‘De gente que a ningún rey obedecen’ (I. 2): The Military Republic of Arauco

In Europe as a whole, Venice provided the most powerful living example of this ideal, with its Doge, Senate and Great Council: as William Bouwsma argued, the city uniquely represented ‘the central political values of Renaissance republicanism, which she made available to the rest of Europe in a singularly provocative and attractive form’.5 William Bouwsma, Venice and the Defense of