedings, three important meetings took place. At the first meeting, held in Mama (Huarochirí) on January , , friar Santo Tomás was authorized by the caciques to pay , ducats to the king, a sum that surpassed that offered by the encomenderos, in return for their property. A second meeting took place in Juli on October , , with the caciques of Chuquito in the presence of the corregidor don Diego Pizarro Dolmos, friar Domingo de Santo Tomás, the lawyer Polo de Ondegardo, and the judicial secretary Juan de Torres. At a third meeting, on November , , the caciques and the Indians of Arequipa testified before the corregidor Alonso Rodríguez and friar Domingo de Santo Tomás.¹⁰ At these meetings, the curacas offered to pay for the rights to the encomiendas in silver and gold—whichever was more convenient for His Majesty—if the Spaniards would relinquish their lands to them and return

Ethnic Complexity and Social Conflicts 

other goods. They wanted to pay tribute to His Majesty. One interesting detail is that the caciques refused the Spanish encomenderos’ efforts to reclaim this property for themselves. They requested “jurisdiction so that among [themselves] mayors, judges, governors, and other officials should be elected in such a manner as they are done among the Spaniards.”¹¹ Powers were granted to friar Santo Tomás, lawyer Polo (in the Juli case), Las Casas, Bishop Loayza, and others to contradict the Spaniard claims that encomienda grants in perpetuity were being threatened. The caciques appealed to the Crown by mentioning their services and were prepared to produce evidence to back up their claims. As a consequence of the actions taken on behalf of those desiring grants in perpetuity, a long document was created, listing, in great detail, the pros and cons of each proposal that had been offered to resolve the issue. The document includes this illuminating passage: Although perpetuity in general would benefit the grounding, strengthening, peace, and quiet of the states over here [Peru], and that all that is here in itself should be good, it would be good for the government and its dependents that they keep these states for the government of the kings and the kingdoms of Spain, because it would be better for the foundations and governing of these places in human and divine matters if it was governed from Spain. Thus, for the establishment and strength of these states so that they themselves be good, and what should be governed and established it would be advisable to see that the government of these states depend and be governed from afar by the kings of Castile and by the persons under their name, born into them. Because as it is written above, if perpetuity were to be entrusted to [the locals in Peru], after thirty or forty years the descendants of those Spaniards born here, one suspects, will become strangers to our nation and her enemies, and if all are “perpetuated,” they will be united and made one body; and it is clear that they will be the backbone and force of these kingdoms and could easily rise up against the kings of Castile, fearing, as would be natural, to be governed by a strange kingdom, that as such they will hold Spain to be.¹²

In the opinion of the junta, it would be dangerous to make perpetual grants, because there would be a loss of “national” feelings toward Spain among a group with so many privileges. Many reasons were brought forth to block the passage of grants in perpetuity. After much debate, the proposed alternative was to divide the encomiendas into three parts: one third

Ethnic Complexity and Social Conflicts 

for the king, another renewable for the duration of one life, and only a third to be inherited by the encomendero’s descendants. There was an explicit consensus over the inevitable negative consequences of granting land in perpetuity. One danger was that the children of these encomenderos would feel more loyalty to the country in which they were born than to their parents’ country. Thus the junta later stipulated that “this kingdom be renewed and refreshed always with Spaniards that have a love and regard for their king, having been born in Spain and having known him.” Another danger was that the commercial interests of the metropolis could be affected by a political rupture between Spain and its colony. Handing out grants for one lifetime only, although with partial renewal, would enable the king to extend his patriarchal generosity, to reward meritorious achievements of those who made new conquests or to acknowledge other favors to the Crown. The politics of demographic and ethnic renewal thus predated the colony’s formation. Rivalries between criollos and peninsulares born in Spain had so shaken the colonial society that such matters could not be ignored. On the contrary, it was better to formulate an explicit political stance in order to avoid future problems. These writings reveal the strong impact of the recent crisis on colonial politics. Here are the first symptoms of an incipient nationalism, as much in Spain as in America. According to José Antonio Maravall, nationalism was one of the traits that characterized the newly emerging baroque culture.¹³ Although Maravall is not specifically concerned with America, he identifies the signs of what has been called the “baroque period,” with its zenith in the seventeenth century, appearing a hundred years earlier. We can see these foretelling signs in the overseas kingdoms. The desire to construct a new nation was part of the Crown’s hegemonic project. One sign of this transformation was the growing power of the monarchy, as well as increasing social mobility and changing values. Through changes in social conduct, the conception of honor, and communal love, the loyalty of a subject is transformed into national “patriotism.”¹⁴ Pablo Macera, speaking of the eighteenthcentury criollo movement, makes a similar observation. He maintains that “the criollo conditioned his loyalty to the prize. He would be a good subject if he had a good master. The bad king turned the vassal into a conspirator.”¹⁵ The idea of Spain as a nation more than a kingdom was first raised in Peru; and, given the distance and difficulties in communication, it was difficult for colonists to renew and maintain bonds with the peninsula.

Ethnic Complexity and Social Conflicts 

Other concerns in the document sent to the king are the potential problems caused by miscegenation, as well as the necessity of providing grants as rewards for new colonists. In fact, these two problems were linked by the unavoidable social mobility that was produced in the overseas kingdoms, which were of course constantly scrutinized under a magnifying glass for warnings of the possible diminution of royal power. The document reads: First, as by the considerations in the instructions of Your Majesty it is not forbidden [for encomenderos] to marry Indian women, which occurs often [in these lands], and as it is not prohibited it seems that it is permitted. If it is permitted, it will be a huge inconvenience for the good preservation of these states and their dependence on the kingdoms of Spain, and it is good that Your Majesty prohibit them such marriages.¹⁶

The recommendations extend this prohibition to marriage with female slaves and foreign women, because children born of these unions would pose future problems: “There are already a lot of mestizos and mulattos, and there will be more in the future; . . . [thus it must be feared] that there could be greater damage and uproar in these states.” A constant supply of pure Spanish blood could be achieved not only by regular migrations from the homeland but also by prohibiting miscegenation. If this failed, there would be a risk of “damage and uproar,” i.e., violent outbreaks, separatism, or rebellion. Miscegenation implied, above all, an alliance with the conquered. If the monarchic absolutists wished to remain in power, they had to take care not to grant power to those who would weaken their right to total dominance, or who would introduce strange ethnic elements into the social hierarchy and the established order. Although the word “alliance” does not appear in the actual document, it maintains a ghostly presence throughout. Any sort of alliance that could erode the power of the Crown posed a threat to the emerging “baroque period.” The document recommended that certain marriages not be allowed—notably, those that might consolidate control of several encomiendas in the hands of one person. Not only was it dangerous to allow some to grow powerful enough to threaten the general interests of the Crown, such consolidation of power could also promote “factions, disturbances to the peace, and altercations that tend to cause scandals and revolutions in kingdoms.”¹⁷ The ideal political resolution would strike a balance between the interests of the colony and those of the

Ethnic Complexity and Social Conflicts 

Crown. If the Crown were to grant privileges only to certain individuals in the “kingdoms over here” (in Peru), it would run the risk of losing the incentives it might offer to colonial subjects, or, if it were too excessive in its gifts, the Crown might eventually lose power over its subjects if they felt they no longer needed the crown’s support. All these warnings pointed toward the dangers of separatism, prefiguring the symptoms of an incipient criollismo. Separatists could take advantage of their distance from the homeland and the different character—one could say the originality—of the New World. If the conquest were being financed by its own colonial participants, as some of Gonzalo Pizarro’s ideologists had insisted some years back (such as Lope de Aguirre), then why should colonists economically sustain a monarchy that seemed more preoccupied with its own European affairs than those of its overseas subjects? A second problem concerned the criollos, Spaniards born in the Americas. It was feared that their loyalties would shift on account of distance, ignorance, and a lack of interest in enterprises they did not view as their own. This concern also reflected the commonly held notion that transatlantic migrants were escaping the social rigidity of the European legal system in favor of more promising horizons in the New World: the well-known search for hidalguía, a Castilian aristocratic ideal, elusive in their native land. Migration had as its principal incentive the pursuit of social and financial mobility. The Crown feared that the new social type created from miscegenation in the colonies would be more likely to form alliances with the conquered people than with the Crown. But the Crown and its colonial functionaries did not treat these matters lightly—rather, they sought to prevent conflicts. Even in Spain, royal land grants and encomiendas were intended to ensure the loyalty of the king’s beneficiaries by “giving them responsibilities in defense and the preservation of order,” Maravall writes.¹⁸ This was doubly true in the New World, where many private interests clashed and canceled each other out. The threat of emerging factions frightened not only colonial authorities, but also the colonists, who saw them as threats to their own well-being. The colonists were more willing to accept the superior authority of the king to contain the greed and ambitions of a few colonial big shots who could prove damaging to them. Hence an enduring characteristic of this colonial society is the permanent tension between the demands of the criollos and the potential dangers of anarchy and social disintegration posed by their restiveness.

Ethnic Complexity and Social Conflicts 

Thus dreams of independence began early in colonial history, dreams that would take three centuries to become manifest.

Spurious Alliances Debates about Spain’s rights over its new possessions and over the condition of the Indians were central to sixteenth-century colonial politics. Disputes over the rights of the Indians were tolerated and listened to, finally producing the New Laws that eventually unleashed the civil wars in Peru. However, it was one thing to defend the Indians from the abuses of the encomenderos and other colonial authorities; it was another to form an alliance with them. Although Pedro Bohorques became a spurious ally of the Indians, there were not many who attempted to create such alliances. To understand the Bohorques story, it is important to present some historical background. (Despite its importance, we will put aside the attempts of Gonzalo Pizarro to crown himself an Inca.) An important predecessor of Bohorques was Francisco de la Cruz, who arrived in Peru in  along with Domingo de Santo Tomás. Although this was a century before Pedro Bohorques’s arrival, the two men share some similarities. De la Cruz was a rural priest who worked among the Uros of Pomata, the Chucuito, and as a prior in the Dominican convent of Charcas. Because he deviated from traditional theological, moral, and political views, he was accused by the Holy Office in  and was burned in a solemn auto-da-fé on April , .¹⁹ Like Pedro Bohorques, he was educated by the Jesuits, and both sowed their wild oats as youths. In Peru de la Cruz appears to have embraced a type of “syncretism” that fell between mundane and theological heresy. He had a son by a married woman and fell into the hands of a mestizo “witch” named Francisca Pizarro, who raised their child as if he were a future messiah. Just as it was said that Bohorques had a “familiar,” or demonic guardian, the same was said of Francisco de la Cruz: “The dream of his life was to always have by his side, and to the service of his interests and hidden ambitions, a personal genie or demon.”²⁰ His defender before the Holy Office “painted him as a dreaming, quixotic, and lunatic friar; a portrayal that was in turn used to fabricate a mad and stubborn heretic.”²¹ While Bohorques was never accused of heresy, the terms “mad,” “dreamer,” “quixotic,” and

Ethnic Complexity and Social Conflicts 

“lunatic” were applied to him also. Admittedly, the cultural and theological formation of de la Cruz was very different from that of Bohorques. Francisco de la Cruz entered the Dominican order and was an active advocate of the teachings of Las Casas and other distinguished theologians while at San Gregorio de Valladolid. Because of his expertise in theology, he was useful to the civil and ecclesiastical authorities in Peru before he succumbed to heresy. Ironically, his heresies gave rise to another type of accusations. Joseph de Acosta, a Jesuit, in his De Procuranda Indorum Salute, labeled him a “heresiarch of diabolical astuteness” and accused him of fostering “a Lutheran theological-political conspiracy, masterminded and mounted by him to definitively rip Peru from the Spanish crown and the Catholic church.”²² Because of his political activities, he was considered a “great rebel conspirator,” even alarming Viceroy Francisco de Toledo. The alleged conspiracy combined the rebelliousness of the criollos with the goal of restoring the “Inca Empire,” of “re-installing their kingdoms and lords.”²³ The plot combined magical, mystical, dreamlike, and Lutheran elements. Toledo feared the return of civil war, and it was assumed that the conspiracy extended to Quito, where de La Cruz had as “agents” the priest Antonio Gasco in Cuzco, friar Pedro de Toro, and the Jesuit Luis López, who had left Lima and whose whereabouts were unknown. The specter of separatism and insurrection always hovered over Lima. Toledo was convinced that he had succeeded in disarming the Las Casasista and para–Las Casasista conspiracy that was being masterminded by Dominicans and Jesuits. This is how he described the situation to His Majesty in  when he had Luis López arrested. Abril Castelló believes that the allegations were all assembled retrospectively. Nonetheless (as we shall see in the next chapter), this was not Toledo’s only attempt to eliminate any hint of an alliance between dissident Spaniards, criollos, and the indigenous community. In  he found it necessary to arrest the very “hispanized” son and other relatives of Paullu Inca (one of the last puppet Inca monarchs) under accusation of conspiracy with the rebels of Vilcabamba who still resisted Spanish domination. Taking a leap to the seventeenth century, we find similar accusations of “spurious alliances.” Santisteban Ochoa cites a document concerning the doctrine of friar Buenaventura de Salinas y Córdoba, whom he presents as a “precursor of Independence in the seventeenth century.”²⁴ The curaca of

Ethnic Complexity and Social Conflicts 

Jauja, Lorenzo Limaylla, had traveled to Rome and Spain with this Franciscan, and seventeen years later returned to the Peninsula to urge that the noble caciques be granted an order or knighthood dedicated to Santa Rosa de Lima. (See chapter .) Salinas y Córdoba must have had a strong influence over the curaca of Jauja, indirectly inspiring his Andean battles. A letter from the bishop of Cuzco to His Majesty reports that in  with the freedom of speech that religious functionaries have in these kingdoms, as well as in the pulpit of the Spanish government, on February  at the cathedral, friar Buenaventura de Salinas, member of the order of San Francisco, preached before me and my chapter and the secular. He said that Your Majesty governed tyrannically and was always asking for loans from this kingdom and gave the encomiendas to those flatterers who hang around near the person of your Majesty, taking them away from the conquistador’s sons.²⁵

The bishop examined twelve religious members from Cuzco and reported to the viceroy, the general commissioner of his order, and the provincial friar Juan Ximénez, from Lima, claiming that “they made it a joint cause for criollos and religion.” He decided that the conspiracy was cause for an inquisition, in as much as he thought it was a question of homosexual relations “el pecado nefando.” He wrote that “as it happens in Aragon and Portugal, there was nuncio (diplomatic representative of the Pope) here and therefore it could not be punished.” The viceroys in Lima, he maintained, “do not know what happens up here.” A friar had reported to him that the king “was a tyrant and that in such manner unjust tribute was imposed on the Indians.” He warned that “[from] small sparks great fires are easily set alight, and it is more prudent to remedy the damage in its beginning than to attempt to quench it when difficult or impossible.”²⁶ In another letter dated November , , the same archbishop of Cuzco, friar J. de Vera, said he tried to carry out the orders of His Majesty, that they should be executed “with discretion,” that friar B. Salinas should be sent to Spain, but that he “had convened the parochial chapter to go with a vote to the general chapter of his order,” supported by the commissioner and parochial chief of the Franciscans, and that he had gone to Spain to inform His Majesty. Nonetheless, according to Santisteban Ochoa, the document dated May , , states that Salinas y Córdoba was examined in Spain and that “no substantial evidence against him was found.”²⁷

Ethnic Complexity and Social Conflicts 

Another case study from the seventeenth century is more relevant to the case of Pedro Bohorques. It involves a mestizo artisan called Diego Ramírez Carlos, said to be the son of a mestiza from Colquemarca in the territory of Carangas and of a certain clergyman known as “Fulano,” or “Ramírez something-or-other.”²⁸ There are two versions of the artisan’s story—his own, which highlights his merits in converting the infidels— and that of the Franciscan priest Gregorio de Bolívar, who participated in expeditions to the Chunchos along with Ramírez Carlos. The latter plays down the effects of what could have been another case of a “spurious alliance.”²⁹ The Memorial y Relación of friar Bolívar summarizes the important facts of this case and contains a detailed ethnographic and geographic description of the Chuncho region, a vast jungle that extends from the valleys of the Andean piedmont between Cuzco and La Paz, reaching Santa Cruz and the plains of Moxos or Mojos. (The people called the Chunchos comprise diverse ethnic groups, most being hunters, gatherers, and fishermen living along the tributaries of the rivers Beni and Madre de Dios.) Friar Bolívar reports that in La Plata he had met Ramírez Carlos, a “skilled craftsman of harps and guitars” and an excellent musician with a special gift for seduction. Knowing of Bolivar’s interest in converting the Chunchos, in  Ramírez Carlos told him that in Larecaja (a valley east of La Paz), where he had gone in search of an escaped mulatto slave, he had heard about the many descendants of the Incas who had sought refuge in the jungle. The Incas had taken him in with much “delight,” whereupon he had invited them to receive the word of the Gospel, which they had accepted, also agreeing to obey the king of Spain. With this success, he had gone to Lima, where he introduced himself to the viceroy, who gave him funds for the bishop of La Paz so that he could carry out another expedition with priests. When Ramírez Carlos asked Bolívar for his support, Bolívar presented him to the bishop, then organized and accompanied him in the expedition to convert the Chunchos. Their first dispute occurred when they could not find the supposed Incas, and Ramírez Carlos was unable to show where he had located them before. A second problem arose when the priest discovered that his companion claimed to be the son of Melchor Carlos Inca, grandson of Paullo Inca and great-grandson of Wayna Cápac, the last reigning Inca before the arrival of the Spaniards. Ramírez Carlos would announce his entry into the towns with his (now recovered) mulatto, who sounded a bugle, and had

Ethnic Complexity and Social Conflicts 

himself revered as Inca, as he was dressed in garments that represented him as such. Once Ramírez Carlos gave to a cacique an Inca cumbi outfit of fine fabric used only by certain individuals in special ceremonies. Bolívar tried to denounce him on various occasions, but Ramírez Carlos retaliated by saying that the priest wanted the Spaniards to come to enslave them and that only he told the truth, that he came to convert them and would not subject them to forced labor. Partly because he was a well-Christianized mestizo, Ramírez bears some similarities to Pedro Bohorques, although he did not share the latter’s rebellious characteristics. His real motives were never revealed, but reading between the lines of friar Bolívar’s story, one assumes that Ramírez desired to create a Christian state independent of Spanish rule. After a year of disputes and intrigues, Bolívar had not succeeded in making any converts or spotting any of the supposed Inca refugees. He and Ramírez finally convinced some Indians to go to La Paz with Ramírez Carlos to learn the customs and way of life of the Spaniards, with Bolívar remaining as a hostage until they returned. Because Ramírez had presented the natives as caciques and principales of great domains that had come in peace loyal to the king, the civil and ecclesiastical authorities of La Paz received them with all pomp and deference. Ramírez later denied that they were caciques, admitting that they were only Indians who were exploring the possibility of initiating “rescues”—that is, mercantile exchanges with the Spanish towns. When they returned, the two Spaniards were reunited, but Bolívar in the meantime had developed his own relations—not always cordial—with the Indians. When Bolívar returned, there were negotiations for other religious orders to continue the work of conversion, but in the end nothing was done. Ramírez Carlos then apparently moved to Potosí, “although a couple days ago they told me he died,” said friar Gregorio in his Memorial y Relación (). The counterversion of this story is the testimony of Diego Ramírez Carlos himself, who does not mention his claim of being related to Inca royalty. According to his account, he was well received by the Indians, and they had accepted the royal authority on condition that they not be forced to work as personal servants, “nor for another encomendero but only for the royal person of his majesty.”³⁰ Ramírez Carlos told the king that Bolívar had carried out his mission and that they had successfully convinced the caciques and governors of important towns to pledge their obedience in La

Ethnic Complexity and Social Conflicts 

Paz; indeed, he was himself the godfather of the son of the cacique who had accompanied him. He said that his letter was being delivered by Viceroy Príncipe de Esquilache on his return to Spain. He asked for reimbursement for his services, which had been carried out at his own cost. However, Ramírez Carlos did not get what he asked for, and there is no record that he made any further expeditions. What is interesting in this case is that when the Franciscan Francisco Bernadino de Cárdenas was suggested as a replacement for Bolívar, the latter agreed to go along with a scheme whereby Ramírez should pass for an Inca, seeing it as a good way to convert the infidels. Bolívar attempted to break away from this partnership with Ramírez only after being asked to report on the failure of his mission. It is not clear whether Bolívar had ever disapproved of Ramírez’s conduct and his false mestizo identity. It appears more likely that when the strategy failed, he denied it. Whether or not Ramírez Carlos had any ties with certain royal Inca families is also unclear. Because the Indians had many ways of maintaining historical memory, many claimed to be legitimate and illegitimate descendants of the Incas long after the empire was defeated and destroyed.

The First Armed Insurrections Various uprisings challenge the apparent political stability of Peru in the seventeenth century. The Indians saw the abuses of the authorities, the encomenderos, and colonial agents as oppression and violations of their rights. They responded in many ways, including escaping the mitas in Potosí, creating a category known as “outsiders.”³¹ They also illegally extracted minerals from the mines,³² entered markets for themselves, and resorted to legal measures and sending letters to the king—such as Guaman Poma’s letter, nearly , pages long. Yet these strategies were not sufficient, and, to the dismay of the Indians, new ethnic and social categories began to emerge in colonial Peru. The first native conspiracy with a wide regional base was created in . The conspirators had organized a network of alliances that encompassed groups from the lowlands (that is, Chunchos) and from the highlands. The plan was to attack all the major colonial cities simultaneously on Corpus Christi day.³³ But the conspiracy was discovered, and the corregidor

Ethnic Complexity and Social Conflicts 

of La Paz, according to Saignes, ordered that the incident be put down and its occurrence silenced. In , an indigenous uprising took place in Songo (a town of coca cultivators in the yungas of La Paz). Exasperated by the abuses to which they had been subjected, local insurgents killed the corregidor, as well as various Spaniards and mestizos. Again, they had formed alliances with towns from the altiplano, such as the Lupacas of Chucuito and “other regions.”³⁴ The strategy was similar to the conspiracy of a decade earlier—that is, to kill the Spaniards and then seek refuge in the jungle. Preparations for the uprising had taken a year. The rebels had prepared caves near La Paz, where they had stockpiled provisions and weapons; those from the Collao hid themselves in an old fort at Tiwanaku. And while three Franciscan priests who had served as go-betweens ultimately dismantled the conspiracy, it was not quelled until six caciques were executed, including the leader, Gabriel Huaynaquile.³⁵ In the La Paz region, unrest resurfaced in . The conspiracy again planned to kill the Spaniards and flee, and the same interethnic alliances took place. The difference was that the rebels managed to arm themselves and actually killed a representative of the corregidor. Yet the cacique was able to pacify them. The Indians of Ochusma and Iruito (Uru fishermen from Lake Titicaca) also carried out organized banditry. In –, they attacked various Aymara settlements, including the church of San Andrés de Machaca, where they desecrated images of the Virgin and child.³⁶ They insisted that they were not Christians and refused to obey the king. In the first attempt at suppression, several were executed, including their leader, but this did not dissuade them. A replacement for the leader was quickly named, and after retrieving the heads of the executed they continued their attacks. The Aymaras themselves attempted to subdue them, as well as Spanish troops, but without success. The Ochusumas once sought an alliance with other groups, such as the Urus from Titicaca, the estuary, and Lake Poopó. Such attacks on indigenous settlements and rural banditry continued until the end of the seventeenth century. Not all of these conflicts took place between Indians and Spaniards or agents of the state. In other cases there were various diverse and changing alliances among Indians, mestizos, criollos, and peninsulares. In Puno (more precisely, Laicacota) and La Paz, between  and , competition arose between mining camps, and the situation was complicated by tax evasion.

Ethnic Complexity and Social Conflicts 

In this case certain caciques, such as Bartolomé Tupa Hallicalla, cooperated with the authorities, contributing copious resources.³⁷ This rebellion was a challenge to the central power, which finally provoked a strong suppression, headed by Viceroy Conde de Lemos. The rebellion had two decisive moments: – and –. The first saw a confrontation between two groups, partly differentiated by the ethnic or social origins of the participants. One group, headed in part by a corregidor and the brothers Salcedo, principally involved peninsulares called “criollos of Spain,” and those born in the New World, the “criollos of this kingdom.”³⁸ The other group, enraged by their expulsion from the mines, an action that had provoked attacks culminating in open combat, including some  “mestizos and criollos” and  Indians recruited from among other salaried miners. The conflict had sprung partly from the competition over the mines in the Puno area, discovered in , and partly over the denunciations of corruption by officials accused of embezzling royal funds. The Salcedo group was at first triumphant. Miners expelled from Puno headed toward La Paz to put their case before the corregidor. However, instead of investigating their charges, he imprisoned one of their leaders. Concerning this event, Alberto Crespo notes that the mestizos sent emissaries to Cuzco and Larecaja to recruit people. When the rumor spread that the ringleader, Antonio Gallardo, would be executed, the rebels stormed the house of the corregidor and killed him, along with other members of his guard, shouting, “Long live the king! May bad government die!”³⁹ From La Paz the rebels continued to Puno, where they were defeated in a brief battle by the combined forces of the miners and the authorities, thus silencing the miners’ charges of corruption. Antonio Acosta has made an interesting study of the social categories that appear in this case and their subjective value. The victors included Spaniards from Seville, like Salcedo; Basques, and the rest were “natives of these provinces,” or “criollos of this kingdom”—demonstrating that alliances could be formed between peninsulares and criollos if they shared economic interests. The rebels included “common criollos,” “criollo-mestizo people,” “mestizos,” “criollos and mestizo-criollos;” but it is evident that there were no peninsulares. These categories were not fixed, however, and they were subjectively applied. If these classifications are expressed in racial terms— that is, if the rebels were described as to their physical characteristics, as did a silversmith who was interrogated⁴⁰—clearly social marginalization was

Ethnic Complexity and Social Conflicts 

added to the general discontent among the rebels caused by political and economic exclusion. Nevertheless, there are subtle gradations that Acosta does not evaluate. A first-generation criollo is different from his descendants. The notion of being a peninsular likely decreased as the newer generations were farther removed from the first Spanish immigrants. In the same manner, each individual’s history could determine the degree of resentment each felt toward the privileges enjoyed by the peninsulares, provoking various responses from the latter. For example, some among the rebels were wealthy individuals, but the writings of Salcedo and authorities call them “delinquents and outlaws.” The problem is complicated and resists generalization, but one observes an intricate network of factors that determined each individual’s place in a highly mobile society, both upward and downward. This is even more true for criollos, as Bernard Lavalle notes, because criollismo is especially linked to the “spirit of possession” of acquired rights and is essentially vindicating and exclusivist, or as Jacques Lafaye terms it, devoted to the “ethics of colonial society.”⁴¹ In the seventeenth century this social panorama was complicated by the constant entry of new peninsulares, who, as the Spaniards of the prior century had expected, renewed Spanish blood in the colonies, but who in reality only multiplied the friction between the parties. Among the indigenous participants in the rebellions of La Paz and of Puno, we find two different types: outsiders from the mines who were recruited to fight, and Indians from the community. The rebels asked the people of Zepita to support them, “following them with all their Indians and killing the Spaniards, [so that] they would not have to pay any taxes or tributes, [and so that] they would not send any more goods to [the Spaniards] and [the Indians] would be set free.”⁴² When the curaca of Zepita rejected the proposal, declaring himself a faithful subject of the king, he was executed. The rebels opposed both authority and interethnic alliances, but the situation was too confused for the rebels to succeed. In the second stage, –, the rebels’ cause was similar, but the alliances changed. In the opinion of Antonio Acosta, economic interests determined these alliances among the Spaniards more than place of origin, so that old allies became rivals. The Basques expelled the Andalusians, among them the Salcedos, who had to abandon their mining bases and seek refuge in Juliaca. There they became allies with the camp that included those dissatisfied during the prior rebel episode. The corregidor Ángel de Peredo

Ethnic Complexity and Social Conflicts 

(later governor of Tucumán), of Basque origin, allied himself with his compatriots and overturned the support of the authorities, including Viceroy Conde de Lemos. José Salcedo was executed, but his brother, imprisoned in Cuzco, received the help and sympathy of local criollos. This period of restlessness extended “to the highland provinces,” from Cuzco to Potosí.⁴³ The bishop of Arequipa, who had been sent to pacify the rebels, ended by supporting them; and, except for Peredo, the same thing happened with many local authorities. The officials showed their fear by describing the rebels as “mestizos and loose people.” The events in Potosí were caused by conflicts among factions representing different Spanish regional origins, namely that of the vicuñas, Andalusians and criollos, and the vascongados,” Basques, are yet another example of how the fears of emerging and enemy factions that arose in the sixteenth century were not unfounded.⁴⁴ Mineowners, farmers, and curacas carried out fierce legal attacks and protests against paying wages to the forced Indian mine laborers, which, according to Lewis Hanke, reached a decisive point during this period.⁴⁵ The crisis caused by the fall in production and by the declining number of Indians in the mita led to the assassination of Bishop Francisco de La Cruz, who had intervened in the disputes.⁴⁶ Bishop de La Cruz had, some years back, created the mission of Tarma in the Peruvian east, from which he had gained access to the Amazon yungas and opened a path that was later followed by Pedro Bohorques in search of the Paytiti. During the interim administration by the Audiencia, even before the conflict of Laicacota ended, an uprising of curacas took place in Lima, also supposedly with extensive regional and interethnic ramifications. The uprising was denounced by don Diego Lobo, governor of the outsider Indians of Cajamarca, and Pedro Bohorques also apparently participated in it from jail, where he was imprisoned for his illegal adventures. As a result of this restlessness and the general rebellion, in particular the situation of Laicacota, the Audiencia used force where resistance was weakest: with the Indians, for which it was reproached by Viceroy Conde de Lemos when he assumed his post. The Audiencia ordered the execution of eight caciques ⁴⁷ and Pedro Bohorques, whose sentence had been postponed; the others accused were sent to the galleys or exiled. As we have seen, there were vast sources of unrest in colonial Peru. Spaniards and criollos struggled over economic and political issues in Potosí

Ethnic Complexity and Social Conflicts 

or Laicacota; nonintegrated Indians like the Urus attacked the Aymaras, who had been more successful within the colonial system; there were alliances between Indians and Spaniards, as in the case of the Franciscan Salinas y Córdoba; and there were quasi-conspiracies, like those attributed to Francisco de La Cruz in the sixteenth century. Then there were Spaniards like Bohorques, or mestizos like Ramírez Carlos, who assumed the role of Inca to organize a territory under their jurisdiction. All these symptoms of unrest and open rebellion worried the authorities: Salinas y Córdoba was accused of calling the king a tyrant and of forming alliances with the Indians; Francisco de La Cruz was accused of heresy and, as if this were not enough, of political conspiracy and attempting to restore a utopian Inca Empire. And in the center of the conflicts was the mining mita that encompassed all of Potosí, which took in Indians from a vast area of upper Peru, all accompanied by massive corruption that Viceroy Conde de Lemos tried unsuccessfully to eradicate. This was the moment of greatest weakness in colonial Peru. But this was not all. At the southern margins of the viceroyalty, in colonial Tucumán, there was resistance among Indians who controlled one of the richest territories in the province: the Calchaquí valley. This could not be tolerated. From  to  this valley, or parts of it, could be neither occupied nor exploited by the Spaniards. Year after year, governor after governor, the Spaniards tried to subjugate it. At the end of each campaign it seemed certain that the area had been pacified and that the Indians, dispersed among encomiendas, would serve in the mita and obey their encomenderos. Year after year, these hopes were dashed. The Indians did not fulfill their promises and, if they did so sporadically, it was more a way to obtain European goods than to submit to pressures from colonial authorities. In this rebellious region Bohorques installed himself for a span of three years. The situation in the viceroyalty of Peru was far from the social stability that some historians have attempted to construct. All this unrest was promoted, reinforced, encouraged, and dismissed at times, for the appetite for new kingdoms led to new areas where the odyssey of Cajamarca and Cuzco could be reproduced: to find gold in the streets, to bathe in golden waters filled with gold dust, to pick up pearls and precious stones, and, as León Pinelo had dreamed, to find paradise in the New World. Everyone searched in one way or another for paradise, the kingdom of peace, order, leisure, and pleasure. Everyone cherished the utopian hope of finding his own paradise in the New World.

Ethnic Complexity and Social Conflicts 

II The Incas in the Colony The Construction of Memory

Life is nothing but a box of strategies. Clifford Geertz

T

he utopian dream of restoring the Tawantinsuyu, the Incan empire,

has a long history in the Andes, but as a messianic and eschatological movement it began to take shape through the myth of Inkarrí during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.¹ The collective imagination was refueled by theatrical performances, ritual dances, tournaments, paintings, and festivals, whose importance was surely equal to myth for the purpose of “inventing a tradition,” in the words of Eric Hobsbawn. The myth of Inkarrí presents a global vision of the world and creates a link between past, present, and future. The modern versions of the myth, as compiled by José María Arguedas, suggest a synthesis between old myths and myths of the creation of the world.² There were accounts of the emergence of the Incas as kings and as organizers and domesticators of nature and men. The incorporation of colonial history led to predictions of the return of the Inca who would reorganize a world altered by foreigners. Despite the evangelizing campaigns to eradicate idolatry, the native religions that were transmitted orally had managed to survive. The Andean



myths and their reformulations by European historians were preserved during the colonization process thanks to “translations” made by chroniclers. The work of memory embedded in these myths not only gave coherence and new meaning to the cosmos, in which the Andean man was inserted, but also had more immediate purposes. By salvaging historical memory, although based on a European model; descendants of the cuzqueño kings and other provincial lords carried on their struggle to obtain privileges and other favors by restoring the ancient nobility of their ancestors. Although interdependent, the two ways of manipulating memory (through myth and through collective or individual practices) are different; each with its own logic and objectives. While myth is derived from utopian fantasies, it tends to be configured by ideology of restoration; in colonial Peru it became part of the struggle for position within the colonial system. Let us first consider myth in a global and ideological framework. Its greatest function is to preserve memory, because memory gives empirical foundation to the ideology of restoration. In Peru, the ideals of the imperial past first had to be purged of the negative components, notably the enforced labor imposed by the cuzqueños in their conquest of the natives, an abuse still present in the collective memories of many Andeans. My objective here is to track down the conduct of these native elites, their “resistant adaptation,” in Steve Stern’s words.³ This is not to disregard the impact of the myth in popular culture, which certainly penetrated the conscience of the Andean people. But for a Spaniard such as Pedro Bohorques, who attempted to assume the authority of an Inca, these practices and reconstructions of the elite likely influenced his conduct more than myths.

The Myth of Inkarrí The cycle of the myth of Inkarrí was a response to the disorder and chaos among the indigenous peoples produced by foreign invasion. It explained their fall and created hope for restoration. The world had been turned upside down, and it was necessary to set it right again, at the same time establishing a new order. The myth was probably born after the executions of Atahuallpa in  and of Túpac Amaru I in  by order of Viceroy Toledo. Although Atahuallpa was executed by garrote, the procedure for

The Incas in the Colony 

execution was similar to that of Túpac Amaru, who was decapitated. The essential premise of the myth was that when the severed head of the Inca king is reunited with the body, the empire would also be restored. The myth was a colonial creation, and while it dealt with the past, it did not pretend to restore the past in its original form; rather, it incorporated new elements and expectations. Christianity had been introduced to the natives, although incompletely and fragmentarily, and in all versions of the myth the Andean gods lived and interacted with the Christian God, the Virgin, and the Christian saints. In the myth’s culturally syncretic character we see its transformation into a utopian fantasy. In these myths, to restore order is to restore the place where power was seated by returning it to Andean hands. In this sense, myth not only accounted for an image of the world, it also projected the future; by incorporating elements of the present, myth became a utopian dream. Although utopian fantasies are said to be imaginary creations existing outside of time and space, they are also by definition reactions against specific misfortunes. The space reserved for perfect order is to be found in the uncertain future. The past, real although reconstructed, is sought by the creators of this perfect world in order to make it return. The reality of the present chaos is reorganized to benefit those who find themselves at the margins of happiness. There are many versions of the myth of Inkarrí, the Inca king. One of the first was collected by José María Arguedas during his investigations in the Ayacucho region of Puquio. Here I will present a synthesis of the theme’s elements that are relevant to my argument. The legend tells that the head of the decapitated Inca had been buried and was growing out toward his feet. “They say that only the head of Inkarrí exists. From the head he is growing toward his insides: they say that he is growing toward his feet.”⁴ Once the body and head of Inkarrí are reunited, he will come back to life and reclaim his kingdom. Henrique Urbano sees the idea of resurrection as having a Christian origin that shows the early ambivalence and amalgam of themes that the myth encompasses.⁵ The myth reads: “I don’t know, they say he will return. He will return incarnate. Why would he not return if it is his desire? ‘He has his powers,’ our grandparents used to say.”⁶ In other versions, the body is buried and it grows because the head has been removed to Lima or Spain. Franklin Pease claims that the myth took shape in the seventeenth century and disputes the influence of concrete historical events.⁷ The immedi-

The Incas in the Colony 

ate roots of many versions of these myths can be found in a few unfortunate events—the executions of Atahuallpa and, above all, the death of Túpac Amaru I (decapitated by order of viceroy Toledo in ). However, Pease admits that this myth reflects the natives’ image of historical events and their anguish over their orphaned situation. For Pease, the myth of Inkarrí cannot be understood without recognizing its links to creation myths. By incorporating the Andean notion of cyclical history and the divine figure of the Inca as a sacred archetype or model, the natives believed they could reestablish the order destroyed by the European invasion. The colonial myth and its modern versions connect the cosmogony of the world, from pre-Hispanic times, with the situation of colonial domination: be it the Christian God defeating the Andean Viracocha in his multiple representations, or the Sun, the Inca of the Spaniards (the king of Spain) defeating the Andean Inca. “Now there is no Inkarrí,” one version of the myth says. From the perspective that the myth acquired in the colonial centuries, Inkarrí was a messiah who would return victorious. The foreign invader had to be defeated to guarantee his return and validate the eschatological hope of recuperating a lost order.⁸ The myth has endured and can even be found in modern popular culture. The Inca king still lives among the people of the hills and plateaus and preserves their hope of recuperating lands, riches, and power over nature and mankind. For Flores Galindo, the Andean utopian fantasy is a way of “searching for an alternative between memory and the imaginary: the return of Incan society and the Inca.”⁹

Historical Memory Faced by the Traumatic Conquest In  the noble Incas of Cuzco drew up a collective document, which they showed to the Council of the Indies, demonstrating that they were descendants of the ancient kings.¹⁰ In , the tributaries of Cuzco presented another Memoria giving the names of people they recognized as legitimate descendants of the Inca sovereigns.¹¹ These legal actions coincided with attempts to defend the Indians by some members of the clergy and other functionaries—direct evidence of Las Casas’s influence in Peru. As described in chapter , the champion of these complaints was friar Domingo de Santo Tomás, who, with friar Bartolomé de Las Casas in  presented to the Spanish Court an offer by the caciques who had gathered in San Pedro de

The Incas in the Colony 

Mama, Huarochirí. The caciques offered to pay for the encomiendas the same amount that the encomenderos desired in perpetuity, and also proposed that the Indians directly pay tribute to the Crown of Castile. First a word about friar Domingo de Santo Tomás Navarrete. He was one of the first Dominicans to arrive in Peru in . In his mission as an evangelizer, he traveled through various settlements on the Peruvian coast, learning the language and customs of the indigenous people. He wrote one of the first Quechua vocabularies printed in Valladolidad in  and headed the evangelization of the Indians in their own tongue. In  he was in Lima as prior of the convent of his order, and in  as provincial vicar he wrote to the Council of the Indies, denouncing the abuses committed against the Indians and urging that the New Laws be obeyed.¹² Not all curacas who demanded their rights before the Spanish judicial system could prove that they were descendants of the Inca kings. Many tried to demonstrate such lineage by citing information derived from the oral history of some of the panacas (that is, the royal cuzqueño lineages). In these cases, they used the memoriales (or proofs of merit) to obtain favors, economic benefits, and honors from the European hierarchy. Calling on historical memory, and genealogical memory in particular, is an old, if invented, tradition in the Andes.¹³ Keeping the genealogical memory was the job of the royal panacas as well as the work of the Lords of the provincial domains. To claim a certain pedigree was politically and economically indispensable. By preserving the memory of their ancestry, individuals enhanced their own lineage and projected honor onto their descendants. Notable actions by their ancestors legitimated their own rights to preeminence. If this practice was already common in the Andes, it was reinforced in the sixteenth century by the great emphasis that Europeans also placed on genealogy, an attitude they projected onto the colonial world. In both Europe and America historical and genealogical memory were selectively manipulated by the elite, suppressing some elements to provide greater credibility to their lineage.¹⁴ This practice also allowed for the construction of an imaginary that gave meaning to identity as well as forming a myth about antiquity or the preeminence of a particular family group.¹⁵ In the Andes, one’s lineage was traced through both parents, a practice that coincided in part with Spanish customs so that one could claim an inheritance (whether symbolic, political, or economic) from either branch of ancestors.

The Incas in the Colony 

Genealogical construction is a subjective process, since one can alter the order of space and time. This is evident when one contrasts the genealogies compiled on the basis of different indigenous and European chroniclers (for the moment ignoring the possible distortions introduced by transcription). What is certain is that in the process of transmitting oral memory through genealogies—in particular, those of the Inca kings—these lineages crystallized into a unique model that, curiously, was widely used without any major changes over at least three centuries by several ethnic groups that were incorporated into the Tawantinsuyu.¹⁶ We do not know to what extent this pre-Hispanic bilateralism may have been amplified by Spanish influence; but certainly many of the mestizos who sought protection on the basis of the preeminence of indigenous ancestors must have cited their maternal lineage because of pressing circumstances. But when the rights or goods petitioned were great, genealogical memory was not enough to justify them. It was necessary to resort to a historical global memory, to combine it with the merits and legitimacy of the demands from the father’s line. Perhaps some of the clearest examples are the two Memorias presented in Cuzco in  by the grandchildren of Túpac Inca Yupanqui. These Memorias accompanied by a request and questionnaire, stated that their authors were reclaiming the lands they had lost after their parents —supporters of Huáscar—had been murdered by Atahuallpa’s generals during the war of –. The grandchildren were too young to defend their lands, which quickly passed into Spanish hands.¹⁷ One of the Memorias gives the genealogy of the grandchildren of Túpac Inca Yupanqui, Amaru Tupa Inca, and Túpac Yupanqui Inca. The brother had belonged to the royal ayllu Cápac Ayllu. The twenty-two individuals in the second Memoria gave a succinct historical account of the most notable conquests of their respective grandfathers. These accounts, transferred to paper, had been derived from a quipu (a recording device which consisted of strings or ropes colored and knotted in meaningful ways). This mnemonic system was used to recount the history of the kings and to keep other records, with hanging ropes corresponding to each province and secondary ropes recording information on battle sites and fortresses. Rowe compared these accounts with those of the chroniclers, Sarmiento de Gamboa and Murúa y Cabello de Balboa, and pointed out changes or differences between them. For example, the grandchildren of the Incas claimed to have suspended the conquest of Chile, whose conquest in fact was slowed by the Araucana resistance, be-

The Incas in the Colony 

cause “they saw that the people were poor.” This could be an example of the manipulation of historical memory. One by one, witnesses affirmed that they had known the plaintiffs’ parents in the time of Inca Wayna Cápac, and had seen him place them by his side in an order corresponding to their places in the state hierarchy. Even though the questionnaire requested little information, the respondents all affirmed that the cause of what had happened was the war between Huáscar and Atahuallpa. They argued that they all belonged to royal panaca (royal cuzqueño lineage) or qhapac ayllu, and that they presently lived as hatunrunas, or common men without the privileges that corresponded to their rank because of the civil war and the Spanish conquest. Perhaps the most interesting statement comes from the witness don Martín Madpe Yupangui: “For this reason it would be good if his majesty would give something or grant them privilege as they are descendants of the yngas and conquistadors of all this kingdom.”¹⁸ The ancestors’ heroic deeds were projected onto their descendants, and thus all could become potentially important figures in the country’s history. “It is the work of the imaginary,” Burguière says, “that inserts genealogical discourse, in the tensions and concerns of a time, by being able to translate in the codified language, the hopes and frustrations of the social actors.”¹⁹ Bizzocchi, speaking of an Italian case, observes that this exercise in memory enables one to invest the history of a country itself with nobility, which also affects the credibility of history; at the same time, a reference to ancestors brings the past into a present where nonconformity reigns.²⁰ When traditional values are threatened, there is often an appeal to past glory and heroism in the attempt to fight oppression. It then becomes necessary to construct or invent a tradition that acts intelligibly for the representatives of the moment, and this essentially means making it official and ritualized, through reference to the past—”if only by repetition.”²¹ Inventing a tradition is thus one way of adapting in resistance: using old traditions to serve new objectives.

The Noble Incas in the Colonial World After the sixteenth century, historical and genealogical memory became fixed through the shift from oral to written tradition; its expression took on a new form, influenced by Spanish cultural and juridical models. Thus memory was preserved within the fixed and idealized templates linking the history The Incas in the Colony 

of native lineages with the Hispanic conquest. By calling the ancient indigenous hierarchies to the attention of the Spanish authorities, the natives found their privileges limited but not completely annulled. All the legitimate memoriales and probanzas (proofs) presented to the authorities by descendants of Inca kings included claims to ancient nobility mixed with merits acquired in the Hispanic conquest. In an effort to situate themselves in the new political, economic, and social system, the natives waged legal battles with various degrees of success within the hierarchical system that had awarded merits in favor of the interests of the Spanish conquistadors. Few noble Incas had any real influence in colonial politics, because the Crown obviously did not intend to give them any real power. As we shall see, only one of the descendants of the kings, Paullu Inca, chose to side with the Spaniards in the early conquest battles and civil wars; he may have been alone in playing the characteristic role of the politician. Paullu’s children were therefore socially and economically successful, as were some mestizo women born of unions between members of the cuzqueño elite and distinguished conquistadors, lineage that gave them high social and economic status, along with other privileges that enabled them to escape the tributary system, although sometimes only after long disputes. At the top of the list of mixed unions we find those of Francisco Pizarro with two of the daughters of Wayna Cápac. His relationship with one of them, doña Inés Huaylas, produced Francisca and Gonzalo; from his union with Añas, baptized as Angelina Añas Yupanqui, Francisco and Juan were born. Later, doña Inés was married to Francisco de Ampuero, to whom a huge encomienda was given. Ampuero’s family thus maintained a privileged place among the Inca nobility and also in colonial society. After Pizarro’s death Angelina married the chronicler Juan de Betanzos, to whom she transmitted the memoria of Inca history. Francisca Pizarro was raised by a paternal aunt who introduced her fully into Spanish life. At a very young age she was sent to Spain, where she was married off to her uncle Hernando, who was fifty years old, and who had been imprisoned in his castle at la Mota de Medina del Campo.²² Francisca inherited her father’s immense fortune and after a second marriage to a young man her children’s age, remained in Spain until her death. Other daughters of Wayna Cápac married Spaniards. Marca Chimbo married Diego de Almagro, and later she married a vecino, Juan Balsa. Lucía Clara Coya became the wife of Diego Maldonado; Francisca Coya The Incas in the Colony 

married the conquistador Diego de Sandoval, lived in Quito, and was venerated by the indigenous population.²³ These were not the only unions between noble Inca women and the first conquistadors of Peru; I simply mention a few well-known cases, whose descendants used them to establish claims of noble lineage. Among the descendants of the last Inca emperors there was a visible antagonism. Battles over who should succeed Wayna Cápac were already taking place when Pizarro arrived in Peru. In addition, there were disputes over how to face the new colonial situation. Manco Inca chose to rebel, while Paullu Inca preferred to try to adapt and negotiate. Both were sons of Wayna Cápac and half brothers of Atahuallpa and Huáscar. Manco Inca was enthroned by Pizarro upon the death of Atahuallpa, but Paullu also aspired to wear the Inca tassel during the Hispanic-indigenous period of government. To achieve this ambition, he evidently sided with the new conquistadors, even though this action was dictated more by a desire to participate in the new Peruvian government than to betray his lineage and his people.²⁴ Wayna Cápac supposedly had more than  children with the women of the royal panacas of Cuzco, as well as with other women descended from the provincial lineages incorporated into the Tawantinsuyu. Also, many representatives of the royal ayllus, descendants of Inca kings, lived in Cuzco and other parts of the empire. Many of them claimed rights to positions of prestige, recompense, and favors, and above all to exemption from tribute. Perhaps the case that best illustrates this group is that involving lineage of the Callapiña of Pacaritambo, the Incas’ mythical place of origin. The Callapiñas were governors and principal caciques of that area from the midsixteenth until the eighteenth century. A document from  studied by Gary Urton demonstrates how don Rodrigo Sutiq Callapiña established that he was a direct descendant of the first Inca, Manco Cápac I, “the mythical father of the dynasty” on the paternal side, and of the panaca of the ninth Inca, Pachacuti, from the maternal line.²⁵ Some of the witnesses cited by Callapiña were also quipucamayos, specialists in deciphering the quipus. These were the same quipucamayos who informed Toledo and Sarmiento de Gamboa for their Historia Indica. Thus there was a link between personal histories or lineages and the history of a nation—in this case, the construction of the mythic history of origin. Although the most conspicuous representatives of the royal lines died in the battles between Atahuallpa and Huáscar, many others survived. Such The Incas in the Colony 

was the case with many children and especially women who married the Spanish conquistadors, contributing to the slow but steady process of assimilation. Here I give only a rough sketch of how historical memory was preserved over several centuries. Of course, the claims of nobility recorded in official documents were highly influenced by various interests, whether personal, family-related, political, or ideological, or by conflicts between lineage groups, both of noble Incas and Spaniards. The construction of historical memory is an expression of individual or collective subjective experience. As I have said, in  Manco Inca was enthroned by Pizarro after the death of Atahuallpa, but the next year he fled from Cuzco, laid siege to the city of Cuzco, and later sought refuge in the mountains of Vilcabamba. There he and some of his children actively resisted the Spanish until . Manco Inca was murdered (ca. ) by one of the Spaniards who had fled from the colonized territories during the civil wars and had been given asylum in Vilcabamba. Because his son Sayri Túpac was only five years old at the time, the neo-Inca state was governed by a regent and a council of dignitaries. During this period, the Incas gave up their attacks on the Spanish settlements, and, as a reaction to betrayal by the refugees they had taken in, they turned to reinforcing native traditions and openly rejecting European ways and Christianity. Once established as a sovereign in , the young Sayri Túpac reopened negotiations with the Spanish government. Eventually he accepted an offer from Spain and abandoned Vilcabamba. He first went to Lima, where he was received by the viceroy, and then made a triumphant entrance into Cuzco. With this gesture he abandoned his father’s struggle and decided to seek the protection of the Spaniards, who received him with much splendor. His elder brother, Titu Cusi Yupanqui, remained head of the neo-Inca government. Sayri Túpac was the viceroy’s guest of honor in Lima, where, according to Guaman Poma de Ayala, he was acknowledged “lord and king of Pirú” in a lavish reception.²⁶ However, Sayri Túpac was allowed to perform only ritual gestures and in truth held no real power, even though the Indians might have acknowledged him as their Inca.²⁷ In return for having left Vilcabamba, and convinced that with this neo-Inca state, the Incas would disappear, the Spaniards gave Sayri Túpac large tracts of land in the Yucay valley, where he was named adelantado, a title given by the King of Castille to those who initiated new conquests, implying they possessed a certain authority over the newly conquered territories. The The Incas in the Colony 

Indians assigned to him were in Oropesa, where the Incas had built their “vacation retreats.” The encomiendas given in perpetuity to Sayri Tupác, spread over various territories, were among the richest in Peru, with an estimated income of , pesos. From Lima, Sayri Tupác went to Cuzco, where again he was received with great pomp. The festivities marking Sayri Tupác’s entrance to Cuzco, at which he wore the mascapaicha (the head symbolic tassel) that had belonged to Atahuallpa, reflected the persistence of indigenous rituals performed at imperial coronations. The participation of Indian spectators and those who claimed royal lineage encouraged the illusion that the Indians had not lost power under colonialism. But given the circumstances, ritual did not convey power; it had only the symbolic content the indigenous people gave it. Sayri Tupác was confined to his palace in the Yucay valley, and in , in his late twenties, he died, probably poisoned. The Spaniards lost an Inca who was willing to give up his old empire. His only daughter, Beatriz Clara, became one of the richest heiresses in Cuzco. Meanwhile, in Vilcabamba his elder brother, Titu Cusi, continued the negotiations undertaken by his ancestor; however, because of protests he feared leaving his refuge. Titu Cusi accepted Spaniards into his social circle, including a priest, and dictated his Relación to them. The Relación had great importance for the men of Vilcabamba, keeping their history alive and demonstrating an effort to construct a mythical imaginary establishing their ancestral rights to govern the Andes. Clear evidence of how the tradition of preserving historical memory had survived is the story of the murder of Titu Cusi’s father, Manco Inca, when Titu Cusi was but a young boy. The regents had preserved the details of this event (or their interpretation of it) in the Relación, showing their rejection of Spanish control over their ancient empire. In , with the death of Titu Cusi, the symbolic mascapaicha was given to another brother, Túpac Amaru, a firm defender of Andean traditions who rejected all things Spanish.²⁸ Viceroy Francisco de Toledo sent an expedition to suppress Túpac Amaru, who was finally captured and taken to Cuzco. After an extremely brief trial, Toledo condemned Túpac Amaru for having governed a state that attacked the dominion of the king of Spain in Peru and for practicing idolatry. Toledo also held Túpac Amaru responsible for the deaths of the Spaniards accused of murdering Titu Cusi, his brother. The execution of Túpac Amaru in  gave birth to the origin of the myth of Inkarrí. First the Inca was taken to the plaza and mounted on a The Incas in the Colony 

mule; the people of Cuzco, tightly packed into the square, were dismayed at the prospect of their Incan leader’s death. As Túpac Amaru was being taken to the plaza, his sister, the Coya Cusi Huárcay, screamed from a window, “Where are you going brother, prince, and only king of the four suyos!” ²⁹ Some chroniclers add that at that moment she publicly renounced her Christian faith. Túpac Amaru’s executioners then cut off his head and mounted it on a stick, following Toledo’s orders. His body was placed on the high altar of the cathedral and given with solemn funerary honors befitting a high-ranking Christian—a gesture that demonstrated the clearly contradictory attitude of the Spaniards: after executing him for leading a rebellion, they offered him a funeral fit for a king. Around his head (which, according to some, grew more beautiful day after day) more and more people congregated, between , and , indigenous people crying and lamenting the death of their Inca.³⁰ Alarmed by this demonstration, the Spanish later buried the head next to the body. At the same time, Toledo ordered the incineration of the mummies of Manco Inca and Titu Cusi, which had been taken to Cuzco from Vilcabamba, attempting by this action to stamp out the intense cult of the Incas and the symbolism of their imperial demands. It was the singular destiny of the descendants of Sayri Túpac, who had abandoned Vilcabamba, to submit to Spanish dominion. Although Sayri Túpac was showered with all the honors due to an Inca king when he entered Cuzco, from the start he was prevented from exercising any power. This apparent betrayal of his ancestors’ cause was not received happily by his wife, Cayllas Cusi Huarque (daughter of Manco Inca), also called María Cusi Huarcay Coya and whose Spanish name was María Manrique. Throughout her long widowhood, she resisted her husband’s politics of adapting to the colonial world, continued to display the flags of her ancient Inca estate, surrounded herself with nobles who had left Vilcabamba, and kept her distance when she was not fighting against the lineage of Paullu. One daughter from María Cusi Huarcay Coya’s marriage to Sayri Túpac, doña Beatriz Clara Coya, married a nephew of San Ignacio de Loyola, don Martín García de Loyola, the man who captured Túpac Amaru after his long resistance at Vilcabamba. García de Loyola was related to the most prestigious families in Spain.³¹ The only daughter of this union, the Coya Ana María García Sayri Túpac Oñez de Loyola, was sent to Spain and named by royal warrant on March , , the marquise of Santiago de Oropesa, in the Yucay valley. In  she had married another gentleman of The Incas in the Colony 

high rank, don Juan Enríquez de Borja, related to San Francisco de Borja and Neapolitan royalty—thus simultaneously receiving the title of marquise of Alcañices. In contrast to his brother Manco Inca, who opted for rebellion around the same time, Paullu Inka and his male descendants cooperated with the Spaniards, who from the beginning were completely willing to incorporate the old Inca royalty into the colony’s new political and social system. In fact, they even used to their advantage official documents written for other purposes, such as the “Statement of the Quipucamayos to Vaca de Castro,” also called the “Discourse Concerning the Descendants and Government of the Incas,” collected by order of Governor Vaca de Castro between  and .³² The text we have probably written between  and  by the Augustine friar Antonio Martínez, who worked as a lawyer representing the descendants of Paullo Inka.³³ His “Discourse” declares that only Huáscar should be considered the legitimate successor of Wayna Cápac, given that his brothers Atahuallpa and Manco Inca were “bastards,” meaning that their mother did not belong to the nobility. The application of the European concept of bastardy in this context shows the force of cultural hegemony. Elsewhere among the networks of family relations, Titu Cusi Yupanui, son of Manco Inca, defended in his Relación the legitimacy of his father and the “bastardy” of the other contenders.³⁴ Beyond the succession conflicts during the Tawantinsuyu, in which the maternal lines had actively defended the rights of their members, and the children struggled for access to “the throne”; this tactic was reinforced during the colony. Declaring some persons to be bastards eliminated numerous contenders, and the sons of the curacas born of “secondary” wives (according to the ethnic language of the time) could be turned into simple tributaries.³⁵ Viceroy Toledo tried the same thing in  with many sons of Paullu Inca, insisting on recognizing only those born of Christian unions.³⁶ The purpose of the “Statement of the Quipucamayos” was to demonstrate that Huáscar had left no legitimate children and that the last recognized descendant was Paullu Inca, as well as a son of Wayna Cápac and Añas Collque, daughter of the lord of the Huaylas. Duviols writes: “The Discurso is nothing but an apology for Paullu [who] was a person of great valor and good understanding, and very spirited.”³⁷ The Discurso stresses that Paullu was accepted as a native lord by the Indians and nobles of Collao, Charcas, and elsewhere.³⁸ His exploits were

The Incas in the Colony 

promptly recognized by Spanish authorities when he accompanied Diego de Almagro in his expedition to Chile and recovered the troops that Gonzalo Pizarro had lost in Vilcabamba. He was also the first member of the cuzqueño royal house to be baptized, now named Cristóbal Paulo Tupa Inca or Cristóval Vaco Tupa Inga.³⁹ Although he did this toward the end of his life, the baptism took place before a public who practiced pagan rituals in their homes, and who celebrated the Inti Raymi by worshiping the stone idol that had once crowned the sacred hill of Huanacauri. Paullu’s conversion benefited his children and provided a legal basis for their hereditary rights. The Discurso asserts the legitimacy of Paullo Inka’s lineage with these arguments, particularly that of his older son, Carlos Inquill Tupac Inka, who had married “a very important lady,” doña María Esquivel, a Spanish woman, and the lineage of the son of don Melchor Carlos Inca. As a result of the efforts of friar Antonio Martínez, don Melchor’s family received a paid trip to Spain and was given a large income, membership to the Order of Saint Santiago, and a place in the Spanish royal household.⁴⁰ A later chapter will show how Pedro Bohorques tried to convince some Spaniards and Indians of Tucumán that he was descended from this branch of the Inca kings, from a grandson of Cristóbal—that is, Paullu. While these claims were most likely false, because he knew about these noble Indian aristocrats who went to live in Spain, he could have used this information to gain credit and advance his personal projects. If he had been even remotely related to the Incas, he would have attempted to present a memorial with his genealogy, but as far as we know, he did not. At first, Paullu Inca sided with Diego de Almagro and accompanied him on his campaign to Chile. Upon his return to Cuzco, Almagro thwarted Manco Inca’s siege of the city and when the latter fled to Vilcabamba, Paullo received the royal tassel. Thereafter Paullu acted in favor of other Spanish groups in the civil war, trying always to side with the victor.⁴¹ He took an active role in the Spaniards’ conquest of the Charcas and of Cochabamba, skillfully exploiting ancient interethnic conflicts.⁴² He also collaborated with Francisco Pizarro in his campaigns against Vilcabamba, and in the last days of his life he intervened in the negotiations to have Sayri Túpac leave the place. Paullu died in , having married on his deathbed Catalina Toctoc Oxica, or Ussica (of the panaca of Inca Roca), in a Christian rite. Catalina was the mother of two of his sons, Carlos Inquill Topa and Felipe Inquill Topa, both of whom claimed to be Paullu’s legitimate heirs. Nonethe-

The Incas in the Colony 

less, Paullu had acknowledged years before all his children by different women, which after his death caused a long dispute over their inheritance and rights to their father’s preeminence.⁴³ Although Paullu was given a Christian funeral, there were also Incan elements. Performed overtly or covertly, these rites united the Indians of Cuzco and caused anxiety among the authorities about the persistence of pagan beliefs and the vigor with which they were observed. These rituals were recorded in some detail by chroniclers such as Cieza de León, Cristóbal de Molina the Almagrist, and Bernabé Cobo. Paullu was the last Inca with any hope of sharing political power with the Spaniards, being proclaimed by the local caciques of the Cuzco region and accepted as such. The Letter of the Bishop of Cuzco expressly states that Paullu had been given the imperial tassel so that he might “govern in the name of His Majesty,” and in this way keep the natives under control, as it was currently impossible to defeat Manco Inca, who had been stripped of his rank because of his rebellion against the Spanish.⁴⁴ Paullu’s rewards were not only political. In , Francisco Pizarro gave him important encomiendas and lands. To secure them, Paullu resorted to a probanza containing twenty questions and the testimony of many witnesses to prove how fully he had collaborated with the colonial government. He owned the encomiendas of Atuncana, Pichiguay, and Yauri—the last being one of the largest in Cuzco, with  tributaries. His lordship over traditional possessions and mitmaqkuna (Indians separated from their ethnic group to perform specific tasks)⁴⁵ of Guayllas was recognized through his maternal lineage. He also owned land on the Antis (the eastern slopes), in Copacabana to the south of Lake Titicaca, in the Abancay valley, and in Arequipa.⁴⁶ Altogether, these holdings gave Paullu an annual income of , pesos. In , he was given a coat of arms ornamented with both Inca and Spanish symbols. In Cuzco, he lived in the palace that had been Huáscar’s located at the foot of the Sacsayhuamann fortress. There he was apparently visited by the chronicler Gutiérrez de Santa Clara, to whom he told ancient Inca traditions. Once more we see the Janus-like face of the native elites who were suspended between two worlds. They were required to prove their legitimacy through traditions that they could not forget while they had to consolidate their position in the new colonial medium through service to the king. The Spanish had no qualms about Paullu’s collaboration with whatever side was

The Incas in the Colony 

most favorable to himself, since this was a common practice by Spaniards as well. Paullu maintained his preeminence until his death, even if he was a mere puppet controlled by Spanish interests. Paullu’s children knew that he desired them to be integrated into the colonial world, although paradoxically they could not pursue this goal without appealing to their ancient noble lineage. Paullu’s so-called bastard children would establish the Sahuaraura line, which lasted into the nineteenth century. Some were informants for the chronicler Bernabé Cobo, whose account once again shows how historical memory is constantly changed and reconstructed according to the chronicler’s position relative to the ancient cuzqueño hierarchy. Despite their integration into colonial life, the Sahuaraura continued to marry the descendants of diverse royal panacas or provincial curacas. The Sahuaraura were on the Spanish side during the rebellions of Túpac Amaru II in , and they served in the armies of the king; others became lawyers and rich landowners.⁴⁷ Paullu’s son, don Carlos, and his widow Catalina Ussica, inherited Paullu’s estate, his encomiendas, and the palace of Colcampata in Sacsahuaman. This is significant because encomiendas were granted as rewards for conquest and for services rendered. Giving an encomienda to Paullu (as was done with Sayri Túpac) was an implicit recognition by the Spaniards that he could govern his domains, that is, within certain limits, although Indians preferred to be under Inca jurisdiction rather than a foreign authority. However, these rights may have been limited even more for his heir, don Carlos, as colonial power was gradually consolidated and Spanish control became irreversible. Don Carlos became so well assimilated into European culture that he married a Spanish woman, María Esquivel. Even though she was not from one of the great families of Cuzco, she was of sufficiently important rank as to be accepted into the family of a descendant of the Inca emperors. Needless to say, marriages between indigenous men, even nobles, and European women were scarce in the colony. This marriage was evidence of the prestige of the Christianized Paullu, a legacy preserved by legitimate family members. Don Carlos was a fellow student of Inca Garcilaso de la Vega, and together they participated in the great celebrations of Corpus Christi and welcomed Sayri Túpac to Cuzco in  when he ceremonially declared his submission to the king of Spain. Even though such privileges were reserved for Inca nobles, Garcilaso reports that the purpose of such ceremonies was

The Incas in the Colony 

to “make some sort of demonstration indicating that the empire was theirs.”⁴⁸ Perhaps the most unusual thing in the life of don Carlos was that he became corregidor of Cuzco, a position reserved for Spanish citizens, because of the corregidor’s strategic role in inducting public business.⁴⁹ In , when don Carlos had his only child, Melchor Carlos Inga, baptized, Carlos became more than just a common name—it became a surname. Viceroy Francisco de Toledo, who had just made his triumphant entrance into Cuzco, was godfather to the newborn, sealing for the Inca’s family an alliance of enormous symbolic and political power. The viceroy recognized that in the festivities held in his honor, as in the baptism of the heir of the emperor of the Incas, the memory of the Incas was still alive and flourishing. Indians came to the baptism of the infant don Melchor from forty leagues around, bringing presents to celebrate his birth. The same don Melchor described these events in documents presented to the king. Such events aroused the suspicion and jealousy of Viceroy Toledo. Nevertheless, at the baptism he presented as gifts the famous cloths adorned with Inca figures ordered to accompany the Historia Indica of Sarmiento de Gamboa (these were later lost in Spain). His investigations convinced the viceroy of the vitality of the ancient tradition, and, fearing an alliance between Inca nobles who lived in Cuzco and the rebels of Vilcabamba, he brought them to trial in . Toledo accused Carlos Inga, Felipe Sayre, Alonso Tito Atauche, Agustín Conde Mayta, and Diego Cayo of having been in touch with Tito Cusi—events that had occurred before the capture of Tupac Amaru and before Toledo had acknowledged the death of Titu Cusi—and of having warned him not to leave Vilcabamba so as to maintain a rebel base until the whole country could rise in rebellion.⁵⁰ In , the supposed insurgents were arrested, accused, and stripped of their properties and benefits, including the palace of Colcampata, which Toledo turned into a fortress. Among those accused was Alonso Tito Atauchi, a nephew of Wayna Cápac and son of a member of Huascar’s group who also participated in attacks against Spaniards. According to the chronicler Sarmiento de Gamboa, don Alonso was the sole survivor of the panaca of Huáscar, and had collaborated from a very young age with the Spanish authorities, helping to suppress the rebellion of Francisco Hernández Girón. As a reward, in , he had been named heir of the Alcalde of the Tawantinsuyu and was authorized to wear the mascapaicha and to have a coat of arms. Other Indians

The Incas in the Colony 

were made alcaldes by viceregal authorities. In Quito Viceroy Cañete had granted Mateo Yupanqui the authority to arrest Spaniards. The same happened with don Diego de Figueroa y Cajamarca, nephew of Apo Guacal, and one of the captains of Wayna Cápac. Don Diego de Figueroa opposed Gonzalo Pizarro, who exiled him to Chile, whence he escaped to Mexico and returned in the company of de La Gasca. Don Diego de Figueroa later became alcalde mayor of the province of Quito and was obeyed by the curacas in all judicial matters. In the city of Guayaquil, the curaca Pedro Zambiza helped defend the plaza from an attack by Francis Drake. As a reward, Zambiza was named captain and alcalde mayor of the natives of Guayaquil; later he succeeded Diego de Figueroa y Cajamarca as alcalde mayor of Quito. Zambiza’s portrait presents him with facial ornaments of gold, Spanish gorguera (the ruffled collar worn by men) and holding two spears—imagery demonstrating the cultural syncretism between two worlds.⁵¹ Toledo appeared to be obsessed with “this Inca nursery” and with the dangers they posed to the business of the kingdom. Despite the notorious partiality of don Carlos toward Spaniards, he was charged with participating in a conspiracy and was sentenced by Toledo. Along with others, he lost his wealth, was expelled from Peru, and was taken to New Spain. Strong opposition from the Audiencia de Lima, however, halted the judgment, annoying the viceroy. As a result, in  the king reversed the sentences.⁵² Don Carlos eventually recovered some of his property, except for his palace in Colcampata. Like his father, don Melchor Carlos Inca married a Spanish woman, doña Leonor Arias Carrasco, a member of the oldest cuzqueño aristocracy. He was married a second time, in Spain, to doña Carmen Silva, and his descendants continued to live in Spain. This detail is important because it was perhaps one piece of evidence used by Pedro Bohorques to claim Incan descent. Carlos Inca also had illegitimate children who established the line of Juan Bustamante Carlos Inca, whose descendants married both noble Indians and Spaniards, as reflected in their mestizo names.⁵³ The judicial battles of this family, which continued well into the eighteenth century, exempted them from tribute and granted them other privileges. By intermarrying with the caciqual family of Calca, the rights of Cuzco royalty meshed with the lord’s lineages and with this the network of Inca claims. Also, in this way the use of memory of the Inca empire was expanded to include personages only indirectly tied to the royal panaca lineages.

The Incas in the Colony 

These connections between the Incas and the provincial lords were renewed through marriages in the colonial period. Thus the reconstruction of historical memory, although relatively crystallized, renewed itself through the colonial dynamic. In the eighteenth century, Don Juan Bustamante Carlos Inca spent thirty years defending his royal lineage. In Spain and in Cuzco, he compiled probanzas of his nobility, a project he began in .⁵⁴ He considered his ancestors to be the only legitimate branch of the surviving Incas and discredited the aspirations of a supposed Inca named Juan Vélez de Córdoba, who had attempted a rebellion in Oruro.⁵⁵ He also demanded for his family the rights over the vacant Marquesado of Oropesa, which had fallen into the hands of Sayri Túpac in the sixteenth century. Although these demands were not met, he counted on the king’s goodwill for which he was ordered to write a report on the descendants of the Incas still living in Peru. These were not the only people demanding exceptions or privileges who resorted to such procedures. The information about the children of Wayna Cápac is confusing, particularly the names of the mothers of his children, because of the changes in the names and degree of relationship of his Cuzco wives, and because he had many more children with women from lineages of subjugated caciques. Some authors claim that Wayna Cápac had  children. The practices of reciprocity that the Inca had to maintain with the ethnic lords obliged him to cement his political alliances through family unions. Thus children were left scattered along the Tawantinsuyu. One example is found in the probanza presented in  by Francisco de Ampuero, who claimed that the Inca Wayna Cápac had married two women of Guaylas. The Inca Wayna Cápac had had two daughters by Contarguacho: Beatriz, the mistress of Mancio Sierra de Leguizamo, and Doña Inés, the mistress of Francisco Pizarro, (who later married Francisco de Ampuero). These two ladies were probably Paullu’s sisters. Ampuero demanded the inheritance and the ancient rights due to his wife because of her maternal lineage.⁵⁶ In Cajamarca, to mention another example, in  members of the panaca of the Inca Túpac Yupanqui, who may have lived there since the area was conquered by the cuzqueños,⁵⁷ presented proof of their legitimacy to be exempted from paying tribute to King Charles V, who considered them sons of hidalgos as long as they could prove noble lineage. They could hang a coat of arms at the door of their house and wear a sword, privileges usu-

The Incas in the Colony 

ally reserved for Spaniards. Villanueva Urteaga gives no more information about this case, but their probanza, incorporated into a General Register of Indians in , shows that appeals for exemptions from paying tribute had to be constantly renewed. Clearly pressure by the authorities to include them in the group of tributaries was an incentive to preserve the memory of a glorious past. These probanzas preserved what had been oral tradition in written form, creating a new way of fixing memory through a validating medium typical of the colonial court.⁵⁸ Memory given such form has the special characteristic of constantly renewing itself, as well as facilitating access to the benefits requested.⁵⁹ In a document from –, now in the General Archive of the Indies, the “principal cacique and governor” of Guamanga, don Juan Crisóstomo Atahualpa, claimed to be descended from the Inca Atahuallpa. Don Crisóstomo asked for recognition of his lineage, at the same time sought to advance himself on behalf of his father’s service to the Spaniards in the sharing of tribute and constructing a bridge over the river Guatata. He also asked that he be given the “post of sergeant of the army of the groups of Indians in the city of Guamanga.”⁶⁰ We also know that Juan Crisóstomo hoped to travel to Spain to present his claims and those of other caciques as compensation for the destruction and suffering inflicted upon the Indians. Colonial authorities were not pleased by such appeals. The fights among royal descendants continued throughout the colonial era, with varying degrees of success, considering that the Spanish authorities had tried from the start to send to Spain the most distinguished candidates from the Inca panacas (for example, doña Francisca Pizarro). The existence of heirs to the crown of the Tawantinsuyu was perceived as a latent threat to the legitimacy of Spain’s dominion over its new kingdoms. From then on, efforts were made to limit the privileges given to these elites, while, for its part, the Crown—although jealous of native noble rights— generally recognized them as subjects. Early in the seventeenth century, Viceroy Príncipe de Esquilache clearly saw the dangers of encouraging the claims of the Cuzco nobles, especially those from the marquis of Oropesa. The Marquesado of Oropesa (which covered four towns in the valley of Yucay, sacred valley of the Incas, near Cuzco, with an income of perhaps , ducats) had been established at the time of the marriage of doña Beatriz Coya (a legitimate granddaughter of Diego Sayri Tupac, and great-granddaughter of Manco Inca) and Martín

The Incas in the Colony 

García de Loyola. The heirs to the estate, doña Ana María García Sayri Túpac Oñez de Loyola, and her husband, don Juan Enríquez de Borja, returned to Spain in , claiming jurisdiction over their rich repartimientos —not just those in Yucay, but also those given to them in La Paz. Concerning this matter, the viceroy wrote: The memory of the Inca is very much alive today, and although there is nothing to fear of the Indians in the future, we must nevertheless be suspicious of the descendants of the Inca who live today and as they do not have to pay tribute or support people who render them services, are rich and powerful. They could cause problems with a large number of mestizos, lost Spaniards and vagabonds who inhabit all the Collao as well as those who, because of kinship and dependency, could cause sedition in this kingdom. These people could find a good reception and could choose as their leader, the son or grandson of the marquis (Pizarro) due to the fact that criollos are unfaithful and easy. It is possible that such a person could disregard the obligations with which he was born.⁶¹

This paragraph could easily be applied to Pedro Bohorques’s use of the historical memory of the Incas, because from the point of view of the colonial authorities, he was one of the “lost Spaniards and vagabonds.” The viceroy seemed worried about the many requests for favors that had been granted in the sixteenth century to the members of the royal panacas. His words hint at his real attitude toward them; besides holding Spanish noble titles, they might cause unrest in the population “for not having to pay tribute or for not being obligated to do personal services for others.” Because of their vanquished and subjected condition, he believed, they should pay tribute and should be grateful for all the concessions that had been made. He regretted their wealth and influence and warned against the fact that they were criollos, born in Peru, and that they had many relatives who might join them in attempts at insurrection. The Inca royalty had been allowed to become prominent in the new Peruvian society, and from a privileged situation they could subvert the colonial order. Despite such expressions of protest and jealousy, the viceroy gave to Ana María Loyola and her husband a pension of , ducats, a new semiautonomous domain, with full jurisdiction over their fincas (country estates) in Yucay. Such privileges were uncommon even for Spaniards, who did not have jurisdiction over their encomiendas, because authorities did not want to reproduce what they considered a feudal practice in the new kingdoms. The Incas in the Colony 

As noted, because some of the first conquistadors had married daughters of noble cuzqueños, many mestizos claimed to be descended from the ancient native nobility. Yet their racial status made such a claim invalid if they based it on their maternal lineage; in many cases, success depended only on the merits of their fathers. The fear that Viceroy Esquilache expressed, and Toledo had foreseen, is that mestizos could claim a double legitimacy —added to the danger of criollismo—since they had been born in the land. Castilian laws recognized the jus solis, law of the land, that could begin to give juridical support to separatist claims, a threat that hung like the sword of Damocles over the fortunes of their overseas kingdoms. In the eyes of viceregal authorities, mestizos and criollos were an explosive mixture that had to be zealously watched. This was the reason for the refusal to recognize the traditional rights of the Inca elites, even in a limited sense. From the Indians’ perspective, adaptive conduct could be seen in two ways for participants and their contemporaries. For some, it concerned ancestral tradition, the gods, and society. This reading is manifested in the Taki Onkoy, an indigenous resistance movement,⁶² or even in the ideological heritage of the descendants of Manco Cápac. For others, however, adaptation was a way of entering the new system, in which it was possible to defend both individual and collective interests. This can be illustrated through the behavior of the ethnic lords in the cofradías, lay religious brotherhoods, which shows how the economic means were used to benefit the big families and their subjects. These claims to royal ancestry by members of the Cuzco elite also attracted imposters, such as Diego Ramírez Carlos, whose story was told in chapter , and Pedro Bohorques in the seventeenth century. In the eighteenth century, Juan Vélez de Córdoba, of Moquegua, spent fifteen years preparing a rebellion in Oruro that was aborted just before it could be carried out. Somewhat similar was the  uprising of Juan Santos, an impostor, but to look at that case would require another book.⁶³

The Battle of the Andean Curacas At this time, other Andean curacas initiated a judicial battle that far outlasted the colony to secure for them their noble rights. According to Spanish law, the legitimacy of such rights could be recognized only through direct patrilineal succession, and they used this recourse for centuries to dissolve The Incas in the Colony 

internal and external conflicts that sought access to the curacazgos, ethnic lordships, or claims of lands or privileges. These battles left numerous documents behind, many of them of great ethnographic value, and some, such as the protest of Guamán Poma de Ayala, of relevant literary value. Many of the native conspiracies can be traced back to the midseventeenth century, originating in these seigniorial claims that also inspired some of the greatest rebellions in the eighteenth century. The legitimacy of lineage, and the abuses to which the Indians were subjected, motivated contenders in their claims for curacazgos and in some cases led to armed uprisings. As early as , the curaca of Jauja in the Mantaro valley, don Francisco Guacra Páucar, had requested an encomienda as payment for services rendered to the Spaniards. The natives quickly imitated the conduct of their invaders, brandishing both a legitimate bloodline and claims of collaboration during the conquest to justify their claims. The ethnic chiefs logically expected the Spaniards to continue with the practices of reciprocity of the Tawantinsuyu and forced generosity whereby the victor gave important gifts to his allies. In this case, the most prized good was the encomienda. Three main arguments were developed in these probanzas and memoriales. The first, obviously, was purity of lineage, absorbing the patrilineal Spanish model. The second and third could not be used simultaneously, but varied according to circumstances. One referred to the services rendered to the Spaniards, whether military (such as Indian friends fighting against those Indians of Vilcabamba, or in the civil wars), fiscal (collection of tribute), or religious (in campaigns to eradicate idolatry). The other referred to ties and services that made the Incas worthy of privileges within the political structure of the Inca empire. These last complaints were adapted to a European mentality, citing acquired nobility, privilege (“Incas by privilege”), or participation in a hierarchical organization legitimized by symbols of power. An example is the “Memorial of Charcas,” an extensive petition by native aristocrats from the Charcas region, which claimed services rendered to the Inca and privileges obtained in recognition of these services.⁶⁴ Other bases for claiming privilege included political marriages with members of the royal house, even including the reigning Inca; the Incan practice of taking children from lords to use as yanas (household servants; this was held to be quite an honor); or similar proofs of valor.⁶⁵ A well-studied case is that of the caciques Apoalaya from Canta, who, apart from enjoying various pre-Inca rights, said that one of their ancestors was a brother of Wayna Cápac and was thus related to other members of the The Incas in the Colony 

royal line. In addition they were linked to the Incas by women given to the Apoalayas by emperors. Their services in conquest or in Inca ceremonies were recognized with the granting of privileges.⁶⁶ In another example, the caciques of Lurín considered themselves to be descended from Rahua Ocllo, mother of Huáscar. The Spanish authorities acknowledged these claims with various privileges, such as gifts of yanas that had belonged to the Inca.⁶⁷ These claims could be collective, and when juridical means seemed insufficient, especially after the s, the struggles combined conspiracy and massive attempts at rebellion. In these cases, utopian aspirations would strengthen ideological legitimacy. As I have mentioned, these battles had two contradictory faces, because, on the one hand, the immediate intention was to obtain favors, exemption from tribute or recuperation of land; but on the other, to obtain these favors claimants had to confirm their ancestral ties and extol the memory of their glorious past. And the behavior of the Spanish authorities was just as contradictory. While recognizing privileges and granting favors (consider the behavior of Viceroy Toledo with the family of Paullu Inca), they also quickly realized that these claims, and some of the symbols being used to guarantee them, could threaten the integrity of the “republic of Spaniards.” Indeed, they were viewed as subversive of political and religious order, although admittedly they could not eliminate them. On the one hand there were native complaints expressed in the probanzas or memoriales; on the other, festivals and symbols (to be discussed later) kept alive the memory of what had happened in the Tawantinsuyu. With the passage of time, that history had been reformulated and idealized. The past was the perfect order where conflicts were eliminated. Even when the curacas did not ask for special favors or fiscal exemptions, the reconstructed model of the Tawantinsuyu was gradually acquiring force, until it became Christianized into a mythic pattern characterized by perfection and order. This manipulation of the past was the basis for the formation of leadership. As Franklin Pease observes, it enabled a leader to acquire preeminence in which the power of ancient lineage was combined with overt or covert expectations of recuperating power, supported by the rights owed to descendants since “the time of the Inca.”⁶⁸ It is true that, in the language of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century notaries, what was meant by “the time of the Inca” is quite ambiguous. This could refer to the Tawantinsuyu as much as to any other pre-Hispanic time. Nonetheless, the curacas continued to tender their claims, even if The Incas in the Colony 

they were usually translated by scribes who could alter the letter as well as the spirit of their declarations. When the applicant came from an important domain, references to past glories and the expression “the time of the Incas” had a very precise meaning. Such appeals mentioned the names of the Incas who had conquered them or those to whom they had offered their vassalage, as well as the battles they might have waged in opposition or support.⁶⁹ In the seventeenth century many such documents were created and later incorporated as traslados (older documents inserted into a file) into eighteenth-century records. Consider the lawsuit of José Gabriel Condorcanqui, Tupac Amaru II, and his long trial (before the rebellion of ) with the Betancourt family for the above-mentioned marquisate of Oropesa. Both parties claimed to be legitimate descendants of Felipe Tupa Amaru, the last Inca of Vilcabamba.⁷⁰ While Condorcanqui was also curaca of Tinta (a title demonstrating his royal lineage), other curacas sought to restore the memory of the Inca as a means of inciting rebellion. The repeated themes in these documents and petitions show that an ethnic consciousness was being developed based on the return of the Inca, “conceived now as a messianic hero.”⁷¹ By the mid-seventeenth century, this concept was interwoven with individual and collective claims in which a utopian matrix appeared each time with greater strength. In , Jerónimo Lorenzo Limaylla, a native of Jauja, wrote to the king asking for authorization to go to Spain, where he had been seventeen years earlier in company of the Franciscan friar Buenaventura de Salinas y Córdoba, a firm defender of the Indians who had been accused of preaching against the king in a supposed criollista conspiracy.⁷² Salinas y Córdoba’s influence over Limaylla must have been fundamental for the battle later undertaken. Limaylla made his second voyage to Spain between  and , when he presented various memorias, some of which still exist. Limaylla’s objectives were to petition for his rights and, above all, to request the creation of a noble order under the invocation of Santa Rosa de Lima.⁷³ This noble order would be open to descendants of the “Incas and Montezumas” (a reference to the Aztec king), as well as all the noble curacas and principal Indians of Peru and New Spain. He based his claims on certain recurring arguments. He stressed the unfair subjugation of the Indians, abuses of the mita, and forced tribute. He frequently referred to the treasures that would never be revealed if the Spaniards continued such humiliation and harsh treatment of the natives. His argument had various facets. First, he deplored the insatiable greed of the peninsulares, which would become the main “bait” The Incas in the Colony 

used by Pedro Bohorques to lure the Spaniards’ thirst for riches, and accordingly postpone the conquest of the Calchaquí valley. The other argument referred to the myth that Atahuallpa and Túpac Amaru had become divinities and had taken silver and gold with them when they died.⁷⁴ Limaylla argued that if the indigenous nobles were treated with respect, they would gladly pay a tax to the Crown and be less reluctant to reveal the hiding places of these treasures. The selection of Santa Rosa as the patron of the proposed noble order was deliberate. She was from Lima and had been incorporated into the Andean pantheon with great devotion. She was associated with the death of the Inca⁷⁵ and may have played a role similar to that of the Virgin of Guadalupe in Mexico. According to Millones, Santa Rosa was the feminine axis equivalent to the Coya, while Atahuallpa was its masculine face. Limaylla was considered a descendant of the Pachacuti,⁷⁶ the ninth Inca, grandson of Viracoha and great-grandson of Yaguaguacac, seventh Inca, and was presented by the other caciques and governors. Limaylla reminded the king that they had been “great vassals that have aggrandized and illuminated this monarchy with their blood and sweat.” While he defended his rights to the cacicazgo of Jauja, he asked His Majesty that he institute some preeminence [to the caciques] . . . in this way they would feel revitalized and regain their strength and spirits and would be more inclined to virtue, by giving power only to those descended from caciques, who, having received our Holy Evangelical Law, have not degenerated into idolatries [. . . ] providing them with an hacienda and with the necessary embellishments, so that, seen by others, it will serve as an incentive for preserving [preeminence], and also that by this means they will be more esteemed by the Spaniards.”⁷⁷

Limaylla felt that the proposed order would serve as the necessary “presentation” for the noble Incas and would put them on a par with the nobles of Spain, since Americans were also true vassals of the king. The Incas as good subjects would contribute to the aggrandizement of the empire “that His Majesty enjoys today” and that the Order of Knights would be the equivalent of the order of Santiago. But of course, Limaylla’s lamentable pilgrimage achieved nothing; moreover, the Spaniards belittled his argument. Spain never recognized native Americans as authentic vassals, nor rewarded the hegemonic projects of many noble Incas and provincial curacas. When they understood that their appeals would have no effect, they turned The Incas in the Colony 

to violent means. But before doing this, in compliance with local authorities, they tried to petition through the judicial system. Who was Limaylla, and how could he finance a trip to Spain? He in fact belonged to one of the two great families of the ancient province of Hatunjauja, in the Mantaro valley, and was linked by marriage to the Apoalaya. As a result, he owned vast tracts of land and thousands of livestock by manipulating the religious orders he belonged to.⁷⁸ Great provincial lords like Limaylla made big donations to churches, reflecting their insertion into Spanish culture.⁷⁹ In , a curaca of the Limaylla line commissioned a magnificent baroque altar for the Church of San Jerónimo of Tunan. The curacas also claimed places of honor in the procession of Corpus Christi and at other religious ceremonies.⁸⁰ The noble families, who lived in the most important cities of the region, elbow to elbow with the corregidor and the religious orders, occupied high posts in the guilds (cofradías).⁸¹ Even today the lands of the Apoalaya and Limaylla are among the greatest properties in Peru. Celestino notes the ambivalence of the elite, seeking to advance both their own interests and the aspirations of native Andeans: “For the curacas, the guilds above all were an internal economic weapon that allowed them to increase the privileges of their position. The indigenous people knew how to use an institution that belonged to the world of the conquistadors. In this particular case, the Indians did not adopt a pre-Hispanic tradition, but manipulated the social milieus (cofradías) and the values associated with them (charity, veneration of saints) that proceed from colonial society.”⁸² Limayalla was not the only curaca who tried to directly interest the authorities in Spain. Vargas Ugarte has published documents concerning other curacas of Lambayeque, don Carlos Chimo and don Antonio Collatopa, from Cajamarca, who sent a memorial to the king in  denouncing the abuses done to the Indians.⁸³ Another example comes from the villa of Ibarra, where in  the authorities named as corregidor don Antonio de Arenas and Florencia Inga, descendant of the conquered lineage who later resided in Quito. The colonial administration prevented him from bringing lawsuits demanding lands, which led to popular mass uprisings.⁸⁴ Late  saw an attempted uprising in Lima, to which Pedro Bohorques apparently contributed, even from prison. His supposed involvement in the conspiracy finally cost him his head, as he had managed to delay his death sentence by the events at Calchaquí. (See chapter .) The conspiracy, which involved curacas from central and southern Peru, was headed by The Incas in the Colony 

Gabriel Manco Capac, partially based in Lima. One reason for the rebellion was the rumor that the Indians would become slaves. An appeal was sent to King Charles II by don Jerónimo Simaylla [Limaylla], Indian cacique of the repartimiento, a forced labor draft, of Surin guauca (Luringuaca) of Jauja province, on behalf of all the curacas in the region who feared enslavement. Andeans were alarmed by their deteriorating situation. Such were their fears that Viceroy Conde de Lemos proclaimed a royal decree on September , , confirming the Indians’ liberty and condemning any attempt to enslave them. Evidence of preparations for combat included the fact that under the curaca Bartolomé de Mendoza the natives had ordered the fabrication of protective leather coverings. This conspiracy was also the first to include more than one Spaniard or criollo (besides Pedro Bohorques), and it was far-reaching. Among the conspirators was the curaca Lorenzo Limaylla. A letter from him is found in the files. Uprisings also took place in Cajatambo and the Mantaro valley. At the root of these attempted uprisings may have been a harsh campaign against idolatry carried out in  by the visitador Don Juan Sarmiento de Vivero in the Huarochirí region.⁸⁵ Operating under cover with secret testimonies and reports, Sarmiento found “evidence” of witchcraft and severely punished a number of people, accused witches, witch doctors, and alleged idolaters—although these accusations were unsubstantiated. A similar native uprising occurred a century later in the Huarochirí rebellion of . The plan was generally the same, involving the cultured indigenous people of Lima and some rural curacas who promised to free the slaves and to kill the Spaniards. This rebellion, lasting no more than a month, ultimately failed because of rivalries, confused loyalties, and the curacas’ inability to establish an effective government.⁸⁶ I have provided these examples of the curacas’ claims to illustrate certain points. Many other ethnic chiefs went before the authorities to demand their rights or to defend the Indians from abuse and official corruption. Requests for favors, acknowledgment of Inca nobility, or material goods gradually became demands with greater collective reach. Limaylla hoped to obtain an order of knighthood through his advocacy of Santa Rosa of Lima, which he hoped would provide “a worthier presentation” not only for the Andean lords, but also for the Mexicans. Such efforts later culminated in the first rebellion of the seventeenth century, and an even more remote event, the great rebellion of Túpac Amaru toward the end of the eighteenth century. When negotiations failed, uprisings occurred. From frustrated legal The Incas in the Colony 

demands, to the tip of a spear—always under the cover of retrieving an imperial past, restoring a lost order, and vindicating mocked and dishonored hierarchies. The Andean lords ultimately aspired to recover from the current chaos the natural order of the cosmos.

Utopian Memory and “The Means of Communication” The means of transmitting this new image of the past were somewhat contradictory. There were certain rules, more or less codified, governing individual and collective practices for faithfully transmitting oral memory, for committing to print the stories passed on by the elders and reinforcing them visually with paintings, ceremonies, or theatrical representations. The profusion of visual images, carefully preserved along with written documents, was enormously significant in the construction of Peruvian nationalism, especially among groups with a strong cuzqueño ideology. Here we must evaluate their importance in the seventeenth century, when the elaboration of memory began to take a more defined form as a way of rejecting or criticizing the colonial present. For example, what was known about the design of the ancient Inca costumes, although the originals were lost, enabled an artisan in a remote town in the province of La Rioja (in present day Argentina) to make an Inca suit for Pedro Bohorques in . No one had ever seen an Inca, nor was it likely that they had read the chronicles (save that of Inca Garcilaso de la Vega, from ). Nonetheless, the craftsman may have seen in temples or Peruvian haciendas or altoperuanas, haciendas in the high plains, murals or canvases dating as far back as . Later I will show that Bohorques may have constructed his image of the Inca with fragments of information taken from paintings, oral stories, or fiestas and theatrical representations—all baroque means of communication. In the words of Sánchez Lora, such artistic “embodiment,” rich in color, music, the art of simulation and appearances, entailed a whole world of symbols.

Iconography When Juan Bustamante Carlos Inca, member of an illegitimate branch of the family of don Melchor Carlos Inca, appealed to the king about the lands stripped from him, the king ordered a collection of information about Inca The Incas in the Colony 

descendants still living in Peru. A warrant dated February , , recognized don Juan’s claims and ordered that justice be done to him. It also noted that in  eleven Incas had sent to Spain a genealogical tree of Paullu’s descendants, painted on canvas, that included portraits of  people.⁸⁷ This canvas had been sent to the Inca Garcilaso, with the request that it be sent to the king, even though Garcilaso wanted nothing to do with the matter, owing to conflicts with the family of Paullu.⁸⁸ Bustamante Carlos Inca likely possessed another copy of the canvas, which had been kept in the royal families for a century and a half. Perhaps two copies had been made from an original in Cuzco.⁸⁹ This method of informing the king about the genealogy of the Incas was initiated by Viceroy Toledo in , when he sent four canvases decorated with royal portraits and detailing the history of the Tawantinsuyu from their mythic origins in Pacaritambo. These canvases were lost in a fire. Toledo later sent another seventeen canvases that again recounted the history of the Tawantinsuyu and related the capture of Atahuallpa by the Spaniards and the early conquest. These were also lost in a fire in the royal palace.⁹⁰ Illustrated books increased the diffusion of these Inca images. Four of the most important Andean chroniclers also illustrated their books with portraits of the Incas: Guaman Poma, whose drawings are the most popular today; Martín de Murua, who painted color portraits of the Incas (of which only a limited modern edition exists, to which I have not had access), the engravings of the Década Quinta de la Historia by Antonio de Herrera, and the drawings of Santa Cruz Pachacuti Yampqui. According to Cummins, the last are most likely the least contaminated by European models, but at the same time they tell the story of certain origin myths and cosmological conceptions in a form far from portraiture.⁹¹ Painting on canvases and tablets must have been a tradition among the Incas. Teresa Gisbert mentions various examples of pre-Hispanic paintings done on tablets, seen by various chroniclers and mentioned in books by Sarmiento, Garcilaso, Cristóbal de Molina, “the cuzqueño,” and the lawyer Polo de Ondegardo.⁹² There were also portraits of Atahuallpa or Manco Cápac adorning the town councils of Lima and Cuzco. Many other paintings of Incas that incorporate current happenings were requested as gifts in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. This practice renewed interest in preserving images and integrated the history of the Tawantinsuyu into the national history of Peru.⁹³ Perhaps the most comprehensive example of such continuity can be found in an engraving of Alonso de la Cueva that repreThe Incas in the Colony 

sents all the Inca kings followed by Charles V and the Spanish dynasties. It dates back to the first third of the eighteenth century and displays a historical unity that was later imitated by other authors.⁹⁴ The descendants of the Incas continued the custom, following the tradition of Spanish portraiture, of incorporating into a painting the most important events in the subject’s life. The most renowned painting is that of the wedding of Martín García de Loyola with the ñusta Beatriz, daughter of Sayri Túpac, a painting most likely from the late seventeenth century and commissioned by their descendants. What is noteworthy is that this family—fully assimilated into the Spanish way of life and affiliated with the Jesuits through Loyola—did not reject the idea of a portrait of their ancestor dressed as a ñusta. The political and symbolic importance of this wedding is clear. García de Loyola was the nephew of the founder of the Compañía de Jesús and an eminent member of a colonial society that was indebted to him for many services, such as having captured Túpac Amaru in Vilcabamba. Having defeated the Inca king, he married the king’s niece. This powerful couple and their political symbolism are described in the famous painting found in the Church of the Compañía in Cuzco. Teresa Gisbert writes: There are all the components of a great political tableau: the bridegroom and bride, the ancestors of the bride—Sairi Tupac, the Ñusta Cusi Huarcay and Tupác Amaru—sitting on the throne with the royal insignia. In the center is San Ignacio de Loyola. There is a second marriage represented in the same painting, that of Lorenza Ñusta [Ana María]—daughter of García de Loyola and Beatriz—to Juan, son of San Francisco de Borja, who is represented next to San Ignacio. The legend on the painting says: “With this marriage they became related to each other and with the royal house of the Incas of Peru: the two houses Loyola and Borja, whose succession today is seen in the most excellent of Alcañices.”⁹⁵

According to Gisbert, many copies of this painting must have been made and exhibited by the Jesuits in their chapels and convents as a means of popular education—no doubt to promote the assimilation of the American Indian, which they advocated. The painting is both solemn and tragic— Inca kings and Christian saints in total communion. Melchor Carlos Inca also had a full-length portrait painted around the year , a work entitled “The Garden of San Antonio Abad,” today in

The Incas in the Colony 

the Viceregal Museum of Cuzco.⁹⁶ He is accompanied by many figures, which Gisbert thinks reveals the incorporation of his lineage into the colonial hierarchy. Paintings were made of Inca descendants more frequently in the eighteenth century, or at least more have been preserved from this period. These works were instrumental in preserving historical memory and played a role in the rebellions of that century.⁹⁷ After the rebellion of Túpac Amaru II, many of these paintings were confiscated and destroyed by royal order. This order also prohibited the circulation of the book by Inca Garcilaso de la Vega, which was considered the ideological base of the Indians’ demands, and the creation and wearing of typical Inca costumes. Painting, costumes, literature—all-powerful media of communication—were censored by Spanish authorities. The Bourbon reforms of the eighteenth century attempted to reconstruct, or perhaps construct for the first time, Spanish hegemony in America, rejecting the cultural syncretism and alliances that had occurred between the indigenous elite and Europeans. Nonetheless, the lineages that revered Inca ancestry never ceased to stimulate indigenous memory with paintings on canvas, murals, shields, and other iconographic resources showing ties between the two cultures. An illustration is the portrait of the cacique Marcos Chihuan Topa, now in the Museum of Cuzco, in which the figure is dressed as a Spanish lord, but wears the mascapaicha on his forehead. Heraldry in particular, and the coats of arms displayed on doorways, was of enormous social importance and clearly indicates this double filiation. Shields and doorways with typically European symbols (although there were prior Incan examples of shield making) were adopted by the rich curacas and the noble Incas, who adorned them with symbols representing both cultures. Many of these shields have survived, and not only in Peru—many come from Bolivian communities.⁹⁸ Mural paintings depicting the Incas may have existed in the sixteenth or seventeenth century, but the oldest extant examples come from the eighteenth century. The fashion of costumbrismo painting, reflecting popular customs, intensified “the reflection of the self and the search for one’s own roots, as was the case with Inca themes.”⁹⁹ This fashion continued until the twentieth century as a clear expression of cuzqueño Peruvian nationalism. Examples include the murals of the Mills of Acomayo, from the first decade of the nineteenth century.¹⁰⁰ One of the great Peruvian hacendados of the eighteenth century, the marquis of Valleumbroso, had portraits of Incas

The Incas in the Colony 

painted for the chapel of his hacienda, as well as canvases commissioned for the viceroy.¹⁰¹ The use of mural painting as an instrument for propagating the faith spread greatly throughout the entire colonial period, not only in churches and chapels, but also in haciendas and urban residences.¹⁰² Paintings of sacred subjects, joined with the word, music, and ritual, represented the drama of life, death, and salvation. Similarly, Inca portraits helped to fix their memory and ensure their reproduction. Paintings depicting miracles or the saints as well as representations of Incas were and continue to be ways of propagating and constructing ideology. Some of the most noteworthy examples of colonial painting, seen as a way of conserving historical memory, are the murals decorating the exterior arcade of the temple of the Chinchero that depict scenes from the battle of the curaca Pumacahua—ally of the Spaniards against José Gabriel Tupác Amaru during his famous rebellion. Decorative art is also a medium of transmitting historical memory. Especially noteworthy are the colonial queros, wooded glasses painted with both native and Spanish designs,¹⁰³ or the insignias traditionally used in fiestas along with costumes: all reproducing in symbolic language the hierarchies and degrees of the Incas.¹⁰⁴ Details of costumes represented in paintings are another means of preserving memory. The fringes decorated with symbolic tocapus, or other designs created in tapestry or embroidery, were in some ways adapted to certain European guidelines.¹⁰⁵ Like many other elements of historical memory, they lasted as long as the paintings and fiestas, and if someone could break their codes today (lost after two centuries of domination) they might be read as one of the most codified and original languages of the Andean people. This type of symbolic “writing” created ties of identity among those who shared their meanings, even if imperfectly. Thus a diverse iconographic language, in paintings and murals, fiestas and the theater, was destined on one hand to reinforce the identity of the Indians, and on the other hand to remind the Spaniards of their inescapable role as usurpers.

Fiestas and Ceremonies Fiestas that commemorated historical events such as coronations, births, or funerary rituals manipulated highly charged symbolic figures. These ceremonies encouraged the participation of the masses as a means of education or exclusion. All of this developed within a baroque culture that Maravall The Incas in the Colony 

considers a directed culture, a culture of alienation.¹⁰⁶ Each one of these acts—each gesture and word—was full of meaning; together they constituted a language, a particular semiotics shared as much by participants as by spectators. The fiesta is a ritual that communicates a vast social universe in which institutions are symbolically legitimized and affirmed. “The fiesta is therefore the theater of institutions,” an exchange of messages in which an “event” is ‘capitalized’ upon in the symbolic order,”¹⁰⁷ an event that has the “virtue of putting on hold everyday time.”¹⁰⁸ Indians who participated in these colonial events could momentarily feel like Incas—thanks to the appropriation of their reigning symbols of power in pre-Hispanic times. Furthermore, they could share the illusion that they still had a privileged place on the colonial social pyramid. Fiestas were not unknown in the pre-Hispanic Andes. The calendar included many ceremonies perfectly scheduled, many of them with objectives similar to those later carried out during the colonial period, though in different institutional and discursive contexts. For example, the rituals and ceremonies performed following the death of an Inca were of great expressive value. Betanzos decribes one that took place in Cuzco upon the death of Paullu Inca, an event that repeated choreographic and discursive formulas supposedly imposed (according to Betanzos) by Pachacuti.¹⁰⁹ The ceremony attempted to reproduce, through rituals performed by members of the panacas of Hanan Cuzco and Hurín Cuzco, the wars that Paullu had waged; this done, the actors described his victories. Thus the official history of each dynasty was constructed, burnishing the glorious image of the dead and silencing all detractors. Betanzos writes, “[Pachacutec] requested that each year at the time of his death the principales of Cuzco come out and go to all the places the Inca had been in his life, repeating his deeds . . . and that they do this for fifteen days from the morning until night through the hill and lands and houses and streets of all the city; . . . I saw this fiesta in the city of Cuzco where a year ago Paulo died by his hand.”¹¹⁰ Many of these ceremonies reconstructed the tragedy of the death of Atahuallpa, the Andean version of the conquest that condemned both Pizarro and Toledo for the execution of Atahuallpa and of Túpac Amaru.¹¹¹ In the myth of Inkarrí in Puquio, the two kings are on parallel planes. “The Inca of the Spaniards captured Inkarrí, his equal.”¹¹² In these tragedies, as in the writings of Guaman Poma and those attributed to Juan Santos Atahualpa, there is a role reversal between the Inca and the king of Spain. Other fiestas during the colonial era had different themes. In the eighThe Incas in the Colony 

teenth century, Arzans de Orsua y Vela described the religious fiestas of  in which more than two hundred Indians, as well as the local lords, paraded in costume and bore the insignias of Inca monarchs. Joseph Mugaburo gives accounts of numerous parties and masquerades in his Diario de Lima, –. Some parades included masquerades representing the viceroys and Castilian lords, even with “much ridicule,” as often occurred during Carnival. At other festivals, the Indians paraded dressed as Incas, with their costumes and insignias. For example, among the carriages and dancing troupes that participated in the Lima festivities honoring the birth of Philip IV in , there were “eight Incas well adorned.”¹¹³ On October , , for an occasion to acclaim King Charles II, two tableaux were built “where there were many figures in bulk, of the Inca and the Coya, that offered our king the imperial crown and the Coya another of laurel.”¹¹⁴ These fiestas also involved role reversal. In the  festivities just mentioned, despite having been victorious, the Inca offered his kingdom to the king of Spain and the pope. In the  fiesta he gave over the crown with “all observance.” Indians and Spaniards both constructed and reconstructed their ideology with visual means that profoundly penetrated their minds. Two truths coexisted, creating a schizophrenic duality of loyalties. The abdication of Philip V in favor of his son Luis Fernando I in  occasioned magnificent celebrations in Lima that were described in detail by Castro y Bocángel, a gentleman of the viceroy’s court. Millones reports that there were exalted iconographic and symbolic elements of the masquerades of the Mochicas of the northern coast, representing the Incas in the name of all the Indians.¹¹⁵ They displayed a variety of symbols in their costumes, adorned with birds and flowers typical of Andean myth. In  the cacique don Cristóbal Apoalaya, of the Inca lineage of Canta, represented the Inca Lloque Yupanqui in the fiestas acclaiming Luis Fernando I. For this he dressed in a costume and bore the royal symbols that his wife had brought from Lima for the occasion. In his bid to represent Lloque Yupanqui, he had to compete with other noble Incas for the distinction.¹¹⁶ There are many other examples. Manuel Burga, among others, has studied the current dances and their enormous role in the conservation of memory.¹¹⁷ Even ceremonies performed at Christian festivals—in particular, Corpus Christi —were theatrical rituals for both Indians and Spaniards that recreated the fall of Tawantinsuyu. These rituals also included singing, and histories were told in song. They were not only performed at the fiestas, but also sung-told in the The Incas in the Colony 

chicherías, where the Indians often gathered to drink. Chicherías were continually under prohibition because of drunkenness, but above all because they were locations for cultivating memory. These songs, called taquis, told of the great history of the Incas and incorporated local myths in which the ethnic identity of the individual was reconstructed with each of the ayllus or clans.¹¹⁸ These songs continued an ancient Andean tradition. Verón Gabai describes the taqui aclla, young women who were taken into special houses to perform at the taquis.¹¹⁹ Among other functions, they were expected to “sing and strum some drums and give joy to the Inca and his captains and important people when they ate and had fiestas and indulged in drink.”¹²⁰ In addition to these women, elders also served as performers. Their songs collected the memory of the Incas and transmitted it to their successors. In  the Franciscans who explored the Panatagua region in the Peruvian Amazon claimed to have found some Incas (identified as such by their gestures, dress, houses, and farming patterns). Their cacique introduced himself and “asked for a seat and an Indian gave him one carved in the Inca style, and once sitting he began to sing in name of the Incas of Peru and the death that the Spaniards gave to the Inca king Atahualpa, who named Cuzco, Guánuco and other ports of the land outside. He proceeded with other songs of the Inca.”¹²¹ This example is illustrative enough to close this theme. The Indians were in the jungle, and whether they were descendants of the Incas or not, the taqui was meant to preserve memory far from the limits of the empire. This may help us to understand Pedro Bohorques’s experiences during that time.

Literature Somehow the works of Spanish and Indian chroniclers who published books (in Spain) in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were read in the colonies. Books fixed a history that was disseminated among those involved in the conflicts and aware of colonial contradictions, especially those in positions of authority or who wished to mitigate the restrictive politics of the Crown—that is, Spanish functionaries at different levels and the curacas, respectively. Most modern authors agree on the importance of Garcilaso de la Vega, whose Comentarios Reales de los Incas was published in . Garcilaso’s history was used in the colegios of the curacas in Cuzco and Lima, and in the The Incas in the Colony 

eighteenth century it was viewed as having influenced the rebellions of Túpac Amaru II. There were attempts to suppress it, and various copies were confiscated. But it was already too late to counteract its influence in creating the idealized vision that this noteworthy mestizo had constructed about the Tawantinsuyu. Garcilaso’s image of perfection has frequently been attributed to European models. Such an image had an impact not only on the cultured mestizo who lived most of his life in Spain, but also on an indigenous man who was much less cultivated, Guaman Poma de Ayala, whose Nueva Crónica y Buen Gobierno was published in .¹²² Through a subtle analysis of discourse, many scholars have noted the influence of European historiographic models on both works, above all, on Garcilaso’s Comentarios. Both sought to reconstruct Inca history to make it comparable to that of the Old World, above all, to the history of the Roman Empire.¹²³ According to Rolena Adorno, Garcilaso and Guaman Poma desired to instruct and moralize, as did ancient writers. Garcilaso’s models were historians such as Tacitus, Thucidides, and Julius Caesar, while Guaman Poma was influenced by various medieval and Renaissance authors. Yet when one finishes reading these analyses, in which all traces of intertextuality are squeezed out, one is left with the sensation that it is a history so constructed that, perhaps more than others, it is far from reality. It is true that the job of the historian is to construct a History that expresses the essence of the spirit and culture of a time by reflecting events with full fidelity. But for writers who have collected information, directly or indirectly, from oral memory—who for this reason are sources for understanding the pre-Hispanic past—the use of European models obliges us to constantly question their testimonial validity. Their validity comes under harsh questioning after these analyses, even more than traditional hermeneutics. On the other hand, intertextuality shows how these indigenous historians sought to place the history of the “Other”—a stranger, a savage and uncultured person—on the level of universal history. This effort is seen in the work of Las Casas, with his constant allusions to events and authorities of antiquity.¹²⁴ In any case, it is impossible to reconstruct a perfect image of past events and costumes as described by these chroniclers. As I have said, these histories reflect oral memory and do not attempt to represent reality; they are constructions in which fiction and reality are fused in an inseparable chiaroscuro. Besides, this book does not deal

The Incas in the Colony 

with the Tawantinsuyu, but with the ways of preserving their memory and the construction of history. When writing history, one must avoid patronizing the past in light of the objectives and ideologies of the time in which one writes. Modern anthropology has had to guard against such distortion. The problematic notion of “objective history,” cherished by nineteenthand twentieth-century positivism but now in decline, is of little relevance to what I am looking for here. A source that is the least contaminated by intellectual European models is the Relación de la conquista del Perú y hechos del Inka Manco II (), dictated by Titu Cusi in Vilcabamba to friar Marcos García, and to the notary don Martín Pando. It is obvious that these transcribers might have introduced modifications to what Titu Cusi dictated and may have been influenced by European models, but the narration presents a series of events leading to the rebellion and flight of Titu Cusi’s father, Manco Inca. This version can be easily compared to other contemporary accounts. The Relación faithfully reveals the collective memory—given that Titu Cusi was young when these events occurred—and shows that the mechanisms for preserving this memory were common among noble Incas. Titu Cusi Yupanqui’s Relación had the double purpose of legalizing his ancestry and justifying his father’s conduct, pointing out the cruelty and injustices to which he and his people were subjected. Authorial objectivity, of course, always has its limits, but this document reveals a marked inherent partiality to Titu Cusi’s purposes. Being linked to the cuzqueño lineages obliged Titu Cusi to expose the events in the battles between Huáscar and Atahuallpa from a compromised perspective.¹²⁵ None of the indigenous or mestizo authors of the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries escaped such criticism: contamination by European models, histories that seem more proofs of merit than records of actual events. Nonetheless, Santa Cruz Pachacuti did not follow the same rules as those mentioned in the cases of Garcilaso, Guaman Poma, or Titu Cusi. For example, Guaman Poma wrote “a letter to the king” in which he suggested a better way of governing. To justify his merits, he appealed to his lineage, noting that his father was an ally of the Spaniards and highlighting his condition as Inca by privilege. In any case, neither Santa Cruz Pachacuti nor Guaman Poma were read during their lifetime. Thus they had no influence over the reconstruction of the past, although they did reflect on such practices as were carried from the taquis to probanzas and books. Paintings,

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costumes, fiestas, gestures, songs, and the written word were also ways of preserving the past.

Utopia as a Construction of Ideology I have shown how the past was visualized not as a succession of concrete facts that one could more or less reconstruct, but rather as a golden age of perfection without the problems and contradictions found in the current political world or daily life. The Andean utopian dream of restoration was not different from other utopian dreams of perfection. In this case, the harsh subjection of the Indians and the impossibility of having any political or economic autonomy, except at the community level, made the Andean utopia an expression of people seeking control over their own destiny. In idealizing the past and trusting in the resurrection of the Inca, the Andean people hoped to seek some form of autonomy, expelling the invading Spaniards from the center of power. I have discussed the different versions of the myth of Inkarrí that shared the hope that the buried head of the Inca would produce a new body under the earth, and that when it reached a complete development, the Inca would rise. The veneration displayed before the exposed head of Túpac Amaru I in Cuzco after his execution, and its subsequent burial along with the body, suggest that the myth dates from the sixteenth century. Even more, after the tragedy in Cajamarca, the Augustinians collected in Huamachuco a similar myth concerning the Catequil, the local divinity. The myth states that the Catequil disobeyed Atahuallpa, and that as punishment, Atahuallpa broke a statue of him and threw it over a cliff, whereupon his head was reproduced in each of its fragments.¹²⁶ Having its roots in ancient Andean structural components, the myth possibly circulated in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. Pedro Bohorques used these myths while seeking refuge in the jungle at various times during the expansion of the empire and in the battles of Vilcabamba. The conspiracies and demands of the curacas between  and  show that beyond the individual and collective concerns expressed, they reflected a more utopian background each time.¹²⁷ This association between civil unrest and utopianism finally came to fruition in the next century with the great rebellions of Túpac Amaru II and Túpac Catari.

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Concerning the use of symbols of power, let us look at a lucid paragraph from Marcel Proust: The ingenuity of the first novelist lay in his understanding that, as the picture was the one essential element in the complicated structure of our emotions, so that simplification of it which consisted in the suppression, pure and simple, of real people would be a decided improvement. A real person, profoundly as we may sympathize with him, is in a great measure perceptible only through our senses, that is to say, he remains opaque, offers a dead weight which our sensibilities have not the strength to life. If some misfortune comes to him, it is only in one small section of the complete idea he has of himself that he is capable of feeling any emotion either. The novelist’s happy discovery was to think of substituting for those opaque sections, impenetrable by the human spirit, their equivalent in immaterial sections, things, that is, which the spirit can assimilate to itself. After which it matters not that the actions, the feelings of this new order of creatures appear to us in the guise of truth, since we have made them our own.¹²⁸

The symbol replaces reality and is stronger than reality. Little does it matter that reality may have been different; it has remained opaque by its abstract image. Light comes from its transformation into a symbol; in our case, it comes from the utopia that germinates from the mythic seed. The idea of the Inca evolved in two different stages. One was probably present during the Tawantinsuyusu, which gives the symbol a value that extends beyond the political sphere because its power comes from the Sun. The chronicles present the Inca as “Son of the Sun.” The Inca, regarded as having sacred attributes, was transformed into a civilizing hero. This interpretation was exploited by some chroniclers, such as Garcilaso de la Vega, to construct a “European image” of his socializing role toward the savages as contributing to the development of the empire. The Inca is thus a mediator between the celestial sphere and the social order. That is, the Inca became an archetype. To be an Inca king, it was necessary to have been elected by the Sun and to have undergone complex rituals of initiation and consecration. None of this seemed odd to the European mentality or sensibility concerning the origin and power of the kings. The European kings reached the throne “by the grace of God,” and medieval coronation ceremonies included components that guaranteed their sanc-

The Incas in the Colony 

tity.¹²⁹ From then on, the Spanish Crown tried to respect the rights of the nobles and partly accepted their demands. The sixteenth- and seventeenthcentury European mentality understood the consubstantiation between the sacred and the profane in the societies of the New Continent—and they understood this connection even better regarding the origins of power. The other stage of the evolution of the Inca concept pertains to the construction of the myth of Inkarrí throughout the colonial period. Here the chronicles attributed such sacred powers to the Inca that his image was purged of whatever negative aspects were associated with the use of force— yet in their time the Incas’ use of coercion had provoked uprisings and pushed many, such as the wankas (from the Ayachucho region in central Peru), to ally themselves with the Spaniards against the Tawantinsuyu. In other words, the memory of the Incas was stripped of all shadow of oppression and placed on the altar of the ideal social and political order that must be restored. In contrast to the Spanish conquest, which had plunged the native populations into a cosmic chaos, the resurrection of the Inca provided a new “pachacuti that emerges from the ground as a chthonic divinity, making a reversion in the world and inaugurating the golden age.”¹³⁰ All the cultural expressions discussed above converged in the utopia of restoration. In the words of Flores Galindo, a “utopian horizon” is created at the moment when myth becomes an ideology of action. The cycle began to show its first symptoms in the later seventeenth century. They had to massacre the Spaniards, proclaimed the curacas of Lima in . They had to restore power, construct history to redefine identity and, with this identity, acquire self-assurance and the power for action. It would take a century more to mature, but in  Túpac Amaru II caused the greatest indigenous uprising the colony had ever seen, fed by this utopian desire kept alive by everyday practices in the judicial system, seen in iconic or theatrical representations, in fiestas, in a species of “solemn carnival” (taking them as a reversal of the senses).¹³¹ Every day, hope was refueled and negotiated. It was impossible to totally discard the present and impossible to recuperate the past in its original state. One had to find new ways of reconciling the past with the present, taking from each the best part; this was the implicit context of the ideology of restoration.

The Incas in the Colony 

III Routes to the Utopia The Magnificent Paytiti

An island of buildings fashioned With such beauty and such splendor That they exceed all human creation Barco y Centenera, Argentina

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ntire libraries are devoted to works about the myths of El Dorado in all their versions and variations; the Paytiti is one such variation. The purpose of this chapter, though, is not to summarize a huge bibliography, or to present a complete account of the expeditions carried out in search of these mythic cities, but will instead focus on areas pertinent to this book’s theme. I invite readers to place themselves in the rough terrain of constructing these utopias. My starting point will be the conception of the marvelous and heroic; I will examine the design of the imaginary as conceived by the conquistadors and will end by studying the mechanisms and the signs proving the existence of that privileged space. Manoa and the Paytiti were created at the same time by Incas who had been torn from their original home. The Incas became the essential intermediaries between the “savages” of the jungle and the Christian “civilization” that was being installed in the Indies. European and oriental precursors to these myths have already been noted: Amazons, the Land of Cockaigne, a world turned upside down, the search for the Holy Grail, the utopian societies conceived by Thomas More or Francis Bacon. We must situate Pedro Bohorques in the context of the

imaginary of his own time and space, since in the New World everything could be re-signified, other challenges had to be faced. What was going on in Europe was reformulated in the New World in new terms fed by the mystery of the unknown and by the hope that with courage and astuteness, one could satisfy one’s wildest ambitions. My objective, then, is to look at how medieval fantasy was reconciled with the rationality of the Renaissance to justify the eternal search for the impossible.

The Imagined “Knight” Pedro Bohorques’s biographers have painted him not as a knight errant, but as a common man despised by his humble family. Some exaggerated interpretations have depicted him as a disowned bastard. If one attempts to look at Bohorques in the light of his psychological frustrations, one can undoubtedly find in the baggage of his dreams the desire to become a knight, winning prizes through his own merits. Having a head filled with fantasies about the New World, however, does not make Bohorques any different from most of the Spaniards who emigrated in search of a better future. What distinguishes Bohorques from the majority is that not all had to venture beyond the frontiers of their known space to search for their destiny. The extent of his deviation from acceptable conduct placed him on that gray fringe that marked him as an unpredictable, marginalized case. Bohorques was apparently born in the early seventeenth century, rejected by his parents, and educated by the Jesuits. Resisting the rigors of a religious vocation, he chose instead to go headlong into the American adventure. Like many peninsulares, he had most likely heard or read stories about the marvels said to exist in Peru. He may have also known the fantastic legends of medieval knights that, revamped in new editions and reinterpretations, delighted the mentality of the times. José Antonio Maravall writes, “the sixteenth century was one of the times of greatest utopian stimulus in the history of modern Europe.”¹ For example, the original Amadís de Gaula described the spread of Christianity and extolled only valor and heroism; in the  edition, printed and modified by Garcí Rodríguez Montalvo, the hero’s energies were directed to fighting the infidels. Esplandián became emperor of Constantinople and king of Great Britain and of Gaul, thus reproducing in some ways the great empire of Charles V.²

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In any case, Spanish legends of medieval heroes had their own flavor, because the fight against the infidel Moors had become internal crusades that prepared many to confront those who were socially and culturally different, justifying their personal glory and their right to become rich with plunder captured from the vanquished Other. This discourse is predominant in the exploits of El Cid Campeador. For Irving Leonard, the apotheosis of the Spanish warrior was defined by a strong pride that spurned all other Europeans who became rich through commerce and industry. Arrogant and individualistic, convinced that he held a privileged pact with God to take the Gospel beyond his local frontier, the Spaniard reproduced in the Indies the mental scheme of the reconquest of the Iberian peninsula. Bearer of the “good news,” the Spaniard possessed rights over the goods and lands of those whom the evangelizing mission had taken by force. New kingdoms were thereby constructed, and the valor of the “knight” was rewarded in a different way. In the High Renaissance, the ideal of the heroic deed no longer entailed winning a damsel’s love, the destruction of monstrous beings, or any simple demonstration of personal valor; the heroic deed was now to attain a personal kingdom. The medieval hero thus became the Renaissance hero in search of a politically ordered space, or polity, as it was stated at the time. Not only was effective and symbolic power beginning to be recognized through the figure of the king, but also an essential aspect of the psychology of the Renaissance hero was being created, since, as François Laplantine affirms, “utopian hope is necessarily the hope of taking power” organized as a “religion of power, of the state, the police, and the administration.”³ These traits could be seen in Bohorques’s utopian exploits in the Peruvian Amazon and Calchaquí—projects conceived, without his openly admitting it, as purely individual projects aimed at organizing a personal space for power. The influence of the chivalric romance has been well established, with  titles published between  and . Although there were some attempts to prohibit the export of these “false stories,” the books arrived in the New World nonetheless not long after they appeared in Spain. This was evident in writings by Bernal Díaz del Castillo, chronicler of the Mexican conquest, who knew these works and felt that he himself was reproducing these heroic deeds in the New World.⁴ Avalle-Arce claims that these heroic novels were read by people at all social levels, “from the king on down.”⁵ Novels provided an ideal model for the collective imagination, allowing

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one to escape the trivial aspects of everyday life and to voyage to worlds of abundance, nakedness, liberty, and idleness, as Jacques Le Goff puts it.⁶ The image that the peninsulares were constructing about the Indies was being transformed toward the end of the sixteenth century and the beginning of the seventeenth. The Europeans were “inventing” America,⁷ designing it in various ways by means of the word.⁸ This was more than just the amazement of Christopher Columbus and his men, or that of Hernán Cortez and his group. Alejo Carpentier affirms that the most influential chivalric novel was Bernal Díaz del Castillo’s chronicle of the discovery and conquest of Mexico, Historia verdadera de la conquista de la Nueva España (), “a chivalric book about knights, where the creators of evils were the teules (Spaniards who came to America), visible and palpable—the unknown animals and undiscovered authentic cities, the dragons seen in their rivers, and the exotic mountains with their snow and mists. Bernal Díaz, without suspecting it, had exceeded the deeds of Amadís de Gaula, Belianis de Grecia, and Florisante de Hircania.”⁹ And all wanted to imitate them; Sir Walter Raleigh, who searched for the city of Manoa deep in the Amazon, expressed it in this way, without any modesty: But it pleased not God so much to favour me at this time: if it shalbe my lot to prosecute the same, I shall willingly spend my life therein, and if any else shalbe enabled thereunto, and conquere the same, I assure him thus much, he shall performe more than ever was done in Mexico by Cortez, or in Peru by Pacaro (Pizarro), whereof the one conquered the Empire of Mutezuma, the other of Fuascar, and Atabalipa, and whatsoever Prince shall possesse it, that Prince shalbe Lorde of more Gold, and of a more beautiful Empire, and of more cities and people, then eyther the king of Spayne, or the great Turke.¹⁰

The fame that Pizarro found in Peru, with Atahuallpa’s treasure and the sacking of Cuzco, inflamed the passions of the coldest hearts. Antonello Gerbi describes it in this way: “They send gold, the liveliest and warmest image of wealth and of splendor, gold that almost cannot be mentioned without a hint of ardor, of ecstasy, or indignation as when speaking of justice, of love, or liberty.”¹¹ In the heated European imagination, the allure of the gold of Peru grew beyond any basis it may have had in fact. Gerbi notes the enthusiasm of the lawyer Gaspar de Espinoza (financial partner of Almagro and Pizarro in the conquest), in a letter to the king describing the costumes and splendor surrounding the Inca Atahuallpa. The Italian verRoutes to the Utopia

sion of this letter significantly exaggerates the quantity of gold and riches to be found.¹² This is not an isolated case. Stories about the New World— above all, those spread by word of mouth—were often laced with pure fantasy. It seems obvious that in the seventeenth century fantasy and reality were less distinct than they are now, just as it is obvious that adventurers found in Peru fewer opportunities (or, at least, fewer spaces) for getting rich quick than they had been led to expect. Despite this unrealistic view of things, interest in the jungle was not dampened by the failures and sufferings of the expeditions of the previous century. What motivated these continued attempts at new conquests, when all prior negative evidence advised to the contrary? Interest in the Amazon began early. From the time Europeans started to explore the Andes, they also headed for the jungle. Consider the disastrous campaign of Gonzalo Pizarro in search of the land of Canela in the Ecuadorian Amazon. Why did they choose the jungle, unknown and threatening, if greater riches could have been hidden in the Inca cities? Why undertake this adventure into the unknown? A possible answer is that the forest was considered the true home of the magnificent; in the forest, the omnipresent paganism of the Spaniards found a justification (and perhaps empathy) in the intense shamanism and the extreme “otherness” of its inhabitants. In the forest, adventure acquired the character of a true odyssey. There, in the bowels of the jungle, one might find the lost city that all had hoped to find. Le Goff writes: “The tests that the knight must undergo include all sorts of marvels, marvels that could help him (such as obtaining magical objects) or of the marvels of battling monsters, marvels that led Erik Köhler to write that adventure itself consists of deeds in the search for identity performed by the knight who belonged to the world of the court.”¹³ In other words, migrants to the New World can be best described as common men in search of heroic, knightly identities. The general consensus is that most Spaniards who went to America were second-class or marginalized citizens seeking a new destiny. There may be some truth to this. Economic and social crises in Europe were driving out people to risk their lives in order to change a desperate situation into a better life. Laplantine argues that one way of effecting this transformation was to construct a utopia. Within the cultural matrix were the “laws of a rebellious imagination”; one finds what Laplantine calls “dependence with respect to absolutist images and beliefs,” in which the objective of the utopia was alRoutes to the Utopia

ways grandiose and lavish, and accompanied by an emotional displacement toward the “universe of the sublime, the passionate, and the irrational.”¹⁴ Or, as Alejo Carpentier puts it, in these cases men found themselves in an “unlimited state,” where perceived scales and categories of reality were amplified. Without a conviction that these marvels existed, no one would have set out to find them. Without a belief in miracles, no one could hope for a miraculous cure. Just as people believed in witches, demons, or in the existence of men with eyes in their chests, they could also believe in a social mobility that transcended and propelled one’s emotional demands toward effective action. All this notwithstanding, a counterargument can be constructed that eliminates the need to explain so many incredible adventures in the jungle through the profile of magical realism. It is a vision of men so driven by blinding ambition that they could make sacrifices necessary to obtain infinite riches. This hope and this ambition propelled men to face savages, monstrous beings, ferocious animals, infinite vermin, and dangerous rivers full of hidden traps for the incautious navigator. Such daring was part of the search for utopia, their heroic exploits explained as having a Renaissance rationale. Deeply curious about the New World, these men settled on routes verified by informants, discussed the evidence, and reconfirmed these routes with new informants, in a dance of belief and distrust. Intellectual proof was to be found in books: in the Bible, in the classics, in the very chronicles of the Indies, such as that of León Pinelo, who attempted to prove that Paradise had been located below the equator, between the Orinoco, the Amazon, the Magdalena, and the Paraná.¹⁵ After discussing the possible location of the Paytiti and its mythic and utopian origin, I shall describe the mechanisms used, what I call a game of signs, that reconciled imagination and excessive desires with the rationality of managing (however imperfectly) certain credible, or at least plausible, criteria.

The Marvelous Paytiti The Paytiti exists within the imagination of anyone who seeks it. Its most likely location—or at least the goal of most of the expeditions that set out to find it—had its epicenter in the Mojos or Moxos region,¹⁶ where a la-

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goon was said to exist, full of gold, with a great city along its banks. This lagoon (with islands believed to be closed universes, folded upon themselves), is one of the main features of the legend of El Dorado. Other elements were masses of gold, Amazons, and an Inca enclave torn from its stock. These characteristics defined not only the Paytiti, but also the city of Manoa, in an almost identical way. Manoa was also said to be located at the edge of a lagoon called the Parime, supposedly between the Orinoco and the Amazon. We then have Manoa to the north, and the Paytiti toward the south, between the Madre de Dios and its rivers in Moxos. Both places were initially described as having the same fabulous traits, stories enriched by a pool of ancient legends and Greco-oriental myths.¹⁷ These fantastic places were given various names in addition to those mentioned. Enin, Omaguas, Yscaisingas (or Escaysingas), Ruparupa, Huanucomarca, Ambaya, and the Great Candire are among the best known.¹⁸ The first campaigns in search of the fabulous El Dorado set out from Cuzco soon after the conquest. Between  and , Alvar Núñez Cabeza de Vaca and Domingo de Irala, starting from Paraguay, undertook one of the most difficult adventures in search of the Paytiti, a deed that Irala repeated in  in the so-called “unsuccessful entrance.” After these forays, the Paytiti or the country of Candire were already given clearer locations. The Paytiti was said to be located in the Mojos, in the sandbanks or grasslands of the river Beni, which floods the rocky plains and which the indigenous people drained by a sophisticated system of long mounds used for planting mandioca or yuca, divided by irrigation ditches.¹⁹ In the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, when the location of this mythic country became more precise and it seemed more probable that it existed, the number of expeditions from the colonial cities to this region also increased.²⁰ The image that was constructed of this utopian kingdom had three basic criteria: unity of space, unity of action, and unity of time.²¹ Such myths are timeless, but this is the one that holds our interest because the Paytiti is linked to the installation of those imaginary cities of Incas torn from their original roots. The unity of space—the jungle—conditioned the unity of action. For Alès and Pouyllau, the unity of action existed in the perpetual pursuit of a treasure; it was produced by a world turned upside down: “excessive heat, extraordinary landscapes, strange and terrorizing animals, cannibalistic or headless men, and other races from Pliny.”²²

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The Paytiti, as I noted above, had an uncertain location. Most accounts placed the kingdom somewhere in the territory of the Moxos, next to the Parecis mountains. For example, Bernardo de Torres enumerated the riches of the region, especially “in the rich provinces that are between the famous rivers of Mano and Diabeni, that come down from the mountains of Peru, one or another of them extending through layered meadows up to the great Paucarmayo, the sovereign river that runs between the banks of the celebrated Paytite to the east.” But after mentioning all the Indian provinces with the generic name of Chunchos, he claimed that those rivers go up to “the famous Paytití, a large river that drains into a spacious and deep lagoon of more than fifty leagues in breadth, where it merges with the lagoon, becoming the queen of all the waters of these regions and powerfully communicates with all its banks, and all this together is called the Paytite.”²³ Having analyzed all the chroniclers’ reports, Roberto Levillier concludes that the Paytiti was believed to correspond to the lands occupied by the Incas and the eastern slope of the mountain of Parecis, which “extends from  degrees of latitude in the proximities of the [river] Madeira and to the southeast until the north of the river Paraguay in  degrees, between the meridians  and . As the reader may judge, the surface of the domain was approximately  leagues from north to south and  west to east.”²⁴ Yet the location remains uncertain, in spite of Levillier’s efforts to pinpoint it. Equally elusive were its access routes. Searches for the fabulous El Dorado began in Cuzco, or went from Cochabamba by Camata, from La Paz via the valley of Larecaja, and from Tarma at the eastern edge of the mountains of northern Peru. This last route may seem the longest, but explorers may have believed that it provided a way to avoid the obstacles blocking the others. That is, it provided access from the north-northeast. Apparently this was the course Bohorques tried coming down from the Cerro de la Sal, walking toward the south-southeast. This was said to be the route of Tarma in the mid-sixteenth century. In , the president of the Audiencia of Lima, Lope García de Castro, informed the king about the state of discoveries: Gómez de Carabantes, encomendero of Jauja, discovered and investigated and created a painting showing how from the valley of Jauja they can travel on a river that flows behind the region where the Inca is [Vilcabamba], giving way to a lagoon, where there are certain señores and many Indians who own much gold and silver and . . . in some rivers that pour into the

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lagoon one can obtain much gold; and he brings paintings with the names of the places and of señores who are there. This lagoon was known since the time of the Marques don Francisco Pizarro, and much money has been wasted since then without anyone having been able to find it and now as it has been discovered, don Pedro Puertocarrero has offered to make the journey.²⁵

This ample region, extending from the east of Tarma to a network of rivers that form the Madre de Dios, was home to many different ethnic groups. It was the land of the Chunchos, or Antis—that is, “savages.” (This term was applied to the jungle people to identify their cultural and ecological “otherness.”) France-Marie Renard Casevitz and Thierry Saignes believe that the eastern zone of the Tarma had no fortress or Inca contingents, but they maintained a privileged relationship with one of these groups, the Amueshas. Myths collected more recently testify to these ancient relationships. In the game of gifts and counter gifts, the Inca marries an Amuesha woman and they offer him luxurious clothes of cotton “which publicly display his exotic Chuncho attire.”²⁶ Because of these many separate groups, neutral spaces were created—no man’s land—free from aggression. In this way, the Incas cleared the route toward the Cerro de la Sal in order to supply themselves with salt when they found it difficult to get it from the highlands. This would explain Bohorques’s decision to establish himself in this area. His two simultaneous objectives were to gain control of the Cerro de la Sal, where there was supposedly an abundance of riches, and from that location to continue his search for the Paytiti. This scenario acquires greater significance when one considers the numerous highland towns of that region. This is evident in the story of Bohorques receiving the vassalage of fugitive (partially Christianized) Indians who came from Jauja, behind Tarma on the tall or north-central hill. These foreign groups played an important role in cultural and commercial exchange. And this trend extended toward the Urubamba and the Paucartambo further south, linked to fantastical places inhabited by men from the Inca army and other highland dwellers. The circulation of plausible and totally imaginary information helps to explain why Spaniards continued to enter this region. Explorers had to overcome two great obstacles to reach these mythical places: the diversity and mobility of the native populations, and geographical hurdles. There are so many ethnic names in the historical sources that it Routes to the Utopia

is impossible to draw a coherent ethnic map based on this information, except for names that appear repeatedly and in areas where Spanish populations had been established or where missions had lasted for at least a while.²⁷ Having sketched a profile of this imagined space, I will now fill it in with its imagined content. For example, not only were the rivers so wide that one could not see the other side, but there were also narrow ravines, with waterfalls and frequent rapids that made navigation impossible. Explorers tried both overland and water routes. The insurmountable topographical obstacles are as important as the hostility of the Indians in explaining the failures of these expeditions. The stories about the advance party of Hernando de Rivera during the  expedition commanded by Alvar Núñez recounts the many sufferings the party had to withstand. The explorers spent more than thirty days and nights in water above their waists and “had to drink warm, putrid water. The mosquitoes plagued us day and night and would not let us sleep.”²⁸ Nonetheless, not all the fantastic beings that inhabited the area were seen in a negative light. Nature also gave marvelous gifts to this magical region: fruit, fish, fertile soil, gold, silver, and pearls. It was quite common to attribute Edenlike properties to this bountiful land, creating a contrast with the dangerous serpents, irksome insects, never-ending rains, and bothersome humidity.²⁹ This “Paradise in the New World” described by León Pinelo was nevertheless threatened by a mysterious and yet fascinating change in the environment and in men, who fell into a sort of drunken stupor in the presence of such exotic marvels. Enrique Finot has transcribed fantastic stories regarding this Edenic vision of the jungle, with its crystal-clear waters, birds that accompany the traveler with their music, bees that provide sweet honey, and flowers that perfume the air.³⁰ This contrast between richness and danger made the jungle alluring and draped its discoverers in a luxurious cornucopia of gifts that inspired the extraordinary courage needed to penetrate it. There were “overgrown people” among the Indians who were considered giants. Amazons lived near the lagoon of the Paytiti. According to some stories, the Amazons cut off one breast to enable them to use a bow and arrow, and they had sexual relations with men only once or twice a year.³¹ The Relación General narrating the entrance of Ñuflo de Chávez mentions, in addition to “overgrown people,” large birds that devour human flesh; Juan Gil suggests that these could be representations of the mythic griffin.³²

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There are also references in the Relación to the little Indians, understood to be dwarfs, but in reality they were called this because they lived in little houses. Juan Gil quotes from Juan de Castellanos, author of Elegías de Varones ilustres de Indias, narrating the entrance of Juan Alvarez Maldonado: “Not far away from the Andes / Of the pigmies that fame celebrates / They captured a male and a female.”³³ Pedro Sarmiento de Gamboa, apparently infuriated by so much fantasy, wrote angrily at the margin of the manuscript, “There was no such thing, I was there and Juan Alvarez Maldonado was in Lima.”³⁴ There were also “black” people. Hernando de Ribera heard a report from explorers in  who found “towns full of women, [where] there are other much larger populations of people that are black . . . [with] aquiline beards in the manner of the Moors.”³⁵ One must not forget the “white” Indians, like the Chachapoyas described by Cieza de León, or the Moxos, visited by friar Diego de Alcaya (to be discussed later). León Pinelo mentioned as much information as he could about strange beings that appear in the bibliography he consulted: pigmies, giants, men with tails (in southern Chile), and men whose heads are fused between their shoulders, also mentioned by Sir Walter Raleigh.³⁶ Myths began to describe a space inhabited by Amazons, dwarfs, giants, birds, black and white Indians. There were also less fantastic but more dangerous factors that indirectly influenced these reports. To the south of the Chiquitos, one heard of the cannibal advances of the Chiriguanos, groups of Guarani origin that marched westward in one of their many migrations in search of the “land without evil.” Some authors maintain that the myth of the Paytiti originated as part of these mythological cycles. This argument could perhaps explain rumors of a new location of El Dorado, but given its multiple “sightings” in South America, from Venezuela to the country of César, or Trapalanda searching to the ends of Patagonia, I consider the myth a European construction based on ambiguous and re-signified information. The Paytiti appears to have been a Guarani word, and it was the Guaranis who informed the Spaniards of the existence of that kingdom, of which they had “news.” On the other hand, there were also reports of the coming of the red viracochas (Europeans), meaning the English or Dutch, who are important to this account because they made alliances with the indigenous populations. Stories about the support of the English circulated early in the sixteenth century, at the time of the first attacks by Sir Francis

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Drake in the Spanish colonies, but they were repeated throughout the colonial era up to the moment of independence. One of the arguments of Sir Walter Raleigh when requesting that the Crown finance his new expedition was that he had collected news about these attacks in the Guianas from a man who had been in Manoa.³⁷ To complete the theme of the unity of space, I will now introduce the already built space—that is, the kingdom of the Lord of Candire, or of the Paytiti, or of the Great Mojo, three names for the mythic king of this land. At the risk of repeating what others have done, I will transcribe fragments of the poem by Martín del Barco Centenera that describes this mythic city and its palaces.³⁸ Argentina o Conquista del Río de la Plata () by Martín del Barco Centenera. He lived in a lagoon that was grand, Surrounded by populations Of Indians that he held at his command In towns in which great order was well formed. In the middle of the lagoon there stands An island of buildings fashioned With such beauty and such splendor That they exceed all human creation. The lord’s house was constructed With white stone covered ceilings, With two very tall towers in the entrance, The distance between them minute And in between them a platform With a column in its center And two live lions at its sides Wearing golden chains that glowed. We tested the fierceness of their arrows, Twenty-five feet in height Made of silver that when a great moon shone It painted the lagoon with a shimmering light. It cast in the lagoon a lone shadow Visible in the clear night. Alas! Who would not desire to take a slice Of moon, even if it were to wane. Routes to the Utopia

Passing these towers there formed A small and well-placed plaza Graced with both winter and summer Covered with trees And watered by a fountain Which was located in the middle of the plaza, With four beautiful taps of gold that could impress Anyone, and that all would dream to possess. The basin of the fountain extended More than three blocks in its amazing workmanship, That it seemed to be beyond mortal man In size, perfection, and composure. The silver glimmering around was magnificent, It was a place where finesse and beauty stood. The water was no different From the fountain and pillar from which it flowed. The door of the palace was small but Made of strong copper, and the door lock Supported by strong foundations could stand Firmly placed in hard rock. Surely with the unruly hair of that man, We could make a great bullock As the old porter’s hair is wildly long. Hear then, from him the sinister evil that goes on. Those that have entered through these gates, Its towers and columns passed Having knelt down and open to their fates Raising their eyes to the moon and having gasped, Have heard this old man state In a fierce voice ablast, “Worship him, for he is the only one And none other than him till time come.” Above is an altar of fine silver With four lamps on its sides Fearing their death they remain brightly lit As four minister deputies preside. A vermilion sun beyond a scarlet tint Routes to the Utopia

Emits rays that appear to ride On threads of fine gold Here the Sun is worshiped. Behold. This great Lord of appearing cupidity, Called the Great Moxo, is known For his great valor and nobility, In his person and domains so enriched Of his vassals’ strengths and dexterity Through our misfortune we have known, How quickly in our short distances We tested the fierceness of his arrows and resistance. To what lengths will this detested hunger for gold Dampen your spirit’s strength and defenses Leaving behind the loathsome power to unfold That has blinded your strength and your senses! Seeing death all around them and gore The men who sought a voyage full of recompenses Flee with a quick and fearful pace Turning their backs upon this place.

A comparison between this description of the city and the palace of the Great Moxo found in Martin del Barco’s poem, and Pedro Bohorques’s descriptions of the city he claims to have found deep in the jungle show similarities. Bohorques focuses on two basic principles: great wealth and order. At times there appear, as in this case, the majestic presence of the lord and his noble entourage. Information obtained in Xareyes (the source of the river Paraguay) speaks of the country of Candire, located next to the mountain range of Ararachagua, adjoining a large lagoon and populated by many people who “did not have more than one principal lord, who was called Candire, before whom they played instruments fashioned in the manner of thick reed.”³⁹ Finally, the poet adds that the Great Moxo is an old man with long hair who speaks of only one God: “Worship him, for he is the only one, and none other than him, for all time to come.” What is even more significant than the gold, the order, the noble old man seated on his throne, and the appeal to only one God? It is that this is a “civilized” space inhabited by a monotheistic people. The city is clean, fresh, and cooled by shade trees

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and fountains, and its residents live in “orderly towns.” These were people of “pulicía,” polities and order. The Great Moxo plays two roles: he is a political leader and lord of the “Indians that he held at his command”; and second, he is a religious man, guardian and gatekeeper of the sanctuary. His old age and thundering voice are attributes that Christians identify with God the Father. As supreme priest, he commands them, quelling all doubts or objections, to adore one God and “none other than Him.” Only the Judeo-Christian tradition is this exclusive, admitting no other sacred figures. Why was it important that these towns were monotheistic, if they worshiped the sun and not the God of the Christians? It seems they had moved beyond polytheism and thus would be able to understand the message of the Gospel distributed by the crusading Spaniards concerning the face of the new earth as the most precious of gifts. Garcilaso de la Vega interprets the Andean people as having evolved through several stages of religious complexity. He places at the highest level the Incas, having already achieved the concept of monotheism. Locating the most civilized spaces in the midst of the infidels and the jungle made it easier to dispose of intermediaries who could be converted with greater ease, although they would have to go through various stages before attaining the level of abstraction proposed by Christian theology. The Spaniards quickly understood that the conversion of the infidels was a Herculean task and foresaw that they would never achieve it unless they had the help of other native Americans who found themselves in more advanced steps of “civilization.” For this reason, establishing order was an essential component in constructing this imaginary space. The majority of towns were small, and populations were dispersed. The existence of a city, the utopian space par excellence as conceived by More and Bacon, was a sign that gave a particular message. Such a city was a destination to be reached only by crossing the forest and fighting the monsters that nature had developed to protect it. The city represented order; there was only one God: these were the necessary steps for accomplishing the mission that the Christian God had given the Spaniards. It was not by accident that the Spaniards considered themselves the chosen people, and why not be rewarded for so much suffering and failed adventures in the name of their sacred mission? Why not have gold, happiness, and leisure under the shade of a tree fed by a fountain of pure water, nestled in the luxurious forest? Is there nothing else behind the image of the palace, the patio, the tree,

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the temple, the lord, and the priest? There is a fountain with crystal-clear water, there is pleasant shade, and there is cleanliness. All such details remind one of a Moorish palace—“the mosques,” as they were called in Mexico. The first great temples of the Moors became the parameter by which to describe the palace of the lord of the Moxos. Peace, quiet, riches, crystalline water, shade, and freshness—it was the hope of finding the perfect place and, in this way, achieving perfection. While the Spanish explorers maintained a belief that these utopian worlds existed, the treasures were never found, in spite of endless quests. Hope mobilized people, a more pragmatic logic would have led to rapid disenchantment. In the questionnaire formulated by Ñuflo de Chávez for a probanza of his merits and services in , he asked whether respondents knew that if he had “entered from westnorthwest, discovering and pacifying . . . in said land, according to the relación he carried with him, he was approaching the said land.”⁴⁰ According to the “news,” the Spaniards were getting closer to the promised land, a land of riches and well-being, a fertile ground for evangelism. In his history of the Dominican order (), father Juan Meléndez tells of the fantastic adventures of friar Tomás de Chávez on an expedition from Larecaja in  and of another made earlier with the Franciscans Jiménez and Lario, in the foothills of Tarma.⁴¹ In Moxos, friar Tomás de Chávez found a cacique who was ready to sacrifice a group of children to heal a great wound he had on his chest. Instead, the priest cured him with holy water. This amazing act of healing brought friar Tomás great fame, which spread to another vast kingdom “named Moços” whose king was “emperor and lord of many kings, whose wife had suffered some years back from a certain illness that none of their doctors understood.”⁴² The king, desiring the services of this miraculous priest, sent  men to search for him, threatening the Mojos if they did not hand him over. They marched for thirty days, with a group of Indians carrying the priest on a litter. Part of the journey was made in canoes. They first arrived at a place peopled only by men whose women lived in another town and brought them food each day. Similar “news” is found in the Relación () by Juan Recio de León, about the Paytiti and the adjoining region.⁴³ Without a doubt, here is the myth of the Amazons. From there, they “walked toward the Court” for another  days, carrying the priest on a litter. They passed the lowlands of the Moxos, where the river forked into numerous branches. Finally, he writes:

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He arrived at the Court of that great King. . . . In arriving at the palace of the king that was very large, even though it did not have police, as it is used in other cities and in European palaces and buildings, the king himself came out to receive them, gave them gifts and honors, and had the table set out for them on the floor as is their custom, and gave them food in his presence. The king was of good size, corpulent, white, and of grave aspect. He was handsomely dressed in feathers of different colors.⁴⁴

Friar Tomás de Chávez went on to describe the temple and its idols made of rough-hewn stone. He also described some ceremonies and the miracles that happened to him. Months later, once the queen had been cured, he returned to Cochabamba. Just as Bohorques would do years later, friar Tomás, aware that he might be accused of having invented the story, resorted to personal testimony: he claimed to have personally seen all the marvels he wrote about. Here one does not find an Inca, or traces of Inca “civilization.” But the vastness of this kingdom and the report that this king was “white” give him the rank of a great lord, one who could help in evangelizing the nomadic populations of the jungle. Note also that friar Tomás was assumed to play the role of shaman, both priest and witch doctor (or curandero), and this dual role would be an effective vehicle of communication between the two cultures. Friar Tomás emphasizes the power and greatness of the king rather than his riches. On the other hand, in León Pinelo’s  transcription of Fernando de Montesinos’s work about the Ophir de España, what is highlighted is the fabulous treasure of one of these lords.⁴⁵ León Pinelo writes: Don Fernando de Montesinos refers to what he read in the relación of a Spaniard who entered the as yet undiscovered Peru, and in a great town of people who were richly clothed he remained fourteen months. The town’s cacique showed him their treasure that many rooms filled with great jars, human figures, corn stalks many herbs and fruits, birds, animals, fish, weapons. All were made of gold and its value seemed to him to be four millions.⁴⁶

Evidently these writers were transposing to the center of the jungle the garden of silver and gold the Inca was said to have had in Cuzco. Sir Walter Raleigh’s description of the Inca city of Manoa took a similar form, but these authors failed to notice such coincidences or repetition, always favoring their own constructions of the marvelous. Here one can see how ra-

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tional demonstration lost out against the emotional drive to prove that the myth of utopia had concrete reality, bolstered by the testimony of eyewitnesses. Bernardo de Torres’s account of  mentions that the lawyer Miguel Cabello de Balboa was preaching among the Chunchos, and that among them was the “great Marani, powerful king of the Paytite”—but the Indians who hosted him denied him permission to leave.⁴⁷ Later I shall return to this theme. First let us examine the Incas’ many conquests, focusing on the South.

The Incas and the Jungle Most authors attribute the beginning of the Inca conquests of the Andean foothills and plains of the great Amazon basin to the ninth Inca king, Inca Yupanqui (or Pachacuti), and above all to his son Túpac Inca, who governed with his father before becoming king. According to Garcilaso Inca, it was during the government of Túpac Inca that the Spaniards had news of the Musus or Moxos and of the five rivers that joined to form Amaru-Mayo— that is, the Madre de Dios.⁴⁸ The Moxos developed a “friendship,” Garcilaso says, in lieu of becoming vassals. Thus the Moxos were “confederates but free.”⁴⁹ They allowed the , Incas who had survived the raft expedition of , to inhabit their lands and gave them their daughters as wives. After this alliance was established, Garcilaso writes, “they rejoiced much with their relationship (and today they hold it with great esteem and are governed by them in peace and war).” An ambassador from the Moxos went to Cuzco to reconfirm this friendship. There is evidence that there was a colony of Moxos in the Sierra, but Garcilaso’s most important revelation is the following: Particularly the Incas say that in the time of Huaina Cápac the descendant of the Incas who inhabited the Musus wanted them to go back to Cozco, because they believed that not having to render more service to the Inca, rather than remain there, they were better off in their home land than out of it . . . [but having heard news of the death of Huaina Cápac and of the arrival of Francisco Pizarro] . . . they had decided to stay. And that the Musus hold them, as we said before, in great esteem and that they are governed by them in peace and war.⁵⁰

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Without a doubt Garcilaso’s account holds important clues explaining the Inca presence in the Paytiti. However, these events do not necessarily precede the coming of the Spaniards, nor is it the only version that mentions Incas living in the jungle. Garcilaso had information concerning the various expeditions into the Moxos region, among them, those of Juan Alvarez Maldonado’s Relación (?), which offers another version of events: Passing the river called the Paitite, whose land has plains that begin passing said river, these plains are fifteen leagues wide [ . . . ] up to a mountainous range with a high peak of snow, similar to those the Indians have seen, like the one of Peru, the inhabitants of the plains are called the Corocoros and those of the mountains the Pamaynos. Of this land they report that it is rich in metals; in it there is great power of people in the manner of those of Peru that came from there. There are so many people who are strong and skilled in war that although Inga of Peru was such a great conquistador, and even though he sent many commanders many times, he could not make himself worthy through them, as they crushed him many times, and seen by the Inga as powerful as he was against them, he decided to communicate with the Great Lord of the Paitite, and by means of assistants, the Inga had petitioned that two fortresses next to the Paitite river be built in his name and memory to note that his people had arrived.

The natives of the Paytiti and the Incas had formed an alliance. However, Garcilaso offers another version that differs partially from the first about relations between the Incas and “Musus,” saying that since they were left with them “they recognized the Inca as lord and went to serve him and that they took many gifts each year.” The great mestizo chronicler thus favors his Inca ancestors. Garcilaso also notes that during the Maldonado expedition a blacksmith and a friar called Diego Martín were apprehended: “The Incas who remained amongst the Musus would be of great benefit for the conquest that the Spaniards wanted to make in that land.” Here one recognizes the Spanish strategy of using Inca refugees to help in converting the infidels.⁵¹ In a report dated around , Santa Cruz Pachacuti says that Topa Inca entered the Andes with , men and came upon a province of women called Guarmiauca (Amazons?).⁵² He encountered the Inkayoyas (or Iscaisingas, the men with split noses) “in this province called Dorado.” The Charcas and Chichas were conquered during the reign of Pachacuti.

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This expedition had as captains Amaru, his sons Amaro Topa Inca and Apo Paucar Ushnu, the latter of which was killed in an assault on a Chicha fortress.⁵³ To conquer the diverse populations of the territory called Charcas, who resisted the invaders, the powerful Inca army split into three groups and planned to close in from different points. A squadron of , men was sent through the jungle east of Cochabamba, and the other two squadrons took different routes. Sarmiento de Gamboa notes in , “That no one ever heard any more about the , Inca.”⁵⁴ The Inca armies lost during this campaign form a substantial part of the myth of the Paytiti, as they would have been the nucleus of the “neoInca” kingdom recreated in the heart of the jungle. Sarmiento de Gamboa attributes to Topa Inca the most organized expedition toward the east. In addition to the three groups mentioned, Topa Inca sent a fourth army that entered by Camata at the command of Apo Curimache, “who went via the route of the birth of the sun and walked until the river, of which we had news again, of the place called the Paytite, where he left the markings Topa Inca.”⁵⁵ Murúa’s story of Topa Inca’s conquest of the antis, jungle Indians who were considered savage by the Incas, differs little from those of Sarmiento or Santa Cruz Pachacuti. The Relación de los Quipucamayos attributes to Pachacuti the first conquest of the “mountains of the Andes and Carabaya,” including the Mojos.⁵⁶ The Inca penetration toward the east was so difficult that special engineering efforts were demanded to forge a route. The claylike floor and torrents of mud caused by the constant rains made it hard to find a path, and they had to seek the best hillside slopes, going through ravines and crossing rivers by bridges.⁵⁷ Also, the existence of scouting parties like the Ixiamás, Samaypata, or Cuzco Tuyo (Cuzcotuiro) demonstrated that the Incas planned to take over the region, although the conquest was far from complete when the Spaniards arrived. Pärssinen finds Garcilaso’s assertion that the Incas controlled some  leagues to the east of Cuzco is quite probable, since this is where the rivers Beni and Madre de Dios converge.⁵⁸ He also comments that when Ñuflo de Chávez visited the Xareyes in –, he found orejones (big-eared Incas) installed there. The oidor of the Audiencia of Charcas, Juan de Lizarazu (whose meeting with Pedro Bohorques will be described later) also speaks of “a province of the Orejones” situated near Itatín.⁵⁹ All of this suggests that the incas’ control of the frontiers extended as far as the sources of the Paraguay river. True or not, this information shows

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the eastern extension of the myth and suggests that the Guaranis may have transmitted these myths to the Spaniards of Asunción, who undertook their own expeditions to locate the “news” of the much desired great kingdom. Nonetheless, local chronicles—those from the people of Santa Cruz de la Sierra—show that this conquest were nearer to success than other historians knew. The chronicle of Diego Felipe de Alcaya () offers a curious explanation of how the Incas populated the Paytiti, situated in the Moxos.⁶⁰ Alcaya first comments on the entries that the Incas made up to the plains of Grigotá, ruled by the lord of Grigotá who was probably of Chane origin and who would offer vassalage to the Inca. The plains of Grigotá are in the area where the first foundation of Santa Cruz de la Sierra was later made. Alcaya says that the expedition was sent by the Inca (probably Wayna Cápac), or was sent by his son, Huascar, according to prior vague references. The captain of this campaign, Guancané, was murdered by the Guaranís who invaded the zone. To avenge these deaths, the Inca king sent a new expedition, and it too was crushed by the Guaranís. At the same time, he had sent out another group toward the Chunchos at the command of his nephew Manco Inca (the second king by this name, according to Alcaya) with , men. He reached the hills of Santa Cruz, just as Manco Inca and Guancané had done. According to Alcaya, Manco Inca received support from local Indians in building vessels and bridges used to cross many dangerous rivers. He finally arrived at Moxos, where he established his kingdom among towns of “very clean people,” farmers who dressed in cotton. Immediately, they recognized him as a lord. Manco Inca established his population behind the Paytiti mountain. Alcaya states, “In this hill one finds silver, and from there they obtain their metal and purify it, melt it and obtain clean silver. And thus as it was here that Cuzco was head of this kingdom, it is now that great kingdom of the Paytiti, called Moxos.”⁶¹ Once established, Manco Inca sent his son Guaynaapoc to Cuzco so that he could inform the king where he was located, while not revealing the riches he had found and thus risking their seizure. Arriving at Cuzco, the young Inca found that the empire had been invaded by Francisco Pizarro and that Gonzalo Pizarro’s brother controlled the city. Guaynaapoc’s uncle was being held prisoner for the murder of the king of Quito and “the other Inca residing in Vilcabamba.”⁶² Faced by these developments, some , men followed Guaynaapoc, taking along llamas and alpacas.⁶³ Arriving at

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the river Manatí, he established his men in order to expand the highland populations in the area. Manco Cápac thus consolidated his kingdom and he taught the population how to farm and to mine. The legends of such cities as the Paytiti and Manoa synthesize many of the elements found in these stories and accounts of expeditions, as do the myths scattered along the length of South America from which the legend of El Dorado was constructed. The story of the king who bathed in a lagoon with his body covered in gold dust, which comes from Ecuador, corresponds to the first expedition of Quito done by Benalcázar in , although it could have had even older roots.⁶⁴ We see it repeated in Manoa, and also in the Paytiti. The gardens with statues of gold that, according to Montesinos, were in the Paytiti; and according to Raleigh were in Manoa, are, as I have said, derived from reports of the garden at Cuzco. Added to these treasures was the rest of the bounty obtained in the first years of conquest. The lost Inca expeditions, or those seeking refuge in the jungle either to escape a despotic king or to flee from the Spaniards, in some ways reflected the rivalries for power among the Inca lineages in the war between Huáscar and Atahuallpa. On the other hand, these stories expressed the wish of the captains of the imperial armies to appropriate the territories they had won. In  Manco Inca fled to Vilcabamba to establish the neo-Inca state that remained successful until . With all these ingredients combined in a fantastic key, one can almost cinematically recreate how these new cities emerged in the heart of the green jungle.

Interpretation of the “Evidence” In the sixteenth century and especially the seventeenth, dreamers and explorers had to reconcile their overflowing imaginations and the irresistible attraction of the wonderful and fantastic with the increasingly rational mind of the Renaissance. As Maravall says, immoderate hopes did not preclude wisdom and charting routes to utopian worlds by using carefully selected evidence. Perhaps the most obsessive representative of this approach was León Pinelo, author of Paradise in the New World ().⁶⁵ A friend of other visionaries like Fernando de Montesinos, who also searched for the Ophir and the Paytiti, Pinelo lived in an intellectual climate in which imagination struggled against rationality, usually unsuccessfully. Pinelo was con-

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vinced that Paradise could be found in the center of South America, “in a circle with a diameter of  leagues and  leagues in its circumference.” The four biblical rivers, he believed, were the Río de La Plata, the Amazon, the Orinoco, and the Magdalena, filling myriad pages with his interpretations of what he considered erudite proof. He identified every trait attributed to Paradise in the region, supporting his argument with countless references. The author cited “convincing and well-founded evidence” to demonstrate that the New World had been populated before the great flood. It is interesting to observe how Sir Walter Raleigh participated in and manipulated this sort of fantastic information. He was told of headless men with eyes on their shoulders and mouths on their chests. And this seemed possible because Pliny had written about such creatures. Raleigh admitted that “some believe and others do not,” but he believed. He was a man of his time; for him, these myths were true stories. His failure to reach the desired locations did not discourage him; he merely found arguments to explain his failure. The most interesting report (for our purposes) was one told to him by a cacique on the banks of the Orinoco. The cacique indicated the route toward Manoa, the obstacles to be overcome and the alliances to be made; he listed the tribes and their cultural characteristics; he demonstrated his knowledge of the metallurgy the Incas used and the objects they made; he estimated how many men and what provisions he would need for the expedition—an interesting list of evidence. Raleigh’s requests were not adequate for the adventure he proposed, but he intended to return after obtaining the authority and means from Her Majesty, the Queen of England, whom he would convince of the advantages of a conquest. There is no better proof that Raleigh believed in the existence of Manoa than his written plan to justify his conquest, including the mutual benefits that would be obtained from such an enterprise. The Spanish were also eager to collect evidence. A Relación written by Juan Recio de León () about an expedition to the Chunchos tells of how a group of Spaniards interrogated the inhabitants about the routes leading to the Paytiti and about the characteristics of that kingdom.⁶⁶ His informants described a very powerful lord with many riches: The Indians of those islands [Mojos or the Paytiti] are so rich that they wear many pieces of amber around their neck. They are so fond of aromas, shells, and workers of pearls, which I saw on some [Indians] Anamas and

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in pointing out to them some grains of pearls that I had, I asked them if they were in those cochas [lagoons] and they answered that the Paytite gave them all these gifts and that since they did not know how to string up these grains they just threw them around. When I asked them where they obtained them, they said that they had also asked this question to the Paytite and that they answered from cocha (lagoon).⁶⁷

These informants also told them that up north, toward the kingdom of New Granada (now Colombia), were other people rich in silver and cattle, as in Peru. It is likely that they were referring to the Manoa, which shows how in the imagination of the Chunchos there were at least two groups of Incas seeking refuge in the jungle. These Indians were probably not speaking of the Kingdom of New Granada, but their information may have been construed as such by the Spaniards. Furthermore, the results of the Spaniard’s interrogations were dubious. One must also consider the possibility of inaccurate translation, a universal problem. Given the diversity of languages, these people must have had to resort to a chain of translations because they lacked a common tongue. In , Diego Ramírez Carlos entered the Chunchos, trying to pass as an Inca, in the company of friar Gregorio Bolívar. (See chapter .) In an extensive account of that expedition, Bolívar constantly mentioned the accounts that he heard concerning the quantity of gold and pearls to be found in the region. Nonetheless, attached to the manuscript of his Relación ⁶⁸ there is a new document from the pen of the oidor of Charcas, don Francisco de Alfaro, who made severe revisions regarding the supposed riches to be found in the Chunchos region and the river Beni [or Diabeni] and in the Paytiti, as Bolívar claimed.⁶⁹ Alfaro confirmed that Bolivar made the expedition, but he does not trust his report: He [Bolivar] does not distinguish his sources from those reported by others and what he saw as an eyewitness. And he might have been deceived, as usually happens, and thus I am not content with what he says about pearls and shells of nacre, not only about their great size, but whether they exist at all. I believe this after talking with many intelligent people over here and also because I’ve been around the world. Moreover, besides examining the account of said friar Bolivar, I have also examined those of captains and soldiers who have entered and have been on the other side of the mountain range, and I never heard of pearls in those rivers. In Santa Cruz I learned that there were some Indians towards the jungle

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who spoke of pearls, but later they could not be found; I saw only some little white objects that looked like bones . . . and one could easily be confused, as the Indians did not examine them well and did not know the languages of those regions. Also, I am equally doubtful about the reports of gold for the reasons already mentioned, and if I had seen any specks I would have considered them of little value.⁷⁰

We have seen how diffused these reports were. They not only developed into fantastic chimeras, but also moved hundreds of men to overcome all obstacles in the hope of realizing their dreams. Raleigh, for example, took back to England various samples of rocks containing small flecks of gold to have them tested for purity and was convinced that with the necessary tools he could obtain more commercially viable quantities. But all he found was no better than what was originally found. The same cold reason used by Alfaro to deconstruct the false evidence also called into question the mythology that spoke of enormous indigenous populations and powerful chiefs, because, in Alfaro’s words, “in the relacíon there are many differences, and these differences in names do not matter because there are ayllos of six or four, more or less, Indians and whoever reads this might consider them to be big provinces.⁷¹ Yet despite his prestige, Francisco de Alfaro’s opinion was not universally respected, and not everyone viewed Diego Ramírez Carlos’s adventure with mistrust. Ramírez had chosen to enter the province of Omapalca, whose inhabitants considered themselves descendants of the Inca—which is why the priests of La Paz, where he went in the company of a certain number of Indians from the plains, received him well, thinking once more that the coronation of an Inca could open new doors for the evangelism project. Alfaro’s attitude does not differ from that of Viceroy Toledo, who, a century before, had tried systematically to introduce order by eliminating the cult of the Incas. Yet these efforts failed. Neither Toledo, Alfaro, Sarmiento de Gamboa, nor anyone else could explain so many failed adventures. Religious men also failed because they used any means to evangelize, while knowing the difficulties the task entailed given the poor results obtained so far. Peru no longer offered easy riches, yet everyone wanted to be the first to get to the fabulous El Dorado and repeat the destiny of Pizarro and his company. These myths are shrouded in mystery and contradictions. On one hand, there is the strong influence of the Counter Reformation, whereby “free

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will is always conditioned by the will of Providence.” If Providence wills it, one may achieve one’s goals, provided one can decipher the signs pointing to the desired El Dorado.⁷² Alternating with the providential explanation is skepticism and mistrust demanding plausible proof. A belief in fables was yielding to Renaissance rationality, but there were stages in between: resorting to the testimony of the “relación,” or of eyewitnesses to affirm the existence of El Dorado, and all this manipulated according to the criteria of truth. It was a matter of convincing others; but, above all, convincing oneself to confront a hostile geographic terrain and a generally aggressive society. Besides this, a strong mythic thought, rooted in the antiquity and alchemy of the Middle Ages, as Gilbert Durand says, created an isomorphism between light, sun, and the golden. Gold was thought to be prevalent where there was more sun.⁷³ In the same manner, the myth of the incas in the jungle, doubtless a colonial production, has relevance because what was Inca was transformed into a sign of civilization confronting barbarism, and also mobilized the imagination in search of an archetype that was still believed to exist: the idea of seeing a segment of the old order still functioning. Which is why these projects, at least at the level of discourse, did not intend to “conquer it in order to destroy it,” but rather to do what had never been done since —to incorporate the ancient power and unite with it so as to construct a different world. Would it have been possible, or would the passions of men have destroyed it, as inevitably happens? All of these adventures were powered in part by a dream of heroism that necessarily meant conquest. For example, Raleigh expressly admitted that he wanted to imitate Cortes and Pizarro. Gilbert Durand says that memory and the imaginary stand as a sort of anti-destiny because they hide a bitter rejection of a disillusionment with reality.⁷⁴ These many contradictions pass before our eyes at each turn like a kaleidoscope.

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IV Pedro Bohorques in Peru

Written discourse constructs (or reconstructs, or creates) the documents upon which legitimizing history will rest. Tomás Eloy Martínez and Susana Rotker

I

mpostor, hoodwink, hero, or visionary: any such term could describe Pedro Bohorques, an emotionally unstable yet witty and seductive man from Andalusia capable of unexpected and contradictory behavior. The bishop of Tucumán, Melchor Maldonado, described him as a man of “noble understanding, not of a strict wisdom but astute.”¹ He was a figure of his time, an example of the passions and extravagant desires of the conquistadors. He was rash, shrewd, intuitive, ambitious, and unscrupulous, but sensitive to the social ferment that fed the collective imagination of the seventeenth century. Many scholars have studied in this time period the adaptive strategies of the Indians while ignoring the fact that Indians, as much as Spaniards, dreamed of independence. These dreams began as underground murmurs, then surfaced as subversive conspiracies that many refused to listen to but sounded as warning bells to the authorities, even though they never materialized into real rebellions. Pedro Bohorques was an astute observer who learned how to move among aboriginal societies, appropriating their discourses and their traditions, just as he was capable of using the ambitions of his contemporaries to further his own utopian proj-

ects. Following the biography of Bohorques will serve as our Ariadne’s thread, enabling us to negotiate the twists, turns, and sometimes hidden passions and contradictions of colonial society. Pedro Bohorques was a Spaniard, by his own account born in Granada as the legitimate son of don Pablo Bohorques Girón and doña María de Guzmán. This information is taken from the Memorial de Don Pedro Bohorques, composed in  or , a three-part document relating Bohorques’s knowledge of the region and requesting permission to make a new expedition to the area. In , Captain don Andrés Salgado presented a copy of Bohorques’s Memorial to the viceroy when asking permission to send an expedition into the Chanchamayo valley.² The second part of this document, a Diario, relates “the things that are being carried out” and tells of Bohorques’s subjection of the towns of Campas and Amueshas in Chanchamayo and Cerro de La Sal between August and October . The third part is the Actas del Cabildo of the city of San Miguel Arcángel de Salvatierra, in the Quimiri valley. This same information about Bohorques’s parentage appears in the pleito homenaje, ritual homage, that Bohorques presented in  in Pomán, a province of Tucumán.³ However, the Jesuit historian Pedro Lozano, in a history of the conquest of Peru published in –, contests Bohorques’s account and claims that his original name was Chamijo. (The name could have been written as Chamiço or Chamizo; the Relación of friar Hernando de Torreblanca gives the name as Chamijo or Chamico.) Both Lozano and Torreblanca agree that Bohorques changed his surname, a common practice at the time, although there are no documents to prove this.⁴ Lozano claims that Bohorques changed his name during a trip to Potosí and Porco, where he met a priest named Alonso Bohorques. Lozano writes in his account of Bohorques’s life, that Bohorques was a native of lower Andalusia, from a town called El Arabal (possibly El Arahal, some – kilometers from Utrera), “among the villas of Morón and Morales, states of the duke of Osuna.”⁵ Bohorques’s father was Pedro Chamijo, “a poor, ordinary man; and the whereabouts of his mother are unknown; it would not surprise us if the union was illegitimate, and it seems that this monster [the baby Bohorques] was abhorred and abandoned in  or a little later.”⁶ In Peru Bohorques was known both as Francisco and Pedro Bohorques, although some believe that these were two different people.⁷

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For his part, Constantino Bayle mentions that toward  there lived in Potosí a public notary called Gerónimo Bohorques y Guzmán, whom Pedro may have met on his visits to the area; however, this does not match Lozano’s story.⁸ The notary in Bayle’s account testified about an expedition in search of El Dorado made by Antonio Sotelo Pernía; these events could have been linked to either man. But the confusions do not end here. A letter from the Bishop of Tucumán to the viceroy of Peru states that Pedro Bohorques Girón was a native of Granada and that “the house of Bohorques was in Utrera.” Another letter, addressed to Bohorques himself, further explains his ancestry as “from the nobles of Spain (I know them Señor don Pedro, and the house, not the birth, is in Utrera, five leagues from my own in Seville).”⁹ In any case, there is no proof that Bohorques belonged to that family. Of course, he might have been a bastard, product of an outside relationship forced or voluntary, unacknowledged by his family (probably his mother’s family or even his father’s). This could explain why Bohorques did not boast about his past or offer further proof of his origins. There is little information about Bohorques’s physical appearance, except for a brief description from his time in the Calchaquí valley, which says that he was fifty years old, white, and blond.¹⁰

Origins and First Years in Peru The records concerning Bohorques’s time in Calchaquí contain no information about his Christian roots, meaning that he was “pure,” and not of Jewish or Moorish descent. This theme does not appear in the accounts of his Jesuit biographers, Hernando de Torreblanca, Pedro Lozano, and Constantino Bayle.¹¹ There could be some doubt about his “purity of blood,” although there is no evidence to sustain it. The French voyager Accarette du Biscay affirmed that Bohorques was of the Moorish nation, a native of Extremadura.¹² In fact, being Andalusian, born in the villa of Arahal, he could well have been of Moorish descent. According to Pedro Lozano, Bohorques was a cajoler from a very young age. His father admonished him for his devious behavior, which could explain why he fled his home, went to Cádiz, and entered the College of the Compañía de Jesús, where he learned to read and write.¹³ We do not know how he happened to enter the school, or whether he was a serious student

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—he could have been placed under the tutelage of some Jesuit who taught him his first words as payment for his services. Whatever his education, Bohorques learned to write a good hand, a better one than that of many contemporaries who came from better origins. This experience with the Jesuits might explain why he was able to develop good relationships with Jesuit missionaries in the Calchaquí valley. His relations with the fathers of the company could have also helped to mold and stabilize his mercurial personality. Like Juan Santos Atahuallpa in a later century, Pedro Bohorques owed his early formation to the Jesuits. There are many parallels between their lives and objectives, despite their different religious preoccupations. Juan Santos was accused of heresy, while Bohorques was not. Lozano maintains that Chamijo, or Bohorques, arrived in Peru about  in the company of his uncle Martín García, “el bellaco, or a rogue, of ill repute,” an illiterate man with few skills.¹⁴ From Pisco, he went to a small town called Quinga Tambo. Lozano (who delights in adding a string of insults after each sentence) says that he lived a free, picaresque, but miserable life. He married Ana de Bonilla, daughter of a mulatto or zambo whose wife was an Indian of Cochamarca. Bohorques’s father-in-law moved the young couple to a ranch in a grazing area of Castrovirreina, where Bohorques tended the cattle of his wife’s family. From Lozano’s description one gathers that Bohorques adopted the customs of the indigenous community, thus earning the low reputation of all Spaniards who lived among Indians. We do not know if this marriage produced children, but there is a record stating that Bohorques had two children. Even though Lozano takes a negative view of Bohorques’s activities among the Indians, his relationship with the indigenous community must have strengthened the main character traits that were displayed in his later adventures. Bohorques learned Quechua and must have become aware of the Andean cosmovision, acquiring an understanding at its source. With his good communication skills, he could have learned about the conflicts and distresses experienced by the indigenous people under colonial subjugation. He apparently moved easily between both worlds, which, despite continual conflicts between them, were attempting to merge during the seventeenth century. Although Lozano offers no proof, it must not have been difficult to develop such a pejorative account of the life of this poor Spaniard because he lived among the Indians.¹⁵ What Bohorques learned about the myths of Inkarrí and the Paytiti could have helped him understand the appeals of

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the noble curacas who based their claims on the historical memory of the Tawantinsuyu when they appeared before the viceregal courts to claim their rights. He would have also heard the songs or narratives contained in the taquis performed in the chicherías, the privileged spaces for their presentation. Lozano claims that Bohorques enjoyed gossip, like the typical Spanish pícaro. While Lozano regards him as a “corre veidile,” that is, a lower-class liar and creator of fables, we can interpret his complex personality in another way: he was a man between two worlds who recycled the information he obtained to feed the dreams of a poor Spaniard who went to Peru in search of gold and honor. There were few options in the New World for individuals such as Bohorques, doubly marginalized figures wrapped up in heroic dreams, pushed to explore new ways to rise in society. One way was to make new discoveries, and this is what he did. He soon went to explore the Peruvian east in search of the legendary Paytiti. After the death of his father-in-law, Bohorques abandoned his home and traveled to the valley of Jauja, and later to Guancavelica, where he married a woman who owned land in that area. This relationship produced at least one child. Faced by legal problems, Bohorques fled again toward the valley of Guanta, five leagues from Guamanga, and from there, having been accused of various crimes, he fled toward the Antis.¹⁶ In Guancavelica, he maintained contact with indigenous people who knew the eastern region. They may have informed him about the Paytiti and about the tribes and customs of the people of the jungle; two natives guided him in his first foray into the Antis.¹⁷ This expedition was probably carried out in , if one trusts Bohorques’s own testimony in the Memorial sent to the viceroy, the count of Chinchon in . In his mind, Bohorques was already constructing his journey toward the Paiytiti (or Enin—whatever the name of that marvelous country that attracted so many failed heroes). This chapter will try to show, step by step, how this myth entered the imagination of our hero, and how far a man might be willing to go, jeopardizing his life in pursuit of his boundless dreams.

First Forays into the Jungle (ca. –) In the third decade of the s, the Peruvian government decided to leave the conquest of the “unbelievers” in the hands of the religious orders and discouraged civilian proposals for financing their explorations. This followed Pedro Bohorques in Peru

the ordenanzas of Philip II issued in  that prohibited expeditions without a license and controlled all discoveries, conquests, and foundations. These expeditions were not to be financed from royal coffers, except for religious missions, which were to be helped as much as possible. However, the religious orders competed among themselves in this effort. Disputes erupted primarily between the Franciscans and Dominicans, and as I shall show, Bohorques attempted to capitalize on these conflicts by gaining support from one or the other order, for his own purposes. The Franciscans undertook the evangelization of Huallaga after . In , the priests Jerónimo Jiménez and Cristóbal Larios established a chapel in Quimiri, but died shortly afterward at the hands of the Indians. The chronicles of the Franciscan friars Diego de Córdoba y Salinas () and Joseph Amich () describe the first expeditions of their order toward the Cerro de la Sal and Quimiri.¹⁸ Coming down from the ravine of Tarma, to the east of the high mountains, one descends into the valley of Quimiri, land of Campas and Amueshas.¹⁹ The Quimiri valley is across the river Chanchamayo, “formed by the joining of three rivers.” Two leagues short of the Cerro de la Sal is the river Paucartambo, which later joins the Chanchamayo to create the Perené. This river must not be confused with another of the same name to the south, flowing into the Urubamba and perpendicular to the sources of the Madre de Dios rivers, where Mojos or Moxos is located—the most probable location for the Paytiti. We do not know whether Bohorques entered that area searching for a new route to the Paytiti, as he had news of another site, or whether he went there because of the fame of the Cerro de la Sal. In any case, his final objective was to reach the Paytiti, and on various occasions he would display a map showing a place he called the Paytiti. The Cerro de la Sal is of primary importance in this account. The mountain stands in the middle of a plain and catches the eye because of the color of its clay. The mountain provided salt, a rare resource in this area, for the populations of the piedmont and remote areas of the jungle. Salt was prized not only for its nutritional properties, but also for its highly symbolic content. The mountain became a place where numerous tribes periodically converged. Some distributed salt to those tribes without access to it, or with those who bartered with the mountain populations between Huánuco and Tarma.²⁰ This commerce enabled the Amueshas to gather a vast knowledge of the mountain peoples and to make themselves privileged intermediaries between two great cultures. This made it possible to establish a link Pedro Bohorques in Peru

with the Incas—relationships that fluctuated between vassalage and custody of the frontier, sometimes favoring the interests of the cuzqueños, and at other times preventing an effective conquest of the jungle people. All this mythology surrounding the Cerro de la Sal acquired a golden tinge in the collective imagination of the Spanish adventurers. Only gold could justify such zeal among the Indians, and such great mobilizations. From a center of encounters and exchanges, a source of scarce provisions for men of the jungle, the Cerro de la Sal became for the missionaries a field for making future converts; for the Spanish adventurers, it emitted a golden siren song whose call they could not resist. Shortly after their arrival in Quimiri, the priests Jiménez and Larios united forces with the Dominican friar Thomas de Chávez, accompanied by thirty soldiers. Here for the first time the Dominicans and the Franciscans contended for the same evangelizing space. The soldiers, on the other hand, came to look for gold, and their ambitions altered the evangelizing process of the friars. Together they initiated an expedition down the river Perené, accompanied by the cacique Zampati. Friar Chávez became ill and returned to the hill (cerro), and the rest were ambushed. It was Zampati who finished off friar Jiménez with his own hands. Despite these ill omens, the Seraphic order was not discouraged, and by  in the Cerro de la Sal they had established seven chapels or little towns, assisted by two missionaries and two lay brothers. A year later, friar Mathías Illescas established himself inland among the Campas, but shortly thereafter he disappeared, and only later was there more precise news of his death. Reports of riches housed in the Cerro de la Sal began to attract Spanish soldiers. By  Pedro Bohorques had probably made his first foray into the jungle, although we don’t know how or with what resources. Perhaps he financed his adventures with temporary jobs that enabled him to get some money together, but we have no precise information about how he funded any of his expeditions. Lozano attributes this first journey to the “clumsy enthusiasm of an unfaithful Indian woman with bad luck.”²¹ What is certain is that Bohorques returned to Lima with news of his discoveries and displaying as evidence rocks that contained gold, witness to the riches buried in the jungle. In his  Memorial, Bohorques said that he had been making “various forays and exits in these lands” for at least twenty years. Nevertheless, we have no proof concerning these forays. Lozano maintains that upon his return Bohorques was able to persuade

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Viceroy Conde de Chinchon to see him. He gained access, thanks to the good services of don Dionisio Pérez Manrique, alcalde of the court, president of the sala del crimen, or the criminal court, and later marquis of Santiago, “among other respected people [with] whom he won merit with the tall tales that he told of that land.”²² According to Lozano, the viceroy “kicked him out with anger and shame”; nevertheless, Bohorques was not discouraged and undertook another expedition. He persuaded a certain Juan Bernardo Agote, porter of Perez Manrique, to accompany him in search of fabulous mines. And thus he accomplished a new foray into the jungle, dragging along new companions who were as eager as he was to taste the honey of gold and power. These journeys may have been financed by people he convinced with his charismatic discourses. Despite the viceroy’s negative response, Bohorques’s own version of the meeting contained in the Memorial suggests that the count of Chinchón had given him his tacit but not official approval. As he says in his report of his fabulous discoveries in the jungle to be discussed later, “he decided to return to the land with official permission and took a few Spaniards with him.” This foray must have been made between  and . Here is our protagonist’s own account of the venture: [Bohorques] went to Lima to present this glorious enterprise to the Most Excellent Lord Count of Chinchon, to whom he gave an account concerning all that is referred to in this memorial, of how he returned to the land with permission and a few Spaniards that he took with him. Some of these Spaniards now present at the court, returned having extracted various Indians and riches already mentioned [I shall discuss the wonders he saw further on]. His Excellency, after having seen these (Indians and riches) and after learning of Bohorques’s true intentions was determined that with the passing of a few days, the Spaniards should hand themselves over to the religious order of San Francisco who have much affection and pity for the Indians.”²³

Bohorques claims that he warned the viceroy of the dangers that would be faced in this expedition if his presence was not guaranteed, noting that the Indians would not travel any further without his authority. Ultimately, the Indians killed all the Spaniards. Later, Bohorques says that he did not pursue this venture any more until the marquis of Mancera was made governor of Peru and authorized an entry by the Franciscans, taking along as

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“tongue and guide” Melchor Fernández de Monterey, brother of the third Franciscan order. According to Fernández, Bohorques “had entered the area various times.” Note that “don Pedro” represented himself as a necessary articulator, one who would help the missions convert the infidels. This must have been a key point in his strategy, and he used it many times with success, trying to combine cultural codes and the aspirations of two different societies. His main problem was that he only partly participated in each of these enterprises, which resulted in an incomplete, and often contradictory, account of events. Apparently the charismatic Bohorques was able to inveigle those he spoke with in his schemes, but later, disappointed in their trust, they reacted violently. In the Franciscans’ expedition with Monterey as a guide, Bohorques was commissioned to parley with the Indians; they had repeatedly threatened to block the Spaniards’ entry unless they came with Captain Pedro Bohorques. Monterey presented himself as his envoy and spent nine months among the Indians trying to persuade them to accept the religious men. According to Bohorques, “They answered that they would not give Monterey [authorization], nor would they allow the Franciscans to enter among them or any other person who was not accompanied by their captain don Pedro, and also said Monterey should leave.” On hearing this, the viceroy demanded that Bohorques, who was in Chuquisaca, should be found. He wrote to the president of the Audiencia of Charcas, don Juan de Lizarazu, requesting that he hand Bohorques over. He also sent out a second expedition of missionaries in the company of a certain don Diego de Zarzoza, supplied with , pesos, men, and weapons. This mission also failed, and for the same reason: the absence of Bohorques (at least according to his Memorial). Bohorques first claimed that the viceroy had sent for him when he was in Chuquisaca, but he later contradicted himself, claiming that he had remained at court and “that some sinister reports made against him were sent to His Excellency.” In the next sentence, to demonstrate his evangelizing fervor and his loyalty to the king, he asked the new viceroy, Conde de Salvatierra (to whom the Memorial was dedicated), for a formal authorization for a new foray, assuring him that all expenses—in money, men, and weapons—would come from his own pocket, but without revealing the source of these supposed funds. Up to this point, Bohorques had provided accounts in his Memorial concerning these first entries into the Peruvian jungle. Pedro Bohorques in Peru

Recall for a moment Father Lozano’s version. Among other “solemn people” whom Bohorques convinced to carry out the  expedition was the chronicler Fernando de Montesinos, a native of Granada who had arrived in Lima with Viceroy Conde de Chinchón in . Montesinos resembles Bohorques both in his place of birth and the approximate time of his arrival in Peru (although Lozano suggests a later date). Shortly thereafter, Montesinos began research for his Memorias Antiguas del Perú y el Ophir de España (). According to his biographer, Domingo Angulo, he also began to prepare for geographical expeditions, particularly to the Paytiti.²⁴ In the prologue to the  edition of Montesinos’s chronicle entitled Memorias antiguas historiales y políticas del Perú, Jiménez de la Espada asserts that Montesinos had written a history of the Paytiti, although I have been unable to locate it. Jiménez de la Espada mentions chapter  of the Memorias, in which Montesinos narrates his concerns about these discoveries: In the year  my cousin Francisco de Montesinos came by my orders to Tarama. There he obtained six important Indians, whom I accommodated in my house in Lima; they were esteemed and protected by the viceroy, the archbishop, the royal Audiencia, the tribunal of the Holy Office, and all the knights of the city, and they were dressed luxuriously by the viceroy with fine silks and were given other precious things. They returned to their lands by order of the viceroy, where Francisco treated them with the best care that any knight could offer, but they repaid him and all their favors with his death and the death of two Franciscans and of those in the company with no other motive but barbaric fury.²⁵

We do know that this date () coincided with the deaths of the Franciscan friars Cristóbal Larios and Jerónimo Jiménez. For his part, Jiménez de la Espada questioned how such a foray could have been made by Montesinos’s own orders, raising doubts over the legality of this expedition (although evidently it was tolerated by the viceroy, as indicated by later events as well as the report by Bohorques). Jiménez de la Espada wrote that these romantic histories of the Paytiti had the people of Peru “(including the viceroy) at the mercy of the inventions and frauds that, years later, revealed Hualpa Inca in the Calchaquíes to be the famous don Pedro Bohorques Girón.”²⁶ The links between these two characters and their respective stories cannot be more convincing. The so-called Francisco Montesinos (who up to this moment, is not mentioned in any of the chronicles Pedro Bohorques in Peru

or in the records of the religious orders) could have made that foray in the company of Bohorques; or—why not?—the two could have been the same person. In his narration, Fernando de Montesinos declared Bohorques, a posteriori, to be his nephew to hide his dealings with him. The coincidence that Pedro was called Francisco at that time does not seem fortuitous, given the nature of the links between them. To distance himself from adventures that might cause problems with the authorities, Montesinos may have “killed off” his nephew in the jungle. This hypothesis does not seem improbable. Evidently, the deaths of those who had returned to the Indians seems fully confirmed by Bohorques himself, although he does not mention the name of Fernando de Montesinos among those killed, and we should rule out the idea that he was the person mentioned by the name of Monterey, since he was with Bohorques in the campaign of . Analyzing the evidence, I will resort to a new argument. Concerning this episode, which occurred during the viceroyalty of the count of Chinchón around  or , Constantino Bayle affirms that while among the Indians, Bohorques had won the trust of the cacique and had married one of his daughters. “And playing both fields to achieve authority among the Indians and Spaniards, he persuaded his father-in-law to go out and pay homage to the viceroy, and one day he appeared in Lima, followed by a large entourage of barbarians, [Bohorques] dressed as a cacique and well provided with gifts, as evidenced in the silver and gold abounding in his dominions.”²⁷ Bayle probably found this information about Bohorques in the Archive of the Indies,²⁸ but as we have seen, the best support for these stories can be found in Bohorques’s own Memorial of . In any case, the stories of Montesinos, Barva, and Bohorques coincide at many points, such as leaving the jungle in the company of Indians, the gifts from the viceroy, and a return expedition from which Bohorques was excluded. Names have been changed, but not the events. All of this confirms that a relationship between Montesinos and our hero was not improbable, and also that the chronicler must have been in part responsible for financing some of these entries. In  there was another entry, which I have already touched upon, regarding some thirty soldiers, commanded by an unnamed corporal and accompanied by three religious men—among whom we find the Franciscan friar Matías Illescas. At first this company was well received by the Indians, but it was later ambushed, with almost all of them murdered (including

Pedro Bohorques in Peru

the religious men). Only two soldiers escaped death, one of them was Francisco Villanueva (whom Bohorques included in his last expedition). Once more, these events appear to have coincided with an episode mentioned by Bohorques, who blamed this atrocious act on the fact that the Indians’ demands had not been met and their claim that they would acknowledge only Bohorques as their delegate. After this time, the Franciscan missions to the Chanchamayo were disrupted for many years. According to friar Amich, some of this data about the events of – comes from the testimony of Captain Alonso Sánchez de Bustamante,²⁹ but Amich gives the erroneous date of .³⁰ The Jesuit historian Rubén Vargas Ugarte, in his Historia del Perú (), transcribes a summary of the testimony of Sánchez de Bustamante, which coincides, along general lines, with that made by Amich; in this case, however, Ugarte did not note the date of the events he narrated.³¹ On the other hand, in the Diccionario Histórico Biográfico del Perú, Manuel de Mendiburu affirms that Francisco Bohorques had enlisted thirtysix Spaniards in  in an attempted expedition to Enin.³² The end of the story refers to Bohorques’s capture by the viceregal forces, but once again we do not know whether these dates and reports were confused with the expeditions of the s and conflated with events of –, which are better documented. Bohorques could have made another entry between  and the – period.

Conquest of the Impossible What was Bohorques searching for, and what arguments did he use to gain the interest of his followers and patrons? As noted, Bohorques claimed to have written a Primera Relación (before the Memorial), which would have been sent to the count of Chinchón, but it has not been found. Father Amich mentioned a Relación written by Bohorques, saying that in it he had described Enin as the source of a rich and powerful empire. The Relación mentioned by Amich could be an introduction to the Memorial, or a prior one; one of these was summarized by Hipólito Unanue in the Mercurio Peruano.³³ However, neither reveals his sources with accuracy, and both present coincidences in the general discursive spirit attributed to Bohorques. Let us first look at the Memorial in lieu of the absence of the supposed Primera

Pedro Bohorques in Peru

Relación, before examining the one by the Franciscan and that by Unanue. These comparisons will enable us to follow the construction and reconstruction of the imagination, not only that of Bohorques but also of those who denigrated him. Following are illuminating paragraphs from the Memorial that show how Bohorques envisioned his utopias and through which we can explore the limits of his imagination—that is, the wonders that he claims to have found in the jungle. I will focus on analyzing those passages that describe the country about which Bohorques pretended to offer testimony. [Bohorques] says that twenty years, more or less moved by the zeal and service of both divine and human majesties, has carried out his own expeditions and exits to the land found on the other side of the Andes mountains and on the other side where the Marañón river is. He penetrated the interior of this area and gained knowledge of the extensive kingdoms and provinces that contain within a multitude of people that inhabit them, the particular costumes and customs of its inhabitants. The opulence, fertility, and abundance of fruits. The beauty and richness of its minerals of gold and silver, precious pearls and stones. (f. , r)

He enumerates the local plants and other products used as bait to lure the greedy authorities: cocoa, perfumed vanilla, “incense,” balsam, clove, pepper, cinnamon; following with the animals and rivers, fishing and their exchanges. Bohorques describes the Indians as follows: The land is inhabited by great populations such that many of them have areas of land up to two leagues of longitude although of latitude they only have five or six blocks (cuadras). The most dense populations are those located in the river banks, estuaries, and great lagoons. Because of the great dealings and commerce they have with their merchandise and fleets, they are naturally peaceful and domestic and very witty, their appearance is agreeable and beautiful, they are strong and generally well built and the whitest of color compared to other natives of these parts and many of them from different provinces are very white and bearded with long blond hair, they are lively, noble, and generous. They greatly abhor theft and pillage and adultery and drunkenness. These excesses are punished with severity, they are obedient, humble to their elders and lords, governed under their laws by some type of police, their native attire is a tunic made out of cotton and feathers of a variety

Pedro Bohorques in Peru

of colors that make them look quite handsome and pleasant to look at. They wear necklaces out of gold and crowns on their heads, earmuffs and gloves of the same with many feathers of different kinds and other weapons of this art. They use figures of animals and birds of gold adorned with pearls and precious stones.—There are lords of provinces so powerful and rich with vassals that they have under their government four or five domains and many others, of more or less power. [These vassals] recognize one sovereign who as understood by this supplicant [Bohorques] of the natives, as he has been within their groups and communicated with some of them, he has been able to know and understand them. [Bohorques] having lived among them much time has learnt their maternal language and with much industry and good manners always using it to win their will and much love, as he is treated so well that they communicate the greatest secrets to him because of kinship and relationship that he has made known to them by wearing their same dress and clothes so that they obey him when he orders them, and with much love, fear and respect as if he were their superior. (f., r–v)

Undoubtedly, if this Memorial dates from , then the myth of Bohorques was already being constructed in the expeditions preceding this one. To introduce the story of his conquests, Bohorques dedicated himself to describing nature, following the model of the probanzas and memoriales presented by all conquistadors. Among the plants, he included species that are not American but had existed in the dreams of the conquistadors since the arrival of Columbus. Bohorques paints a picture of an abundance of wonders. To elevate the prestige and importance of his discovery, he said that the Indians were white, or at least whiter than the mountain dwellers; later he praised their virtues. They were noble and generous, obedient to superiors, humble, abhorring adultery, theft, and drunkenness, and lawabiding with some sort of police—a people worthy of conquest. Bohorques constructed a picture that had nothing to do with the savages that everybody assumed were the only inhabitants of the jungle. He had found people with a “superior” level of civilization. Given what we know of the imagination of the period, these people were considered ancient offshoots of Inca expeditions. Bohorques suggested this when he said he had developed a “relationship” with them (we suppose that he passed himself off as an Inca, based on the events in Calchaquí), and because of this they obeyed him “with much love, fear, and respect as if he were their superior.”

Pedro Bohorques in Peru

There are three fundamental aspects to Bohorques’s discourse. First, it reveals how the imagination works, that is, its capacity for projecting a mirror while describing nonexistent cities more than two leagues long, inhabited by populations rich in precious stones and spices, pearls, gold, and silver. This image recalls a type of paradise of abundance modeled on the utopian ideal of an organized city, poised in perfect order, an ideal space whose inhabitants are adorned with the best virtues of citizenship. León Pinelo located the city of Thomas More’s utopia, surrounded by the wealth of a biblical paradise, in the heart of the Amazon jungle relatively close to the Paytiti. Second, with this hyperbolic description of the natural, human, and social landscape, Bohorques sought to interest the authorities in hopes of gaining their support. At the same time, he wished to prove his merits as a conquistador of new kingdoms to be placed at the service of Spain and, like other conquistadors, discoveries that would entitle him to receive privileges from the king. Bohorques thus tried to place himself high on the colonial hierarchical pyramid, elevated by his “discoveries” and deserving public recognition. Only with great pomp and fantasy could he deflect his listeners’ mistrust caused by his prior failures. His final strategy would be to present himself simultaneously as a conquistador and as an Inca. He thus projected, depending on who was listening, a double message that he used in Peru as well as in Calchaquí, to convince the authorities to support him, so that under the guise of Inca, “universally accepted,” he might carry out his conquest of the impossible. To be sure, when presenting himself as an Inca descendant, he never resorted to validating his royal connections with formal written resources, neither in his letters to the viceroy nor in those to the governor of Tucumán. He asked only for their tolerance in his strategy as a means of conquering these towns. This double message is further subdivided: one thing is what he said, showing his map and assuring his listeners that he was the owner of the Paytiti; and another is what he wrote, exercising greater prudence. If the prior Memorial that Bohorques refers to is similar to the one we have transcribed, we must suppose that the exaggerations contained in the commentaries or glosses of Amich and Unanue reflected the whims of their authors’ imaginations. But they also could have been influenced by an original whose descriptions were much richer and more amazing than the one just mentioned. Consider what friar Amich says about Bohorques’s account of Enin:

Pedro Bohorques in Peru

Some ambitious men of name and fame, in order to invent novelties, pretended that in these mountains there existed empires so powerful and rich that they provoked admiration with what they wrote and even more so to the press. Such was the Relación that in  don Pedro Bohorques spread about the empire of Enin, whose emperor made him lord of many kingdoms, giving him tribute as vassalage in gold, blankets, plumage, and other rich objects. He describes in it the origin and growth of such an empire, the genealogical tree of his sovereigns, his politics and customs, with the coronation ceremonies of the emperor and being given vassalage by the other kings. With the presentation of such circumstances and disposed to his liking, admitting novelty that the commoner embraces without examination, many people of distinction were persuaded of his existence, and with this he caused disruption in the spirits of many people in Peru. But obliging him to the carrying out of his foray, such were the excuses he came up with, that his falsity was revealed, and that the faked chimera of Enin was shown to be the child of his ambition. So similar was the Relación of the great Paytiti, that in the year  a certain Gil Negrete spread, with which he tricked don Benito de Ribera and Quiroga, citizen of the city of La Paz, he undertook his conquest with the necessary dispatch by the years , and after having spent in various expeditions more than , pesos, he obtained little fruit other than pains and deceptions, and thus remained poor.³⁴

The emphasized passages from Amich’s account show few differences from the Memorial already commented on. It describes a powerful empire governed by a great lord to whom many towns offered vassalage. But the claims about genealogy and the coronation rites have an evident layer of Inca history. It is a pity that this document has not been found, as it would enable us to compare it more precisely with Bohorques’s discourse and to better develop our knowledge of the history and traditions of the Incas. If we consider the wide diffusion of these traditions in the colony, it is possible to believe that Bohorques might have incorporated them and manipulated them for his own projects. Let us not forget his long stay with the indigenous people of the hills before his first incursions into the jungle. Let us also not forget Bohorques’s presence in the heart of the jungle, the home of Inca groups torn from Cuzco. The presence of Inca groups was an incentive that had moved many conquistadors to search for Manoa or the Paytiti, and in this Bohorques was no different from his predecessors. By this time authorities were finding it harder to validate the existence

Pedro Bohorques in Peru

of these fabulous countries, but many men of the colony nurtured a silent hope, fed by desires for glory and riches, whatever their position on the social pyramid. As late as the mid-seventeenth century, hope had not been exhausted of discovering a “new world” (an expression continually used in contemporary reports), and encouraging such hope was a game played by the viceroys up to time of the last Spanish inhabitant of Peru. We can determine the excesses of Bohorques’s imagination by comparing his account with the story told by Hipólito Unanue in an article published in the Mercurio Peruano in . Unanue, a well-known and cultivated physician, was a prominent representative of the Enlightenment in Lima. His account highlights the contrast between the overflowing imagination of Bohorques and the new models of nascent modernity. How much is true in Unanue’s story and how much is a product of this contrast is difficult to say. He describes the attempts of Bohorques (currently known as Francisco) to discover Manoa and the Paytiti in this way: Don Francisco Bohorques would have been happier if his deliriums had been true. In the year  he discovered Enin; he got to its borders and ordered that his arrival be announced to the monarch. His haughty appearance, his valor, his attire, and presence enabled him to gain entry to the capital. Its exterior appearance, its marvelous capitals, the order of its palaces and plazas, and the refined manners of its inhabitants, would have amazed anyone other than Bohorques. Notwithstanding, he was overcome with adoration before the view of the imperial palace. Constructed over a multitude of columns of pórfido and alabaster, its pavement bordered by a spacious gallery, whose edges were embellished by cedar and ebony, in to a thousand different figures. The majesty of the arcade cannot be expressed without saying that nature and art challenged each other in a competition for delights. The stairs and the atriums were sumptuous. In the interior of all rooms there shined over the jasper the work of mural artists portraying Augustan heroes, lords of that fortunate region. Rich carpets of feathers covered the floors, and in the air were perfumes of fragrant aromas. Our adventurer, entering the royal cabinet, found the sovereign reclining on his ivory throne and surrounded by his court council who occupied various levels of gold superior to those of Arabia. He was received with much humility and immediately placed under the regal canopy. The ceremony, parties, and tournaments with which the monarch wanted to shower his magnificence with, and pleasure, was a matter fit only for the pens of Homer, Virgil, or better yet Miguel Cervantes de Saavedra. Pedro Bohorques in Peru

At this point, Unanue adds this note: “Don Francisco Bohorques, after having tricked Peru with his false Enin, entered the area in the year  with  Spaniards to conquer it, and he committed such deceptions not only among the barbarians, but also in Jauja and Tarma, to the point where the government was forced to send troops to apprehend him, which they most happily carried out, and sent him to Valdivia with Villanueva, who was his Capitán General.”³⁵ This note indicates that Unanue was referring to the first Relación, and the differences between his account and the introduction to Bohorques’s Memorial could confirm this. But let us examine the image that Unanue presents. First, notice the ironic tone that pervades his entire story. For the enlightened Unanue, Bohorques was a man of another century and (as I have said) given to exaggeration. In his own way—albeit in a style less elaborate— he could have related what Unanue attributed to his delirium. Unanue began his article by distinguishing among three types of men: poets, philosophers, and adventurers, placing Bohorques among the last. But he was not kind to the first two categories either. Of poets, he said that they “introduced lying even in heaven and made it worship the stupid mortals”; and of philosophers that they “dispose despotically of nature and of her magnificent works and pull along with them the Republic of the sages.” He did not speak of the sages, but they may have been the only ones meriting his intellectual respect. Differing from both the Memorial text and friar Amich’s story, Unanue focuses on the magnificence of the buildings, the unfolding of riches, and the ceremonial order in Bohorques’s utopia. The descriptions are a blend of the oriental palaces of the Arabian Nights with ceremonial models from the medieval world, still alive in the seventeenth-century imagination, even in America. They resemble the festivities honoring the coming of the viceroys, in which colonial pomp reached heights of magnificence. Curiously, years later Pedro Bohorques found himself with the governor of Tucumán in a phantasmagoric city called Londres receiving such honors. On this occasion Londres (at the time nothing but a ranch in a rural property), was the site for grand reception ceremonies, homage, and tournaments reminiscent of medieval times. It seemed that Bohorques’s wildest dreams and utopian fantasies became a reality at last. Other individuals also made their utopian fantasies real. In the eighteenth century, the famous marquis of Villeumbroso, encomendero, hacendado, businessman, and corregidor of Cuzco, built a hacienda at Quispicanchis, near Oropesa in the region of Cuzco,³⁶ described as “the best rural Pedro Bohorques in Peru

palace in all of Peru.” It was constructed “fully of stone, with a handsome appearance, a wide park, and three patios closed with double arches, pillars of alabaster and statues imported from Italy and France.” ³⁷ José de Mesa and Teresa Gisbert agree, describing Quispicanchis as “the formation of an ideal, almost a utopia. . . . His residence had a pond, two gardens on different levels, and in them seven fountains. This garden is raised above the plain like a platform, from where one can see the whole valley.”³⁸ There were also plans for building homes on the grounds to house the art works the marquis had in his hacienda. To complement the parallel, the marquis claimed to be a descendant of the Incas and commissioned twenty-four canvases for his rural chapel depicting the twelve kings and their twelve ñustas.³⁹ Valleumbroso had himself called apu and he spoke as much Quechua as French. Did he also assume several identities? If some could bring their utopias to life, why couldn’t Bohorques give way to his wishes and fantasies? In America, all was possible. And for this he embraced the greatest adventures, working hard to realize his chimeras. Here again is the same question: do visionaries draw a line between reality and myth? Again, everything has a double meaning in the memoriales sent to the viceroys, all of which have a strategic objective: to convince them that conquest was possible. Bohorques, unlike other explorers who confessed that they had never reached the heart of those fabled countries, resorted to personal testimony. He saw it, he was with the king, he touched the riches and besides they found in him the man of rank who should conveniently be honored. One finds the same intersection of meanings in the Memorial. Bohorques considered himself a sufficiently gallant and fine figure, brave and headstrong enough to carry out conquests for the glory of both majesties. The high degree of civilization of the people he claimed to have found would favor the diffusion of the Gospel; their riches would provide precious stones for the royal crown; the Peru of the highlands would attract so many men seeking their fortune wandering about the country; and he, Pedro Bohorques, would achieve the glory that had flooded his dreams. There are various ways of transforming desperation or desire into hope. Laplantine writes that one way of escaping history is to make a fantastical projection of oneself onto “‘another place,’ where men’s happiness will be organized in perfect detail (in the construction of utopias).”⁴⁰ Thus whereas some may have found Bohorques’s constructions implausible, it enabled him to organize his own order in a way that overruns his own rational self.⁴¹

Pedro Bohorques in Peru

By the eighteenth century it became difficult to accept such claims uncritically. Bohorques’s exaggerations damaged his credibility, and even his contemporaries listened with much distrust. But in the seventeenth century it was still possible to ask, as a last resort, a nagging question: what if his story were true? To expand on this I shall show how the life of Bohorques developed between the s and s, and I shall describe those who intervened in his favor, as this helps to explain the colonial context.

Bohorques in Chuquisaca With the exception of Father Lozano’s story, there is very little independent data concerning Bohorques’s travels during these years.⁴² It appears he fled from the court of Lima and went to the Collao; from there he moved to the Larecaja valley, doorway to the Apolobamba valley, inhabited by the various jungle tribes called the Chunchos.⁴³ His attempts to get to the Paytiti by this route were apparently frustrated, and he returned to La Paz, then headed toward La Plata, home of the Audiencia de Charcas. His presence did not go unnoticed, and on orders from the viceroy, the president of the Audiencia, Juan de Lizarazu, ordered his capture. Lozano says that Bohorques was “made prisoner in the jail of the Court with shackles and chains.”⁴⁴ But Lizarazu was also interested in the Paytiti, once more demonstrating that the utopian dream of El Dorado was shared by men from all social classes. Lizarazu gathered all the stories of the Paytiti that were circulating around Charcas, and thanks to him, they were saved and later published.⁴⁵ He proceeded in the same manner with Bohorques, whom he personally interrogated. In Lozano’s words, “This gentleman [Lizarazu] was not properly warned, listening to these deceptions with all ears, as [Bohorques] was so skilled in telling them that he made them sound credible.”⁴⁶ Bohorques showed the president a map of the great Paytiti, personally testifying to its existence. Let us not forget that when Bohorques wrote to the viceroy, he had already mentioned this resource as visual proof that would legitimize what he said. The map helped to give his story credibility. Lozano says that he showed the drawings to the Incas, showing each of them the precise territory where they might exert their authority. Lizarazu not only believed him, but also set him free, invited him to his table, and wrote to the viceroy in his favor to help him get the resources necessary for

Pedro Bohorques in Peru

his expedition. This support must have convinced the viceroy, despite his mistrust. The visitador Juan de Palacios had Lizarazu branded as friend of “ruinous and rebellious persons,” with the result that he was sent to the Audiencia de Quito, far from the object of his fantasies.⁴⁷ As a complement to this story, Lozano says that taking advantage of his liberty, Bohorques went to Porco, seven leagues from Potosí, where he met an evangelizing priest named Alonso Bohorques. On the grounds of their possible relationship (Bohorques presented himself as Alonso’s nephew), he convinced Alonso to fund his conquest enterprise. Lozano imagines that the simple priest already imagined himself as an “archbishop of Apolobamba and metropolitan of the great Paytiti.” Lozano says that taking advantage of this money, Bohorques fled from Porco and headed toward the Andes of Moyobamba (in eastern Bolivia) and “entertained himself two years among the barbarians.”⁴⁸ After this time Bohorques headed again to Lima, where he sought an audience with the viceroy, the marquis of Mancera, this time soliciting the support of his son, don Antonio Sebastián de Toledo. Up to now, I have related Lozano’s story with few additions on my part. As one can see, Bohorques repeated the attempts of numerous men who had chosen these routes to the Paytiti. His relationship with the president of the Audiencia de Charcas demonstrates that what Bohorques was pretending was not exceptional. His personality was in his favor when he found anyone willing to hear him out. He must have been very persuasive, able to speak with great skill, programming it and restraining his boundless ambitions, adding enough precise details to make his statements seem credible. His map and his drawings confirmed his testimony. In Lima, Bohorques initiated a new pilgrimage in hopes of obtaining formal authorization to carry out another expedition to the Paytiti. This time he was finally successful, as the new Viceroy Salvatierra accepted his petition, and in  Bohorques was once again in the Peruvian jungle.

The Authorized Expedition to the Jungle, – First I shall discuss the political context in which Bohorques set off on his new enterprise. Fernando Santos points out that his relationship with the Dominicans might have played an important role in his forays between  and , as the missionaries could have accompanied him on prior

Pedro Bohorques in Peru

expeditions.⁴⁹ Following the events I have narrated, Santos himself affirms that relations between Bohorques and the Franciscans had changed, and they very well could have been his accusers before the viceroy. In the conquest of the infidels of the jungle, there was always rivalry between missionaries and civilians, or “soldiers.” The missionaries believed that religious conversion could be achieved by peaceful means and that the conquest expeditions were ruining their efforts among the Amazon aborigines. These problems arose also for the Dominicans, and Bohorques was once more accused of causing the failure of their attempts at conversion. To support this charge, Fernando Santos cites two reports, one from  by friar Antonio de Olmedo, preacher and priest of Tarma, and another from , by friar Diego González de Valdosera, administrator of the hacienda of Yanamayo and Chanchamayo. Let us first review the Dominicans’ earlier work in Quimiri and Chanchamayo. The regular missions of the Dominicans in the Cerro de la Sal began around , with the personal intervention of the provincial of the order, friar Francisco de La Cruz, another individual whose biographical data invite us to focus on him for a moment.⁵⁰ He was a native of Granada, born in the last years of the sixteenth century. Thus we see two similarities with Bohorques: both were from Andalusia and were approximately the same age, so they could have had some sort of bond, their youth in Spain or adulthood in Peru. At a young age, de la Cruz left his home and set out for the Indies. He entered the Dominican order and was twice provincial of la Casa de Lima. He established the church of Acobamba in the province of Tarma or Tarama (which, let us not forget, was the gateway to the jungle in those areas, and the place from where Bohorques set out when undertaking his last foray). Francisco de la Cruz left Tarma in company of friar Luis Triviño and was preaching in the area of Quimiri and the Cerro de la Sal, where Bohorques settled some years later. In , de la Cruz was made bishop of Santa Marta. Before assuming this post, he was given a mission in Potosí and became involved in the disputes between producers of mercury or quicksilver, and curacas over the number of Indians who would be conscripted for the mita (see chapter ). Bishop de La Cruz supported the Indians, and in a situation that is still unclear, was apparently murdered by the henchmen of quicksilver workers.⁵¹ This act of the bishop, showing his sympathy with Las Casas’s philosophy, suggests a similarity with Bohorques, who tried to get the Indians to accept him as a legitimate interpreter and defender against

Pedro Bohorques in Peru

colonial domination. Because of this, if de La Cruz and Bohorques met (although there are no data to establish this), they would have found common cause in their defense of the Indians. From his headquarters in Tarma, friar Francisco de la Cruz personally initiated his conversion of the Indians, and, having established the town of Santo Domingo de Soriano, he continued his mission up to the river Chanchamayo, where he appointed as preacher friar Luis Triviño. This enterprise was initiated during the time of the viceroy the marquis de Mancera. In the account presented in , friar Antonio Olmedo offered a story of the evangelizing labor of Father Triviño, who had founded three towns with their churches, one of Sayria (sometimes spelled Zayria), one at La Santísima Trinidad of Quimiri, and one at Los Doce Apóstoles del Cerro de la Sal, “where all the Indians from the North Sea get salt and make deals.”⁵² His reservations appeared to be successful, until the foray four years later by don Pedro Bohorques, with the authority of Viceroy Conde de Salvatierra. De la Cruz’s work with the Indians was destroyed, and the Indians fled to the jungle, “leaving behind said towns” and going back to their idolatrous practices. After Bohorques left, de la Cruz was taken captive by order of the viceroy, and, according to friar Olmedo’s narrative, friar Luis Triviño, along with other priests, continued to evangelize among the Indians, opening new pathways into the heart of the jungle. De la Cruz visited these missions in .⁵³ The reservations were organized with native authorities, making appointments to the posts of alcalde, regidor, sacristan, cantor, and fiscal, and setting up a school to teach the Christian doctrine. According to friar Lineros, Bohorques arrived “with the name of a conquistador”: Without going any further, Bohorques and the other Spaniards with him, remained in the newly established towns, where they stayed nine months, frequently assaulting the Indians recently converted to the faith and all those from La Puna, taking their women and daughters away and burning their homes and throwing them into prison. This resulted in their fleeing inland to the Indians ancient habitats, deserting the new establishments, and all of them going back to their idolatries and errors. And of these happenings the royal government of La Ciudad de los Reyes was informed, issuing the necessary remedy and provisions with a warrant against don Pedro Bohorques and his group to remove them and return them captive to the jail of the court of said city. They were sent to said jail, and for this reason they were condemned to the prisons of the kingdom Pedro Bohorques in Peru

of Chile, Pedro Bohorques and Francisco de Villanueva, who at this time are serving His Majesty.⁵⁴

To begin with, we observe the apostolic labor among the Indians of the jungle and the fugitive Indians in La Puna. Many authors testify that Indians of that origin had sought refuge in the Quimiri region. These Indians were always considered more “civilized” and good allies of the evangelizing mission. Although they seem to have added little to the success of the mission, to avoid an obvious recognition of failure, they chose to point a finger at Bohorques and his group. The report of friar González Valdosera in , requested by the lawyer of the Colegio de Santo Tomás of the order of the preachers, shows some important differences from friar Olmedo’s account. He said that for more than seven years, the priests “did not carry out any kind of work that could be of advantage to the evangelizing mission, throwing away the little good that was accomplished.”⁵⁵ Furthermore, Valdosera affirmed that he had to open new paths to the pampas of Chanchamayo. Regarding the Bohorques episode (whom he blamed for the failure of earlier reservations), he said that the Indians had fled inland due to “tyrannies and assaults that D. Pedro Bohorques and other Spaniards had done to them, hanging their cacique and taking away their daughters and women and thus breaking up their towns.” To complement this information, various friars and secular men offered testimony. One of these, Ignacio de Ochoa, said that the cacique who was supposedly executed by Bohorques was D. Bernardo Santuna; if this witness accused Bohorques of mistreating the Indians, he continued his report on the missions of the region, in part betraying his prior opinions of the rest: “And this witness was able to understand that the gifts and praise that said friar [Diego González Valderosa] had given them were simply to deceive them in order to put them in reservations and if they continued to assist him, he [Valderosa] had it in his head that they would all be subjected to our holy Catholic faith … given that at the present moment there was no one who would induce them to go against what said father had in mind.”⁵⁶ The last phrase reveals the problems the missionaries had to face, as the conversions were also illusory. Thus it was not about ill treatment, but, as I shall argue later, Bohorques tried to induce them, as the witness said, to go against the civil and religious authorities. Knowing the later conduct of don Pedro in the Calchaquí valley, one finds it unlikely that he mistreated Pedro Bohorques in Peru

the Indians, as he sought them as allies for his own projects of fostering an uprising and a separatist movement. On the other hand, his marriages to indigenous women, which the Dominican priests regarded as acts of aggression against the Indians, were not seen from the same perspective by the Indians. This was a necessary means of establishing alliances, and for Bohorques it was a tactic to force his in-laws to collaborate with him. So that the natives could benefit from his protection, as he promised in his speeches, Bohorques might have offered to help organize them and thus prevent their being conquered. He “induced them to opposition”; at least this was the tenor of Bohorques’s harangues to the Calchaquíes, and one supposes that such practices had previously gone on in the Peruvian jungle. This is apparently confirmed in the testimony of Ignacio Ochoa. I shall now analyze Bohorques’s strategies; but it is important to note when they appeared, to give empirical consistency to these discussions.⁵⁷ As we have seen, Bohorques finished the first part of his Memorial by claiming that he was not asking for money for the new expedition he was petitioning for, nor for supplies (as he may have obtained them from those who had supported him in the viceregal court); he claimed that his companions would go at their own expense and that they would be eyewitnesses to what the viceroy wished to know concerning his discoveries. He also maintained that he had come to this court “stimulated by the same Christian zeal and desire that he has always had to serve God and His Majesty. To bring the faith and excellence of the Holy Gospel to so many souls, and for his king and lord extensive kingdoms and a great number of vassals and riches” (f. , v). Following are the substantial parts of the decree, which were inserted in the Memorial, by which the viceroy gave Bohorques license and authority to command the army: Decree Lima, January , . That he be given the license he asks for to make this foray with the necessary companions without firearms, as is mandated in the royal decrees of His Majesty, and that no impediments be made upon him by the Justice, nor any other persons. He must be given all the favor and necessary help. Troncoso. (f. )

Another presentation by Bohorques expressly states that he wished to be given authority over his group, a condition that had not been clarified Pedro Bohorques in Peru

in the above decree. In response, there is a second decree accepting his petition, saying “that the companions who would wish to go with the petitioner to this foray must be under his command,” followed by the “Decision,” in which the count of Salvatierra confirmed the expedition and gave him authority over his group, reconfirming that they must enter without weapons, and that justice must help them and not obstruct them. The studiously laconic style of these decrees is striking. Bohorques was not given any sort of title, he was not entrusted with making any foundations, he was advised not to distribute Indians to the encomiendas; nor was there any stipulation that his foray would benefit the conversion of the Indians. Without a doubt, the viceroy was either responding to outside pressures, which obliged him to participate, or he was victim to his own avarice. If Bohorques succeeded in his enterprise, and if he found the desired gold, new agreements could be drawn. For the moment, he only received minimal authorization, without an ounce of consideration. Once more, there is no explicit information about the financing of his foray, but each participant must have chipped in, as happened in all the discovery campaigns from the sixteenth century onward. Bohorques, using his charismatic gifts as always, must have obtained funding from individuals who hoped to be rewarded when the promised riches were obtained. At least, this was the tactic that was used in northern Argentina, where the hacendados and encomenderos whom he visited on his journey to Calchaquí supplied him with provisions, animals, clothes, and jewels as investments that would guarantee the donors’ future participation in the new conquest. Following the content of the Diario in the prior story, it records that while traveling to his first destination, Bohorques presented papers given to him by the viceroy at the Reservation of San Francisco Soriano, founded by the Dominicans, fourteen leagues from the town of Tarama. Bohorques said that they would receive a pay of seventy-four reales. Nonetheless, it was not clear who legalized this presentation, as no civil authority was mentioned, and regarding the pay, the document read: “Decision of the sargento mayor of the government and notary of the army and major alguacil and officials of the militia in the town of Santo Domingo Soriano on August , ,” with no further explanation. Apparently, friar Triviño was not at the reservation at that time, and in this case Bohorques was free to exercise his own judgment. Bohorques set down some details of these preliminaries in the presence of local authorities (whose names he does not mention) and sent them to Pedro Bohorques in Peru

be presented to his companions (some sources speak of forty-six men, but in the Diario no number is given), “from the minor to the greater.”⁵⁸ The notary of the expedition says that Bohorques “gave them a prudent talk giving them to understand how they came to instruct those barbarians to follow the law of the Gospel, and that they be Christians in order to instruct them in the faith and good customs, and that in that very manner they give obedience to our Great Monarch Philip IV, for it was necessary to name as principal sergeant of the things of government and militia, and the public notary for the rest, and the alguacil mayor in name of His Majesty. And in this manner, officials of the militia were all concerned with the good government and disposition of this discovery” (f. ). In organizing his force, Bohorques made these appointments: don Andrés Salgado de Araujo was to be first officer, principal sergeant of government and militia, and public notary; Nicolás Hortiz de Aro, alguacil mayor of the militia; Juan Cano, captain of cavalry; Sebastián Frutuoso, captain of infantry; don Andrés Salgado de Araujo and don Francisco de Rojas Pacheco, second lieutenants; and don Tomás Pérez de Ayala, sergeant. Salgado de Araujo writes: “He ordered that the first priority would be to transfer said provision and title and that a book be made from it, entitled the things that are being undertaken and being made in the entry and discovery of the mountains of the Andes and the River Marañón, in which will be described the election and other events that occurred on this day and that the recording of events should continue as they happen day by day; . . . they signed it said Captain Pedro Bohorques, Melchor Fernández de MonteRey, Salvador Sánchez, Salvador Martínez de Figueroa, don Antonio de Alvarado, Joseph de la Barrera, and myself, don Andrés notary, named so that it be noted at all times” (f. , v; f. ). Bohorques clearly intended to endow his foray with all the usual formalities and to follow current legal norms. For this reason the Memorial, like the Diario in which the details of the foray are told, takes the form of a probanza of merits. With these acts, or juridical “rituals,” Bohorques demonstrated his desire to join the elite company of great discoverers, by playing down his reputation as an impulsive storyteller, and clearing his name of all suspicion of being a simpleminded adventurer. Maravall says that it is typical of the baroque sensibility that even men who lived in the realm of fiction did not forget to use tactics, as they were shrewd and knew how at times “to use prudence to offset a lack of moderation.”⁵⁹ Things would continue this

Pedro Bohorques in Peru

way, with Bohorques trying to gloss over with these ceremonies any suspicion of his double intentions. His conduct is a living reflection of his idiosyncratic personality. He always oscillated between the demands of his expansive dreams and his knowledge of reality. Maravall regards this type of baroque prudence as putting necessary limits to a lack of moderation.⁶⁰ Bohorques knew the requirements of a good vassal, and he believed that this was all he needed. As proof of this, immediately following these first formal paragraphs, which conform to the law, are those deviating from it. As the first act of his foray, Bohorques took “possession of the town and settlement of Santo Domingo Soriano and its domain on August , ,” giving himself the title of “lord governor discoverer” (f. ). Thus he violated the first pact made with the viceroy by trying to create a civil government as part of an evangelizing mission. Writing as a governor would allow him to feel like a governor. He did not care if he exceeded the limits in his attributions, he needed to act, speak, and write as if he were governor. He trusted the power of the word; the word reestablished the dictates of his imagination. Bohorques resorted to power of the word to give his testimony of Paytiti with all its marvels and to construct a legitimizing setting for his aspirations of being a governor. With the Spaniards as well as the Indians, Bohorques’s astuteness and intuition revealed his conviction that the word was an efficient instrument of power. He did not need to be consecrated by the king, nor did he need to be knighted to feel like a knight. After that moment, the discourse dictated to his secretary Salgado would communicate his new spirit, even when his actions appeared to infringe the noble laws into whose class he had just been incorporated by the grace of a manipulated ritual, and he would always be this way; the kaleidoscope of his personality would lead him into a labyrinth without an exit. The “founding” ritual followed its usual course. Bohorques appeared before an Indian woman, “who found herself ” as a representative of her community, given that the area was practically unpopulated, a detail noted at the end of the ritual. There was also no possibility that this formality would make vassals of the native inhabitants, since no cacique or warrior was present to legalize the event. On the other hand, this was not especially necessary. The foundation ritual in itself did not entail real vassalage from the Indians. This was a matter of conquest; the city could emerge even in hostile territory. As a second gesture, Bohorques planted the rollo of justice, a cylindrical

Pedro Bohorques in Peru

piece of timber that functioned as a symbol of power and justice, in the center of the plaza and carried out an essential segment of the ritual.⁶¹ As it is described in the Memorial: They put themselves on his right side. The Spaniards with their weapons in their hands, ready for anything, and with ropes on fire, containers on their waists with powder and bullets. And to their left side they had an Andean Indian woman, and he took a stone in his right hand and he threw it to the foot of the pole. This done, and armed with all the weapons of iron used for war, don Pedro Bohorques took a sword in his right hand, and in his left a round shield of iron, and went to the pole and, raising his right hand, stabbed it, and in a loud voice for all to hear, he said, “Possession by our Holy Catholic Faith,” and all his companions and discoverers responded, “Possession.”

This performance reflected the symbolic game of gestures and words used for founding settlements. Here Bohorques accomplished one of his dreams: to be a founder of cities, and this act was carried out according to the rules of dramatic representation. As others have stated, the city “is the object of a construction of the imaginary.”⁶² Gestures and words are intended to touch the springs of emotion in the participants, and they, in turn, expect a similar gesture from the spectators; in this case, these were the Indians, who played a double role both as participants and observers of the drama. Notwithstanding, the reader might be surprised by the poor entourage, the social void indicated by the presence of a solitary Indian woman, of the almost absurd pomposity of these gestures and words; but this is not an exceptional case. These are the characteristics of hundreds of foundation stories from the continent. Many cities were established in the face of the natives’ profound incomprehension of the significance of the symbolic ritual. What is important here is that by this action Bohorques incorporated himself into the social level he wanted to belong to; and although his gestures and speeches, such as when he gave himself the title of governor, may have been tainted with contradictions, he was able to make them converge by achieving one of his dreams in this ritual. Through a theatrical performance, he appropriated a territory that ultimately he never really possessed. As Boixadós observes, the symbolic value of these foundation ceremonies consisted in appropriating the natural space: the land (by means of

Pedro Bohorques in Peru

planting a rollo); the air (ritualized by cutting branches and pulling up plants); and the human space, brandishing a sword in a menacing gesture and asking if anyone opposed this act of aggression and possession. In this way, Bohorques legitimized the appropriation of lands that belonged to the Indians. The land and its inhabitants had to be conquered by force, or, as in this case, through the power of the word. Such rituals contain a performative aspect “by which the mere act of undertaking reaches a change of state, where something is effectively accomplished.”⁶³ Indeed, when territory and people come into the hands of new masters, the nature of space and social conditions change. The foundation acts described in the Memorial skipped some stages in the sequence of actions and gestures, but the most important elements were respected, and with this Bohorques assimilated (or self-legitimized) his own position as founder. Yet I must express a doubt. Was that city really founded? No independent source confirms it; the missionaries mention the arrival of the group but do not speak of any foundations. Were the rituals really carried out, or were they only written about, the author seeking through words the magic power he sought through these actions? Was it through this “scribal” exercise, by “representing” actions desired but not realized, that Bohorques wished to acquire the status of founder? Bohorques had already described imaginary cities, and he may have once more defied the audience for whom the Memorial was written—that is, the viceroy—by inventing a ceremony that never took place. Thus we have the word that took on a performative sense, allowing Bohorques to set in motion the chain reaction he desired. In any case, the events that followed this act, with the decisions carried out by the cabildo and the distribution of the lands, indicate that there was minimal organization and that, above all, events were driven by a sheer will to appropriate the region. As I have shown, the Indians who had abandoned the reservation in the company of a certain Francisco de Villanueva surely knew of don Pedro’s arrival and put up a resistance, despite Bohorques’s affirmation that his presence would guarantee the success of his expedition. On September , , Bohorques and his men arrived at the river Chanchamayo, seven leagues from Santo Domingo Soriano, where they were attacked by the Indians. The Indians, protected by cotton escaupiles, padded shirts worn to protect against arrows, survived, but for eight days they could not continue their advance or cross the river. To remedy the situation, they built ingen-

Pedro Bohorques in Peru

ious devices to deviate the current.⁶⁴ Finally, the Andean Indians (natives of the Antis) approached in a boat to where the Spaniards were and offered their obedience to His Majesty. Bohorques responded cautiously to the Indians’ proposal, but he boarded the boat and asked his companions to follow. Only Andrés Salgado (author of the account) accepted the challenge. On the other side, they were received by  armed men with colorfully painted faces and wearing war clothing, commanded by their cacique, don Bernardo Santuma. Bohorques and Salgado were received in the center of the clearing where the Indians had laid down their bows and arrows as a sign of peace. They were offered a place to rest and, once established, Bohorques delivered a long speech (perhaps four hours long), translated by Villanueva, who knew the aboriginal tongue from his long stay with them. Bohorques asked that they become vassals to the king and receive an evangelizing mission. In the act that followed, the cacique Santuna raised his hand, knelt before Bohorques, and pledged obedience, asking that the Indians be exempted from the mita and from paying tribute, although he promised to help the newcomers build roads and bridges. At the same time, he fixed the terms of the alliance: the natives needed help in defending themselves against their enemies. Bohorques accepted the compromise “authored a document with the terms of the agreement that would have to be kept from then on” (f. ). To seal the pact, the Indians brought abundant food and drink. This done, they returned to the other side of the river, where the Spaniards had waited for almost a month. At this point, the Indians approached and Villanueva finished the procedure by adding his shotgun to the Spaniards’ weapons. With the Indians gathered there, Bohorques made another speech and offered them gifts of machetes and axes. To finalize the scene, he offered a treaty whereby the Indians would build a bridge over the river Chanchamayo and would accompany them to the Quimiri valley, of which he also took possession. This story introduces a new element to the ritual. This time Bohorques adjusted it to fit the codes of the indigenous society. The best evidence is his long discourse; eloquence is the essential trait of a leader. Once more, the word is the strongest fountain of power; oratory is not only a leader’s privilege, it is his duty.⁶⁵ Without eloquence, one cannot change the will of the people, and addresses to one’s assembled subjects are a necessary precedent to making decisions. One must convince one’s auditors. Among the

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Indians, decisions were made after discussion and general consensus was sought. This practice was especially common among the jungle tribes, although not exclusive to them, as it was present in the highland populations, above all, in matters of war. Few caciques could exert their authority vertically because legitimate authority does not imply discretion in its use of power. They must instead persuade or beg. In less hierarchical societies the caciques were primus inter pares. These rules were jealously guarded and respected. Bohorques’s skill was to adopt the long discourse to incorporate himself to the new native society as if he were one of them, a practice he must have observed and learned during his earlier forays into the jungle. Bohorques was unlike other conquistadors in trying to integrate himself —not merely as just another Indian, but as a leader capable of conducting the people to a new destiny. As Alonso Sánchez de Bustamante reports (in Vargas Ugarte’s summary), “Bohorques, taking advantage of the power he was able to obtain over the Indians, established himself in Quimiri and became cacique over all those that lived in the region.”⁶⁶ Perhaps the greatest weakness in his strategy was that he was unable to carry out the projects that he outlined in his discourses, which was necessary to consolidate authentic leadership,⁶⁷ but he kept trying to convince his listeners of the merits of his new objectives. We do not know how successful he was in the jungle or what reception he had. In Calchaquí, he resumed these practices, but this time, helped by circumstances, his seditious preaching brought better results. The Memorial does not reproduce the actual words that Bohorques spoke to the Indians, but the witness cited by the Dominicans hints that he may have been urging them to reject the control of the Spaniards and the clergy. If we add to this the story of Sánchez de Bustamante, he could have been proposing to form an association whereby they might conquer the Paytiti together, and there construct a “new monarchy.” In this context, remember the myths about the Amueshas’ relations to the Incas, which persisted until the twentieth century.⁶⁸ If Bohorques had tried to convince these Indians that he was their relative, as he expressly told the viceroy he was when describing the great city discovered in the jungle, he may have done the same in this case. And if in this myth the Amuesha cacique was superior in power to the Inca, the Indians would not have been indifferent to fact that Bohorques presented himself as a descendant of the royal cuzqueño house. His personal charisma and well-crafted arguments could have convinced the Indians to be part of his project and, above all,

Pedro Bohorques in Peru

accept him as one of them. Because this cooperation was the key point in his strategy, Bohorques would not have tried to hand the Indians over to the Spaniards in his party. He preferred to declare himself chief of these tribes, and not their conquistador. This marks a substantial difference from other Spaniards. This time, Bohorques clearly preferred to transcend ethnic and social frontiers and to establish himself as leader of the Indians. Such an attitude can have many readings; possibly he felt ideologically and ethically on the side of the Indians, almost like Las Casas; or perhaps he sought a place of prominence among them that his own society had denied him. There is a last option— that he really was a descendant of the Inca, possibly a bastard child—but if this is the case, it is strange that he never tried to validate his lineage by means of a probanza. Once more, on this theme, the ambiguity of his conduct only raises more questions. On September , , Bohorques and his men took possession of the valley of La Santísima Trinidad de Quimire and on September  he founded the city of San Miguel Arcángel de Salvatierra (named in honor of the viceroy). Also present were friar Luis Triviño, and the natives who accompanied him with their cacique, Santuna (f. ). The ritual was repeated. First, the grounds for the church and the cabildo were marked off. After the gestures and speeches, all saluted and waved flags in honor of the king and the increase of his dominions. All this was recorded in the corresponding actas (f. ). This accomplished, Bohorques and his forces headed for the town of La Sal, sending an advance party under Villanueva to explore the Indians’ mood. There they found  Indians “more or less,” with their cacique, don Martín Nabanquete (whose name indicates that he had been baptized, probably by the Franciscans who had established missions in the area fifteen or twenty years earlier). The town was located on a steep mountain, difficult to climb. There they found the Indians waiting “in the wings,” and as Villanueva entered, “they greeted us in their manner,” writes Bohorques (f. , v). The Indians sat down with their governor, friar Triniño, and the cacique. Bohorques delivered an address, with Villanueva as interpreter, that lasted more than three hours. He demanded that they convert to Christianity and become vassals of the king of Spain. When he asked for proof of their acceptance, the cacique promised he would send his sons to the viceroy in Lima with a messenger who would bring news of these discoveries. The text continues: Pedro Bohorques in Peru

We all rejoiced at having carried out the great feat of having the natives of this town give obedience to His Majesty. In this place especially so because it is the key to all these kingdoms and provinces and also because the natives come to obtain salt here from distances of eight hundred leagues or more, and having seen the celebrated Cerro de la Sal we so desired to offer it at the feet of our great monarch. (f. , r)

This account reveals Bohorques’s emotion at his great “discovery.” The town they entered must have been established as a Franciscan mission, but there is no proof that the friars had gone up the sacred mountain. Bohorques, in any case, asserted that he was the first. His account also emphasizes the economic and symbolic significance of his conquest, since the town was a center for populations in an area with a radius of  leagues. While this figure appears exaggerated, some have confirmed that people who lived on the northern coast of “La Mar del Norte” traveled to the Cerro de la Sal. Bohorques took the precaution of reinforcing himself with guards, knowing that he was about to invade a territory of ecumenically shared sanctity. On October , , Pedro Bohorques took possession of the Cerro de la Sal. Before leaving Quimire, friar Triviño preached to the “catechized” Indians and the Spaniards and celebrated mass. Then they undertook the difficult ascent to the peak, crossing various small rivers and dangerous terrain. Arriving at a plateau, they planted a cross which the governor said they should worship with much devotion. This done, we continued marching to reach that desired place, to see the Cerro de la Sal so celebrated by all and seen by few. We walked on the plains for about two blocks and then began to descend the formidable slope until we reached a cliff that seemed to be collapsed where the salt mines were. The cliff seemed to be  feet high and  feet wide, more or less; [there] were the salt mines that looked yellow [sic] and from above white and in the depths red and very hard. (f. , v; f. )

The ritual for taking possession took its habitual form. The Indians and Spaniards were put in a semicircle, “face to face,” with Indian archers in the center with their weapons, a flag and a box, and later the señor gobernador ordered that guards be placed on the perimeter of the “land” possessed. The governor took possession in the name of the holy Catholic faith, of King Philip IV, of Bohorques’s “companions the discoverers that are present,” and by the order of the preachers. Formal ritual and illegal licenses Pedro Bohorques in Peru

came together in the gestures and words of Pedro Bohorques. At every point he left his personal seal, and his excesses in this case were plainly justified. Since he had taken possession of this “so desired” land and as he and his men were heroes of this epic, so the ritual formula expanded. He performed it in name of his group, with which he attempted to legitimize his personal right and those of his group to these new lands. The king would not need to give out rights in the future. Bohorques would have to share them only with his “companions and discoverers that are present” and with the order of preachers, whose good will he courted, because he was also taking possession of an area where there had been a Dominican mission and he had to respect their work. For this reason he called the place the Cerro de la Sal of the Twelve Apostles, as the Dominicans had done years before. Making concessions, Bohorques made sure that no one who was directly interested and politically powerful should be excluded from this distribution. Was this a tactic or madness? Bohorques did not seem to worry about having invaded the ecclesiastical jurisdiction, and if he were seen as an intruder, he must have thought that this gesture would heal the wound. The acta was signed with witnesses, as was the custom. Five days later the Spaniards returned to San Miguel Arcángel, where they proceeded to establish the town council, the court, and the administrative center of the city. On this occasion they were accompanied by the Indians who had been present at the meetings by the rivers of la Sal, and among them the cacique, Don Cristóbal Yarasca, representing the “secluded” Indians of the highlands—Marancochas of the provinces of Tarama (Tarma), Jauja, and Chinchaycocha (lagoon of Junín).⁶⁹ These groups offered their formal obedience on November , , with the customary ceremonies. Yarasca, who claimed to be a descendant of Christians, who spoke Castilian and was distinguished from the rest of the group by his more elegant attire and his “gallant disposition,” claimed that he had been living in the jungle for sixty-nine years, and that there were , Indians and many commoners. The number appears exaggerated, because the Spaniards would not let so many people escape—the full population of an Inca town—without taking revenge. Yarasca explained why the Indians fled: Because of the mita of Guacabelica and other aggressions from the corregidores and caciques and priests. Although they have come many times to look for us the Spaniards have not found us, because of certain secrets that we have which serve as a defense: watering stations, mountains fenced Pedro Bohorques in Peru

in by many peaks, and the impenetrability of the region. Now we want to be Christians again . . . because we are saddened that our children and relatives, being descendants of Christians, die without receiving the water of baptism and thus the sopay [devil] has decided to chase us dressed in the habit of a Franciscan friar, so that anywhere we go we find him next to us and he makes funny faces at us and many die of fear, and thus I gladly give obedience to your Majesty in name of all of them. (f. )

Yarasca’s reasons for fleeing the Spaniards seem to have been the usual ones. The figure of the devil in the habit of a Franciscan merits some attention. If we place the date of abandoning the highlands (which could have been in one group or through successive migrations) toward the end of the sixteenth century, it is likely that an earlier level of evangelization could have left the Indians with traces of guilt for having returned to idolatry. The Franciscans had made many expeditions to this region, and the fear of having strayed from the true religion must have contributed to these hallucinations. The next paragraph is the most interesting. Yarasca said that the Indians would agree to leave only under certain conditions: They cannot take us out of the mountain to another area, for we have become natives of the area. We shall pay tribute to the king our lord, for the time that we remain here, in gold and silver because this land has many riches. The governor accepted these conditions. [The Yarasca Indians] took him to our people and the city and we looked after the Indian as if he were our brother. He said he knew the tongue of other kingdoms and that [he] would go with us and would serve as translator. The governor married him to an Indian woman whom he had at his service.—And with this he was quite content, we all celebrated and gave gifts and he was very happy; this happened two days before November . . . . Signatures follow. (f. )

It is not difficult to imagine the pleasure of the Spanish soldiers’ upon hearing Yarasca’s words. The alliance with the Indians of the highlands was a real triumph of the expedition, because it guaranteed the support of privileged intermediaries in a hostile and unknown environment. The second theme, no less important, is the affirmation that he had gold and silver at his disposition. It is evident that this information caught the attention of the Spaniards: “and we looked after the Indian as if he were our brother.” Here we enter a game of signs and a displacement between reality and verisimilitude. Yarasca speaks as someone with credibility. Yarasca affirms Pedro Bohorques in Peru

that there is gold and that his Indians use it. What more could Bohorques and his men ask for? The future seems assured and the route to realizing their dreams mapped out. This time success will not slip through their hands, because they have found a reliable guide for their journey. When Yarasca presented himself, he offered to bring his people with him. They were not worried about the fatigue of the Indians, but they wished to get to that “so desired wonder,” guided by the gallant mestizo cacique. What better guarantee of success than the presence of this man who was almost one of them? Bohorques had his first meeting with the cabildo of the city of San Miguel Arcángel to discuss the city’s organization on November . The first task was to select a site and to plant the first seedlings, as this was a good time to do it. The colonization of the Quimiri valley was thus initiated, and all indications seemed favorable for the project. On November , the cabildo met again to discuss how to care for the loose cattle and animals in the area that endangered the seedlings. Were the cattle owned by the Dominicans, who had a mission in the valley of the Holy Trinity of Quimiri, or had these expeditions stolen them from the haciendas of Tarma? Both were possible, since one charge against Bohorques when he was arrested was that he had seized property on the piedmont of the highlands. They decided to construct a fence and a house where an Indian family would live and tend the cattle. The elected place was a pajona, grasslands, “in the plains.” Then it was decided that two Spaniards and six Indians should make charcoal, a necessity for the forge of Juan Mexía, the blacksmith. Signatures to the acta indicate that Pedro Bohorques signed his name as a son of the governor with the title of alférez real. Up to this moment, his presence had not been mentioned, nor had he been given a title. He must have arrived after the initial party, but he never received honors from his father, as we know. At the next meeting, on November , Joseph de Cabrera was assigned to the school so that he could teach the children to read, write, and catechize them in Christian doctrine. In addition, “he was given land for building homes and chacaras, farming land, so that he could get food for himself and his family, and thus remain as a resident of the town to this city always and receive other personal services that could be offered in the future, and thus play a part in the honors and mercedes of his Majesty offered to other discoverers.” Cabrera having been named as a resident, came to be a vecino, a citizen of the municipality. He went up the social ladder, and this seems to depart

Pedro Bohorques in Peru

from the acta of the cabildo. He would have had similar honors if he had participated in the discovery of the Cerro de la Sal. This small note in an administrative document reveals, almost as if under a magnifying glass, how an individual could acquire merits and heighten his status in this New World. The cabildo made him a vecino and for recognition gave him land and a home.⁷⁰ Bohorques knew how to compensate his men, since his magnanimity would assure the fidelity he expected of them. The meeting of the cabildo ended with other dispositions, such as planning to build a bridge over the Chanchamayo river and taking measures so that the Indians from the frontier of La Paz, who had established themselves near the city, would not harm the establishments of the “vecinos of this town of natives,” as this would cause trouble. The Acta del Cabildo for April , , states that the alcaldes don Francisco de Rojas and don Antonio de Soto Alvarado had left for Peru and had not returned for ten months. Surely they took with them—as was announced on November —a first memoria and actas for the viceroy. Also, Nicolás Hortiz de Aro had deserted, and “although he was sent for he did not come.” To replace the absentees, Juan Mexía was designated alcalde, with Alonso Muñoz Gallardo, “his companion,” alcalde de primer voto. Thus these posts were reestablished. It is likely, although there is no proof to reconfirm it, that these appointments meant another social promotion, particularly for Mexía, the blacksmith. At the cabildo meeting of May , , “they were warned that  Indians would be arriving, and Villanueva was ordered to arm himself with weapons until he found out their intentions—which, it appears, were to carry out commerce (f. , v; f. ). Following this document are decrees setting out “all the titles that up to now had been dispatched, and those that further ahead will be dispatched, so that it be written down for all times.” The decrees are dated May –, , and bear the signature of the governor, among others, and “the seal of their weapons.” Using the authority he had conferred on himself and recognized by his companions, Bohorques made the following appointments: First he designated don Bernardo Santuma as governor and principal cacique of the Indians of the valley of the Holy Trinity of Quimire. This might seem to contradict Sánchez de Bustamante’s assertion that Bohorques made himself a “cacique” of the lowlanders.⁷¹ But in reality his was a supra-ethnic leadership, as I will discuss later. The decree also con-

Pedro Bohorques in Peru

tained a description of the ceremony of “unction,” performed on November , , in the presence of all the Indians and Spaniards of the company: [Bohorques ordered] that don Bernardo Santuma bring a chair and had it placed in the middle of the plaza and, taking the governor don Pedro Bohorques by his hand. Don Bernardo Santuma sat him in the chair and then don Pedro said to the Indian men and women that were present, that from then on they should have as legitimate cacique and governor don Bernardo Santuma. Francisco de Villanueva, they said yes. [As he sat] in the chair the Indians young and old went kissing his hand with the ceremonies that they were accustomed to perform among them. In the town  persons were present, and the Indians obeyed him with much joy, as they demonstrated by their actions. Don Pedro Bohorques said that this possession of the cacique, be put into the books of the cabildo of the city so that for all times it be recorded, his naming of governor and principal cacique of the Indians of this town and of any others that might join it..—And he said that within fourteen years he would bring confirmation of the royal government for him and his heirs and he signed it with . . . [Signatures follow]. (f. , v; f. )

This text, perhaps more than others, shows the almost tragicomic quality of Bohorques’s delirium. To suppose that a cacique of the jungle could solicit royal confirmation for his naming of a governor and principal cacique —a title conferred by a person with no power in the eyes of colonial authorities, nor of the Indians themselves—Bohorques’s pronouncement appears to be a labyrinth of contradictions and insanities. But it did not seem thus for don Pedro; on the contrary, it was part of a perfectly orchestrated plan coherent with his purposes. With this act, Bohorques organized a “new monarchy,” according to his own words inserted into the Memorial, and he began by giving form to the hierarchical and institutional structure of the social universe he planned to govern. He knew that, like Viceroy Francisco de Toledo almost a century before, the most convenient way to set up a good government was to organize clearly the “two republics”—one for the Indians and one for the Spaniards, and with himself as a supreme authority. In reality, Bohorques was truly realizing a “ritual of unction,” in which he would exert the power of enthroning and eventually assume legitimate power. As I said, he had built himself up as a supra-ethnic leader. The namings reflected in these decrees show that Bohorques was organizing his “new

Pedro Bohorques in Peru

monarchy” over which he planned to reign without interference. Or, in any case, he was first constructing a good base for operations, after which he would reinitiate the search for El Dorado from an improved foundation. Nonetheless, the process is not so clear. Let us first see the final content of the document. Apparently, to establish an armed force in the region, Bohorques made Juan Mexía capitán de la sala de armas, or master of arms, since he was entrusted with all the weapons of war in a ceremony that took place at the river of la Cruz of Chanchamayo on September , . Mexía, as master of weapons, stood with two officials at his side.⁷² The document makes a leap in trying to record the titles and gifts given to Andrés Salgado de Araujo, who appears in folio , where a new reason was given for giving the title of master of weapons to Juan Mexía, and later also the title of “second lieutenant of infantry” to the same man. Folios v– describe what was given to other Spaniards. Each, according to his merits, received land. Second Lieutenant Bernardo de Figueroa y Andrade was given an encomienda that included  Indians.⁷³ Titles and gifts given to Salgado by various clauses and decrees are recorded in folios , , and . Salgado was made second lieutenant of infantry and later patent captain of infantry, as well as principal secretary of government, a post “concerning things related to militia, public notary, the cabildo, the city, mines, and registers,” a title conferred on August , . He also received various lands after presenting a petition and a prior brief probanza of his services expressly recognized by Bohorques, and he spoke of coming there to live with his wife and children. The most important grants to Salgado concern the Chanchamayo river and the “mineral mountains of Putín that are of silver and lead,”⁷⁴  fanegadas ( acres) in the scrubland of Chanchamayo and the Zayria (or Sayria) valley for raising livestock (he had , goats, some sheep, and  cows). Last, Salgado asked for two more leagues in the same zone, and another  fanegadas ( acres) for raising pigs. As a third gift, he requested  Indians “as a deposit so that they serve him until His Majesty or the Royal Council dispose of differently.” The gifts of land to Salgado were confirmed by Bohorques in two decrees, signed in his handwriting, “in the name of his royal person.” In these decrees Second Lieutenant Juan Básquez, alderman of the city, was ordered to grant Salgado formal possession of those lands. However, concerning

Pedro Bohorques in Peru

the  Indians, one cannot say that this was a formal gift. First, as with the gift to Figueroa y Andrade, it mentions mercedes or gifts, written after the confirmation of titles. Second, Bohorques did not sign the document listing the reasons inscribed by the secretary himself. Confirmations of the cabildo do exist, properly endorsed with the regidores’ signatures. Since the two decrees were signed in November  and were incorporated in the Actas in May , and since no other actas of the latter date bear Bohorques’s signature, he may not have been present when the titles (some of them new) were inscribed, nor the gift of Indians. Because the Memorial is a copy of the original Actas, we do not really know how far Salgado de Araujo might have manipulated the documents to petition for a new expedition to Chanchamayo, presenting himself as the leader before the court in . There could be other reasons why Bohorques did not authorize these gifts. The most banal would be that it was difficult to convince the jungle Indians to accept permanent servitude. Perhaps they did not respond to his original plans, as he had not come as a conquistador of the Indians, but one who wished to establish himself as their leader, so they would help him to construct a new monarchy. That is, it was not politically convenient to give them to Salgado, and if he did so, it was under pressure from some of the unhappy members of his force. Nonetheless, it is most likely that he was absent when these juridical acts were carried out, being the products of agreements among those who stayed in Quimiri and also because these “deposits of Indians” did not follow the formalities prescribed for such cases. This question, like so many others, will remain open to speculation until new documents enable us to test these hypotheses. The Memorial ends with a certification that it was a copy whose original was left with the principal government secretary, Salgado de Araujo. It attests that the copy was signed by the governor and Salgado “for his mandate in Lima August , ,” probably when Bohorques was not in Lima, but in Chile. This is why it is possible that Salgado took advantage of circumstances to manipulate the final folios of the Actas. How much of what happened was omitted from this Memorial—including the Diary and the Actas del Cabildo—is impossible to know, but the most likely area that was suppressed was the frustrated search for the Paytiti. Obviously, there is also no mention of these unfortunate events at the end of this period. According to Pedro Lozano, Bohorques had to contend with rebellions among his troops, who accused him of deception when

Pedro Bohorques in Peru

the promised riches did not materialize.⁷⁵ Lozano implies that he probably tried to induce them (thanks perhaps to the reports of the highland Indians) to search for those riches thirty leagues ahead and they refused to follow him. Friar Luis Triviño apparently had to intervene to save the life of don Pedro from the anger of his men.⁷⁶ In truth we do not know the exact movements of Pedro Bohorques around . In his testimony, Sánchez de Bustamante affirms that, by order of Bohorques, the Indians made incursions into the estancias of the neighbors in Tarma, who complained to Lima. What is certain is that the viceroy ordered a militia to be mobilized from Tarma to apprehend him (although it is not clear whether they had to go to the jungle, or whether they found him on the frontier of the hills). Constantino Bayle says that captain Juan López Real enlisted fighters from Tarma and Jauja and that they seized Bohorques and his men. “He took the swords of the outlaws, and all, without one escaping, ended up in jail.”⁷⁷ Bohorques and Villanueva were imprisoned in the fortress of Valdivia, in the kingdom of Chile, where there was a Spanish advance party in Araucano territory. Their punishment was to defend the fort against constant Indian attacks. With this action by the viceroy, Bohorques’s adventures in the Peruvian Andes were ended, but the dreams that continued to develop in his febrile head were not. In this period, Bohorques’s conduct began to develop along two axes: the obsession with finding the Paytiti and the desire to become a colonizer. An impulse toward excess and a need for order did not happen to collide on his mental map. A fixation with discovering hidden gold in the jungle through deeds reserved for heroes did not stop him from managing his environment, natural and social, in a way to make that order real, as seen in his descriptions of a marvelous city for the viceroy, founding new Spanish cities, distributing lands, and promoting the men of his force so as to consolidate the symbols of his power. Nonetheless, I will pose some other questions. Do these lapses of information in his Diario correspond to his search for the Paytiti, or the failures and the supposed rebellions of his troops? Does this late recognition of titles and gifts indicate a need to calm restless spirits and an extreme measure to bring order in the midst of conflict? Was this carried out in his presence and with his acquiescence, or was it signed by those left in Quimiri as compensation for not having found the Paytiti? That is, was Bohorques originally worried about the juridical order and the conquest of the Indians

Pedro Bohorques in Peru

around the missions, or did he do this as a last resort to retain his men? If the main catalyst for the expedition was the Paytiti, in the beginning nobody would have been worried about his setting up in Quimiri. Nonetheless, discovering the Cerro de la Sal did not turn out as they expected. One had to go further, but to where, and with what means? With the guidance of Yarasca, the cacique of the highlands? All of this confirms that Bohorques’s attempts were in vain, given this negative evidence, and that in the face of this failure his men tried to establish themselves in the best situations they could. Even if Bohorques tried to acquire power and legitimacy by manipulating certain rituals, these were not sufficient for his troops, and the Indians had to accept what he offered without objections. The frailty of Bohorques’s situation played against him, although legality was not the issue. There were dozens of conquest expeditions in which the chiefs were dismissed or even murdered, although they held unquestionably legal titles. This only shows that history is indeed written by the winners, and nothing is more revealing than this story that made Bohorques an adventurer without a destiny.

Pedro Bohorques in Peru

V Calchaquí The Restoration of the Tawantinsuyu

You are my children, you are my blood. Speech given by Bohorques to the Indians

Pedro Bohorques Arrives in the Province of Tucumán hapter  describes how Bohorques and Villanueva were banished to Valdivia in the kingdom of Chile and sentenced to six to ten years in prison (according to different versions), but we do not know exactly when they arrived or when they left for Tucumán.¹ We do know that Bohorques arrived at Mendoza in late  or early , which could suggest that he served a six-year sentence. Information about his stay in Chile comes primarily from the Relación of friar Hernando de Torreblanca,² to which Pedro Lozano added some details (and contradictions). Torreblanca was the missionary sent by the Jesuit superior to mediate in the negotiations at Pomán, described below. Bohorques had acquired a certain prestige among the authorities at the Valdivia prison—actually, a fort that defended the colonized zone from attacks by the Araucanos. To consolidate his reputation, Bohorques constructed two pieces of artillery from wood “lined with leather” that could

C

withstand two shots. He also made friends with the Jesuits there, among them friar Lira, the superior, and friars Juan de Moscoso and Francisco de Vargas. Because of the authority he gained among them, he was allowed to send a message overseas to the governor and president of the Audiencia de Concepción, don Antonio Vásquez de Acuña. According to Lozano’s more confusing version, Bohorques made friends with a Portuguese man (who taught him to make cannons) and went with him to Concepción at the request of the governor, who wanted him to construct similar devices for the fort’s defense. In Concepción, because of his ingenuity in defending the fort, Bohorques earned the title of captain and was given permission to go to Santiago de Chile.³ There he formed ties with influential people, but as it was most likely that he had no permission for a foray, he was in danger of being recaptured, and he made a getaway, taking with him a mestiza “dressed as an Indian,” and crossed the mountains into Mendoza. According to some informants,⁴ Bohorques escaped north through the valley of Guandacol and Capayanes, with the confessed purpose of going to Peru to reestablish his rights over the Paytiti. As he traveled through the Fertile Valley (San Juan), Famatina (La Rioja), the valley of Catamarca, and San Juan Bautista de la Rivera (or Londres de Pomán),⁵ he was received by important people to whom he showed his maps of the Paytiti, and whom he fascinated with his stories of the riches hidden in this jungle utopia. Lozano writes: “The Indians heard him with admiration, and even the Spaniards found him credible, as the people there are simple and have little culture . . . which aided by his natural gift of persuasion, along with his assumed gravity and grand urbane manner, with which he dealt with people young and old, Indians and Spaniards.”⁶ Among them were General don Nicolás de Brizuela in La Rioja, and in particular Captain Hernando de Pedraza, who supported Bohorques by lending him money and later giving him rich gifts. Bartolomé Ramírez describes Bohorques’s conversation with his hosts: I saw [Bohorques] arrive at the estancia in the Capayán valley, where he stayed as a traveler and . . . in their conversation, he said he was going to Peru where he had many distinguished friends, in particular the caciques, because he was a descendant of the Inca and he was acknowledged as thus and that he got from them all the money he desired; and then he showed them a portrait of an Indian that he said was his grandfather, the Inca don Cristóbal, whose last name he could not remember.⁷

Calchaquí

The farmer Lorenzo Paez de Espinosa saw Bohorques as he passed through the property of Brizuela in the Guandacol valley. Showing a painting of the Peruvian Incas, Bohorques said that he was going “to my territory, that is, the Chunchos, where if I wear the Ongo [uncu], that means shirt, I swear that nothing can vex me.”⁸ Pedro Bohorques not only visited Spaniards in the valleys he passed through, he also stopped at various Indian towns near San Miguel de Tucumán, in the encomienda of Mancopa and Belicha.⁹ He was there to meet Luis de Hoyos, an important local figure who was later present when Bohorques met with the governor in Pomán.¹⁰ The lieutenant governor of San Miguel tried to apprehend him, but Bohorques again escaped.¹¹ Whether Bohorques learned of the situation in the Calchaquí valley at this time, or whether he already had information that enabled him to introduce himself among the Indians, is not known. He could have picked up some of it during his travels in Peru or Chile. Near San Miguel, Bohorques met two Peruvian Indians, a sacristan and a donado,¹² or lay brother, in the convent of San Francisco. Bohorques took them with him to the Calchaquí valley, where he passed himself off as the nephew of the Inca and his legitimate successor. This news spread fast, since he had spoken of such an Inca in his prior visits to the Indians and Spaniards (although he never made the statement in writing). In San Miguel Bohorques negotiated with Pedro Pivanti, a local cacique who had sent his Indians to search for him in the Choromoros valley. Pivanti introduced him to the area, where he was honored from town to town and finally offered hospitality in Pivanti’s house. When the governor of Tucumán, don Alonso de Mercado y Villacorta, first learned of Bohorques’s presence in the area, Bohorques had already fully established himself in the valley. Why did he choose this valley, deviating from his initial route to Peru and radically changing his plans, and why did he ostentatiously put on the royal Inca dress and relate what he had done in Peru?

The Sociopolitical Context of the Calchaquí Valley By , the Spanish had failed to colonize the valley of Calchaquí for  years, ever since the first attempts by Diego de Almagro, who had crossed it during his expedition to Chile.¹³ That is, the valley had remained under

Calchaquí

Indian control except for a few northern forays by the Spanish. Although the Indians had to work for the encomenderos, they never performed mita service, despite all efforts to force them. This densely populated region at the heart of the province of “Tucumán, Juríes, and Diaguitas,”¹⁴ with its potential riches, remained independent until the mid-seventeenth century. The valley’s multiethnic population had long been torn by internal conflict. Until the fifteenth century, the valley was inhabited by the Calchaquíes, people from the Diaguita branch of those who spoke the Kakana tongue (plentiful in northeast Argentina). They had fought off various Inca invasions between  and  but were defeated in a third bloody attempt (noted by Pedro Lozano)¹⁵ when they came under the control of the Mitmaqkuna, sent by the Inca in Cuzco. The Inca conquest fractured their centers of power, and the newcomers seized their lands. As a result of Pizarro’s victory, the valley became a multiethnic space and new power relations were established. Many of the Mitmaqkuna sent by the Cuzco authorities returned to their homes, but others, having won new lands and better conditions, remained in the valley. During the colonial period, the natives and the Mitmaqkuna—called “advenedizos,” or upstarts —continued to battle for territorial control. However, in some places the ruling elites were made up of both ethnic groups. Despite these fissures, when faced by a common enemy, the valley’s caciques overcame their differences. The area was also protected by its exceptional topography, which guaranteed its isolation. The valley, narrow at the north and wider toward the south, is crossed by two rivers that join at a central point. The river Calchaquí runs north to south, and the river Yocavil, today called the Santa María, runs from south to north, and both join in Cafayate. North and west link with the Puna (an Argentinian territory) and the Cajon valley, and from the east it is separated by plateaus and high peaks: the Obispo, the Calchaquíes, and the Aconquija. To the south is an ample pampa between mountains, then the Arenal desert, closed off by a east-west mountain range, joining the Puna to the sierra of Aconquija. The two valleys may be considered a unit because of their common history and unusual topography, which protects them from invasion. The Mitmaqkuna brought by the Incas came from two regions. Most may have come from the plains of Tucumán and Santagueña, whose populations made a pact with Cuzco to protect the Inca empire in exchange for

Calchaquí

land and other benefits. New Inca towns and administrative centers were named Tucumanao or Tucumangastas.¹⁶ Others came from the Peruvian and Bolivian altiplano, highland plain. We are particularly interested in those from the towns of Orurillo and Sicoana, or Chicoana, in Canas province south of Cuzco. One group, in the part of the northern valley inhabited by the Pulares, controlled a great administrative center called Chicoana (today called La Paya).¹⁷ Another group, formed by members of the ayllu pacioca, a group that came from the south of Cuzco, from the same area,¹⁸ established themselves in the town of Tolombón, called in colonial times the “town of Paciocas and Tolombones.” Their principal function was to control the Tolombones, who were more rebellious and had more power in the valley. The relationship between the Tolombones and the Paciocas dates from the Inca period. Lozano says: “Having in ancient times developed relations with the Peruvian prisoners on their frontiers, they had immersed themselves more in the gifts of their false Inca [Pedro Bohorques] who, trusting them, made them the immediate guardians of his person, because this way he would ensure more respect and veneration from the rest.”¹⁹ The presence of these Peruvian descendants in the valley helps to explain Bohorques’s reception as a supposed member of the royal house of Cuzco. Toward , when the Spanish were making systematic efforts to colonize northern Argentina, the cacique of the town of Tolombones and Paciocas was Juan Calchaquí, a leader capable of uniting the valley’s populations and others outside it. The Spanish documents of the time called him a waka, that is, with shamanic properties, and from then on his name became an ethnic name later applied to all inhabitants of the valley.²⁰ A fighter and skilled negotiator, Juan Calchaquí was involved in sporadic encounters with the Spaniards, and often had to negotiate the liberty of an incarcerated family member. He sometimes sought Spanish aid to quell an uprising among groups fighting over lands or certain rights. Eventually he expelled the Spaniards, forcing them to abandon three Spanish cities. In  only Santiago del Estero, in the plains and very far from the territory of Juan’s influence, could be maintained. We do not know whether Juan Calchaquí belonged to the lineage of the Peruvian Paciocas or was a native of the region, although the latter is more likely. Toward the mid-sixteenth century, the native Tolombones must have recovered their demographic wealth and the hegemony that they had lost

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under the dominion of the Tawantinsuyu. Interestingly, if they had reunited, neither group, in particular the Paciocas, would have lost its ethnic identity, even after almost a century and a half. If Bohorques, in his wanderings through the high plateaus and the Cuzco area, had learned of the presence of Peruvians in Calchaquí, his going there may not have been accidental. We do not know why he went there, whether he wanted to take advantage of the situation or whether the Paciocas saw it as part of a strategy for recovering the power and autonomy they held during the time of the Incas. Even though the Spanish governors of the province established many new cities, such as San Miguel, Córdoba, Salta, Esteco, La Rioja, and San Salvador de Jujuy between  and , they failed to win control of the Calchaquí valley. Seeking refuge in their liberty, and despite their internal conflicts, the valley people participated in a great uprising that later spread to other areas under the command of Chalemín, cacique of the Malfines (in the center-west part of Catamarca province). The uprising, with its epicenter in what today are the provinces of Catamarca and La Rioja, committed the Indians in the other jurisdictions to participate. The encomienda of personal service, with its resulting abuses—forced labor of women in spinning and weaving, the destruction of communities—mobilized the indigenous people between  and . After wars and uprisings, some of the Catamarca and La Rioja Indians were sent to live on reservations, and lost their citizenship rights. Yet those from the Calchaquí valley resisted domination, although with many losses and despite the partial defection of the Pulares to the north, who fought on the Spanish side. This summary of events briefly describes the situation in the valley in , when Pedro Bohorques made his triumphant entry with the title of Inca. How was this possible? How could a group of people who had fiercely resisted the Incas accept the leadership of this man, a foreigner of dubious origins? There are various reasons. The Indians were aware of the Spaniards’ intention to put down the prolonged native resistance and of their preparations to invade. (Here I should distinguish between resistance, which characterized populations that preserved some control over political decisions, and rebellion, born of a desire for liberty among those under domination.)²¹ Yet the Indians found it difficult to unite themselves against external aggression. Because of the uprising of –, the Pulares had already partially defected, and other groups would follow. Moreover, there was no local leader capable of calling an assembly.

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A fourth reason may be offered. After more than a century, with the humiliation of the Inca conquest having faded, the memory of their kings had idealized representations of the past—a reconstruction of historical memory. Such a reinvigorated mythology could motivate active resistance, despite internal disputes and exhaustion. Another element favoring the construction of this utopia was the influence of Pivanti; he introduced Bohorques as the cacique of the Paciocas, those descended from the ancient Mitmaqkuna, who had enjoyed the most power during the time of the Incas. Originating from south of Cuzco, the Paciocas must have maintained a clearer image of the importance of the Tawantinsuyu, being themselves participants in the Andean cosmovision.²² Bohorques called himself Guallpa Inga, grandson of the last Inca (Paulo or Cristóbal), explaining that he was born in Spain because the dynasties of Cuzco had been seen as a threat to the Crown and were therefore sent away as a protective measure.²³ Now Bohorques could return to the Paciocas their lost leadership. At the same time, his presence would bring hope to the other towns of continuing the resistance and keeping the Spaniards out of the valley. In reality Bohorques was accepted by the Calchaquí Indians, thanks to internal factors linked to the search for a new equilibrium of power. External pressures affected the choices to be made for maintaining the Indians’ autonomy.

Alarm and Negotiations: The Meeting in Pomán On May , , news arrived in Córdoba—where Governor Mercado lived—that Pedro Bohorques was in the Calchaquí valley, had assumed the title of Inca, and was working with the Indians. Mercado reported this information to the Audiencia de Charcas in a letter of December , .²⁴ This missive was among several letters brought by Captain Pedro Calderón, lieutenant governor of Londres de Pomán. Other letters, including one from Bohorques himself, also sent this news. A missionary from the valley, friar Juan de León, sent a detailed—even passionate—account of events. First, a letter from the cabildo of Londres described how Bohorques had raised the hopes of valley residents, detailing the celebrations the Indians held for him when he entered the valley, and how this warm reception could potentially enable them to convert the Indians and to locate the guacas (wakas, or

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sacred places and ancestors)²⁵ where the treasures were hidden—treasures that the Indians might show to their Inca. Letters from the cabildo agreed with friar de León, who was convinced of Bohorques’s prudence and of the benefits he could bring to the province: “This gentleman has come to the Indians saying that as his grandfather [the Inca] died with faith in Christ our Lord, and in the subjection and service of our King and Lord, and that they could only make him happy if they subjected themselves to His Majesty and to his royal name by subjecting themselves to the governor of that province.”²⁶ Following this, the cabildo’s letter echoed the complaints of the missionaries that their attempts at converting the Indians had yielded little, since their “children” (i.e., the natives) gave into them for a little while, then returned to their “idolatries.” This could explain why the friars were so supportive of Bohorques’s project. Nor was ambition for profit concealed in a letter from friar de León to Hernando de Pedraza sent at a later date. The letter from friar Eugenio Sancho, superior of the missions, takes a measured tone. He understood that what was happening in the valley benefited both majesties, God and the king. The best way to deal with the Indians was by gentle and persuasive means, “easy and accommodating to the nature of these people, that we have conferred and judged to be right and quite pleased to abide by the will of experienced and reasonable people of this province.”²⁷ Bohorques’s letters indicate how he planned to conduct his business, at least at this stage. He stressed his loyalty to the king, respect for the governor, the importance of his person and his business, and the purity of his intentions, free from all suspicion. However, his letter to the governor also assumes a certain providential tone: Lord governor, sadly I left this Province for Peru without having kissed the hand of Your Lordship, a thing I infinitely desired. . . . Although as flattering as my sentiments may seem, they have only the desire to recognize Your Lordship. What led me to Peru was a thing so grave that, although having been brought into the world with tardy steps, I got closer to the greatness of the Lord Viceroy to give an end to the negotiations started by the expedition and conquest of the Marañón that I have under my charge. God wanted to make himself present to this province of Calchaquí, where its inhabitants are today prostrated and humble. It seems the work of heavens that they adore me as their Inca, and obey me

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whatever I order them to do and with much love. They have promised all peace and quietude and that they will show me all the mines that this land hides. To begin with they have shown me two burial places of captains that truly promise to have something of value given the many stone and wooden statues that they have. Some friars of this mission have witnessed the joy, celebrations, and dances that they have performed upon my entry, but I do not refer to them because they seem too incredible to believe. I hope God will accompany your Lordship with goodness to the city of Londres in order to communicate in person the rest of my story. I will obey you as their superior, and to keep the order that has been entrusted to me.²⁸

Let us look at the letter carefully. The tone is measured and indicates that Bohorques’s business is of utmost importance. What is most significant is that it contains clues to his future strategy. Bohorques believes he has the power to secure the much-desired peace and to convert the Indians; also, because he is considered an Inca, he might learn the secrets the Indians had so jealously guarded up to that moment. We have seen how this last argument was used in Peru, with relative success. But why did Bohorques have such influence among natives in an area that had already been visited? There was no impenetrable jungle that could stop his excessive imagination. A century before, after the Spaniards had colonized Tucumán and had found no great riches, original disillusionment could have given way to other types of expectations. But this was not the case. In the general imagination of most Hispanic-criollos of Tucumán, only the mines or treasures, whose discovery still fired the ambitions of the most febrile minds, could help to explain why the Calchaquíes had resisted for so long. A great number of people got together in celebrations, dances, singing and other forms of entertainment that looked like a thing of madness. They went down on their knees and kissed my hand screaming loudly and with acclaim as if I were their Inga. They told me to turn around so that the other towns could see me. Leaving my horse in good hands and guarded, I came to this place where to my greater surprise I chanced to meet with the friars, who filled with such admiration, failed to see the great commotion among these barbarians. This was a thing that no one had been accustomed to or ever seen. The fields and pathways were filled with people, cluttered without giving space to those on foot so that those on horse could pass through. All has been celebration, all the parties and joys.²⁹ I

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have told them in speeches of many beneficial things for their souls and state of being, and it seems they embrace it with love. They have showed me some guacas that they say the Inga left, and that later, when we are finished, they will show me what there is in them. They also say that they will take me to some wash basins very rich in gold and to other mines of much importance, that having belonged to my grandfather they want me to possess, and that they do not want me to go. And thus I have resolved to see and write to the Lord my governor . . . Santa María de los Angeles, valley of Yocavil, April , . Friend of Your Lordship. Don Pedro Bohorques.”³⁰

There is another letter from don Pedro to Captain Nieva y Castilla, and although it is brief, it rings with the same providential tone. Our portrait of Bohorques is painted with broad strokes and does not require additional commentary. Nonetheless, with certain fear and mistrust, the governor of Londres, like the Jesuit friars, were wrapped up in this discourse and after this became involved in his project. A letter from friar Juan de León to Hernando de Pedraza, dated June , , gives the final details in the construction of Bohorques’s vision. Father de León confessed that he had been a close friend of Bohorques, whom he regarded as a brother. He also thanked Pedraza for having sent help to Bohorques, as he had needed meat to feed the many people who came to his house to see the Inca. He admitted that the Indians had been skeptical about don Pedro’s lineage and that they had sent an “old ladino (or mestizo) who had traveled much around Peru” to find out whether he behaved, dressed, and ate like an Inca. Bohorques passed these tests. There had been an attempt by certain Malfin Indians to kill the new Inca, because they thought he was a spy of the governor and that the friars were accomplices in this treason. Hearing of this, don Pedro ordered the capture of the one who “had carried the arrow” (a declaration of war) and had spoken to him with “much gravity and the brilliance of an Inca,” and had also threatened to cut out his tongue. The matter was apparently resolved without further harm. León wished to leave the impression that the Inca was fully exercising his authority among the valley population and that Bohorques laughed at the threats of the Spaniards on the frontiers because, he said, the Calchaquíes “would give their life rather than leave their Inca behind.” Bohorques proclaimed that he “possesses the Calchaquí,” and that simply a word from his

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mouth would suffice to mobilize “the valley up in arms.” Concerning the undiscovered riches, friar León maintained that if they had found only a third of the riches, “there would not be in the universe a province richer than our own.” He also said that as a minister of God, he was interested only in the salvation of souls, he should still inform Pedraza of the treasures and mines that Bohorques was seeking. León recommended to Pedraza that he keep it a secret and prevent Spaniards from entering the valley. But the words of the good Jesuit are very naïve and do not hide his ambitions.³¹ As we shall see shortly, this letter came into Pedraza’s hands as he was preparing to receive Bohorques in Pomán. When the news of Bohorques’s activities was received in Córdoba, the governor decided to inform Viceroy Conde de Alba y Aliste and the Audiencia de Charcas. At the same time, he agreed to meet with Bohorques in Pomán, for which he departed on May , . The journey was long and difficult, forcing him to abandon his coach and carriages with his baggage, which he dispatched by the royal road, and travel over the mountains by mule. He arrived at Londres on June , . From there he wrote to Bohorques, inviting him to meet him in Pomán as soon as possible. The letter was very ceremonious, showing great trust in his promising enterprise.³² In a letter to friar Eugenio Sancho, Governor Mercado noted that the friar had convinced him of the merits of this business, but at the same time of its seriousness, and asked that Bohorques send along one of the friars, so that “we find the truth of this gentleman’s intentions and the spirit with which the Indians are obeying him.”³³ He asked to be kept informed of any movement of “this gentleman and of the Indians.” Moreover, the Jesuits would be held responsible for ensuring that what happened in the valley would have good results, and that they must communicate to him any changes they might observe. To lessen these threats, Mercado ended his letter by encouraging friar Sancho to proceed along the same lines, noting the hope that Bohorques had encouraged in the province.³⁴ In fact, the last part was not entirely true. Bishop Melchor Maldonado was opposed from the very beginning to Bohorques’s activities, saying that he had news, although incomplete, of his conduct in Peru, and that he was not a man to be trusted. Many clashes would occur between Mercado and Bishop Maldonado, who later accused the governor severely before the authorities. In the same manner, the Compañía de Jesús, which in the beginning announced the “good news” of the evangelization of the Calchaquíes

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from all the pulpits of the province, later tried to escape their guilt in this collaboration. Even friar Torreblanca devoted many pages to justifying the missionaries’ tacit alliance with Bohorques.³⁵ The governor could not be stopped. The presence of Bohorques had caused general unrest in the province, and there were certain rumors that the lieutenants of the frontier cities of Calchaquí were organizing militias. Mercado sent notes to all of them, warning that the rumors could ruin the negotiations with the natives. If the Indians did not trust Bohorques, they would not want to meet with the governor, and it was very important that they accompany Bohorques to Pomán. A similar note was sent to friar Sancho, so that he might calm future Spanish inhabitants of Calchaquí. On his own account, Bohorques confirmed that he was gathering the caciques so that they could accompany him, ending his letter by insisting, as always, on the discovery of guacas. Sancho, at the same time, recommended that Captain Nieva y Castilla receive Bohorques with a show of respect so as to preserve his reputation among the Indians that so trusted him. Preparations for Bohorques’s reception began in early July. Gathered together were some eighty residents of the most respectable parts of the town of Londres, from La Rioja, and from the Catamarca valley. Torreblanca says that the place was hardly a city—barely a ranch with a plaza and a rollo of justice, and dwellings for the residents and for Bohorques. This is the setting where ceremonies were to be celebrated, and negotiations would be carried out with this strange character (Bohorques) who had disrupted colonial Tucumán. Those at the meeting resolved to receive Bohorques in the presence of the curacas and principales.³⁶ These precautions were meant to dissipate any hint of mistrust among the Indians, who had accepted Bohorques as their Inca. On the other hand, it was decided that when the Indians were not around, he would be treated as a common gentleman and vassal, adding that this seemed to be the best way to achieve their goal of converting the Indians and achieving peace. These decisions were duly registered and signed by Mercado, members of the cabildo, and the government notary, as was done with all the autos that the governor had drawn up. Bohorques and his group of Calchaquí caciques made their entrance into Pomán on July , , accompanied by Hernando de Torreblanca, the missionary sent to mediate in the negotiations. Torreblanca says in his Relación that the governor was determined to carry out the planned cere-

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mony and praised Bohorques, saying he would be honored to deal with him.³⁷ We know little about this reception ceremony because the autos ordered by Mercado are very brief. But Torreblanca and other witnesses give more details that enable us to reconstruct events.³⁸ The first act took place on a ranch near Pilciao, some distance from Pomán. An entourage of Indians, surely dressed in their best attire, with showy feathers and painted faces, were received with great enthusiasm. Passing through an arch of flowers, Pedro Bohorques entered into his only days of glory. There he received gifts sent by the governor, described by Bartolomé de Benastar, cacique of Cachi, which included “a gown and red cloak and embroidered jacket and a saddle for the chair; . . . [the cloak was given] by Captain Hernando de Pedraza, who, as an ordinary alcalde, had gone to receive him in the town of his encomienda, where he celebrated [with] much dancing and with arches that were put up for him.”³⁹ The second act took place in Pomán, where Bohorques was received with triumph by two rows of men waving flags with salvos of harquebusiers:⁴⁰ About four in the afternoon he undertook his entrance. Don Pedro and those who accompanied him with a group of Indians and Spaniards were placed in two rows along with the rest of the people. The governor rode on a white horse, dressed in full regalia, and in front, where Bohorques was, came the carriage of His Lordship, parading in a grand entrance. He dismounted, they greeted him, and he entered the carriage, and in this manner they entered the town. And at the home of the governor they held a long conversation, and from there they took the guest to the house they had prepared for him.⁴¹

Does this not remind us of the scene where King Alfonso received the Cid at the doors of Toledo? Have we not made a time-travel leap from medieval times to the mid-seventeenth century? Bishop Maldonado wrote to the viceroy on September , , that at their first encounter Mercado and Bohorques embraced one another and that Mercado said to the Indians, “You have received your Inga in this manner, why have you not shown to him the same respect as what was done to his grandfathers.”⁴² The reception scene ended in the church, where Bohorques and Mercado sat on opposite sides of the altar to hear a solemn mass consecrating the pacts they would sign. After this came fifteen days of meetings of vecinos, priests, and the governor, with rituals of vassalage, tournaments,

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and games. Fifteen days of fiction took the place of reality. Hope of promised riches erased doubts, masking with gold the face of mistrust and burying fears under the weight of ambition. Each official act, ritual, or festival had a special significance, raising Bohorques’s expectations even higher. He returned to the Calchaquí valley with the titles of lieutenant governor and general captain, having done solemn homage to the governor by publicly kneeling at his feet. At the same time, he obtained express authorization to use the title of Inca, becoming both king of the Indians and representative of the Crown—two titles and powers that his fantasy had sought for years. The events in Pomán were of such magnitude and Bohorques’s complicity in obtaining these results was so great that it became the subject of a great scandal in the province and throughout the viceroyalty. Bohorques did not hesitate to organize his own rituals. The day of his arrival, he had a chair placed at the door of his quarters, and “making a show of great majesty” he presided over a meeting with all his caciques. He gave a long speech (translated by a ladino Indian into the Kakana tongue, spoken by the Diaguitas), after which the Indians conferred among themselves. Then, kneeling before Bohorques, they called him their Inca and kissed his hands (or feet, according to some versions), and he touched their heads in acceptance or confirmation of the vassalage they offered.⁴³ Captain Luis Ponce de León, ordinary alcalde of La Rioja, said that during this episode, Bohorques distributed arrows among the Indians, evidently reaffirming a war alliance under the very noses of the Spaniards. Later they were served wine, which they all drank “with much joy.” The party lasted fifteen days. During the day there were all manner of celebrations, including bullfights, tournaments, and games of canes. There were evening festivities [saraos], one offered by the residents of La Rioja, another by those of the Catamarca valley.⁴⁴ What seems a simple list of events organized for this occasion became a repeated theme in the interrogations three years later, since they were of enormous importance in judging the conduct of the governor. Games, tournaments, and soirées were held only on special occasions, such as the arrival of a new viceroy. There were festivities in the viceregal capitals to celebrate the peace between Charles V and François I of France, visits by the bishops and viceroys to the cities, the birth of a royal heir, royal weddings, and other such events.⁴⁵ That these festivities were organized to honor Pedro Bohorques caused a great scandal.

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It was to honor the new king, the Inca, but the honor went to a Spaniard. Bohorques, who perfectly perceived the hidden significance of such events with their medieval roots, must have felt himself acquiring the dimensions of a knight. I cannot help recalling the Cid Campeador, and for the Spaniards who had invested such hope in him, why not see in Bohorques a new Prometheus? He knew how to read these displays of joy and skill and used them to enhance his power. Yet deep down he realized that they were masquerades intended to impress the Indians. This happened repeatedly in Mexico in the early years of the conquest as a means of getting closer to those who would give them riches. What mixed feelings might Bohorques have felt at these moments? Joy, because his merits were at last acknowledged, or scorn, because he could guess the secret intentions and appetites that lay beneath the homage he received? Mercado entertained Bohorques at a sumptuous banquet, where Torreblanca was seated at the table, while the rest, including the caciques, “wearing their royal costumes in the royal Spanish fashion” (as Bayle says) stood nearby, watching the guests.⁴⁶ At these parties and banquets, and also at the church, chansonetas or coplas (traditional folk songs) were performed, transcripts of which were later shown to the jury to prove their authenticity. They were sung, accompanied by “harps, bigüelas, and cítaras and raveles.”⁴⁷ Some of the lyrics are as follows:⁴⁸ A Public Announcement In Virtue of Nobility

Oh that the bugle of fame With sonorous voice announce With increasing volume From Polo to these lands. Oh! Today that they crown your forehead With laurels as in Rome A triumphant carriage awaits you for the city of La Rioja. And today Caesar undefeated, The superb Calchaquí Gives in humbly kneeled before you, May all the muses sing to you.

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And although they must prevent it All the nobility desires In Londres and Catamarca Is to serve you. In whose illustrious Mercado⁴⁹ All hopes are placed A great fair is promised Rich gifts and jewels. Well stocked is this Mercado By ingenious providence So that he who spends Will remain wealthy. And the barbarous Calchaquí Negating their own deities Obey and humbly throw away Their bow and arrows. Oh worthy conquest The heart bleeds Prevailing over the souls To magnify our victory. And because the Inga not be left Without a worthy role We go back to Torreblanca And together to Villacorta And no matter what they may win A son of the Rioja maintains That Virtue is more noble Than any other good he may gain. And to the effort of his spear Retell these deeds in a manner so proper He whose last name is Pedraza And Figueroa the godfather.

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Hernando de Pedraza, without a doubt, was one of the authors of these verses, and perhaps one of those who had succumbed to the seduction of Bohorques. His words show this, while also revealing the illusions that his shameless promises had awakened. In the name of the “nobles” of Londres and Catamarca, he kneels before “Caesar,” offering true vassalage. Another of these poems was delivered by someone dressed as a mestiza who expressed her ardent love. With sovereign impulse From the river Marañón I come on this occasion To see my Inga brother. Daughter I am of the most beautiful Sun Whose divine ardor and flair Exudes such fine love Through the gold of my hair. And because I know that this evening A party will be made for him I have tried to prevent it With all my efforts. With this spear at hand Of valor in defense of another I must either lose my shame Or I must win my brother. Keeping the composure That in my figure you see I do this to be sure In case he runs behind me. Lords and judges I do not doubt You give me license in this But if you don’t give it to me I’ll undress my Naked body to agony and bliss.

Finally, a third piece, probably from the pen of Mercado y Villacorta himself, was sung in church during a religious ceremony. Calchaquí

Lord this is the house We have established for you And thankful we are with true zeal And this discovery we give to you As in the Day of Judgment There are evil and good deeds Two hands divided but together We will attempt to plant the seeds And humbly prostrated before you We beg your affection and kindness With the light of the gospel May you illuminate their blindness Erase from their unfaithful memory Their idolatrous desires And may they learn through your blood The inestimable prize we desire. And the Inga subject to Your most efficient grace Give him the means and pity So that he rule with rightful place. Today before your presence These gentiles we bring And in seeing them before you The joy in our breast cannot be contained. And as Pedro is his name In all his deeds may he appear like Pedro With the exception of what happened to Pedro In the orchard. To the Governor as well May all your help be within his reach As there are no firm proceedings Without the knowledge you impart.

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May Ignacio intervene in the lives Of his children with content Through the continual labor of their sweat Obtain the fruits heaven has sent. This Lord we ask for Without dealing with other attempts Give your law to the Indians Take away their mistakes and contempt.

According to some other reports, there may have been other coplas. A careful examination reveals in them many elements at play: Bohorques’s ties with the Paytiti (here called Marañón); the importance of his assumed role as Inca; his evangelical role; the mistrust of Mercado. The allegorical tone of these verses, the combination of solemnity and irony, suggests the atmosphere of the festivities at Pomán. Once these homages to the Inca had been completed, Bohorques and his Indians returned to Calchaquí. In the same manner in which he was received, Bohorques was given special honors as he left San Juan Bautista de la Rivera. The governor, on a white horse, accompanied him to the outskirts of the city, shouting, “Long live the Inga!” The cacique Bartolomé Benastar, whose testimony was later requested by Governor Gerónimo Luis de Cabrera, said that the Indians carried Bohorques on their shoulders in a hammock. At the moment of saying goodbye, Mercado had said to Benastar, “‘My son, don Bartolomé, see him as your native lord, love him and respect him, and I will help you in all that you need’; he said this in the presence of the caciques and Indians, and many Spaniards heard it.”⁵⁰ The other great theme of the questioning was to verify the truth about the gifts that were given to Bohorques. One was an Inca costume that consisted of “an embroidered shirt that was made in the city of La Rioja, in the house of Captain Juan de Ibarra, and a crown of silver.”⁵¹ Benastar added to this list: two shirts, patterned and embroidered; a patterned poncho; some trousers in the Indian style; a llaito [llauto, a symbolic headband worn by the Inca] made of silver, with a sun fashioned of silver and its earflaps made of the same; some cuffs [manillas] called chipana for the arms; a headband; and some coral necklaces, so that he might represent himself as an Inca. And Bohorques in these festivities and dances that the Indians performed

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[in the valley Calchaquí] wore such things . . . and in this manner the speaker learned that the clothes and presents were taken and handed in by Gonzalo de Barrionuevo, vecino of Rioja, and that he overheard, that the shirts had been made in the house of Juan de Ibarra, Principal Secretary of the Government. The diadem with the Sun above it and the strip of gold had been sent by captain Hernando de Pedraza.⁵²

In addition, don Bartolomé Benastar testified that friar Juan de León, Bohorques’s friend, gave him “an emerald choker and other jewels for the adornment of the head and bracelets for the arms,”⁵³ a report corroborated by Esteban de Contreras, who noted that the bracelets were made of pearls.⁵⁴ What more is there to say? Were people on a plane of fantasy or reality? The reader must decide. One of the first official acts carried out was to ask Bohorques to give an account of the Indian towns in the Calchaquí valley. This he did in great detail, noting that there were , souls counted in the census, of whom , were armed men and  were caciques or curacas.⁵⁵ Nevertheless, the Paciocas are not mentioned in this account, since, according to Torreblanca, they did not go to Pomán. Having been the ones who introduced Bohorques to the valley, they feared reprisals. Various meetings followed to discuss whether don Pedro should return to the valley, and all agreed unanimously that his return would advance the conversion of the Indians and promote the business of the province. Bohorques promised to persuade the Indians to carry out their mita service for their encomenderos, to reveal the treasures and mines he had discovered, and in general to put the Indians “in order.” He was asked to submit a written report from various priests in Pomán expressing their opinion of his effectiveness. The report was favorable and even authorized Bohorques to use the title of Inca, “this being the cornerstone of the edifice that we hope to build.”⁵⁶ The autos expressly state that friar Torreblanca “supported this resolution with enthusiasm, recognizing in it the powerful hand [of Providence] that moved it, showing his mercies by means of Captain D. Pedro Bohorques and this not so unexpected opportunity.”⁵⁷ Of course, in his Relación Bohorques claimed to have been forced to sign the resolution, so as to escape responsibility if anything went wrong. As we see, Mercado was watching his back. Each one present at the assembly had to express his opinion. No one objected to what was proposed, and all trusted in Providence. It was not they, but God, who was doing this, to end the long frustration of the priests and the mocked encomenderos. GetCalchaquí

ting the Indians to obey in his capacity as Inca would guarantee Bohorques’s success. Most of the arguments were based on the repeated theme that he should be authorized to use the title of Inca.⁵⁸ On August , a third meeting was held specifying Bohorques’s powers and obligations as a royal official with jurisdiction in the Calchaquí valley. On August , they had decided to name him general lieutenant, judge, and captain of war,⁵⁹ and explained in detail how he would be expected to introduce Spanish control in the valley (“heretofore badly introduced”), ensure the conversion of the Indians, and name alcaldes in the Indian towns, as well as “any other ministers of justice he deemed convenient and authoriz[e] some Indians to carry out policing in accordance with their customs and ways of living and dressing.” Bohorques and Torreblanca discussed the pros and cons of taking these actions and agreed that all had to be done very cautiously and in “a gentle manner.” Both remembered that the past wars had left much suspicion and that each step had to be calculated according to the situation or disposition of each group. In these discussions and reflections, both Torreblanca and Bohorques demonstrated a full knowledge of the valley’s multiethnic population, with its various groups and power centers, making it advisable to approach each one individually. The same arguments had been advanced over the issue of forcing the Indians to carry out the mita service they owed to their encomenderos. Bohorques demanded that the work should be voluntary for the moment and that the Indians should be paid on time. Bohorques was ordered not to admit fugitives into the valley, since the area had been a place of refuge for Indians fleeing from their encomenderos, but he warned that it would not be easy to carry out that order, because many refugees had married Indian women of the valley and had settled there.⁶⁰ Finally, he agreed to do what he could to expel them, but agreed to do this only to stop newcomers and to avoid Indian attacks on haciendas and neighboring settlements.⁶¹ The titles that Mercado gave to Pedro Bohorques followed all the customary legal forms. They authorized him to administer justice among Indians as well as Spaniards (if they lived in the valley, he had the power to name corporals and military officials). With these formalities, Bohorques found his dreams fulfilled—he was now an authentic and legitimate royal official. It was clear by this time that Bohorques was no longer interested in serving the colonial system, but planned to use his authority to liberate the

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Indians from peninsular dominion and to set up his own kingdom. His later actions leave no doubt of his intentions in playing the role of Inca, although he continued to maintain, until his last days, a hypocritical stance toward the Spaniards. Nor did the governor and those at the meetings in Pomán conceal their true motive in giving him these powers: an appetite for the riches that they might obtain in the valley. They gave Bohorques jurisdiction over an area that included Famatina (in the jurisdiction of La Rioja), which had been reputed for its rich mineral deposits since the time of Governor Ramírez de Velasco toward the end of the sixteenth century, but were yet undiscovered. Some Indians from the area had promised to discover these riches for their Inca, Mercado wrote in a letter to Bishop Maldonado.⁶² Still, there were questions about a trip to this area that Bohorques planned to make the next year to Pomán. Mercado’s letter even stated that he should travel around the entire jurisdiction from Pulares (in the northern Calchaquí valley) to Famatina, to continue his explorations. The documents are very clear regarding the scope of his jurisdiction and its motives: He will proceed with all sagacity and good disposition in all kinds of guacas and mines and other riches hidden by the Indians, particularly in the Casa Blanca,⁶³ the Famatina mountain, and other places of equal splendor that he may judge will result in the benefit of the Royal Hacienda of His Majesty. . . . And because these discoveries can be made outside of the jurisdiction of the valley of Calchaquí, or around the areas of Coquimbo, Atacama or other places near his domain, although not expressly included in the terms and jurisdictions. [It is declared that] he govern and rule them.⁶⁴

On August , Bohorques was given authorization “to be called Inka,” and to be recognized as such by the Indians, with the hope that he would use it with the zeal of a good vassal and be worthy of the trust given to him by “the Lord Viceroys and other great Ministers for the great efforts carried out by him up to this moment and particularly by Sr. Conde de Salvatierra with the license that he gave him the past year in  to pass the mountain range of the Andes in Cuzco and in his discoveries made in the river Marañón as stated in his papers.”⁶⁵ To complete this ceremony, Bohorques offered homage and vassalage, or pleito homenaje, “before the governor, that he would use well and faithfully the permission given to him to call himself Inga.” He declared him-

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self a legitimate son of Pablo de Bohorques Girón and doña María Ramírez de Guzmán and vowed to use this permission to benefit both majesties. He would respect the governor, would obey his orders “without aversion or contradiction,” and would carry out his duties as a “knight” and faithful vassal of the king.⁶⁶ Later he had to give explicit testimony of the two guacas that so far the Indians had shown him.⁶⁷ In these testimonies he reserved certain rights for himself, while respecting those due to His Majesty. Once these formalities were carried out, and with all the documents and titles safely stowed, don Pedro left for the Calchaquí valley on August , , with the celebrations and honors already described. Needless to say, given the enormous risk involved in the agreements he had signed, the officials at Pomán and in particular the governor, tried not to leave any loose ends, to prevent future problems. All concerned knew they were embarking on an uncertain adventure, and all tried to protect their collective reputation so that no one could be singled out as guilty if anything went wrong. The governor wrote to friar Sancho, asking him to keep an eye on the undertakings in Calchaquí, and also to Torreblanca, making him primarily responsible for watching Bohorques by virtue of his special “knowledge of the native Indians.”

Bohorques Decides to “Become an Ally of the Earth and Create a Conspiracy” Back again in the valley, Bohorques first settled in the town of Tolombón, where he had previously lived, and later moved to San Carlos. Torreblanca narrates that he participated with the Indians in their religious sacrifices, wearing the Inca costume that the Spaniards had given him and transporting himself on a litter. At the same time, he negotiated the shipment of mitas, forced Indian laborers, with various Spaniards, but the Indians returned unhappy, because of their poor pay. Dressed in his imperial regalia, he had himself carried on a litter to the Church of San Carlos, on a day when various Spaniards attended. There the Indians claimed him as their titaquín, which means a very important lord in the Kakana language of the Diaguitas, and the Spaniards applauded.⁶⁸ According to some accounts, Bohorques built two wooden cannons to organize his defense and sent a number of Indians to the western border of the chaqueña jungle, so they could make

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bows and pingollos (musical instruments used in war to announce battle).⁶⁹ As one can see, the Inca’s strategy was twofold: first, to organize their defense, and second, to develop an ample espionage network. Step by step, he would weave a complex scheme with which to advance his project. In October, shortly after Bohorques had signed the contracts with the governor, news spread about the messages that Bohorques was sending from the valley. From Mendoza came the accusations of a cacique called Francisco or Caña, a native of the town of Pismán in the Chilean jurisdiction of San Juan, who had received an arrow from Calchaquí, and who had not wanted to accept it.⁷⁰ Once the events in Pomán were finished, the governor remained in the area, waiting for results. He wrote to the viceroy from Rioja on November , informing him of events. But Alba de Aliste had already received the first notice from Córdoba, and in December he ordered the capture of Bohorques. This letter did not reach the governor until March , three months later, and in the meantime, events followed their course as planned in Pomán, but in a climate of tense expectation. In late , the Jesuit provincial expressed concern about the responsibility his missionaries had assumed, fearing they would be held guilty if their plans failed. He even suggested that they leave the valley until he could see how things developed. Mercado firmly opposed this, since they were the only Spaniards living in Calchaquí and they could warn him if Bohorques deviated from his obligations.⁷¹ Ironically, the provincial’s letter cautioning the missionaries came into Bohorques’s hands, as his spies intercepted all correspondence. He clearly recognized the suspicions of the bishop and the company regarding his strategy in Pomán. The bishop was not a man who hid his opinions; in a letter to Bohorques he said frankly that he should be sent to Londres, as the governor suggested. The bishop opposed allowing Bohorques to call himself Inca, as “the Calchaquí did not love or know him as Inga.” He added: “There are no huacas, Lord Don Pedro, nor mines, and the only riches they give us are arrows.” All knew, and Bishop Maldonado as well, that Bohorques had taken various Indian women as concubines and that the Chilean mestiza was still in his company. Lozano claimed that he had fourteen concubines. The bishop sternly warned him that he risked punishment by death: “If human weakness yields to some Indian woman (as we are men), [the women] will become jealous. And . . . what will she not say when she becomes jealous?”

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“Who will shut the mouth of a jealous woman? Who will face the judgment of the people?” That is, evidence would be brought against Don Pedro, revealing the truth of his behavior to both Indians and Spaniards. The bishop even offered his own house as a refuge if things became unbearable.⁷² Drawing a conclusion later borrowed by Lozano, Maldonado argued that the Indians were using Bohorques to maintain their autonomy and that they planned to rise against him once they had achieved their goals. Nonetheless, things were not so simple. Bohorques took advantage of those months to construct his own power networks by various means. One step was to fortify himself with weapons and to arm his men. He reinforced his alliances with the caciques by marrying their daughters and sisters. At the same time, he sent messages to many caciques outside the valley, announcing the “good news” of the arrival of the Inca, directly contradicting the express orders he had been given in Pomán. He communicated with the caciques of the Bolivian altiplano, and also those of Potosí, trying to add a pan-Andean dimension to his rebellion. A cacique of Santiago de Cotagaita responded in both word and gesture. He assured Bohorques that the other caciques had commissioned him, so that he might see “His Majesty.” He warned that soldiers would try to kill the Inca, but they would rise in his defense, because in the last “twelve years they did much damage to the Indians by selling their lands, so all the world was waiting for you visit to our people.” The cacique saluted him as “my lord Don Pedro.”⁷³ A violent speech that (according to Lozano) Bohorques delivered in mid- reveals the quality of information he received and the truth of these contacts. Bohorques told the caciques that the rebellion would begin in Potosí, and that one night all the water would be released from the lagoon, causing a flood. He referred to the lagoons feeding the mineral refineries, knowing that if the floodgates were broken, the city and all its riches would be in danger. Lozano claims that messengers had been sent to Potosí inviting people to rebel, whereupon a group of caciques rejected the plan. However, Bohorques does not mention this turn of events in his speech.⁷⁴ In December, the governor demanded that Bohorques inform him of his accomplishments so far. Although he announced that he would go to San Miguel with various caciques, Mercado preferred to meet in Tafí. In their interview, Bohorques gave him an update, complaining that he was receiving little support from the missionaries.⁷⁵ According to Mercado’s documents, on the basis of Bohorques’s good reception by the caciques, he pro-

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posed that they recruit people to assist in defending the port of Buenos Aires, located about , kilometers from the Calchaquí valleys, from the risk of foreign attack. At first, they seemed disposed to collaborate. Next, Mercado asked Bohorques to inform him of the possibilities and costs of carrying out what he had proposed. Bohorques saw in this request an opportunity to arm the Indians, and his response fits in with his usual excesses. First, Bohorques maintained that, given the Indians’ great love for him, he had no doubt that they would carry out whatever he ordered “by the subjection and recognition that they have of me and that which I have experimented with.” Concerning how many Indians he could recruit, he could not provide a number, but he estimated that some would have to stay behind to help their women and suggested that they be given military insignia so that they would serve with more gusto. When it came to expenses, his delirium took flight. He calculated that they would need four cows and half a fanega of maize per day for every hundred Indians; a carriage load of bows and arrows,  sharp tips for the cavalry;  horses of remuda, or fresh replacements, for the second lieutenant; banners and flags in the Indian style; and, “for the corporals and Spanish officials, the decision is left up to his Lordship.” Once all the provisions were obtained, they would be ready to set out in fifteen days. Mercado ordered him to return to the valley to recruit the necessary forces, but concerning the expenses, he said only that they would have food and the necessary gear, but promised nothing more. This deal was only partially accomplished, since a number of Indians apparently went to Buenos Aires. Mercado obviously understood that his request had awakened Bohorques’s greed, who saw it as an opportunity to organize a wellsupplied military force. Nonetheless, there are no written records of this exchange, since the government preferred to keep silent about genuine imprudence on Bohorques’s part. The negotiations were formalized. The lieutenant of San Miguel, Captain Alonso de Ureña, wrote that he notified the “General don Pedro Bohorques y Xirón” of all the autos agreed upon at the meeting. At this time, a letter from Tafí asked the Jesuit superior to inform the authorities, by word of mouth, of any Spaniard passing through the valley, and also about the development of these events. They repeated the recommendations previously given to Bohorques in the Pliegos of Pomán, the documents that established the rules and obligations by which Bohorques had

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to abide.⁷⁶ According to Torreblanca, after the interview Bohorques left two spies (whom he names, saying he met them) who formed part of the governor’s entourage. From that moment on, don Pedro was always informed of whatever decisions concerned him, and in this way he shaped his strategy. This inside information gained him the reputation of having a familiar, or demonic companion, inspiring his “evil actions.” Even Governor Mercado explained his actions as inspired by his familiar.⁷⁷ With the atmosphere heating up, a letter from Viceroy Alba y Aliste arrived on March , , ordering Mercado to apprehend Bohorques “with the sagacity and prudence that such a case required.” The viceroy harshly reprimanded him for what had occurred. He had already received various reports (one from the bishop, reported by Lozano) that Bohorques was a man who did “not fit into the world.”⁷⁸ This phrase is both painful and revealing. In truth, Bohorques sought a place between two worlds and jumped from one to the other using his charisma, although he did not fit into either one. These events show clearly that he had decided to construct a new republic in which the Indians would have greater space and autonomy than Spain had given them. It is not easy to get under his skin. The desire for riches and power, the dream of constructing a new kingdom that did not entirely fit into any of the mental structures with which he interacted, made him a marginal character, almost a Quixote who, in his disgrace, was also dangerous. His power resided in his threatening image, and the fear he instilled in the Spaniards’ hearts was the clay from which they were unwittingly molding the sculpture of a hero. What infuriated the viceroy most was that Bohorques was named lieutenant governor, and he warned of the dangers of such a decision. He demanded that Bohorques be apprehended and sent to the president of the Audiencia de Charcas, and from there to Lima. Three days after reading the viceroy’s letter and preparing to carry out his orders, Mercado heard from Bohorques that he was setting out on a journey to discover mines and treasures. He urged that Spaniards should not be allowed into the valley during his absence, assuring the governor that all was going along as promised and he would keep him informed. But he did not reveal where he was going. Mercado alerted those in Londres and La Rioja, suspecting that Bohorques would go that way. Meanwhile, in late March the viceroy repeated the order for Bohorques’s arrest and warned the governor that he would accept no more excuses or delays, “because although the aims may be honorable, it is not good to arrive at them through a rough road filled with burrs.”⁷⁹ Calchaquí

From that moment on, Governor Mercado tried frantically to learn what Bohorques was doing, but without success. Reports from Londres and La Rioja were not encouraging. Mercado gave orders right and left, while hoping to keep his intentions hidden from the Indians. Bohorques’s expedition lasted until the last days of March . Toward the end of April, reports were received about his activities. To verify the news and letters received from that area, various autos were issued with the testimonies of the Indians and Spaniards, from which we can get an approximate idea of what happened. Bohorques called meetings of the caciques and Indians in the Famatina valley and also in the Sauces valley, where the fort of Pantano was located. This was the reservation where Indians who had participated in the – rebellion were kept. In Famatina the meeting was held in the church. The principal cacique of the valley received him with all honors, and Bohorques asked him to assemble his caciques. While he waited, he had brought to him two chinas (girls), “the most beautiful that had not known any men.” He spent the night with them in a chamber perfumed “with some herbs.” The next day there were dances and celebrations held in his honor, after which he went to the meeting in the church, dressed in his Inca costume. Following the Indian custom, these gatherings lasted many days, with meetings alternating with dancing and drinking bouts, in which the Lieutenant Diego de Herrera and other Spaniards in the area took part. In the Sauces valley, Bohorques was again received with much ceremony. A shelter was built for him and celebrations were held in his honor. As in Famatina, several Spaniards participated—among them, Gonzalo de Barrionuevo, who went with the Inca to Calchaquí.⁸⁰ The priest at Famatina was the first to give the alarm to the rest of the Spaniards and in this case, he warned the cabildo of La Rioja that an imminent uprising was being prepared.⁸¹ The cabildo of La Rioja sent twenty men to the valley to find what the Indians were doing and what measures should be taken, while the other vecinos prepared to defend the city. For La Rioja, the memory of recent past rebellions was still fresh, as they had been the most affected by them. Curiously, at the same time, this news was mixed with reports that some of the Indians wanted to kill the Inca and the Jesuits of the valley, as they considered the whole scheme a farce being used against them. Residents grew more fearful, as many suspected that the threatened rebellion did not depend exclusively on the presence of the Inca. The same alarm was sounded in San Juan Bautista de la Rivera.⁸² The populations of the Sauces and Famatina valleys rebelled and retreated to the mountains Calchaquí

toward the west. Alonso Díaz de Alvarado, corporal of the Fort del Pantano, said that he had miraculously escaped an attempt on his life. Alvarado sent the first news that a group of Malfines had fled toward the Calchaquí, commanded by the mestizo Luis Enríquez, who eventually became Bohorques’s right-hand man. To consolidate this relationship, Bohorques married Enríquez’s daughter.⁸³ Incited by Bohorques, Enríquez and his son-in-law Calsapí tried to make the Indians of La Rioja and Catamarca rise up in arms again, achieving partial success in the first attempt,⁸⁴ but the departure of Enríquez and his group was premature, because Bohorques had trusted him to organize the uprising in those valleys, and without him he would be unable to consolidate his alliance with the rest of the caciques. What were Bohorques’s intentions during his stay in this area? According to the cacique don Luis Aballay, who witnessed the meetings held in Famatina, Bohorques organized a general uprising. Bohorques had told the Indians that the Spaniards had “wanted to get him out of the area using deceptive methods, to cut off his head and also of all the caciques in Londres and those who had obeyed him.” He was going to stop this. Dressed in his Inca costume and “crying in their manner,” Bohorques made the caciques kneel down and gave them each an arrow as a sign of their obedience. Also, after the arrival of two officials from La Rioja, he made another speech “saying that they wanted to kill him and that they would behead all the caciques and that their children would be sold and used as slaves.” Hearing of the presence of the Inca in Famatina, more caciques arrived from La Rioja and Catamarca, among them “two [?] who showed him the riches” (a wash basin of gold), and having gathered them in the church, he told them: Children, for you I will die. And now they say they want to show me something important, requesting that I go to La Rioja to surrender, but if I go they will kill you and split the wealth among themselves, a wealth that is yours and not of the Spaniards. At that point he named Luis Enríques as his captain and ordered the Indians to obey him as their captain general.⁸⁵

Days later, Aballay added his statements, confirmed and added to by other caciques and Indians of the commune of Fort Pantano and of Famatina who were questioned at other times.⁸⁶ They said that Bohorques knew that according to ancient custom caciques were buried wearing chipanas (bracelets) of gold; to get money for weapons, he had disinterred the bodies and

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removed the bracelets. Aballay also said that Bohorques prepared a ruse to stop the governor from apprehending him. He would pretend to follow orders, to go see the governor, but would have the caciques “prevent him” from leaving. This had to be done in front of the letter carrier (in order to get news to the governor) to force the governor to enter the valley of Calchaquí. That they could capture him and do with him what they wanted to. Aballay claimed to have heard this when he went to the Calchaquí valley to deliver cows to Bohorques. When asked when these uprisings would occur, some said after Easter,⁸⁷ while others said in three months, but that “he awaited to have news from the caciques of Peru, as they all knew how to read and write, [and could report] the instructions given by the viceroy.” Clearly, Bohorques had woven an ample network of informants. One reason Mercado later asserted that Bohorques had a familiar is that he knew in advance what steps the viceroy would take. These testimonies show how Bohorques’s plans were taking shape. As a witness said later, Bohorques tried to “ally himself with the land and make a conspiracy,”⁸⁸ while instructing the natives in war tactics.⁸⁹ But Bohorques was not always cool and calculating. He also knew how to warm people’s spirits, playing on both fear and hope of liberty, encouraging the rumor that people from La Rioja were ready to attack and hang them all. In this way he sought to convince the natives to trust him, with no doubts as to his leadership. Further, he urged them not to kill the Jesuit friars and missionaries, but to spare the Spaniards and keep them captive “for use in Chile.”⁹⁰ He told them that they should cheer up as they had a leader and that in the previous wars four men had been killed because they did not have a leader and in order to liberate them there must be wars.”⁹¹ In addition, “all the land would remain his and the Indians’, subject only to himself and not to our king and lord”;⁹² moreover, “he would not stop until they were free of the dominion of the Spaniards.”⁹³ Bohorques threatened to hang informers, and at the same time he organized the movements of those going to the Calchaquí valley.⁹⁴ Some revealed the project of constructing a fort from which to attack “lodges and parts of the province” with the objective of stealing cattle.⁹⁵ When the governor was certain that Bohorques was back in the valley, he devised new ways to apprehend him. Meanwhile, Bohorques wrote to Mercado, offering his own version of what had happened on his trip to Famatina, saying he had returned on April . Let us not forget that the val-

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ley of Famatina was put under his jurisdiction as lieutenant governor and general captain in the ceremonies at Pomán. But to cover his real intentions, he reported that he had found the Malfines and Abaucanes united as one body, and he had apparently warned them about an uprising in which he had no role. The same happened in Calchaquí, concerning the Ingamanas who rejected his offer of recognizing the Spaniards as their official authority, with the exception of their cacique Juan Camisa and some of his children. The text of the letter is confusing, but it exploits the conflict between the Ingamanas and the allied Malfines and Abaucanes to ensure that they had left Calchaquí, as had been ordered, thanks to the bravery of Juan Camisa. He assures the governor that the valley was peaceful. Bohorques’s letter, sent from the indigenous town of Samanalao, was dated May , .⁹⁶ In an attempt to carry out the viceroy’s instructions, Mercado sent Juan Jordán de Trejo to invite Bohorques to a new meeting to discuss conditions in the valley, this time in Choromoros, an area bordering on Calchaquí. Recognizing this as a ruse to apprehend him, Bohorques protected himself. The governor knew that Bohorques was aware of his plans and was organizing his defense. He was also worried that the domestic Indians, the encomendados, would listen to their Inca, a sign of the restlessness that was spreading over the province. Mercado was also upset with the missionaries who did not respond “rightly” to what was happening, in compliance with the provincial’s orders. He told them that he thought of punishing their “infidelity.”⁹⁷ Some days later, Bohorques notified the governor that he was ill and could not meet him at Choromoros. Mercado said he would wait for him and expressed his “trust and satisfaction” with Bohorques’s activities. He warned of the potential Indian uprising in Londres and La Rioja, and asked for his help. He also sent gifts, believing that with this he could hide his real intentions. These details illustrate the tragicomic nature of this cat-andmouse game. Evidently, the governor and his functionaries underestimated Bohorques’s intelligence and tried to please him by offering him sweets as if he were a child. All this is officially registered in the autos that Mercado created day after day.⁹⁸ On June , a letter arrived from Bohorques complaining of his ailments and apologizing for being unable to attend the meetings at Choromoros, saying that the Indians had prevented him, as they feared for his health. Bohorques made an excuse not to go—he was ill and the Indians wanted

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him to recover. As a consequence, Bohorques requested that Mercado go to the valley, “with no more than two or three people with him.” One recognizes in this the strategy anticipated by the cacique Aballay in April.⁹⁹ Jordán de Trejo, who returned from the valley with the letters, confirmed that the following scene took place in the San Carlos mission, with friars Hernando de Torreblanca and Eugenio Sancho in attendance. Don Pedro, the caciques, and the friars agreed that the governor should not be worried while traveling to the valley. In a second statement, Trejo confirmed that Luis Enríquez, the mestizo, and Calsapí with twenty men of war and some eighty from his family, were in the valley, fed and housed by Bohorques at San Carlos.¹⁰⁰ Mercado there made a report with a prolix list of Bohorques’s “infidelities,” leaving them as proof until he could hold a formal trial— above all, to justify his order of assassination, which comes at the end of this document. He resolved to send two people to the valley with secret instructions to carry out this order. First, they had to take him prisoner; but if he resisted, they were authorized to kill him with poison, by violence, or by any other means. If they feared for their lives, they were ordered to bring his decapitated head. Captains Antonio de Aragón and Juan Jordán de Trejo were given this mission.¹⁰¹ They left Choromoros on June  but returned without having accomplished it. From the captains’ report, we see that Bohorques knew of the plan. As they traveled, they found the tracks of the sentries who followed them. Further ahead, they were intercepted by Indians on horseback, who asked them whether more Spaniards were on their way, then left at full speed to inform Bohorques. In Tolombón, a party of  Indians, many of them mounted, confronted Trejo and Aragón in war formation. When they got to don Pedro’s farm in Tucumanao (near San Carlos), Enríquez’s men had retired to a fort protecting the property. Bohorques received them coldly, a reception the captains were not accustomed to. During the night, he had some of Luis Enriquez’s Malfines keep an eye on his house. This continued on the following nights, with guards of men and dogs at all hours. The Spaniards could not assassinate him, despite repeated attempts. While they were there, the cacique Calsapí told the captains that Bohorques was a tyrant and that he wanted to return to his town. The Inca knew of his dissatisfaction, as he later had him executed. Facing failure, Aragón and Trejo came up with the idea of inviting Bohorques to Aragón’s farm on the border of the valley with the pretext of revealing the location of

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potential treasures and giving him cows and horses, but Bohorques mocked this attempt by arriving with a strong guard. Having recovered his good humor, he treated them with joviality, having fun at the expense of the two unhappy Spaniards. Aragón and Trejo claimed that in an address the Inca urged the Indians to arm themselves, because “the Spaniards would enter their lands and take them away and fornicate with their women and daughters.” Bohorques clearly meant for his visitors to hear these speeches so they would communicate his true intentions to the governor. They confirmed that weapons and horses were being gathered against such attacks.¹⁰² No longer did he deal with his adversaries with “trinkets.” As we shall see, Bohorques showed his cards, sending menacing signs that had an immediate effect. Aragón and Trejo reported that some of the groups of the southern valley, from the Yocavil sector—the Quilmes, Yocaviles, and Anghinaos— did not obey the Inca. Father Eugenio Sancho gave the same information, awakening hope of obtaining some allies in the valley, but it turned out to be wrong. The captains observed that the valley’s population was starving and in need, and that they would surely welcome the arrival of the governor. Accompanied by the captains, Gonzalo de Barrionuevo went to Choromoros as Bohorques’s personal emissary. This young man, because of a debt that don Pedro owed to his recently deceased father, had been part of his group over six months, hoping to profit from the riches to be discovered.¹⁰³ Despite this, Mercado considered the young man to be a person of “quality and good blood,” and knowing that Bohorques had entrusted him with the care of his “food and other assistance in the house,” he introduced the possibility of killing the Inca, arguing that it would be in the service of His Majesty. Barrionuevo accepted the mission, and they agreed on poison. However, the attempt failed, since Bohorques suspected something and was prepared, finally apprehending Barrionuevo. Friar Torreblanca narrates in some detail how the frustrated assassin clumsily appealed for help from the mission fathers.¹⁰⁴ In the meantime, at a meeting in Choromoros, it was resolved that the governor should go to Salta to organize an assault on Calchaquí, and that troops should be prepared in San Miguel and at the fort at Andalgalá. Reinforcements were sent to Jujuy and Esteco. In late July , friar Patricio, of the mission of San Carlos, arrived at Salta with a letter from Pedro Bohorques denouncing Barrionuevo’s treachery. Nothing escaped his keen perception and shrewd surveillance, includ-

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ing those he considered faithful servants. He began to grow paranoid, not trusting anyone. Without reaching the extremes of paranoia or the cruelty that Francisco de Aguirre (“the wrath of God”) had shown a century before in the Amazon, Bohorques began to feel his isolation and saw threats from all sides. Poor Barrionuevo, seeing that he could not carry out his intention, sought the help of Calsapí, who also wanted to free himself from his alliance with the Inca and who had presented his complaints to Jordán de Trejo and Aragón when he was in San Carlos. Complicity with Barrionuevo cost Calaspí his life, while Barrionuevo was saved, thanks to the good offices of the missionaries.¹⁰⁵ Bohorques wrote to the governor trying a new tactic: a threat, expressed in the crudest terms.¹⁰⁶ He began by proclaiming his fidelity as a good vassal of the king. Then he reported that Barrionuevo had confessed to be obeying an order for his assassination, directly accusing the governor and condemning his action. If the intrigues did not stop, he said, they would face “a rebellion that threatens the entire kingdom of Peru.” He asserted that the Indians of the valley had renewed their allegiance and that they were preparing for an armed assault that would bring much bloodshed. At the same time, we find the first hints of a peace treaty. The ambiguity is manifest. Let us examine Bohorques’s own words to the governor: I put you in charge of all that has been said and hope you do not pass damaging reports of me in the courtroom where I ask that my fidelity be made manifest in your testimony and that I have not failed in anything and there has been no evidence of malice. I begged the very Reverend friar Pedro Patricio . . . to go to the city of Salta as my messenger to try and set carefully as I have communicated a peace treaty to end this tumult fashioned in the doctrine of San Carlos.

Mercado responded, trying to avoid a direct confrontation. He denied his responsibility in the assassination attempt and renewed his trust in Bohorques. He writes what Barrionvero said would only be true if: Your Lordship had failed in duty to be a loyal vassal of His Majesty and which I entrusted to you, but finding your lordship so clean of this dirty suspicion as on your behalf friar Pedro Patricio has told me . . . who has come down with this report, you could understand my concerns regarding such devious matter. The means of peace that your Lordship proposes to excuse the contingency of the present state, I have conferred with

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the Father Superior basing myself in them with the distrust with which I regarded your lordship and thinking about the best interests of his Majesty and the public interest. Your lordship should leave those Indians in the state that you found them. You should choose to assure us that you will carry out the task of debriefing them that you are not their Inca and can never be, that you are only a vassal of the King Our Lord, who had allowed you then this whim thinking that it would be for his greater Service.¹⁰⁷

In his final paragraphs, Mercado reported that friar Patricio would send his response and would wait eight days for his decision; if he were in truth a loyal vassal, he would come down “without complaints” when and where he indicated, by virtue of the homage he had made; otherwise, he would remain a bad vassal and of “low birth.” He demanded that he explain how he had used the name of Inca that he had been permitted to use, and that if by August  he had not come down to find him, he would declare it a demonstration of rebellion. He threatened to reveal Bohorques’s true identity to the Indians, so that they would stop obeying him. On the contrary, he would resort to the force of arms as a preventive measure on all the frontiers, including Peru. The letter begins with diplomatic language and ends by “threatening” and demanding an end to the farce that both had devised. Mercado remained a prisoner of this dangerous game, trusting in facts based on dubious misunderstandings. He risked his own life on a difficult bet and ended up losing. He was both an instrument of Bohorques´s ambitions for power and a victim. Both had been walking on the razor’s edge, and the one to pay the greater price would be the governor. This adventure brought no dreamed-of riches and obtained the pacification of the valley only at the cost of many lives. Bohorques must have felt that he had to prepare for combat. Lozano says that he gave a violent speech directed to his caciques declaring his willingness to kill the Spaniards, since the king of Spain had usurped his crown. He trusted them to take up arms in his defense because it was in their own interest. Since the Spaniards were determined to invade, it was necessary to destroy churches and cities, and not stop until he could recuperate the last handful of earth. Not only that province, said Bohorques, but “all the kingdoms of Peru are mine.” He threatened that the Spaniards not only planned to take his life but also would enter the valley to cut the throats of old men and women and sell the rest into slavery. He swore to defend the Indians to the death, because they were his “blood,” his rela-

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tives, whom he viewed as his children. “Because I am your true Inga full of compassion and stimulated by your love. Out of my own duty, I have come to liberate you from the slavery of the Spaniards, that break you by overworking you.” He assured the natives that all he did was for them and for his kingdom of the Paytiti, so that his heirs might enjoy it in peace. He hoped that his intrepidity might correspond with his sacrifices, “because in victory you ensure your freedom and of the entire Indian nation.” What followed was in the same vein, giving them reasons to fight, assuring them that the tie between them was the only reason for his behavior, because they were his “children,” his “blood.”¹⁰⁸ Nonetheless, contradictions continued between the speeches and the deeds carried out by all actors in the drama: Bohorques, his caciques, and the Spaniards (in particular, the governor). Mercado and his men decided that it was necessary to reveal Bohorques’s true identity to the valley inhabitants, sending this message by certain Indians who did the mita in Salta to Calchaquí. They left with friar Patricio, who was at the July  meeting. Of course, Bohorques was informed of this message and was angry with friar Patricio. On August , Patricio returned to Salta with friar Torreblanca bearing an order given by Bohorques and by the caciques of the valley. It established the conditions for negotiation and proof of the titles of Inca and lieutenant governor, legally given by Governor Mercado, and authorized Torreblanca to negotiate an amnesty. They held the Spaniards responsible for whatever uprisings and deaths might happen. On August , Mercado held a big meeting with the people of Salta, the missionaries, and his provincial. He resolved to forgive all that had happened and entrusted Torreblanca to take Bohorques out of the area. Bohorques was asked to leave the Indians and the valley peacefully. He was given various options: to go to Lima, to return to his family and his property; or to go to the port of Buenos Aires, from where he would be sent to Spain and given a living there, as well as perhaps other gifts. Torreblanca made it clear that Bohorques had threatened him with an uprising if the treaty were broken, but he himself did not trust don Pedro’s words or his good faith. While this meeting was going on, letters arrived from San Miguel with a message from friar Eugenio Sancho, saying that the towns of the Yocavil valley had not accepted Bohorques’s call for a general uprising. This con-

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firmed that the Inca continued to conspire and that the most prudent thing would be for Mercado to assemble his forces and enter the valley to apprehend him and pacify the Indians.¹⁰⁹ In any case, counseled by the provincial, the friars were asked to take less threatening letters, and they signed a document in which they officially disavowed the decisions taken by the council. From San Miguel they made other negotiations with the Indians of the Yocavil sector, although with great mistrust. Other letters of the governor telling the caciques that Bohorques was not an Inca were intercepted. On August  Mercado ordered the army to march toward the mouth of the Escoipe ravine, the only passage between the valley of Lerma (or Salta) and Calchaquí. News of the attack and the fires set at the mission of Santa Maria reached Lerma (or Salta) on August . Although wounded, the friars barely saved themselves and sought refuge in Andalgalá, having spent days without help or food.¹¹⁰ War had been declared and the forces on the frontiers had to establish an entry strategy. They could no longer count on Indian allies, and those from Andalgalá and San Miguel suggested that they should wait until they got more people and cattle. In Escoipe, Mercado and forces from Salta, Jujuy, and Esteco believed they could enter at least into the Pulares, hoping to fortify themselves in a strategic location. Nonetheless, there were various objections to this plan. The friars did not want to offer amnesty if at the same time there were preparations for war. On August , friar Patricio left for San Carlos. On August , he returned without a response, saying that he had not found Bohorques and that the mission of San Carlos had been burned and sacked by the fugitive Indians of Londres under the command of the mestiza Araucana.¹¹¹ While all these negotiations where taking place, Francisco Arias Velasquez, encomendero of the Pulares, was carrying out what seemed to be a secret mission with a small group of men in the valley. The story is confusing, but either they were attacked, or they attacked the Indians of various towns, and although they were finally saved, they lost animals and some lives.¹¹² Given these casualties, they decided to send an Indian whom Bohorques trusted to deliver him a pardon. A month passed without any news, a silence charged with fear. Once more, the shadow of war extended like a viscous stain over that inaccessible valley. The battle finally took place at the fort of San Bernardo, at the mouth of the Escoipe ravine on September , .

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The Spanish camp was surrounded. The Indians came in silence at daybreak, and the siege continued until the next morning, when the battle was finally unleashed. After four hours, the royal armies claimed victory. Although they did not confront Bohorques directly, no one doubted that he commanded the rebel forces. Torreblanca relates that he fought “left and right in a continuous movement,” thanks to his , Indian men.¹¹³ According to the many testimonies about the battle ordered by Governor Mercado, the Indians had fireballs and horses, in addition to their arrows and pingollos. Witnesses deduced the leadership of Bohorques by observing “the boldness with which the Indians fought, their organization and their determination to crush and corner the camp, a thing that had never been seen among them during their campaigns.”¹¹⁴ The Spaniards inflicted many casualties among the Indians, while their own forces suffered only some wounded, one of whom was the notary of the army. After the defeat, Bohorques accelerated negotiations, realizing that he could not defeat the Spanish or advance to other cities with indigenous forces. His frustration caused him to deliver an aggressive and provocative speech. On October , the Indian Alocho returned with Bohorques’s answer concerning the pardon that had been offered him. In Mercado’s words, it was expressed “with unmeasured sharpness”; it was full of accusations against the missionaries, and in particular against friar Patricio, who, according to him, had caused much trouble. He also mentioned the cruelties committed by Francisco Arias in the Pulares, and asked for more time to respond. He offered a longer and more detailed, although confusing, story about the vile killing and defeat of Arias. In some very important lines he wrote, “Arias never learned his lesson with the Pulares, having knelt before them (?) and like the Cid cried and asked for mercy having been defeated like some landlady.”¹¹⁵ Bohorques accused him of not showing the same mercy, citing that “in a battle with another”—that is, in San Bernardo— an Indian’s legs became stiff “and one of those lions speared him,” and he said that those were not the rules of war and that cruelty was not bravery. “Señores, we fight like men, and not Arabs.” He denied all participation in sacking the missions and attributed such deeds to the Indians incited by the letters of Nieva and Castilla to friar Sancho and to the Yocaviles and Ingamanas, by which they understood that they were preventing entries to the valley from various ports of entries in the frontiers. About the burning of the missions and the intrigues he attributed to the fathers, he wrote:

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“When I saw the sacking that took place I was sure that the demons would take them, I do not know that there be a religion where there exist greater force of politics and reason of the state than the law of God; what wrong I have done, I was not made a servant of all those who wished to rule me. . . . I know that in that large courtroom justice will be on my side.”¹¹⁶ Bohorques continued with his accusations against those plotting against him, in which he included the vecinos and the bishop (whose constant notices kept the viceroy fully informed), protesting that he was a poor and faithful gentleman of the king. On the other hand, the bishop had written to Bohorques on many occasions, trying to convince him and offering his services, which Bohorques had resolved to ignore. He returned to this theme with renewed violence, telling the Jesuits that they and the bishop were Machiavellian dogs who wanted neither Spaniards to enter the valley nor the Indians to know things concerning politics nor that they be ladinos; . . . claiming that churches have been burned. It would be better if the Bishop would do what God mandates by looking after his flock instead of going against the royal jurisdiction. He is producing edicts and false documents; excommunicating left and right; having relations with the sisters, mothers, and daughters; having whores in his house, and an academy of thieves and drunkards; painting with his pen the unimaginable. Being on bad terms with the enemy of the governor, he has suffered my conceit and has tarnished my loyalty, but I shall clean it up at the expense of his blood; with others I will not bother to dirty myself. In the battle that occurred [at the fort of San Bernardo] I found myself by his camps, and as the people are inexperienced, their desires were realized, and with six fewer Indians I retreated. Considering the inequality of weapons and the strength of the siege, I would have done away with all of them, but I was forced to retire them to the camps to [illegible]. Seeing how things were going with the harquebuses, which I shall always praise in the firmness of their powder, I always understood that the cavalry would enter to destroy us. In conclusion, it is all just beginning, gentlemen, and I am waiting. Believe me that I am not the kind who plays around, and if I saw my target and the governor, we would have already tried our luck. Concerning the peace treaties, I say what I have always said—may Sr. President [of the Audiencia] or the minister of the King (may our lord protect him) come and bring these orders; I would gladly surrender my longbow and myself as a loyal vassal, and then they might find the guilty parties. This is what I wrote to his Lordship in Potosí, with Santos¹¹⁷ and a ladino

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Indian, and counting today, he has been ten days on foot, and while I await the response, I will take my people and the Quilmes who are outside [?] and no one will make a move unless Your Lordship desires that we take arms whenever and wherever you would like.¹¹⁸

There is unmeasured rage in Bohorques’s words, with a touch of hysteria, perhaps. Rage that tainted his project, which had vaguely originated in the writings of Las Casas. In particular, he expressed the pain he felt, faced with what he felt had been the treason of the missionaries, whom he had thought of adding to his project to create a free, Christian land. Selfgovernment and evangelization: was not this the project of the Dominicans, or perhaps of the Jesuits? How is it possible, Bohorques asked himself, that they were more interested in the reason of the state than in the law of God? Perhaps this letter, more than any other from his pen, shows some elements of his project—still rather confused, but apparently constructed under the pressure of recent events. I shall treat these themes once more at the end of the book, to provide a more accurate profile of the personality of don Pedro Bohorques and his utopian fantasies. But let us return to events of  and the effects of this letter. Bohorques’s violent discourse must have stunned his recipients. Bohorques was telling them that the battle at San Bernardo was, in fact, a reconnaissance mission, an exercise to test his forces, and that he was preparing himself to have a better chance in the next encounter. He felt he had exceeded the authority of the governor by directly appealing to the Audiencia de La Plata to send a minister to make peace, and he had succeeded. In January , Mercado received the decision of the superior government that a minister of the royal Audiencia de La Plata would be sent to attend to Bohorques’s accusations.¹¹⁹ At the same time, the oidor of the Audiencia, don Juan de Retuerta, announced his trip to Tucumán. Mercado waited for him at San Salvador Jujuy. While he waited, he sent Don Pablo Bernárdez de Obando to search for Retuerta with precise instructions as to what he should do. He warned of the distance, how to communicate with Bohorques, and recommended that the pardon include his release from the prison in Chile, because otherwise he would refuse to come out; in this way he would have to demand the rebellious Indians to restore the horses, mules, and jewels stolen in the assaults, reconstruction of the churches and missions and burned buildings and farms on the frontiers of the valley.

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Other recommendations were that the refugees of Londres, in particular the mestizo Luis Enríquez, should return to their towns; that the Pulares pay their mitas to their encomenderos as they should and not avoid it like the Calchaquíes; that Bohorques return to Hernando de Pedraza the jewels he had given him; that he should not use the Indians for his service; and that he declare the location of the mines and treasures, because it was said that he knew where they were.¹²⁰ Mercado had to renounce his alliance with the Inca, but did not want to abandon his dream of finding the fabulous riches he was sure were hidden in the valley. In sum, he wanted everything to be as it was at the beginning of April . But there was more: “That Pedro Bohorques bring with him a daughter of one year of age that he has had with an Indian woman in Londres, married, of the encomienda of Antonio de Iriarte, and that he declare another son they say he has, or those [children] of the Indian women who are found pregnant by him, so that in all there be prevented any sort of contingency later.”¹²¹ Retuerta only partly carried out Mercado’s recommendations, as he partially contradicted the viceroy’s order that guaranteed Bohorques’s safety. Besides the curious pardon, Mercado saw in Bohorques’s children a future danger. It was necessary to erase all footprints of this man in the province, because if he left any seeds, they could germinate. The governor recognized the importance of this individual and feared his memory and, even more, he feared that his descendants might become the source for constructing a myth. This myth was definitively crushed by the strong retaliation and dispersal of the Indians carried out by Mercado months later, and because among the governor’s demands there was the threat that Bohorques had to publicly declare the truth about his fraudulent status as Inca. He did this before the Pulares when he surrendered at Salta. The governor also asked Retuerta to recruit soldiers in Lipez or in Chichas, because the  men on the frontier would not be enough if a general uprising occurred. Obando left with all these instructions on February , . On February , Retuerta arrived at Quiaca, where he informed Bohorques of his arrival and set a date for an interview. The messengers were Francisco de Aguilar Barbosa and the teacher Diego Sotelo, priest in a town in the altiplano who had spent many years among the natives of Puna and who was the bearer of the pardon. The meeting was to be at Salta, or at the San Bernardo fort, on March . At the same time, he sent other messengers to the natives, in particular to the Pulares, offering a reprieve,

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and informed the provincial authorities that the terms of the treaty should be respected. Barbosa and Sotelo arrived with a letter to Don Pedro, confirming the date set in the “place of the ravine of Escoipe” (where the San Bernardo fort was located). He asked Retuerta to go alone, leaving the army in Salta. The oidor accepted the conditions, contradicting the recommendations of the governor, who feared for his life. Preparations for war had not stopped. The entire world was up in arms, yet Retuerta wanted to honor his promises. He was sure that the slightest false step could provoke mistrust in don Pedro, causing the strategy to fail. At daybreak on April , Retuerta and Bohorques found themselves in Escoipe. According to the viceroy’s report: Having arrived where Don Juan was, Pedro de Bohorques came humbly before him and said tenderly, “Here you have me, Your Lordship, on behalf of His Majesty, of whom I am a humble and faithful vassal of matters regarding the faith. Then he asked the main caciques [sic] of the populares [Pulares] why they came. They came to give obedience, especially Juan Suman, a native of Chicana [Chicoana], and General Captain and leader of the Pular Indians, who held a staff in his hands, and then put it at the foot of the oidor, promising him obedience in the name of His Majesty and asking forgiveness for what he had done until then.¹²²

Bohorques arrived with  men mounted on horses, all Pular Indians, who surrendered their weapons. That afternoon, they went to Salta, where Bohorques asked for forgiveness and promised peace. The Indians agreed to pay their tributes again and to assist their encomenderos in the mita. As a guarantee of the treaty, the Indians were allowed to go back to their towns to testify to their good treatment. Not even then, when he saw himself obliged to leave his Indians, would Bohorques cease to keep an eye on them; or, perhaps he saw that giving up would not be seen as treason. He demanded that the governor send friar Hernando de Torreblanca with messages for the Calchaquíes, asking them to come down and make peace, and the governor begged Torreblanca not to make a foray into the valley without carrying this out. He also insisted that the Pulares should name alcaldes in the towns, a measure that favored a certain degree of self-government. Don Pedro also reminded them that he expected to receive the necessary gear for the trip, and  pesos. He was given  from the royal coffers

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and was assured that his terms of the pardon would be respected for him and his family, a clause that was not carried out, at least not in its entirety. Even more, in the endless autos that were made, it was expressly stated that if anyone wanted to reclaim some of the goods that Bohorques had taken on his trip, he should appear before the government, since they had permitted his family and his goods to go to Peru directly, without passing through Salta. The cacique of the Cachi Pulares, Don Bartolo, had remained to care for them. This measure was also modified later, as it was assumed that no one could recover what was his and that those interested should go to Quiaca or to Yavi, where Bernárdez de Obando would make an inventory of those goods to be submitted to the governor.¹²³ The last request was for a copy of the autos in which Bohorques was authorized to enter the valley and a record of those “who lashed out against him.” The government promised to send the appropriate documents. The pact with the Indians was sealed with a solemn public ceremony involving the cabildo of Salta. Mercado presided, sitting on a chair, staff in hand. Through an interpreter, the portions of the autos were read that contained the pardon and its conditions. As a show of surrender, the Indians laid their bows and arrows at the governor’s feet. In a conciliatory gesture, Retuerta gave the weapons back, to use in defending themselves and the Crown, and publicly exhorted their encomenderos to treat them well, allowing them to return to their towns in the valley.¹²⁴ In the few days left before the departure for Potosí, Retuerta and the governor exchanged various notes. Mercado’s greatest worry was that the oidor left the province so rapidly, without leaving the Indians really pacified. He made him warn father Diego Sotelo that the Calchaquíes were still armed. But despite his efforts, Retuerta considered that his mission had been accomplished and did not delay his trip. On April , they left for Potosí, where Bohorques would have to account for his conduct and present his defense. According to Retuerta, during the trip Bohorques attempted to run away, “due to the acclaim publicly given to him by the Indians,”¹²⁵ or, as Sotelo, who accompanied them said, because “he had considered this group part of his plotting.”¹²⁶ Informed of this, the Audiencia ordered them not to pass through Potosí, as his Indians might rebel. They went instead by a place called Cenadilla, reinforcing the guards under the command of the accountant Gregorio Vázquez de Puga, after which they went straight to Lima, where, despite the reprieve, Pedro Bohorques was imprisoned.

Calchaquí

To Die for the Love of Liberty Despite all hopes of the authorities of Lima, Bohorques’s departure did not ensure peace or the submission of the Calchaquíes. The people of Tucumán feared the behavior of the indigenous people and obliged Governor Mercado y Villacorta to undertake a campaign of direct intervention in the valley. For six months they fought on enemy territory, battling one by one the various strongholds of the valley. They were able to subjugate the Pulares in the north and the Quilmes in the center of the Yocavil section. The Quilmes stopped the advance of the army, already exhausted and with dwindling resources, so they returned to their bases in late November . Once defeated, the Tolombones and the Paciocas, who were the first to lead the uprising, turned to the Spanish side. The Pulares put up the least resistance and were the only ones to offer peace. Between  and , Alonso de Mercado y Villacorta was put in charge of the government of Buenos Aires, and his successor, Gerónimo Luis de Cabrera, could not or did not know how to achieve complete control of the valley. In , Mercado was again named governor of Tucumán, and in a new campaign almost as long as the first, finally managed to subjugate the peoples of the Yocavil valley who had remained rebellious. The consequences of this prolonged resistance, almost unique in the American territories of greatest cultural development (northeastern Argentina), were catastrophic for the Indians. Mercado resolved to uproot all the populations of the valley. Those that had been more willing to negotiate were moved into groups that were less fragmented from their original ethnic group and were distributed among two or three encomenderos, but they were established in lands close to each other, and not far from the Calchaquí valley, in Lerma or Choromoros. The groups in the south, though, were given in units of no more than five families to owners and encomenderos of La Rioja and the Catamarca valley, who needed workers. These natives suffered the effects of total restructuring, given that they were obliged to live in farms and haciendas that were assigned as bases, living with black slaves and Mocovíes captured in the wars with the Chaqueña populations. This situation fostered a process of ethnogesis, with strong interethnic or interracial mixing. We must also recognize, then, that it was not the will of Pedro Bohorques that kept the Indians firm in defending their autonomy. Resistance

Calchaquí

was a product of their chiefs’ refusal to transfer power to foreign hands, of decisions that affected the essential social and cultural aspects of their towns. The fact that the Indians could keep up a resistance for  years by outwitting all efforts to subjugate them was a heavy blow to Spanish pride and could not be forgiven. The Calchaquíes chose to die for the love of liberty.

Calchaquí

VI Death in Lima

He allowed that they write Don Pedro by the grace of God . . . Accusations from the public prosecutor of the Viceregal Court

B

ohorques arrived in Lima in late August or early September . On September , the viceroy informed the king that Bohorques had been held at the jail of the court and that because he attempted to escape, they were debating whether he should be pardoned. From this point on, documents came and went from Lima to the Council of the Indies, without any definitive decisions being made. Decisions could not be made by the viceroy and the Audiencia de Lima because they thought it was the problem of the Council, and they in turn claimed that the complete autos of the process had never arrived. Without the autos, and using only hearsay, it was impossible to form a concrete opinion as to what was just. The provision of the pardon was sent by Viceroy Conde Alba y Aliste on December , , but the council ministers did not receive it until August . In the same communication, the viceroy sought advice about the decision, and his ministers reminded him that the king had delegated power to the viceroy in cases like these since the time of Philip II (). A year had passed since Don Pedro had arrived in Lima, and the colonial bureaucracy

had become entangled in a web of legal formulas that kept him imprisoned and did little to resolve his situation. Upon receiving these documents, the council deliberated and approved the reprieve, confirming that it was the authorities’ duty to respect its terms. “For justice to be carried out by all, and in observance of the orders the offices mentioned, he must not be tried nor condemned by the crimes contained in it.”¹ In these papers the council reprimanded the viceroy: With what right do you have him imprisoned knowing he has been temporarily pardoned. Was it because the viceroy had just suspicion and thought that it would be convenient to punish him with capital punishment, and if so, this could pose a grave danger to the peace of that province and work against, the security and public faith with which Don Pedro Bohorques put himself in your hands. Considering the present state of things, this would not result with good consequence, that having turned himself in, the accused, because the pardon dispatched, and with all solemnity by a provision in name of His Majesty, suddenly find that in the Indies to which he obediently subjected himself to (as it seems) with such faithful resignation, suddenly that this very act was the cause of his greatest ruin.²

Nonetheless, the ministers would also use a double discourse about Bohorques’s situation. By that time, the count of Santisteban, the viceroy who assumed power in , was heading toward Peru. Before he embarked, he received instructions as to how he should proceed with Pedro Bohorques and directives concerning Tucumán. Dated December , , a document recommended that, concerning Bohorques’s imprisonment, he do “nothing new.” It also requested a secret report regarding Bohorques’s family: [Discover whether] said Don Pedro de Bohorques has women and children and where they are and that with the same secrecy they be brought to the city of Los Reyes with all assurance but without giving them the name of the prison. Once there [in Lima] that they be placed in a decent house where . . . they should remain with all assurance. They will be allowed if they want to see Don Pedro in the prison they can do it, but without being able to obtain any messages or write anything. Put up guards during their visit when they go in by whatever means appear convenient.³

Santisteban needed to know whether he had a hacienda; if so, it would need to be administered in a convenient way so that his family could sup-

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port themselves. On the contrary, they would be helped, but “not in excess.” He would ensure that Pedro Bohorques would have all the spiritual assistance he needed in prison. He recommended that he be maintained in good custody, with good assistance for his support, “that he pass a decent time, but without any more expense than necessary”; however, nothing should jeopardize his security, on which they must not spare any costs.⁴ Further, he admitted to having sent secret orders to the viceroy not to make the pardon public, because of potential repercussions. The council analyzed new documents and various communications and letters from Tucumán about their proceedings with Bohorques. In one, Bishop Melchor Maldonado said he had addressed the council directly because he did not trust Viceroy Alba y Aliste to inform him truthfully about what happened and about Bohorques’s great malice. He was scandalized that Bohorques had not been executed yet. He also took the opportunity to defame Mercado y Villacorta. This theme was not named by the council at the time they were discussing who would be the best candidate to replace him, since Mercado had to leave for the port of Buenos Aires without delay. Regarding the Indian uprising, they expressed doubt about the motive, and they did not ignore the possibility that the Indians had been mistreated by their encomenderos and by the Spaniards of the province in general. Meanwhile, in Lima, the court prosecutor was completing the autos of the final process, gathering all the previous reports and new letters of Governor Mercado y Villacorta sent from Buenos Aires, others from the bishop, as we mentioned, and from other priests and functionaries of the Audiencia de Charcas. The proceedings of the court prosecutor produced in this period have not yet been found, and we must at best reconstruct the story from the summaries that were sent to the Council of the Indies. The accusations of the court prosecutor and documents clearing Bohorques of blame could be partly contained in a memorial that I have not had access to. Among the accusations, one finds Bohorques’s supposed escape from the Valdivia prison, where he had been sent for a term of six years; “although he said he did not need a license and that he could freely leave that plaza, [the court prosecutor] was convinced that he had not carried out his time of exile.”⁵ The second accusation was over having named himself Apo (in Quechua, an important figure equivalent to a king), having used the costume of Inca and having incited the Indians to revolt in the assembly of the

Death in Lima

church of Famatina, and “telling them to marry as many times as they like, and that is how Don Pedro did it, marrying different Indian women, meeting with the Indians encouraging them. To irritate them he would tell them that [the Spaniards] wanted to hang them.” The following accusations refer largely to events we know of, and for which he had been pardoned. Among the most severe charges were ordering the churches of the Calchaquí valley to be burned, engaging the governor’s forces at the battle of San Bernardo, and leaving the Indians under the command of the mestizo Luis Enriquez. With this he intended to demonstrate that his exit would not solve the problem, that is, it would not stop the rebellion in the Calchaquí valley. Once Bohorques was informed of these accusations, he made a statement and then presented a memorial, speaking in his own defense. During the trial, Bohorques always acted judicially in matters concerning his defense, denying all the charges against him. He tried to prove that he had permission to enter the valley and affirmed that he had never acted as an Inca, despite the authorization he had received at Pomán. He felt that he should be rewarded for his collaboration in evangelizing the Indians. He was not “obstinate or rebellious”; proof of this was the obedience he had shown to the oidor Juan de Retuerta in not ordering the burning of churches and in not waging any battles. Finally, he rejected the authority of some of the letters offered as proof against him and asked that the pardon be respected, and “he be awarded the conditions set forth in the province of Tucumán.” Obviously, some of these crimes were not easy to prove, and in other cases Bohorques blatantly lied. For this reason, the court prosecutor rejected his defense, adding: that the crimes were already proven and that in this case pardon should not have been given as it is the exclusive right of the king, and that furthermore [Bohorques] proceeded to commit yet another crime [because he tried to flee]. Thus, the conditions set forth by the government of the province cannot be carried out because they are too late. Having established this in the Royal Agreement in the article of the proof, it was decided that [Bohorques] was accused of rebellion and was therefore condemned.

The report of Viceroy Santisteban concludes: When I entered to govern these kingdoms, I found Don Pedro Bohorques imprisoned in the jail of the Court. Since he was brought to it, he has been taken care of with the necessary custody and guards mandated by Your Death in Lima

Majesty until he was served with the autos that the royal council sent back from which I have created this account, seeing it most convenient . . . Lima, November , .⁶

As we can see, the court prosecutor not only found him guilty, but invalidated the viceroy’s pardon, adding that it was the right of the king. Nonetheless, let us not forget that the Council of the Indies had reconfirmed this right, according to a decree of Philip II in . Beyond Bohorques’s culpability or innocence, the sentence was plagued by flagrant juridical contradictions, invalidating the previous actions of the authorities. The authorities not only opposed, they even encouraged this decision of reporting Bohorques’s guilt. In , the president of the Audiencia de Charcas, Bartolomé Salazar, wrote to Viceroy Santisteban, saying that they had approved the pardon by Viceroy Alva y Aliste in the Audiencia’s report, so that Bohorques would have faith in what he was being offered. However, “Don Pedro Bohorques possesses great judgment and capacity that if for any reason he could run away, he could become suspicious given what he has suffered and suffers in such a long prison sentence he would recall this experience in bad faith, and in any case it is not good that he remain either imprisoned or loose in Peru.”⁷ The same Juan de Retuerta who had handed in the pardon wrote a letter to the king in which he synthesized what had happened, without sparing insults for Bohorques, and ended with these words: “I remain satisfied, given that by my own hand and diligence the risk and danger that threatened this Kingdom has been restored, and I hope to receive from Your Majesty the honors and favors that you are accustomed to give to your vassals.”⁸ First, he emphasized the gravity of the threat represented by Bohorques’s behavior. It was not merely an accident provoked by a rogue, as some authors have tried to present it. Retuerta, in passing, asked for honors for services rendered; that is, he erased with his elbow what he had written with his hand. The Council of the Indies affirmed in their initial communications to Lima that what Bohorques had been promised would be honored. No one seemed to worry about disobeying the laws of the Indies, nor the disregard for law in the attitude expressed by “I listen, but I do not carry out orders.” The slowness of the Spanish bureaucracy, as well as the difficulties of communication between Lima and Spain, created long lapses when there was no news. In March ,⁹ it was reported that Pedro Bohorques had sent one of his sons, Francisco Medina Bohorques, to Calchaquí, to incite Death in Lima

a new Indian rebellion.¹⁰ His presence was quickly detected, and by order of the provincial authorities the messenger was executed. Regrettably, the data on this event is scarce and vague. To forestall other threats, another son of Bohorques who lived in Guamanga was also imprisoned so he would be unable to communicate with his father,¹¹ although he “fled the [jail] because of its poor security,” according to later documents. This escape could have happened in the last months of , given that the oidor and president of the Audiencia de Charcas, don Bartolomé Salazar, referred to it in May . Rumors of his escape arrived in Charcas on November , . Bohorques was said to be headed to that province on his way to the Calchaquí valley, but this was thought to be false, since if he were, the viceroy would have alerted the Audiencia to stop him.¹² He was recaptured quickly, “given the determination and diligence with which he was looked for,”¹³ given that he should not have left Lima. We know little about this episode except what was published by Lozano,¹⁴ who claims that Bohorques had fled “with the help of various people and by burning the dungeon.” This was a new crime added to the old ones, but the council still had not decided what punishment should be given him. In the meantime, the viceroy suggested, “a reformed and paid soldier should always take part in the watch without losing him from sight and aid Don Pedro and his son who are both poor in solemnity and that they be provided with all the goods needed for their sustenance and dress, as His Majesty has stated in the Royal Decree on October .”¹⁵ The presence of a “reformed” soldier in Bohorques’s cell was meant to extract confessions and to monitor his conditions as prisoner. This was a common practice in the jails of the time, especially in matters of the Inquisition that, through such means, the reformed obtained information that the accused failed to provide or denied to the judges; but as one can see, while the reformed soldier played the role of spy on one side, Bohorques was still required to receive assistance on the other. Finally, Santisteban said that imprisonment or exile should be avoided, especially since Bohorques might escape and return to Calchaquí, where others waited to join in his rebellion. He wanted the king to be informed and to make a decision once and for all with respect to the Bohorques case. On the side of this same file, there is first a resume of the materials already mentioned, and underneath a copy of the decree of the council, dated August , :

Death in Lima

It was answered that given that [Bohorques] had committed a new and so serious a crime, it was required that justice be carried out, as was done with his son. The motives for suspending a sentence until now are unclear. The autos should have been sent, as without them and with only a letter, it is clear that no decision has been taken by the Audencia. A decision would benefit the justice and government and the interests of His Majesty. It was also news to us, what he [Bohorques] says about the poor security of the jail, and that he has been disturbed about this, given in a city as one where the principal Audiencia sits it does not seem that there should be such a fault.¹⁶

In October , the case still had not changed. The governing Audiencia (with the unexpected death of the count of Santisteban on March ) responded to the decree of  that ordered a decision to be made on Pedro Bohorques, saying that the public prosecutor Diego de Barça had inserted into the process a copy of the decree of  where he ordered that a definitive decision be made over Bohorques regarding any charges.”¹⁷ In late , it was reported that a great meeting of the curacas of Lima was being prepared, along with curacas from the neighboring mountains and southern Peru. The report, from the governor of Cajamarca province, an Indian, said that “those from the capital should take up arms on the eve of Three Kings Day.”¹⁸ In other versions, the conspiracy was discovered by commentaries made in a funeral where various alcaldes of the indigenous parishes were and it was affirmed that “in a few days all the Spaniards would be finished off and only Indians would be left because they would kill all of them.”¹⁹ This was the first time in the seventeenth century that an indigenous rebellion was inspired by the return of the Inca, and with this objective in mind, the curacas began to organize and were rumored to be planning to set Lima on fire, “release the water of the great channel of Santa Clara” and to massacre all the Spaniards.²⁰ On the eve of the fifth of January, there were tremors in Lima. According to Rowe, it was the fiscal protector, Diego de León Pinelo, who denounced the conspiracy.²¹ In Lima the leader of the movement was Gabriel Manco Capac, a curaca who was able to unite other Andean authorities from the central hills. On the night of December , there was news that , Indians were assembling in the hills and a party of  men was sent to break it up. Their attack was said to be planned for the eve of Three

Death in Lima

Kings Day (January ), but the conspirators could not be found. Manco Capac fled to Jauja, where he continued to recruit allies to aid in the rebellion.²² This movement alarmed the authorities, who soon began investigations concerning its characteristics and its magnitude. The Indians wanted to take over, and they were accused of having made insignias “like those that the Inga used,” and another plaque displaying the arms that the king had given to the Cañaris of the valley, which they had used in wartime and when accompanying the corregidor.²³ It was not, then, a simple revolt to alleviate the oppressive conditions of colonialism. The plot directly included the replacement of those in power. Mulattos and blacks were also going to participate in the killing. In the investigation, the sons of the curaca of Quispicanchis were involved—once again, people from Canas province, the original home of the Paciocas of the Calchaquí valley. The curaca’s sons were Juan and Pedro Atacuallpa, who had traveled to Lima to litigate, asking for recognition and privileges of noblemen, probably claiming a certain Inca affiliation, as Pease suggests. Their demands were also linked to the excessive pressures on the Indians from their corregidores and the abuses committed in the mitas; that is, once again we find individual and collective interests mixed with utopian demands, as symbolized by the Inca insignia. According to the report of a mule driver who accompanied them, they were interrogated concerning their activities in Lima. “[He] overheard in the market that the sons of the curaca of Quiquixana had heard that they would brand the Indians with iron and that they would have to sell them and that they [the sons of the curaca] had heard it next to the houses of the cabildo of Lima and that they do not know if they heard this from Spaniards or Indians.”²⁴ All these scenarios seem familiar to us. It is not likely that they were inspired by Bohorques from jail, given that these ideas were widespread in the Andes, where similar fears arose and even uprisings occurred at various places. Moreover, Pease reminds us that among the documents published by Vargas Ugarte,²⁵ one was from the time of the government of Viceroy Santisteban; the document reports that the lawyer Fernando de Velasco y Gamboa had gone to Cajatambo, where the Indians had burned down a house and a woolen mill on the pretext that a decree had been issued “that they be reduced to slaves taking away their caciques and governors.”²⁶ It is possible that Don Pedro had identified with the program; and why not, if he had seen in this movement the possibility of obtaining his freedom? It

Death in Lima

is difficult to know whether he enjoyed some prestige among the indigenous people of Lima, and how many curacas he could have been in touch with from prison. What is certain is that the authorities considered his ties with this movement sufficient to expedite his delayed execution. In any case, the dates are uncertain. Lozano dates the sentence December , , and despite the fears of a conspiracy, which later cost eight curacas of Lima their lives, Bohorques was executed on January , .²⁷ The curacas were also hanged on January , their heads cut off and their bodies cut into pieces. The rest involved in the conspiracy were sent to the galleys. Bohorques’s sentence was promulgated by the governing Audiencia, which, after listing the charges against him, released the following statement: We failed to see the merits of the process, and in the fault that in them results we must and will punish don Pedro Bohorques. In the jail of the Court and prison where he is, he be given the garrote until he dies naturally, and then that his body be placed in the public plaza of this city, where a noose will be exposed. On it he will be hanged for twenty-four hours, and then his head will be cut off and will be placed in the arch of the bridge that faces the barrio of San Lázaro. In losing all his goods these will be placed in the chambers of His Majesty. This [order] should be carried out without any delay. With this we proclaim our definitive sentence. [Signed] The lawyer don Bernardo de Iturrizarra, doctor don Bartolomé de Salazar, don Pedro González de Güemes, don Bernardo de Velazco, don Diego Cristóbal Messia, proclaimed in Reyes on December , .”²⁸

In the Book of Deaths of the parish of Sagrario in Lima, we find the death certificate of Pedro Bohorques. It reads: “The fifth [of January, ] major burial in this Church of D. Pedro Bohorques, executed,  ps [zero pesos].”²⁹ It was not enough to give him the noose—they had to hang him in the public plaza, then expose his head on the bridge for ridicule and to provoke fear in the Indians of the barrio of San Lázaro.³⁰ They would see the head of their false Inca, just as they had seen the severed head of Tupac Amaru I in the plaza of Cuzco in . If the authorities had the nerve to do such things, it was because they knew that this Inca would not be preserved in the collective imagination of the central Andean Indians as an authentic representative of their race. That is why they could mock this dreamer, make fun of his chimeras, take him from a world where he did not have a

Death in Lima

precise place other than in the terror he inspired in the Spaniards by the strength of his intelligence and his powerful charisma. And perhaps the best example of his legacy is the epitaph that the Jesuit Pedro Lozano placed on the tomb of his memory: So ended the obstinacy of this man, who ambitiously aspired to nothing greater than to crown himself king of the Indies. He obtained this end by his strange wits and entangled relations, all with the aim to be worth more, be more, but he erred in the medium by pretending to be an Indian when the Indians in the Indies are the ones worth the least. Strange whim of this man!”³¹

And what epitaph would our reader create?

Death in Lima

Epilogue The Saga of Pedro Bohorques

What persuaded the Decii to sacrifice their lives? What drew Quintus Curtius into the pit, if not vainglory, the sweetest of Sirens . . . [F]rom this source flow all those exploits of brave heroes which have been praised to the skies in the writings of so many eloquent men. Erasmus, In Praise of Folly

T

he life of Pedro Bohorques leaves us perplexed for many reasons. At

times he acquires an almost heroic profile, at others a hallucinatory or mythic one, and yet at others, one of an Andalusian pícaro (rogue), as Constantine Bayle would call him. He arrived in Peru around , living a marginal life among Indians and mulattos. He searched for a new horizon, launching himself after the Paytiti; he wrote fantastic memoriales to the viceroy and finally obtained official authorization to carry out the conquest of the Cerro de la Sal. He claimed to have established Quimiri and other cities; he committed outrageous acts against Spanish properties, and he was apprehended and sent to the Valdivia prison. From there he fled to Tucumán, proclaimed himself Inca, negotiated with Indians and Spaniards, and faced enemies in combat. He negotiated his exit out of the valley and obtained a pardon and safe-conduct; he was jailed in Lima for six long years, where he apparently incited a rebellion of the curacas of those cities and surroundings, and was finally executed in January . This is the “summary” of his story; nonetheless, we do not seem to get to the bottom of it.

With his acts fresh in our memory, we shall proceed to question his personality and the objectives in his life, if these are to be found. He was a man of his time, exhibiting the contradictions and excesses of the baroque. Astute, but emotionally unstable, he had an ability to seduce, and at the same time to place himself on the edge, totally outside the bounds of legality. In the first two centuries of the conquest, there were areas in which such characters could navigate because circumstances of the time allowed it. What helped to open up those ambiguous spaces for these ambivalent characters were the internal contradictions of colonial society, with its heterogeneous participants and interests, and a need to expand the territories under colonial control. I hope that these chapters have shown, with some clarity, that the colonization of Peru’s native populations was certainly not finished by Pedro Bohorques’s time, not in the degree of assimilation that would have enabled the conquistadors to sleep peacefully at night. This was not only because the fervor for liberation began to reappear in the seventeenth century with insurrection movements, but because in the native conscience there survived the memory of what had been lost: autonomous control over decisions concerning their political and social lives. Ethnic differences had not been eliminated, fostering a sense of a global and individual identity, but onto this identity the natives superimposed a supraethnic solidarity that had formed under the pressure of colonial coercion. A sense of unity, nonexistent before the arrival of the Spaniards, was what instigated the construction of a common historic memory, aided by the umbrella of the Inca empire. This is how the descendants of noble cuzqueños and many curacas were able to carry out long judicial battles for recognition of their rights and preeminence, in this way actively preserving the memory of the past to benefit their interests in a colonial present. The Inca became a symbol of identity and liberation, augmenting their distance and their difference from the dominant group. Pedro Bohorques, like everyone else in the Andes, was up to date on the processes of vindicating the descendants of the Incas, and he decided to reinvent himself as one in order to find a language of communication with the natives and put himself up as their leader. Very few Spaniards attempted to cross the frontiers separating them from those whom they dominated to attempt construction of an autonomous space. Pedro Bohorques was one, a man navigating two worlds of the American spectrum, two paradigms superimposed onto the European

Epilogue

baroque mentality: one of fantasy and medieval ideologies and concepts, the other Renaissance rationality. These alternating personal acts exhibited by the epic of Bohorques reflect, in a microcosm, the multiple cultural facets that permeated social life in the Americas in the seventeenth century and that continue to this day—the multiple facets of “reality” captured in the literary movement of magical realism. The search for utopian spaces—“the ambiguous paradigm,” as Bronislaw Baczko calls it¹—became, like the platforms of social ascent, at times an incongruous mixture of demagoguery and solidarity with the exploited, intended to mobilize them for one’s personal benefit. It was an extreme display of what was tolerated and what was not, what was permitted or prohibited, what has sometimes been called the colonial pact between the dominant and dominated. Just as colonial authorities prohibited, but tolerated, the Indians’ strategies for evading economic coercion and the corrupt practices of functionaries, they also prohibited, but tolerated, adventurous expeditions in search of El Dorado, like the expeditions of the religious orders who opened up pathways, and of the armed hosts who were always defeated by the Indians they encountered. If these attempts failed, or if they had only short-lived results, the authorities would look the other way or reprimand them, depending on the case. If they had success, they expropriated the goods to benefit the colony. The colonial drama took place on a stage where what was lawful and unlawful, rational and chimerical, were woven into an intricate plot almost impossible to untangle; despite this, the system did not seem incomprehensible to those who knew the traps and behavioral codes hidden within the script. Some went beyond the allowed limits, and Bohorques was one of those. He decided to take a decisive step beyond the broad gray frontier in which the games of so many others took place, an area that separated accepted ambiguity from open rebellion. If all this was layered with fantasy or rationality, it was a matter of no concern to the government. If, in order to carry out their evangelizing mission, the missionaries had to describe the native cultures, including the native languages, so much the better, as this knowledge could be capitalized on sooner or later. The Renaissance spirit was primed in this, even if it was merely an instrument for converting the infidels, the desired fruit. If what so many desired was the product of overheated fantasy—that they could share in the high spheres of power—it was not they who expressed this; these hyperbolic notions came from the common mouth: those in search

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of their own paradise, “from the king on down.” People in the seventeenth century believed in dwarfs, monsters, Amazons, and fantastic beings as much as they believed in miracles and witches or possessed people. José Emilio Burucúa points out that the sense of the impossible was absent in baroque culture, “including in scientific discourse; back then there did not exist the barrier that later would be erected between the natural and the supernatural, any monstrosity seemed credible and was included rightfully in the scientific taxonomy.”² One cannot condemn heresy if one does not believe in the demons that inhabit the bodies of heretics. Proof and counterproof: this is what rationality demanded for demonstrating that the devil was everywhere. During this time, a strange marriage between demoniacal fantasy and the incipient Renaissance mentality created a mansion inhabited by this dyad, fed by the inquisitorial spirit of the Counter Reformation. In this time it gained renewed force—as was demanded in the combat between the moors and marranos, pagans, heretics, and infidels—the belief in the “familiar” demons that, like the ambassadors of evil, accompanied people or inhabited them and induced them to commit evil.³ Symbols of a pact between man and devil, familiars accompanied those elected to help them in exchange for the benefit of their souls at the hour of their death—in some ways, the theme of Faust. Pedro Bohorques was accused by Bishop Melchor Maldonado of having a familiar and for accompanying a mestiza with a reputation of being a witch. Governor Alonso Mercado y Villacorta echoed these rumors in a “warning” and in a secret report sent back to the oidor Retuerta, advising that they interrogate Bohorques about this business. Among the matters to be investigated were the following: One is a Chilean mestiza with whom he entered into this province and who controls [his] actions and movements; of this the governor has credible evidence from a trustworthy person that [she] has made a pact with the devil, or is a witch, having noted that she disappeared many nights from where she lived and found herself in the morning without being able to recognize how to return home; the governor gives this notice letting his conscience free in this part giving notice to the Sr. Oidor.⁴

And in the following secret report, Mercado wrote that there was a “vehement presumption” that Pedro Bohorques had a familiar. Establishing his reasons, Mercado wrote: Epilogue

Many things that I treated with all secrecy were obvious to him and even some that I confided to myself only in my imagination. . . . In the valley during the time he was ill, one of the priests of the Mission was present with a sorcerer who performed rites in his presence, with the purpose of finding out if he had been bewitched. The order of his prison and tribunal where it happened knew of this before it came into my hands without having known it through correspondence of letters. Ultimately what validates this truth is that after having left the valley and suspecting something bad would happen to him as he was surrounded by soldiers that assisted him as guards, he told an Indian woman that served there that the individual who was to blame for his escape was right there, pointing to his [Bohorques’s] long hair which he keeps long and which has caused him many problems. He has also noted someone who has viewed his actions close by, who is mysterious and wears a blue cap with two pins and speaks highly of the pins, but says that it is someone he has in his memory, a woman who was the instrument that carried out his evil deeds. The group of signs in this case could likely establish doubts when proceeding such a serious matter. For a man whose life is so broken, it would not be bold in judgment to believe him, and furthermore, from what is known from his excellent memory and his stories being so accurate and consistent, one becomes convinced in this case of a source beyond the ordinary.”⁵

Let us not forget that Bohorques was an astute man, and he very well could have anticipated the governor’s tactics. He had placed an Indian in the governor’s personal service who was surely a spy and who kept him informed of all preparations to expel him from the valley, including the attempts to assassinate him. Besides, according to reports in the same autos of his trial, Bohorques had organized a good espionage network, trusting the curacas of Peru who knew how to read. So far, the explanations for his success are that he had a good defensive strategy, that he never forgot that his project had been accepted by the authorities for the purpose of defeating the Calchaquí resistance, and that they intended to use him as an instrument of conquest. But other accusations are on a more intangible plane, such as the governor’s reference to Bohorques’s long hair as being the dwelling place of his demonic familiar. Other clues were the blue cap with its pins and Bohorques’s extraordinary memory. It appears that his remarkable power of recall was considered supernatural and, many times, the work of the devil.⁶ The significance of the cap, considered a piece of feminine headgear, is unclear. Epilogue

There is a point at which accuser and accused coincide—if we believe the words of the governor, the sphere of magic: the hair as the place of the familiar. If everyone “from the king on down” believed in familiars, there is no reason to think that Bohorques did not also. The power of demons is clear in many books of the New Testament. Demons, following the orders of their master, possess people, causing such evils as epilepsy, paralysis, and hysteria. The miraculous cures of Christ consisted of expelling demons from the body of the victim. And, like these special cures, similar exorcisms are performed to this day. The common belief was that demons could adopt grotesque forms and could be seen and heard by human beings.⁷ In our case, it would be in the bushy mane of our Pedro Bohorques. But what might amaze us are the other “reasons” for Bohorques’s guilt, the reports the governor referred to, based on the proofs required by “scientific” knowledge. Mercado was ambitious; he demonstrated this in the theme of his negotiations to discover the treasures and mines that the Indians had supposedly hidden. But one observes the speed with which the viceroy ordered his strategy [of capturing Bohorques in the valley] to be modified, which he used rationally in the other events relative to Bohorques, and his renovating spirit became clear in the general reorganization of the province during his two governments. Why did he naively believe that Bohorques’s shrewd defensive strategy or his extraordinary memory were the gifts of a demon? How is it possible that he succumbed so readily to these almost magical concepts? As a typical man of the baroque era, he was not disturbed by contradictory appearances coexisting with rational convictions, perfectly consistent within the Renaissance mentality. Perfection, as seen in the quality of a human voice, or in amazing memory (among other manifestations of perfection), was considered the work of evil.⁸ Not even the popes could escape this rule. It was said that Pope Bonifacio VIII “possesses a private demon [whom] he asks for counsel in all matters that concern him.”⁹ José Emilio Burucúa¹⁰ points out the influence in South America of De angelis, by a Jesuit priest, Francisco Suarez, which from the seventeenth century onward must have motivated the paintings of archangels so commonly seen in the Andes.¹¹ Suarez believed that the secular embodiment of ethereal creatures was a consequence of the application of natural forces, known by the evil angels but still unknown to men. “And demons often, not apparently but truly, carry out such works.” The same author points out the two faces of baroque culture in nascent moder-

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nity: “on the one hand, freethinking or intellectual libertinism that led to atheism; on the other hand, the antique corpus of popular beliefs (the countryside in Europe, the indigenous people in America).”¹² In sum, the personal and psychological virtues of Pedro Bohorques allowed his opponents to demonize him. It is notorious that these accusations by Governor Mercado y Villacorta are found almost toward the end of the story of Bohorques in Calchaquí, as a type of epilogue that Mercado added to those documents. In other words, if it cost him so much to displace him, and he was unable to get rid of him even after sending emissaries to kill him, the only explanation left was that Bohorques was protected by a familiar demon. Only this way could the brilliant strategist who governed the province justify his failure to eliminate his opponent. But let us leave the enemy aside, and return to the protagonist of our story. Hero or pícaro, political strategist or madman? Here I will reiterate the questions with which I began the story of his life. In some ways, Maravall has already stated it: excess does not preclude calculation or sagacity. Bohorques wanted—with uneven success—to imitate in many respects the behavior of the indigenous societies with whom he attempted to share his project. One of these was the use of oratory—long speeches used in developing arguments to convince an audience. Oratory was a necessary skill to be mastered by any leader. Let us recall the speeches attributed to him during the periods in Quimiri, and above all in Calchaquí: he passed from pleading, to cries, to threats; from identification and ties with the Indians—“You are my children, you are my blood”—to threat, intrigue, mistrust, and almost to malice. He placed spies everywhere, he tried to seduce his Spanish neighbors, he even tried to convince Bishop Maldonado of his good intentions, and he never stopped claiming to be a good vassal to the king. Nonetheless, he suspected everyone; he accused and threatened all. His letters demonstrate this full spectrum of moods. They generally begin with the usual courtly expressions, at the same time revealing the use of intrigue. The last letters from the same text pass fluidly from courtesy to unleashed threats. Even in the Memoriales of his Peruvian episodes, he alternated between the rational tone appropriate to a report of discovery and colonization and hyperbolic descriptions of a country that offered the fruits of the Land of Cockaigne, where there were said to be no revolutionary or dreams of reform, but instead hedonistic pleasures, joy, order, peace, riches, and sex.¹³

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Bohorques is characterized by his unstable mood swings. He could be elusive and paranoid whenever he felt the pressure of authority. He was contradictory, as he loved the Indians but had his meals prepared by a Spaniard; he participated in the ceremonies in the “mochadero,” a sacred place, of the Indians, but he took them to church; he called himself an Inca, but he also had himself invested as lieutenant governor. He went from choleric to seductive arguments, from confrontational stances to isolation. His capacity for intrigue was perhaps one of his most notorious traits— searching simultaneously to please the Indians and the Spaniards, and managing to achieve those unstable alliances, which lasted up to the time of the grotesque events in Pomán. He wished to be lord of the Indians and the Spaniards—a strange combination that some were unprepared to accept, above all, the Spaniards. And for this he did not lack means. He was a species of “moral anesthesia,” like the one Lastres and Seguin attribute to Lope de Aguirre¹⁴—even if Bohorques never committed the same atrocities or showed the same cruel streak of the so-called “wrath of God.” But in any case, it would be well to ask oneself how this ambiguous conduct may have affected his authority. From the events narrated, one can venture an answer to this question. It does not seem that Bohorques obtained full acceptance among the Indians; he lived with them and convinced them to participate in the gathering at Pomán; he dragged them to face the enemies at the fort of San Bernardo; but did not have the same success that had happened with the populations of La Rioja and Catamarca. The Indians saw in him an eloquent man, and in this sense they accepted him; but it was not the first time they had negotiated with the Spaniards, nor was San Bernardo the first battle they had fought, except that, with the help of Bohorques, such events took on other dimensions. All, or almost all of the caciques of the valley mobilized to Pomán, something unseen until then. And after his departure for Lima, perhaps with the help of his mestizo friend Enríquez, who knew the Spaniards’ tactics, they proceeded to a central point in the valley and closed in on the two military groups to disperse them. In this war, the coordination of offensive assaults showed great organizational capacity, and with extensive knowledge of the invader’s forces and strategies. It was hard to withstand their punishment once they were defeated. Upon their defeat, all the valley was emptied, and the population was dispersed along the four routes in the province of Tucumán, and even beyond, to Santa Fe and Buenos Aires.

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The nature of Bohorques’s relationship with the Amueshas in the Peruvian Amazon is unclear. He apparently had more contact with the highlander people who had sought refuge in the jungle, but we do not know how this relationship, which began with good signs, developed. Did they accompany him on a possible final, failed expedition to search for the Paytiti? The story of this final episode in the Amazon had too much interest vested in it to give any credit to the Amueshas and Bohorques never offered explanations of Amuesha particpation. There is no proof that he left anyone as his delegate in that area. Nonetheless, why did they believe him? (Why did they want to believe him, and how did he know this?) There is no better audience than one that hears what it wants to hear. As I have said, Bohorques had a notorious ability to seduce and persuade, which explains why the stage and theater were mounted in Pomán. What else could it have been, but a stage and a theater? It would be helpful to review the signifiers and their meanings in this episode. If signifiers are groups of emblems and gestures organized to produce a determined meaning, we see that the theater set in Pomán produced an abundance of meaningful messages. First, there was the feverish activity of the local vecinos to build habitats and order the space where the encounter took place. Bohorques had a special room built for him during his visit. Consider the scenes of reception and farewell—the rituals that began to celebrate his arrival in Pilciao at an encomendero’s hacienda, and his arrival at Pomán, with floral arches, flags, rows of archangels and welcoming applause. Next came the rituals of alliance in the church. All of these rituals were destined to delineate a semantic field in which his authority was recognized and manifested by the emblems that made it legitimate. The reception and farewell gave reverence and authority to Bohorques, making him appear worthy in order to justify the Spaniards’ strategy, on the one hand, and the bad conscience of the organizers, on the other. And need we say more about the authority than that it allowed him to use the title and suit of an Inca, and the pearls and jewels he was given? To complete the aspirations of the visitor, he was invested as lieutenant and captain general by the governor. Each title and gesture was covered by emblems of legitimacy. There was no indigenous authority without the suit, necklaces, and gloves that would thus certify him.¹⁵ And there was no servant to the king who must not offer “his full homage” before the authority to be invested. Inca and gentleman of the king, both at the same time. To

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obtain both these titles, Bohorques had to pass through the rights of initiation demanded by convention. The Indians had already questioned him about his habits and knowledge of the Inca past before accepting him. It appears he passed this test with flying colors. To complete these, he renewed his ties of being a vassal in the same theater mounted in Pomán: sitting in an elevated chair that functioned as duo, a ceremonial seat or “throne of Inca,” he offered his hand to the caciques who, one at a time, kissed it as a sign of obedience.¹⁶ Some informants reported that he had distributed arrows, a war ritual whose meaning escaped the perception of most present. Nonetheless, all these gestures have more or less mixed meanings among the several messages that Bohorques conveyed throughout the ceremony. Regarded by law as an Inca, but also as lieutenant governor, the ceremony had developed with all the acts of vassalage, starting from the “laying on of hands.” Martínez comments that it was a common practice among the Spaniards to administer justice from a chair placed in an elevated position.¹⁷ We must not rule out that, in the mixed character of the ceremony, the chair in which Bohorques sat had some of these signifiers, even if it related more to a strategy to ratify the negotiations discussed in Pomán. According to Martínez, the chair or tiana defines a static place that legitimizes the one seated and simultaneously plays the role of a differentiator. To acknowledge his authority, the Spaniards gave the Indians a hammock, so that they could transport Bohorques on his return trip. This was not a gesture that corresponded to his rank, but at least he did not leave on foot, like a common man. All of this created a climate of recognition for a legitimacy that was certainly short-lived. At the meetings of the vecinos, where the priests were reunited with the governor, it was decided that Bohorques would be given jurisdiction over the valley and many other towns, such as Famatina (which was already under the jurisdiction of La Rioja). No one seemed to care about this, but on the other hand, Bohorques discovered the rich mines everyone had dreamed of. The power given to Bohorques through these rituals, with the documents that he carried, and the insignias given him, surely were beyond anything Bohorques could ever have imagined. He obtained all and more than he had desired with one single act, as if by magic. In less than a week, he had become king of a town, with authority delegated by another king. What more could he ask for? Let us investigate how closely Bohorques shared the psychological traits of a pícaro, or rogue, a theme that the reader must have noticed I have not

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addressed until now. As José Antonio Maravall observes, the baroque period was characterized by an insatiable thirst for money, and this was a prime motivation for the pícaro. In his words, “The picaresque responds to the extraordinary occurrence, as a social experience, of translating that insatiable thirst of individuals of the lower classes. The drama does not extinguish his desire or satiate it, no matter his machinations, no matter the hardships encountered outside his milieu—more severely, and visibly—his marginal position, heightened by the dangers of his devious conduct that the force must undertake, pushing in general an impossible goal. This drama is the basis of the existence of the pícaro.”¹⁸ If Bohorques was a socially marginal character trying to battle or compensate for the stigma that humiliated him through devious conduct, he did nothing to change the indifference of the rest of society; on the contrary, he set forth on an adventure and accepted the risk that the typical pícaro appears to have avoided. Maravall says that the pícaro stops short of violence and does not go to excess;¹⁹ Bohorques resorted to violence when necessary, and without a doubt all his life he wallowed in excess. He was certainly eager for money, and this may have been the main reason he searched for the Paytiti and the treasures of the Calchaquí, but at the same time, he sought to acquire privileges and recognition for his findings. A need for recognition is one of the characteristics of the pícaro. To obtain it, Bohorques resorted to lies and wit, according to Pedro Lozano, just as a pícaro goes through the world seeking to insert himself into the centers of power. But the conduct of Bohorques zigzagged; he neither fit the pícaro stereotype, nor that of the utopian dreamer. This must have been the reality for many marginal characters in this period. Picaresque literature constructs certain archetypes that do not reflect the ambivalence of the human psyche in real flesh-and-blood individuals. One should not be surprised by the ambiguities in Bohorques’s story: he was not a prototype, but showed the multiple facets of a complex personality. Yet he was not exceptional in this. It is true that Bohorques could have been accused of fraud with respect to his discoveries, or for having invented cities that did not exist; and it is true that fraud was a trait of the baroque pícaro, since these cunning arguments could open doors to fulfilling his desired fantasy of ruling the universe. Granted, Bohorques played himself through his fantasies. He risked his life not only to defy the jungle, but also to defy the organized institutions

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—political and military—of the Spanish authorities. He negotiated, disputed, fought for the space he desired, in the hopes of conquering the country for himself—certainly an unreal hope in its concrete political dimensions, but one through which he attempted to construct his destiny. Maravall makes the point that the pícaro’s machinations or the risks he takes are measured as components of his personality—machinations that at times were used to justify “the reason of the state.”²⁰ In these respects, Bohorques’s strategies were tolerated by the viceregal authorities in Peru or in the provinces of Tucumán—approval that demonstrates his sagacity. Each step was a balance of calculated risk and possibilities. Otherwise, he would not have dared to show himself in Pomán, or to repeat the encounters with the governor; nor would he have tried to convince three viceroys and an oidor in the Audiencia de Charcas concerning his project. Finally, we could place Bohorques in the boiling cauldron of the baroque, where one can play with the kaleidoscope of his personality. The baroque was a time of a rupture of equilibriums in which an atmosphere of desire created passion and destiny. But this did not preclude pragmatism and calculated risk. We have seen that El Dorado was never found; but each sign was analyzed, the days were programmed, risk was minimized. It is clear that the hyperbolic speeches of Bohorques tried to provoke emotion, admiration, and hope in his listeners. Heads and tails in these realities: calculation, wit, pragmatism, emotion, acceleration, and urgency for discovery; to rise, to reach the desired end. During this time many men lived in a permanent tension between fantasy and reality, between the rational and irrational. Pedro Bohorques was permanently on a stage, enacting a drama that showed all these tensions, even when he wrote to the viceroy or when he acted in Calchaquí. He lived on a fictional plane, yet he did not forget to use tactics. He was aware of the limits of probability; he could resort to prudence and curtail his excesses, such as when he escaped from would-be assassins, or when he traveled through Catamarca province to recruit allies, or when he wrote his first letters to the governor. The problem was that he did not always hide his fictions or his excesses. His personality had distinct facets, incompletely assembled, sometimes showing one face, and sometimes another. This is why he stirred contradictory emotions, as friar Torreblanca confesses; warning of Bohorques’s treachery; yet he let himself be seduced by his charisma, his irresistible charm.

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If Bohorques shows some of the psychological traits of the pícaro, could he also fit the stereotype of a utopian? Among other things, the utopian responds to intolerable social conditions by reaching for another world beyond the one that limits his liberty. That is, the utopian is a reformer or someone who escapes to the future, imagining a world ruled by peace, order, and the joy of being alive, a world without problems or conflict. For Jean Servier, a utopia is more than just an attempt to break existing structures of order, it is an attempt to suppress the conflicted situation in which the individual lives by means of imagination and dreams.²¹ We can observe in Bohorques’s actions his obvious dissatisfaction with the social realities he knew, but his defeat reveals the source of conflict, and—why not?—even bitterness over the conditions of his birth. Because of this, Bohorques’s dream once more partially fits the definition of utopia offered by Servier.²² To achieve his dream, he had to make a voyage; he sought a city isolated in the depths of the jungle, and in some ways this isolation acts as a safeguard. Its remoteness coincides with the order of a perfect urban plan with its clean environment and well laid-out streets; however, Bohorques’s utopia deviates from the model in matters of morality and sexual purity, nor does he seem to wish to return to the past, although in some ways his utopia may seek a primitive innocence. From all this, what seems to approximate Bohorques’s dream most closely is the medieval Land of Cockaigne, characterized by order, riches, and hedonistic indulgence within easy reach. In this light, we see his utopia reflected in his description of the city of a lord of the jungle: marble, alabaster, ivory, gold, and pearls; abundant food, drink, and courtly pleasures. Everything was there, waiting for him to arrive, offering itself to him with extravagant generosity. I have already talked about how Bohorques was familiar with the utopian paradigm identified with the city, such as is laid out in del Barco Centenera’s poem. The city was the ideal setting for utopia, an idea shared by many in the time of Sir Thomas More, who was the first one to draw its physical and social plane. Surely in America the Spaniards added a different seasoning, in particular, riches, splendor, and the luxury of gold, which was never absent from the mentality of these ecstatic conquistadors. But Bohorques and del Barco Centenera deviate from More’s egalitarianism; he did not imagine social equality in his calculations, nor did he dream of it. All were given a right to happiness, but it was not necessary to destroy signs of social and economic inequality. The king was

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clearly installed at the summit with all the emblems of differentiation and divine right. It was with this king that Bohorques wished to associate, by marrying the king’s daughter. Bohorques claimed that in order to cement this alliance, marriage was an essential element to seal this social and political contract. This analysis proposes a trap at each step. Bohorques could also fit into the utopian scheme proposed by Mannheim,²³ which contradicts the proposal of Servier. For Mannheim the utopia must necessarily destroy the existing order, wholly or in part. He differentiates revolutionary ideologues who base their proposals on an equilibrated analysis of reality, from utopian idealists who advocate change beyond the realm of possibility. In sum, both utopias transcend the current situation, but the second kind is fundamentally unreal. The role of ideology in creating a utopia cannot always be isolated or distinguished correctly, and sometimes this depends on the point of view from where one analyzes it. If we recall what Bohorques proposed to the Indians, especially in the speech he made in Famatina, we can see a challenge to the existing order. He incited them to attack the Spaniards, to destroy their cities, to recover their lost autonomy, and to organize themselves to do so. If they did not leave him to rule his remote valleys in peace, then it was necessary to attack those who bothered him and denied his liberty. A naive analysis (from a current perspective) of Bohorques’s speech to the Indians might conclude that he was promoting a revolution, in which he would restore to the Indians their independence and their lost power and to establish social equality. But these do not appear to have been his final intentions. He placed himself at the summit of the society that resulted from this inversion of power. He proclaimed himself their leader, their Inca. His conduct at all times was coherent with the existing paradigm, for both the Indians and the Spaniards, which was a hierarchical society headed by a legitimate and recognized authority. Only a superficial analysis could consider Bohorques a revolutionary ideologist. There are many more contradictions in other facets of his personality, in which he attributes his desires to construct an equal society. He felt destined in life to search for power, as when he formed a cabildo in the Peruvian Amazon, or with the alliances he created with the caciques in Calchaquí—these were part of a necessary strategy to maintain his place at the top, where he had been established as governor, or where he wished to place himself as king.

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Some have wanted to see messianic traits in Bohorques. This seems farther from the truth. He erected himself as a leader of the Indians, but in his discourse there were no messages of spiritual salvation. His proposals were entirely earthly, and because of this, of the multiple manifestations of the utopia, the one that seems most apart from his project is a millenarian or messianic one. As we have seen from his actions and from his speeches, there is no such motive; moreover, none of the Jesuits or Dominicans who were in close contact with him mentioned this theme at all. Who was Bohorques, then? A fabricator of chimeras, a rogue, a pícaro, or a utopian in the revolutionary version that merged the Inca past to the colonial present? How do we deal with these paradoxes? I confess that it is difficult to end this book with a concrete answer. Bohorques was none of these, and a little bit of all of them. He was an inventor of chimeras who believed in them and fought for them, and for this he conceived a political project at the center of his axis. He wanted to be the lord of this new kingdom, whether passing himself off as an Inca, as a conquistador, or as a founder of cities. Unfortunately, his Janus-like game between the native society and the Spaniards conspired against him in the end, because he was afraid of fully immersing himself in either project. He wanted to play his own game, although he sided more each time with the Indians. If it could be reliably proved that he participated in the uprising of the curacas of Lima, this hypothesis would have some merit. He also maintained, while imprisoned in Lima, that he had sent his son to Calchaquí to support the Indian towns in their rebellion, although, as can be seen, he ignored the fact that they were partially destroyed. His conduct appears to have evolved from the most extended hope to find the Paytiti, to participating fully in the project of liberation that had begun to emerge among the Indians of the central Andes—so much that it accelerated his inevitable execution. In the words of Viceroy Count of Alba y Aliste, Bohorques was a man without a place in the world. Certainly it could be said that he was a man searching for a place in the world, and because of this he turned into a revolutionary. He was a solitary champion in search of a new destiny.

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NOTes

Introduction . An exception is Piossek Prebish . Bohorques is also treated, with some skepticism, by Lozano –. . Microhistory was developed in Italy by a group headed by Carlo Ginzburg and Giovanni Levi, among others. In the journal Quaderni Stotici they attempted to articulate individual agents—with proper names—in larger processes of social evolution. Revel  has renewed this movement. . Balandier . . Hobsbawm .

Chapter : Ethnic Complexity and Social Conflicts . See Wachtel  for a model of regressive history, taken from Marc Bloch. . Romano . . See works by Thierry Saignes, Roberto Choque Chanqui, Daniel Santamaría, Brooke Larson, and Rosario León, in Harris et al. ; see also Lorandi –. . There is evidence in the seventeenth century that the alliances formed with Inca nobility were losing their power. . In choosing their leaders the religious orders had to alternate between a peninsular and a criollo to limit the power of criollos, who were more numerous (Lavalle , , , ). . Lavalle . . Lockhart . . Ibid., . . Uguarte y Ugarte , . . Ibid.,  . Ibid., . . Letter from the Commissioners to His Majesty over perpetuity and other such things, in De Sabálburu and Sancho Rayón . The undated letter must have been written in , as indicated by a reference made in . AGI (General Archive of the Indies). . Maravall .

. Ibid., . . Macera , . . Letter from the Commissioners to His Majesty over perpetuity and other such things, –. . Ibid., . . Maravall , . . Abril Castelló . . Ibid., . . Ibid., . . Cited in ibid. . Ibid., . . Santisteban Ochoa , –, Supreme Court of Lima , Cuzco . . Letter from the archbishop J. de Vera of Cuzco to the king. . Ibid., emphasis added. . Santisteban Ochoa, May , , –, Supreme Court of Lima , Cuzco . . Gregorio de Bolivar, Memorial y Relación, AGI, Lima , vol. , no. , II-. . Ibid. . Diego Ramírez Carlos, letter to the king, AGI, Lima , –. . Saignes . . Tandeter . . Saignes . . Ibid., . . Ibid., . . Calancha and Torres ; Wachtel : . . Glave , , . . Acosta . . Crespo , . . Acosta , . . Lavalle ; Lafaye , quoted in Lavalle, , . . Quoted by Acosta , . . Report of the Audiencia de Lima, which governed from March , , to November , , due to the death of Viceroy Conde de Santisteban (Los Virreyes Españoles , ). . Lavalle . . Hanke, BAE . Glave . . Report of the Audiencia concerning the events during their temporary post. BAE, op.cit; .

Notes to Pages –

Chapter : The Incas in the Colony . Pease , . . Arguedas . . Stern . . Arguedas ; Arguedas and Ortiz , ; Ossio, . . Urbano , in Flores Galindo , . . Ossio , –. In other versions, the body is buried and it grows because the head has been taken to Lima or to Spain. . Pease . . For Gabriela Ramos , the messianic interpretation of the myth of Inkarrí is now questioned; see also Curatola ; López Baralt ; Millones ; Ossio ; Pease . . Flores Galindo , . . AGI Lima ; see Santisteban Ochoa . . Quoted by J. Rowe , . Ms. “Memoria that the Pechero Indians of the four suyus of Cuzco gave, in which they confessed the yngas, that they knew for true successors of the yngas, . Probanza of nobility of Da. Tomasa Medina de Guzmán Atao Yupanqui Apoalanya Canchari Gaurilloclla, widow of Captain don Fernando Baler, February , ,” ff. v–v. Archivo Departamental del Cuzco, Protocolos, Agustín Chacón y Becerra ; , ff. –. . Pérez Fernández . . Hobsbawm . . Cardoso ; Pärsinen . . Burguière , . . Urton . . Rowe . . Ibid., , emphasis added. . Burguière , . . Bizzocchi , . . Hobsbawm . . Rostworowski . . Hemming , , and n. . . Gonzalo Lamana  proposes a different view of conflicts between the families of Manco Cápac and Paullo: instead of seeing them as patriots or traitors, as suggested by Dunbar Temple, one could regard them as following two different strategies. . See Urton (, ) for connections between these genealogies and various origin myths and other myths of the construction of the empire, and the place of these peripheral ayllus in the mythical and ideological space of Cuzco. . Guaman Poma de Ayala , ; this author established an unequal relationship between Titu Cusi Yupanqui and Sayri Túpac. Notes to Pages –

. Calancha () recounts an anecdote that reveals Sayri Túpac’s full understanding of the limits of his power. When the archbishop of Lima invited him to dinner, the centerpiece was a golden fountain containing warrants granting favors of lands and Indians. Sayri “took the table piece before him, made of velvet and garnished with a silk fringe, and tearing a bit of the fringe he told the archbishop: ‘All this cloth and its decorations used to be mine, and now you give me this little scrap to maintain myself and all my family’” (, ). . Do not confuse this Inca with José Gabriel Condorcanqui, Túpac Amaru II, who led the  rebellion in southern Peru. . Vega Loaiza , in Hemming , . . An anonymous biography of the government of Viceroy Toledo reads: “They put the head in a roll, where it remained for another day until it became so dark, that the viceroy had sent for it to be taken away, because the Indians, I mean the copious multitude, were in the plaza chopping it down, and they did not want to part without it, did not want to leave. Such was the veneration the Indians had for them, that even after they were dead they would do this to them” (Colección de Documentos inéditos relativos al Descubrimiento, from Biografía Anónima del gobiemo del virrey Don Francisco de Toledo, : ). . Dunbar Temple –. . Duviols . The first edition of this document of  is attributed to Marcos Jiménez de la Espada (transcription of manuscript J  of the Biblioteca Nacional of Madrid). The Quipucamayos questioned were from Pacaritambo, considered the place of the Inca dynasty, later abandoned for Cuzco. . “In  the panacas from Cuzco wrote a poder and ‘probanza of their lineage’ so that the mestizos Melchor Carlos Inca, Alonso de Mesa, Alonso Márquez and the ‘capitón gacilaso de la vega ynga resident from the city of Uadajoz’ can petition their favors in their name to the Crown” (Iwasaki Cauti , ). . Titu Cusi Yupangui . . Del Río . . Dunbar Temple ,  ff. . Duviols , . . Paullu Inca seems to have had a special connection with the Collasuyu, a southern province of the Tawantinsuyu, along with his family established in Copacabana. This could help to explain various confusing aspects of the Inca government and their rights over some regions owing to the simultaneous exercise of power by various royal family members (see Pärssinen ). . Dunbar Temple , . . Duviols also mentions various probanzas presented by Melchor Carlos Inca. The Memorial of D. Melchor Inca to His Majesty shows his descendants and their services to the king and asks for favors and rewards for the domains of his grandfather that His Majesty enjoyed (Biblioteca Nacional of Madrid, Catalogue

Notes to Pages –

of Julián Paz, no. ); it also contains information on the lineage of Melchor Carlos Inca, dated Cuzco . On the other hand, a probanza requested by Pablo Ynca (grandfather of D. Melchor) of services provided for His Majesty and how he was a good friend of the Christians, dated , was published in CDIHCH, Colección de Documentos Inéditos para la Historia de Chile, (Madrid ), : –; Duviols , , . . Dunbar Temple ,  ff.; . . Dunbar Temple , . . Dunbar Temple . . Dunbar Temple . . Mitmaqkuna were colonists moved by the Incas and placed in state establishments or on private lands belonging to the Inca king or nobles. . Dunbar Temple , . . Dunbar Temple . . Garcilaso, pt. , bk, , chaps. –. . Dunbar Temple , , and n. . . Levillier , –. . Hemming , , and nn. –; Espinoza Soriano , –, –. . This procedure ended with the trial of Dr. Loarte, who was accused of being biased and of having altered the testimonies of witnesses under threats and torture. The trial fills , folios (Levillier ). . Dunbar Temple . . Ibid., . . Ibid., ; Villanueva Urteaga . . Pease a. . Villanueva Urteaga . . Ibid., , and n. ; Villanueva Urteaga mentions a document entitled “Filiación y Demás Autos,” General Register of the Indians of the Province of Cajamarca carried out in , registered as “Legitimate Incas that are found free from Tribute and other personal services” to the descendants of don Cristóbal Tito and don Gonzalo Tito Uscamayta (Archive Horacio Urteaga). The descendants of Tupac Inca are listed in the following: “FILIACIÓN . . . partially done by Alferes D. Francisco Bautista Yopangue, native of the town of Cajamarca the Great, in Peru of the parish of señor San Pedro, concerning his being a legitimate descendant of Topa Inca Yupangue, a Native Señor of this Kingdom of Peru from the city of Cuzco. D. Xristóbal Tito Gualpa Yupangue is a legitimate son, and his son is D. Gonzalo Picho Uscamayta Gualpa, father of don Joan de Chávez Tito Uscamayta, legitimate brother of doña Francisca Mama Ocllo, wife of don Pedro Coyotopa; who is daughter of doña Inés Ana, ñusta and wife of don Pedro Yupangue; his legitimate successor don Francisco Tito Yupangue. To whom the royal Superior Government of this Kingdom declared as hijodalgo and noble descendant, April , , with

Notes to Pages –

permission to put his coat of arms on the door of his house and with permission to carry a sword and dagger, as he is a legitimate successor of the Incas over the just mentioned. To don Gonzalo Picho Uscamayta Gualpa, His Majesty gave him privilege (q. Dios g.e.) worthy of memory: the Señor Emperor don Carlos Quinto, through a royal decree dated in Valladolid, May , . Consisting of five fols. of whose edicts were sent to be kept by the Royal Justice in Caxamarca on August , . As.” . See examples in Santisteban Ochoa (, -VII-): Provision given by viceroy of Peru don Luis de Velasco in favor of the Incas Jatun Coscos so that they not work for others giving personal services or other privileges; encomiendas, favors, and privileges given to the families of the descendants of the Incas and the heirs of D. Pedro Pizarro, marquis of Valverde y Caracena, Indif. , –; among others cited in this text. The viceroy has given the Incas Jatun authorization not to work for Spaniards in encomiendas. . Udo Oberem , . . Vargas Ugarte , –, emphasis added. . The Taky Onkoy was an indigenous resistance movement created in  with messianic characteristics based on a complete rejection of Christianity and Spanish cultural practices. They proposed the renewal of worshiping ancient divinities, who, offended by being abandoned and called objects, had brought on various disasters. . See Loyasa ; Varese ; Zarzar . . Espinoza Soriano . . The Spaniards considered the yanas service Indians, lowering their former prestige and altering the pre-Hispanic meaning. A yana was considered the son of whom he served and deserving of respect. If he was a son of a curaca, he was given a hierarchical function, if he was a simple peasant he was destined to the royal chacras, or royal farming lands. . Dunbar Temple . . Ibid., . . Pease . . Juan Colque Guarache, curaca of the Quillacas-Asanaques in the southern altiplano, presented a probanza in which he declared that he had participated with Topa Inca in the conquest of Tucumán (Espinoza Soriano ). . “Family tree that begins with the twelfth emperor Wayna-Capa Inca of Peru, until the twenty-first, which is occupied by doña María Gertrudis de Abendaño, Betancur, Vargas, and Tupac Amaru . . .” Document published in  in Revista Universitaria : –. Cuzco, Universidad Nacional San Antonia Abad. . Pease . . Santisteban Ochoa , –. . Pease , .

Notes to Pages –

. Flores Ochoa , . . Millones . . In these stories, the Incas recognized twelve Incas, the first being Manco Cápac, who originated from a cave in Pacaritambo and migrated up to the valley of Cuzco, where he founded the city that would be the capital of the future empire. . General Archive of the Indies, Indiferente General , in Pease b. . Dumbar Temple . . According to Olinda Celestino, the coffers were filled by donations from noble families, as well as bequests of money, livestock, land, or other valuables destined for the churches. They also ensured the rents of the donating families, which increased through the skilled labor that curacas demanded of their subjects, also members of the same guilds (Espinosa Soriano ; Waldemar , in Celestino ). These donations paid for masses and ceremonies, but because of lax control by the clergy most of the rents went to their administrators. When the curacas caused problems, subjects called as witnesses preferred to support their señor, even if this increased their hardships, and to leave their goods in the hands of their principales, who could defend them if necessary. Alliances were therefore vertical, with the greatest solidarity with their own señores, rejecting the priests who attempted to relieve them of excessive work. . Celestino . . Udo Oberem , in ibid. . Celestino , –. . Pease , ; , ; a, ; Konetzke , –; Vargas Ugarte ,  ff. . Klumpp . . Spalding ,  and passim. . Spalding , –. . Iwasaki Cauti , ; Dunbar Temple , . . “With respect to having at the present time the official requests referred to in the year  eleven Incas wrote (that they were the heads of an equal number of lineages) giving power to D. Melchor Carlos Inca, D. Manso de Mesa and the Inca Garcilaso, so that they be exempt from the tributes that they paid and other ill treatments that the other Indians were commonly subjected to. They gave proof of their descendants, with the specification of who they were and how many (named by their descendants of such and such king), and as further proof painting these on white Chinese taffeta, a royal tree descending from Manco Cápac up to Guayna Cápac and his son Paullu. The Incas were painted in their ancient costumes with proud chests, and on their heads the colorful hat with the royal tassel, and in the ears and hands partesana lanes, all which Garcilasco mentioned to D. Melchor and D. Alonso, who were in Valladolid explaining those within each generation and coming up with the total sum of  male descendants. I order you to inform

Notes to Pages –

me of all the exemptions, if they are kept, as they live in the present; of which you will execute on the first moment that it becomes available, as this information is necessary to my Royal Service. Given in Buen Retiro on February , —I the King. By mandate of the King N.S.D. Joaquín Joseph Vázquez and Morales” (Manuscript , Antigua Biblioteca Nacional de Lima, in Dunbar Temple , ). . Gisbert , ; Rowe . . Dorta ; Gisbert , . . Cummins , –. . Gisbert , . . Rowe ; Villanueva Urteaga ; Pease .  Gisbert , . . Ibid., . . Ibid., . . Rowe , . . Arze and Medinaceli . . Flores Ochoa et al. , . . Ibid., . . Cornejo Bouroncle ; Gisbert , ; Lavalle . . Macera . . Chávez Ballón ; Flores Ochoa ; Cummins . . Rowe ; Martínez . . Iriarte . Tocapus, symbols of determined hierarchies, were bands of small squares with diverse patterns, repeated according to the rhythms of textile language. They could appear at the center of the uncu or shirt, on the hem, or as vertical fringes along the sides. In some cases they occupied the canesú, the top part of the shirt. . Maravall . . Rodríguez de la Flor and Galindo Blasco , . . Ibid., . . Betanzos , . . Ibid., . . For versions of this event, see Lara ; Arzanz de Orsúa and Vela . On compilations of quechua dramas, produced at distinct times but always of colonial provenance, see Cosio a, b; on colonial poetry, see Chan Rodríguez . . Arguedas , . . Mugaburo , . The fiestas lasted a month. This one took place on December . On December , there was a party of Indians “and there was a castle in the plaza and the Inca king came out and fought with other two kings [of Spain and the pope?] and being the victor, he took over the castle, and once settled the three kings, they offered the keys to the Prince who was well adorned in a carriage. In the plaza all the Indians that are in this kingdom, came each one with their cos-

Notes to Pages –

tumes and they were more than , that came, that the plaza looked as if it was glimmering with silver looking flowers accordingly as the Indians came, all well dressed and many with regal dress. There were bullfights that afternoon” (ibid., ). . Ibid., . . Millones ; Romero . . Dunbar Temple ,  and n. . . Burga . . Ibid., . The myths of the Huarochirí may have been told through songs, versified in similar taquis, according to Frank Salomon . . Verón Gabai , . . Murúa , . . Córdoba y Salinas, bk. I, chap. , –. . Rolena Adorno . . Pailler . . Bernand and Gruzinski . . Regalado de Hurtado . . Agustians , –, in Pease , . . Rowe ; Lohman , –, ; Vargas Ugarte , –; , . . Proust , . . Lafages . . Pease , . Pachacuti means a profound change. The ninth Inca of the royal dynasty, Tupa Inca Yupanqui, also received the name of Pachacuti due to the reforms he carried out in Cuzco, also initiating the organization and great expansion of the empire. . See Jan Szeminski ; Boleslao Lewin .

Chapter : Routes to the Utopia . Maravall , . . Leonard ; Avalle-Arce . . Laplantaine , . . Leonard ; Carpentier . . Avalle-Arce , . . Le Goff , . . O’Gormann . . Jitrik . . Carpentier , . . Raleigh , . . Gerbi , .

Notes to Pages –

. Ibid., . . Le Goff , . . Laplantine , –. . Léon Pinelo . . This area is today in the department of Beni, Republic of Bolivia. Documents refer to it as Mojos or Moxos. . See Gil ; Maravall ; Belaúnde ; Kappler , among others. . Belaúnde . . Denevan . . See Levillier ; Sanabria, ; Chávez Suárez, ; Finot, ; Gil , among others. . Alès and Pouyllau . . Ibid., . . Bernardo de Torres , :. . Levillier , . . Bayle , El Dorado Fantasma. Mentioned by Chávez Suárez , . In the General Archive of the Indies, there is a map attributed to Pedro Bohorques with the same characteristics. We know that Bohorques showed this map in Charcas to the oidor Juan de Lizarazu, and in northern Argentina to the Hispanic criollos of the region. We do not know whether the map was the work of Bohorques, or whether he had access to the one that had belonged to Gómez de Caravantes. . Renard Casevitz and Saignes , . . See Chávez Suárez , –. Modern authors prefer to use the names of macroethnic groups to those randomly identified by voyagers of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, a practice I will follow. . Ulrico Schmidel , –. . De Melo e Souza , –. . Finot ; Relación of Lorenzo Caballero, collected by the oidor Juan de Lizarazu in . Maurtúa, vol.  Juicio de Límites, . . . Prueba Peruana, vol. . . The myth of the Amazons, said to live near the great river, is ancient. Marco Polo saw them in the “macho islands” and the “female islands” (Kappler , ). . Gil , ; Kappler mentions Mandeville’s description, saying that these giant birds have “the strength of eight lions and one hundred eagles. They can take a horse up in the air with its rider, or two donkeys and its corresponding carriage” (, ). . Juan Castellanos, Elegías III, Elegía a Benalcázar, in Gil , . . Gil , . . Hernando de Ribera, AGI, Lima , loose documents, no. ; in Gil , . . Léon Pinelo . . Raleigh , .

Notes to Pages –

. Barco Centenera , Argentina o Conquista del Río de la Plata, Canto V. [Poems have been translated loosely in prose-like form; they have not been faithfully rendered poetically.—Trans.] . “Relación General that was taken in a public form and was authorized and sent to the Viceroy of the province of Xareyes that is º over the Paraguay river,  leagues from Asumpción, where General de Chávez had arrived with  men with the order and attempt of populating,” in Ed. Jiménez de la Espada, Madrid, . . AGI, Est. . Caja , Leg. –; ancient nomenclature, in Finot , . . Meléndez . . Ibid., bk. , chaps. –, p.  ff. . Relación, Juan Recio de Léon, , “Brief description and quality of the rivers of the province of Tipuani, Chunchos and others from which follow the great Kingdom of Paitite of which is governor Pedro de Leaegui Urquiza, made by Juan Recio de León, your maese de campo and lieutenant.” Biblioteca Nacional de Madrid, manuscript . . Ibid., emphasis in original. . I have not been able to consult Ophir de España. Jiménez de la Espada () believed that this book of Memorias antiguas historiales y políticas del Perú, or its first chapters, was never published, due to excessive fantasy and confusing writing. Nevertheless, León Pinelo identifies it as a separate work. . León Pinelo, vol. , bk. , chap. , p. . León Pinelo mentions the Ophir de España, bk. , chap. , by Fernando de Montesinos,  . . Torres , bk. , chap. ; , :. . Garcilasco , vol. , bk. , chap. . . Ibid., chap. . . Ibid. . Garcilaso [], , bk. , chap. . . Santa Cruz Pachacuti , –. . Betanzos , pt. , chap. . . Sarmiento de Gamboa , . . Ibid., –. . Jiménez de la Espada . . Hyslop . . Pärssinen , . . Cited in ibid. . Alcaya , –. . Ibid., . Moxos, mojos or musus means “new” in Quechua. With the expression “Paytiti called Moxos,” Alcaya may try to explain what is meant by a “new inca kingdom.” . Alcaya evidently confused the characters of the royal cuzqueña house.

Notes to Pages –

Huascar, the contender for the crown who had been left in Cuzco, had been murdered by people sent from Atahuallpa. This last was probably the “king of Quito” to whom the author refers, executed by Pizarro in Cajamarca. The inca that was imprisoned by the brothers of Pizarro was Manco Inca, who later went to Vilcabamba. According to Alcaya, the Manco Inca that stayed in the Paytiti, was not the same one we know of historically. Taking the name of the founder of the dynasty was not unusual. For example, one of the sons of the historical Manco Cápac, Sayri Túpac, also adopted the name “Mancocápac Pachacuti,” according to Calancha ( [, book , chap. ], ). . A similar version is found in Sir Walter Raleigh’s account (), except that in this case, the expedition of Manco Cápac was carried out in the city of Manoa, the other lost inca city in the jungle. . Gil , . . Pinelo . . Recio de León, Relación of the description and quality of the rivers of the province of Tipuani, Chunchos. . Ibid., . . Alfaro, report of February , , AGI, Lima , vol. , no. . . Bolívar traveled to Spain and Rome to present this memorial, to clear his name from a compromising association with Diego Ramírez Carlos and to seek support for his evangelizing mission. Before this, he had petitioned the viceroy regarding his expedition and the real purposes behind it. One was from Francisco de Alfaro (to be discussed later). . Alfaro, report of December , , AGI, Lima , vol. , f. . . Ibid. . Martínez and Rotker , . . Durand . . Ibid., .

Chapter : Pedro Bohorques in Peru . AGI, Charcas , fs. –, -IX-. . AGI, Indiferentes del Perú, . . See Autos del Proceso a Pedro Bohorques, in AGI, Charcas , fs. –, among other sources. . An example is Fernando de Avendaño, who made three probanzas in an attempt to climb up the ecclesiastical hierarchy. First, in , he affirmed that his parents were Gaspar de Avendaño and María González Enríquez of Lima. In , he claimed to be the legitimate child of Gaspar de Avendaño and of doña María González Trujillo, of Spain’s Trujillo region. In , he again took his father’s

Notes to Pages –

name but claimed that his mother was María de Orozco, a native of Buitrago (Pease , –). Note that in the original documents Bohorques never spelled his name “Bohórquez,” nor did he accent the second “o.” His name appears once in the margin of a document in the Autos del Proceso a Pedro Bohorques, from the Archive of the Indies (Charcas , fs. –, -IX- [], Carta del Oidor Retuerta a S.M.). Some travelers to the Indies bear the name of Chamizo, such as Alonso Chamizo de Cáceres, native of Garrovillas (Catálogo de Pasajeros de Indias, vol.  [–], tome  [–]). AGI. Ed. By Ma. Del Carmen Diez, . . It concerns the Tellez-Girón, who were in fact the dukes of Osuna (Piossek Prebisch , , n. ). Don Pablo Bohorques Girón (father of don Pedro, by his own account) could be related to the dukes of Osuna, or he could have taken this name as a vassal. . Lozano –, :. . Mendiburu (, :–) locates the adventures of Francisco Bohórquez in eastern Peru, the adventures of Pedro in the Calchaquíes valley and gives him a role in the aborted rebellion of the curacas of Lima in –. . Bayle, n.d. . Lozano –, – (in AGI, Charcas ). Utrera is only  kms. away, southeast of Seville. Various men by the name of Bohorques de Utrera went to Peru in the last decades of the sixteenth century. In  there was a certain Juan Millán de Bohorques, son of Juan Millán de Bohorques; and doña Leonor Jiménez, of Seville, daughter of Francisco Jimémenz Bohorques, left for Peru in . In  there is mention of a certain Ana de Velasco, daughter of Benito Sánchez Bohorques (Catálogo de Pasajeros de Indias, vol. ). I have not found anyone of this name who went to Peru at the time Pedro Bohorques would have been there, about . . AGI, Charcas , f. , --. The governor of Tucumán, don Alonso de Mercado y Villacorta, informed the Audiencia de Charcas that Pedro Bohorques was a “native of Granada, and that he has resided for thirty years in these kingdoms, of the age of fifty, white and blond.” . Hernando de Torreblanca was a witness in Calchaquí, and years later in Spain he wrote a Relación attempting to clear the Jesuits’ reputation concerning their relationship with Bohorques. Pedro Lozano’s account of the events in Calchaquí is based fundamentally on Torreblanca, although for the earlier period he had other information, whose origin he does not reveal. Bayle used Lozano and documents of the Archivo General de Indias, especially Charcas , which contains essential portions of the proceso initiated against Bohorques at the start of his Calchaquí campaign. . Accarette du Biscay , . . Lozano –, . . Ibid.; see also Mendiburu . The only document that I could consult (AGI, Contratación , no. ) refers to a Francisco Bohórquez y Carranco who

Notes to Pages –

in  asked to go to New Spain as a “criado” of don Cristóbal Ortega y Bonilla, traveling with his mother and sister. Any such request required proof of pure blood; Bohorques said that his family was principally from the villa of Guadalcanal and held the posts of alcaldes ordinarios and regidores, and that he himself had been alcalde ordinario in  (although he was eighteen years old at the time). This is the only Bohorques mentioned traveling to the Indies between  and , and no other by the name of Chamijo appears anywhere. Many people named Martín García came to Peru in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, but none in the company of a Bohorques. . Lozano says: “He had the reputation of being a bellicose man, hoodwink, liar, inconstant and without firmness, without fear or shame of being found out in his lies, persuasive, keen on sharing gossip, with which he ensnared many in his web. And to improve his manners, he received very little help with the type of life he led, because the indecency of his attire removed him from the community of cultivated or civilized people, as he ordinarily went around barelegged, wearing only a bad doublet and a cloak of cordillate, a cloak made of wooden cloth, which he seldom wore to church, even on festive days” (–, –). . Ibid. . Torreblanca , . . Córdoba y Salinas ; Amich ; Friar Amich, a missionary in the convent of Santa Rosa de Ocopa, had numerous documents about the Franciscan missions and paintings of the inca kings, which enriched his knowledge regarding the dominant ideology of the time. . The piedmont fringe of the Andes is a multiethnic region whose geography and ethnology are not always clear in historical records. Stefano Varese states that the Campas was first named Pilcozones (, ). The Campas, Amueshas, and Matsiguengas were of Arawak origin, people considered mediators between the Amazon and Andes civilizations, which “made these Amazonic pre-Andean towns a privileged step between those two worlds and led them to play a historical role, as much before as after the Conquest” (d’Ans , ). From pre-inca times, these Arawak populations had traded with the Andean people, thus exchanging many cultural traits (Renard-Casevitz and Saignes , –). As I have shown, this area suffered many assaults by the incas. An example of their relationship with the empire is reflected in myths in which an Inca marries the daughter of an Amuesha cacique (ibid., –). . Renard-Casevitz and Saignes , –; Santos –, –. . Lozano –, . . Ibid., . . Memorial, f. , v. Further references to the Memorial will be given in parentheses. . See Montesinos .

Notes to Pages –

. Montesinos . . Ibid., xxix–xxxi. . Bayle n.d., –. . AGI, Charcas , fs. –,  (-?-). The racionero of the Church of the Charcas, Alvaro Alonso Barva, recounts that some years earlier Pedro Bohorques had been in Potosí and La Plata, and that “he was imprisoned in the jail there [having fled Lima], had married an Indian woman of a nation of some Indians living below Lima in order to conquer; and this woman was the daughter of the [Lord] of these Indians (whom he called emperor ). He had gone to that city accompanied by many of these Indians lavishly adorned, and there was much rejoicing at his entrance; he offered the viceroy some valuable products of the land, where he said gold and silver were plentiful. And the viceroy, wanting this Reducción (or reservation) to make him a person of great renown, sent for what seemed like  soldiers and some religious men, D. Pedro de Bohorques without telling them of the risks involved and also since the majority of Indians had died by his hand, was judged guilty and was apprehended.” The racionero doubtless echoes the stories spread by word of mouth throughout Peru about don Pedro, but he must not have been witness to these events, unless Barva had resided in Lima at the time. . Amich , . The testimony of Captain Alonso Sánchez de Bustamante was carried out in , to the petition of Fr. Domingo Alvarez de Toledo. It was strange that twenty-four years after the execution of Bohorques, testimonies were requested about his adventures in the jungle. What is certain is that Alvarez de Toledo was involved in the dispute over “alternating” leadership posts in the religious orders between peninsulares and criollos. The pretensions of independence attributed to Bohorques and the dangers they entailed for the Crown must have alarmed Alvarez de Toledo, who defended the rights of the peninsulares to search these testimonies; as our hero was not a criollo, he could serve as an example of the risks of leaving certain kinds of men at liberty. . Santos . . Vargas Ugarte . . Mendiburu . . Hipólito Unanue wrote, under the pseudonym Aristo, an article entitled “News of the Costumes, Superstitions and Actions of the Indians of the Pampas of Sacramento and Mountains of the Andes of Perú,” Mercuriano Peruano  (). . Amich , , emphasis added. . Unanue , –; –. . Lavallé . . Macera . . José de Mesa and Gisbert , , emphasis added. . Harth-Terre , . The artist was the captain and master painter don

Notes to Pages –

Agustín de Navamuel, of Cuzco. Harth-Terre publishes the contract signed with an individual authorized by the marquis, where he says that “there should go said  canvases in the same form of those painted by his most excellent viceroy of the order of the Señor Marqués de Villaumbroso, with all the insignias and attributes, golden, of fine colors and the shirts embroidered with gold according to the custom in the clothing and costumes that said Inca Kings and Ñustas used” (, –). I thank Teresa Gisbert for providing a copy of the signed contract. . Laplantine , . . Ibid., . . Lozano –, –. . The name Chunchos was applied to a variety of natives who lived in the jungles of the southern cuzqueña and Bolivian frontier. The route of Larecaja was chosen by other adventurers who searched for the Paytiti during the colonial era. . Ibid., . . Juan de Lizarazu, tempted to mount an expedition to Moxos to search for the Paytiti, sought information from all who had been on previous expeditions or who had information about them. He also incorporated into these files the relaciones by friar Diego Felipe de Alcaya and the Solís Holguín (Sanabria Fernádez , ). . Lozano –, . . Gil , . . Lozano –, . . Santos , –. . This friar Francisco de La Cruz should not be confused with Francisco de la Cruz, also a Dominican, who was tried and burned in the year  on charges of heresy and criollismo, and whose life had some interesting parallels with that of Pedro Bohorques. On the other de la Cruz, who became Bishop Francisco de la Cruz, see Meléndez . . Glave , –. . Olmedo , . . Friar Francisco Lineros was a witness called to confirm friar Olmedo’s account; he said that the first masses were celebrated on a portable altar and that later they had church altarpieces (Olmedo , ). . Ibid., –. . Valdosera , . . Ibid., , emphasis added. . The Dominican missions in the region continued for some time, according to witnesses called by friar Valdosera. Some of them, inhabitants, vecinos, and the maestre of Campo de Tarma, affirm that they had traveled to Chanchamayo to charge tribute to the hill people of these areas, or commercial debts owed by the Indians. This proves that the hill peoples continued to have access to the lowlands

Notes to Pages –

according to traditional “vertical control.” In any case, these conversions ended in failure, and after the death of friar Diego González de Valderrosa in , the Dominicans abandoned their dream of conquering the souls of the infidels of that region (Santos , ). . Only the names of twenty-eight conquistadors that formed part of Pedro Bohorques’s army are recorded, not the soldiers or servants that each had with him, of whom we cannot know the exact number. Besides, when some returned to Peru, they were replaced (in the posts of the cabildo) by others listed as “companion to or at the service of X person,” which indicates that they must have enjoyed an accelerated social mobility. These conquistadors were: Juan Aguilar, Antonio Alvarado, José (Joseph) de la Barrera, Juan Bautista, Juan Bázquez de Lara, Cristóbal Bázquez, Diego Benítez Villa Vizencio, Pedro Bohorques (son), Juan Cano, José (Joseph) Fernández de Cabrera, Melchor Fernández de MonteRey, Bernardo de Figueroa y Andrade, Sebastián Frutuoso, Gregorio Guerrero, Nicolás Hortiz de Aro, Salvador Martínez de Figueroa, Juan Mexía (blacksmith), Alonso Muñoz Gallardo, Thomas Don Pérez de Ayala, Juan Reyes, Francisco Don Rojas Pacheco, Antonio Rojas, Andrés Salgado de Araujo (editor of the Memorial ), Salvador Sánchez, Juan Sánchez Morón, Antonio Don Soto Albarado, Juan de Torres, Francisco Villanueva (incorporated in the army in Chancha Mayo). . Maravall . . See ibid. . See Boixadós . . See Rodríguez de la Flor and Galandi Blasco , . . Boixadós , . . This device consisted in fabricating some “barbacoas, a dyke made of bending canes four times. Half the people were involved in these activities submerged in the water up to their breasts from morning until night for eight continuous days, and we took turns, one day some and the others were being threatened by the Indians (across the river) when the Indians put the flag of peace up, we had made seven drains and the river had little water left” (Memorial, f. , v). . Clastres . . Vargas Ugarte , –. . Rosengreen , . . Renard-Casevitz and Saignes , –. . The hill migrants could have come from the east at various times, or they could be ancient Mitimaes who left their original towns and sought refuge in the interior of the jungle. Others, as Garcilasco says (), are the refugees called Chancas, commanded by their “king” Hancohuallu, who did not want to accept the dominion of the cuzqueños and who searched for “new lands where to establish themselves and be absolute lord or die in the demand.” Little by little, they left the jurisdiction of Inca Viracocha, who governed at that time and who had put down

Notes to Pages –

an uprising of the Chancas. Hancohaullu left with  men under Tarma and populated some  leagues of his lands to the banks of some “big and beautiful lakes where they say that they made great deeds that seem more like fables composed in honor of their parents the Chancas than real history.” This version gives the origin of the myth of Ruparupa (Belaúnde ). In any case, the hill people who became vassals of Pedro Bohorques claimed to be Christians, which might indicate that they had been previously colonized, although certainly imperfectly evangelized. . Vecino is a colonial category for individuals to whom the king has given land or encomiendas. Only vecinos have rights to participate in the cabildos. Poblador designates a second-rate inhabitant. . Campas is a general term that includes various ethnic groups of the Andean piedmont and adjacent plains. It contains the Amueshas, apparently the natives under the cacique Santuna. . All the weapons and petrechos, weapons of war, that were handed in are mentioned, with the charge that “in his royal name he keep them in a house all cared for and clean.” They were given “ fireballs in  harquebuses,  muskets,  rifles,  rifles,  pistols for the cavalry,  shields of iron,  suits of armor from Milán,  bodies of weapons made in Chile,  iron lances,  wooden sticks with iron tips,  axes,  lamps,  machetes,  large sticks,   keg containers of lead, , adjusted bullets,  leather sacks of gun powder of  quintales each,  quintales of iron,  quintales de acero,  dozens of chullos carn,  bolts of string,  quintales of cotton to make it” (f. ). . See f. , v; f. : the title of alférez, the person who carries the war banner, of infantry to sergeant Juan Sánchez Morón was originally given on June , . This individual was serving in the company of Captain Melchor Fernández de MonteRey. Following are the reasons and title of alférez and alguacil mayor to Juan Básquez de Lara, who served in the company of the governor (and in the absence of Captain Nicolás de Aro), for “being a person of merits and worth.” The next certification was in favor of the alférez Bernardo de Figueroa y Andrade (originally given May , ). His merits were having served His Majesty along with two soldiers “armed and in possession of all that was necessary to obedience to the cacique of la Sal and towns and its surroundings and foundations of the city of Quimire” (f. ). He favored the title of captain of infantry, “which is served by Captain Juan Cano.” Figueroa and Andrade also received  Indians (although later only  Indians are mentioned), so that they serve him until his Majesty or his Royal Council dispose of something else” (f. , v). This deposito was given March , . He also received  fanegadas of land in the Pampa of Chanchamayo “next to the corral of the cows,” and another  in Zayria. The last certification corresponds to the title of alférez and the  fanegadas given to Juan Básquez de Lara in the valley of Zayaria, and another  in the “other strip of the Cerro Buena Vista” (f. ). Notes to Pages –

. “[The lands more or less run] are located near the River Chanchamayo that they call de la Cruz up to a pajonal, land with long grass or hay, that goes up said river to the city where they found some guayabos trees and on the right there is the Rio Grande and on the left the hills of the minerals of Putin, filled with silver and lead, and Captain Don Andrés Salgado de Araujo in a sign of possession threw three rocks, grabbed some dirt, cut some trees, burned some branches, and put a cross by the name Santa María de Rosamonde—all this in my presence and of witnesses” (f. , v). There follows a certification by the cabildo of the prior documents and of the signature of Bohorques and the other participants in the preceding juridical acts. These documents are signed December , . . Lozano –, –. . Lozano’s data about this campaign are scarce and confusing. He knows that Bohorques founded a city and that he named authorities, but faced with failures, don Pedro decided to “leave for Peru to ask for new support from the viceroy, who finally apprehended him.” . Bayle n.d., ; Vargas Ugarte confirms the name of the captain of the militia as Juan López Real.

Chapter : Calchaquí . Pedro Bohorques’s activities in the Calchaquí valley are amply documented. By order of the governor and later of the viceroys, an internal sumario was carried out incorporating the Autos of the Proceso of Pedro Bohorques. These are found in the General Archive of the Indies as Audiencia de Charcas , , , and in various expedientes of the Audiencia de Lima. Copies of some of these documents are found in the Instituto E. Ravignani and in the Museo Etnográfico at the University of Buenos Aires. I also used the Relación () of the Jesuit friar Hernando de Torreblanca (the original is in the Biblioteca Nacional de Río de Janeiro; see also Piosseck Prebisch ). This Relación is of course biased, as the friar was attempting to clear the reputation of the Jesuits who had established two missions in the Calchaquí valley and were much involved in the events. Because Torreblanca wrote after his companions had died, no one could refute his statements nor question his own conduct with respect to Bohorques. The Jesuit friars Pedro Lozano and Constantino Bayle used these sources when writing about these events. . Torreblanca , f. . . Only Lozano (probably following Torreblanca) says that Bohorques was named captain, but the Lima authorities are suspiciously silent about what Bohorques did in Chile. Lozano says that when the title of captain was stripped from him he was “very upset” and “expressed his outrage with words against the president” (, ). . Autos made by Governor Cabrera in ; testimony of Captain Esteban de Notes to Pages –

Contreras, AGI, Charcas  (), doc. , f. . Two copies of these Autos are in the Archive of the Indies; the first corresponds to Charcas  (), fs. –. For simplicity, I will cite  (). . The city of Londres was founded at various times. At the moment we are dealing with, it had been established in the west-central part of the province of Catamarca, in the paraje and estancia called Pomán, with the name of San Juan Bautista de la Rivera. Documents refer to it by all three names. . Lozano , . . Testimony of Bartolomé Ramírez, AGI, Charcas  (), doc. , fs. v–. Cristóbal was a name adopted by Paulo Inca, a son of Guayna Cápac (see chapter ). . Testimony of Lorenzo Paez de Espinosa, AGI, Charcas , do. cuad., f. . . Torreblanca , fs. –. . Testimony of Luis de Hoyos, AGI, Charcas  (), doc. , f. v. . Testimony of Captain Esteban de Contreras, AGI, Charcas  (), doc. , f. . . A donado occupies an inferior secular position in the ecclesiastical hierarchy, the only one open to indigenous people, who were expressly forbidden to enter the priesthood. . See Lorandi , a, b, , , ; Lorandi and Boixadós –; Lorandi and Bunster –; Lorandi and Schaposchnik . . This was the official name of this Spanish province, which comprised the current provinces of Jujuy, Salta, La Rioja, Santiago de Estero, and Córdoba. . Pedro Lozano, citing a letter from Bishop Maldonado (who furiously opposed the governor’s negotiations with Bohorques) says that, in the opinion of some, “the captains of the Inca twice conquered the natives of the valley, but they, cherishing their own liberty, took so heavily the yugo, subjection, of his new dominion, that another two times they rebelled; during which time their captains were dispatched for a third time into the valley, ordered to destroy all inhabitants, and that from there Bohorques went to the valley, in the Peruvian language called Calchaquí, meaning asolados (devastated by hunger); if we use the metaphor of the verb calchani that the Indians used after the maize harvest when beating reeds on the floor and slightly altering the word, they call it the valley of Calchaquí” (Lozano , ). . The endings -ao and -gasta signify “town” in the Cacana language, or in the original Diaguitas language. That is, “Tucumanao” and “Tucumangasta” mean “town of,” or “inhabited by tucumanos.” . This Chicoana should not be confused with the actual town in the Lerma valley, which was created after the expulsion of the inhabitants of the pre-Hispanic Chicoana, following the prolonged resistance of the Calchaquí valley between  and .

Notes to Pages –

. In the town of Oruro, or Orurillo, there was an ayllo mapacioca, an ayllo population originally from Orurillo or Sicuani. This information was kindly provided by Lic. Mercedes del Río (Archivo Histórico Nacional, Buenos Aires, Padrón de Oruro –, Repartimiento de Horuro, Sala --). This register was incorrectly classified as belonging to Oruro of Bolivia. The ayllos mentioned in the same do not correspond to the populations of those areas, and Mercedes del Río later found them in the province of Canas. . Lozano , . . This name is applied to an ethnic group; if Juan Calchaquí was curaca of the Tolombones, these may be called calchaquíes only in references of the widest regional amplitude. Certain texts refer to the “Calchaquí Indians,” referring to the Indians of the curaca, but others mean the Indians of the valley (see Lorandi and Bunster –, –). . Lorandi . . Despite what is said, the province of Canas was severely punished by the Inca intervention. Their populations were much dispersed, distributing mitamakuna, colonists who are transferred by the Incas in order to dominate the local population, in diverse regions of the empire, and their lands were reassigned to other mitamakuna, thus forming multiethnic populations (Glave ; , –). . Lozano , . References to nietos (grandchildren) include descendants through many generations (including some who may have been illegitimate). They were expelled from the area to remove them from the ancient center of power. Paulo or Cristóbal remained in Cuzco, but his grandson Melchor Carlos went to live in Spain, where he married a second time. Bohorques must have known of these circumstances (see chapter ). . AGI, Charcas  (), fs. –. . The word guaca is applied to many places, burial sites, living or ancestral persons. Juan Calchaquí was considered a waka. . AGI, Charcas , er. cuad., f. . . Ibid., f. . . Ibid., f. , April , , emphasis added. . If the Calchaquí Indians had appropriated the horses, it is unlikely that they had as many as Bohorques says, and thus one must question the veracity of his story. . AGI, Charcas , er. cuad., fs. v–v. The Jesuits had two missions in the valley. One was close to the actual city of Santa María, in Yocavil valley to the south, where Bohorques wrote this letter. The other was San Carlos, close to the modern city of Homónima, in the northern section, today the Calchaquí valley. Regarding the title of “don” that Bohorques assumes in this letter, and which the Spaniards had given him, there is no reliable proof that he was a legitimate hidalgo,

Notes to Pages –

but Bishop Maldonado believes he belonged to the house of the Bohorques of Utrera. However, in marginal areas as Tucumán, the norms in such matters were respected only halfway. . AGI, Charcas  (), fs. –. In the postscript, León names the riches Bohorques was discovering: “Mines of the Pular. Twelve leagues of the Ingenio, a mine of silver establishments. This is of the pulares or Tajigasta. Memorias of the riches of Calchaquí. An hour from Calchaquí, after this town is the White House, in Anguingasta, gold mines and a famous huaca. In Guanpolán silver mines, in Amimana silver mines. In Tolombón gold and silver mines, in Quilmes two great huacas, in Anguinao three huacas and many minerals. In Yocavil a great mine of gold and silver, in Camana [Incamana] of silver. All this I have heard today, in time I will discover more, may your mercy hide this letter and my name and only say the news that can be said. Each year I passed this valley rented to the Inca and saw hundreds of cattle loaded with gold, the rent of the Inca. Of these,  entered the valley when they heard that many had died [sic] Don Pedro, your Merced does not allow it, more riches are to be found here and closer will I be to your Merced. Put cows and sheep for his maintenance and with this he will be happy in Tolombón, be a friend, trust your good understanding, and do not look beyond the service of God and the king our lord.” This letter was copied and added to the autos by order of Mercado y Villacorta when he was governor of Buenos Aires in – (original dated --, the copy --). . AGI, Charcas , er. cuad., f. . . Ibid., f. . . Ibid., f. . . Concerning Bohorques’s intentions, Torreblanca says, “And for this, adding to his diabolical spirit the mask of an apostle, he promised he could obtain the conversion of that rebellious people that the Jesuit missionaries as preachers of the gospel they had not obtained in so many years of assistance, induced the Indians that embraced the faith, to make churches and follow the doctrine” (ibid.). Later he says that when Bohorques visited friar Sancho, he and the other friars were not present, and, that without an appointment, he wrote “that he did not have to see him” (ibid., f. ). Torreblanca thus tries to clear himself of responsibility for these early negotiations. . AGI, Charcas , er. cuad., f. . . Torreblanca , f. . . Much of this information comes from the autos created in  by Governor Gerónimo Luis de Cabrera, grandson of the founder of Córdoba, to prove or reject the accusations of Bishop Melchor Maldonado against the actions taken by Governor Mercado (AGI, Charcas  [] , docs. –, fs. –v). . Testimony of don Bartolomé Benastar, cacique of Cachi, who was placed next to Bohorques, AGI, Charcas  (), doc. , fs. v–.

Notes to Pages –

. AGI, Charcas  (), doc. , fs. –. . Torreblanca , f. . . Meaning in andas (in guandas is used in other texts), carried on a platform or on men’s shoulders. . AGI, Charcas  (), doc. , f. . Documents do not mention whether Bohorques spoke Spanish or Quechua translated into Kakano, the language of the Diaguitas. . All these games had medieval roots. The games of rings (sortijas) involved “inserting a spear or vara, while galloping, into one or more rings a little smaller than a certain ring hanging some  centimeters above the head of the rider” (Weckmann , ). “Games of canes, estafermo, zoiza or quintana . . . were combat simulations in which the knights would use spears or fragile canes of one or two and a half meters which would break in the adarga (a leather shield) or in their armor without causing damage” (ibid., ). The tournament is a variant of the single combat or joust, in which the combatants fought in groups (ibid., –). Saraos (Galician word: serao) were social events, usually held in the evening, with music and dancing (Espasa Calpe). It is assumed that the Indians were only spectators at these parties, as they are not described as having participated. . Weckmann ,  ff. . Bayle, n.p., . . Testimony of Luis de Hoyos. AGI, Charcas  (), doc. , f. v. . AGI, Charcas , fs. –. . A play on the governor’s name, Mercado, meaning “market.” . AGI, Charcas  (), doc. , f. v. . Testimony of Esteban de Contreras, AGI, Charcas  (), doc. , f. . . Testimony of the cacique Don Bartolomé Benastar, ibid., f. . . Testimony of Esteban de Contreras, ibid., f. . . Testimony of Andrés de Ahumada, ibid., f. v. . AGI, Charcas , er. cuad., fs. –v. . Ibid., f. . . Ibid., f. , Aug. –, . . Ibid., fs. –v, Aug , . . The testimony of the title was incorporated into the autos already mentioned in ibid., fs. –, Aug. , . . In the meeting where these themes were discussed, they especially refer to some Malfines, and although details are not clear, Bohorques explained that these difficulties arose because “they are married to Indian women of said valley, and have sons with them, also strangers wearing their same suit or those or retired outside the towns have sons with them.” Other isolated and unclear data suggests that he could have married with the Ingamanas who controlled the valley of Yocavil. These facts reveal the interesting problematic concerning the ethnic structure of

Notes to Pages –

the region. As another example, there is the case of the Cafa Yates, who were taken by the Quilmes (Lorandi and Boixadós –). . The secret instructions regarding what had to be done in the valley were recorded periodically in a document to be given to Bohorques before his departure (AGI, Charcas , er. cuad., fs. v–v). . Lozano , . . The White House was one of three buildings of inca origin located on a hill in the Cajón sierra constructed of white, dark gray, and pink stone, respectively. There is a mural made of stones of these three colors (Tarragó ). These guacas were famous and were controlled by the Anguinaos, who occupied a wide strip of territory in the Yocavil sector (Lorandi and Boixadós –). Today the ruins of these towns are named Rincón Chico. . AGI, Charcas , er. cuad., fs. v–. . Ibid., f. v. . Ibid., fs. v–. . One of the guacas was found in the town of Quilmes. Bohorques says that it was a burial place for the ancient Incas, and that they owned it and other Paciocas, and that it was a fourth of a league from the cacique of the Quilmes, called Martín Yquin. He gives the exact location and says that the guaca was covered with statues of Indians made of “wood of carob and cattle, heads of lions and other animals constructed from rough stone.” The other is the White House already mentioned (ibid., fs. –). This information reveals that in inca times the Paciocas could have controlled more populations than in the colonial period. . Torreblanca , fs. –. . Lozano , . . According to the testimonies collected from this complaint, the cacique Caña had already shown his loyalty to the king during the uprisings of –, having executed his own brother, who rose against the king along with twenty-two other curacas. All were hanged in the public plaza by the corregidor. For his loyalty he had received the title of Maese de Campo, second chief in charge in a military campaign of the Field. Another witness said that the town of Caña was called Ondena, but must have been in the south of the jurisdiction of San Juan, because he seeks refuge in Mendoza along with the cleric in that area. AGI, Charcas , do. cuad., fs. –, –. Regarding the arrow from Calchaquí received by Caña, the Indians would send an arrow as a means of soliciting allies. In this case, either the Indians or Bohorques were asking him to participate in the rebellion. . These themes are dealt with in Torreblanca , fs. –; and Lozano , –, –. Lozano transcribed the letters of Mercado to Bishop Maldonado and to the Jesuit provincial, Francisco Vázquez de la Mota, and the letter the provincial sent to friar Sancho, asking him not to support Bohorques, reminding them that he had lied about his inca origin, as he was a Spaniard—adding evangelical consideration with respect to this point. Notes to Pages –

. Letter of Bishop Melchor Maldonado to Pedro Bohorques, Córdoba, Sept. , , in Lozano , –. . AGI, Charcas , do. cuad., f. v. This letter was stolen from Bohorques’s quarters in Calchaquí in July . It is undated, so it could have arrived any time before July . . Lozano , –. This information has not been verified by other sources, but I find it convincing, and there is ample proof that Lozano read the autos of the proceso of Bohorques. . Ibid., –. . On the encounter in Tafi, see AGI, Charcas , er. cuad., fs. –. . In this context, a familiar means “a demon that the ignorant commoner believes is a person and that it accompanies and serves for everyday things” Enciclopedia Universal Ilustrada, Espasa Calpe). . AGI, Charcas , er. cuad., fs. v–v. . Ibid., fs. v–. . Testimony of the alférez Francisco Díaz, who, after narrating some details of the attempt to kill him, said about the party in which he had to participate: “and he being witness and his wife were forced to take part in the dance and in it they imitated said Don Pedro [who danced with Indians] also assisting the dance were Mauricio Vera y Gonzalo de Barrionuevo and Don Laurencio Ramón and Julián de Herrera” (AGI, Charcas , do. cuad., fs. v–v). His statements were confirmed by other testimony. Barrionuevo stated that he was in Calchaquí for six months, attracted by the promise of discovering mines or treasures and seeking repayment for loans his father had made to Bohorques; this shows that Bohorques was ready to honor his debts (ibid., fs. v–). . Ibid., fs. v–. . Letters from the lieutenant of the city, Don Francisco de Nieva y Castilla and Juan de Ibarra, Apr.  and May ,  (ibid., fs. –). . Lozano , . . This information was confirmed by almost all testimonies. See AGI, Charcas , do. cuad., fs. –, –. . Declarations from Luis Aballay, cacique of Machigasta (ibid., fs. –). . Ibid., fs. –; –; –. These testimonies were taken between April and June, and sometimes the witness had to repeat his statements. . Statement of Juan Incaipa, principal cacique in Sanagasta (ibid., fs. v–v). At first, Incaipa and other caciques were ready to pledge to the rebellion. But the vigilant action of the authorities between the time of Bohorques’s visit and June, when this statement was made, shows that the gathering outside the valley could have been dismantled. . Statement of Francisco, cacique of Famatina (ibid., fs. –v). . Statements of an Indian of the town of Abaucán, called Juan Carpintero. “His yaya [lord] the Inca had left them so that if the Spaniards entered the part of Notes to Pages –

Malfin, the Indians and Malfines and Abaucanes would appear and show their face and that the rest of all the other people in the two wings would close in on them during the night and throw arrows at them and take all their mules and horses, leaving them on foot; within a couple of days they would kill them and eat them and that this order they were going to carry out.” He had already distributed bows and arrows to this end (ibid., f. ). . After the bloody battle of the Araucanos, the Crown allowed captives to be taken as slaves. . Second statement of Luis Aballay (AGI, Charcas , do. cuad., f. ). . Witness, Don Antonio, cacique (ibid., fs. –). . Witness, Lorenzo, cacique (ibid., fs. v–v). . Statements from the Indian Alocha, of Abaucán (ibid., fs. v–). This is also confirmed by other Indians (and an Indian woman) Abaucanes (ibid., v–). In these events were involved the Malfines and Abaucanes who had fled from Fort Pantano and the cacique of the Ingamanas, Juan Camisa, who had a kinship relation with them. The Ingamanas controlled the extreme south of the Calchaquí valley (in the section called Yocavil), and they had disputes with the Malfines over land. Various statements confirm the existence of interethnic relations among Indians from inside and outside the valley, whose exact nature is unclear (Schaposchnik ). . Report from Nicolás, Indian of Batungasta (AGI, Charcas , do. cuad., f. ). . Ibid., fs. –. . AGI, Charcas  (), fs. –. . AGI, Charcas , do. cuad., fs. v–. . Ibid., fs. v–v. . Ibid., f. . . Ibid., fs. –v. . Ibid., fs. v–v. . Barrionuevo said that because he was poor and had dependent children and a mother, he collaborated with Don Pedro, being unaware of the accusations against him (ibid., fs. –). . To poison him, Barrionuevo used soliman (a corrosive sublimate) in small doses that made Bohorques sick but was not fatal (Torreblanca , f. ). . Statements by Barrionuevo giving details of his arrest (AGI, Charcas , do. cuad., fs. v–). On the death of Calsapí, who was hanged in an algarrobo, a common tree of the region, see Torreblanca , f. . . Letter from Bohorques, July , . AGI, Charcas , do. cuad., fs. v–, copied in Charcas  (), fs. – (). . Letter of July , . AGI, Charcas , do. cuad., fs. –. . Lozano , –.

Notes to Pages –

. AGI, Charcas , do. cuad., fs. v–. . Ibid., f. . . On this attack and the state that friar Patricio found the mission in, see Torreblanca , fs. –; Lozano , –. . See Torreblanca , fs. –; Lozano , –. . Torreblanca , fs. –. . The autos pertinent to the battle are in AGI, Charcas , do. cuad., fs. – (quotation from f. ). . Letter from Pedro Bohorques from Paciocas, Calchaquí valley (ibid., fs. –). References to the Cid suggest to what extent these medieval heroes were alive in Bohorques’s imagination, although in this case he makes fun of a Spaniard who had come to Salta telling a false version of events. Arias lost his baggage and his mules, leaving many dead behind. . Ibid., f. . . Simón de los Santos, a butler of Francisco Arias Velasquez, was apprehended by Bohorques when the events took place with this encomendero. He sent him to Charcas, keeping his wife as a hostage. . AGI, Charcas , do. cuad., fs. v–v. . The order of the junta called by the viceroy was carried out on December , , on the basis of many reports and Bohorques’s own petition claiming loyalty. One reason for accepting his demands was that they would not entail any royal expense. Various proposals were made, for Bohorques to stay in Lima or go to Spain, and if proved innocent he would be granted gifts “corresponding to his person and merits.” He was guaranteed a pardon, personal security, and his goods. In the meantime, Mercado y Villacorta had his forces prepared in case negotiations failed, and he went to apprehend Bohorques in the valley. AGI, Charcas , fs. –v. A second copy of the letter is in Charcas , er. cuad., fs. v–. . AGI, Charcas , er. cuad., f. . . Ibid. . Reports of Viceroy Santisteban about the case of Pedro Bohorques (AGI, Lima , f. , --). . AGI, Charcas , er. cuad., f. . The inventory of these goods was incorporated in a fourth book of the Autos, but I have not found it, nor the fifth book, although some of the papers contained in them were likely copied in Charcas  or . The oidor Retuerta agreed that the governor could reclaim the stolen goods (ibid., f. v). . AGI, Charcas , er. cuad., fs. –. . AGI, Charcas , fs. –. . Letter of Viceroy Santisteban, with a resume of the contents of the five books of the autos, dated --. Lima , vol. , no. , --.

Notes to Pages –

Chapter : Death in Lima . AGI, Charcas , f. . . Ibid., f. . . Ibid., fs. –, --. . Ibid., fs. –. . AGI, Lima , vol. , no. , f. , --. . Ibid., fs. v–. Report of the virrey Santisteban concerning the reasons for don Pedro Bohorques’s arrival in Peru. . AGI, Charcas , vol. , f. v. . Ibid., f. . Letter by Juan de Retuerta to S. M. . Bayle n.d., . . Lozano , . . AGI, Lima , vol. , no. , f. l. . AGI, Charcas , vol. , ff. –. . AGI, Lima , vol. , no. , f. , --. . Lozano , . Lozano published the dictated sentence towards the end of  by the Audiencia Governadora, which will be dealt with later. As usual, Lozano provides no archival references. Archive of the Concejo Municipal, Huancavelica, Expedientes Coloniales, Century XVII, , f. r. . AGI, Lima , vol. , no. , f. . Cédula del Consejo de Indias. . Ibid. . Lima , vol. , no. , f. . . Lorente , . . Archive of the Concejo Municipal, Huancavelica, Expedientes Coloniales, Century XVII, , f. r; Pease , , and n. . . Mugaburu , . . Rowe , . . Pease , . . Archive of the Concejo Municipal, Huancavelica, Expedientes Coloniales, Century XVII, , f. r; Pease , . . Archive of the Concejo Municipal, Huancavelica, Expedientes Coloniales, Century XVII, , f. v; Pease , . . Vargas Ugarte , . . Pease , . . Mugaburu , . . Lozano , . . Lima, parish of Sagrario, Book of Deaths no. , –, f. v. . Mugaburu , . . Lozano , .

Notes to Pages –

Epilogue: The Saga of Pedro Bohorques . Baczko . . José Emilio Burucúa , . . Among the meanings given by the Enciclopedia Universal Espasa Calpe (tome XXIII: ) on the term familiar we find: “Demon that the ignorant commoner believes to be a person that accompanies them and serves them in everyday tasks.” The Encyclopedia of Witchcraft and Demonology” () says that the familiar spirits are “an almost exclusively English (and Scottish) contribution to the theory of witchcraft. Folklore about the familiar is common in Tucumán, but most versions refer to dogs that roam about protecting their masters, who each year must repay them by giving them a human victim (Coluccio , ). The most likely interpretation for us is the first. . AGI, Autos.; er. cuad. f. v; --. . Ibid., fs. –; --, emphasis added. . This information was kindly provided by Professor José Emilio Burucúa. . Cohn , , . . Ibid., . . Ibid., . . Burucúa . . Mujica Pinilla . . Burucúa , . . Burucúa ; Maravall , . . Lastres and Seguin . . Martínez . . Martínez notes that in , in a ceremony of investiture of the curaca in Cajamarca (Peru), the curaca sat in a duo (an Antillan name, in the Andes called tiana or tiyana, or a ceremonial seat), and each of the principales got closer to “mocharle” as a sign that he was their cacique and natural Lord” (ibid., ). This ceremony was carried out in the presence of a Spanish oidor. Martínez believes that all these gestures not only meant recognition but also compliance with the law (ibid., ). . Ibid., . . Maravall , . . Ibid., . . Maravall, –. . Servier , . . Ibid., . . Mannheim ,  ff.

Notes to Pages –

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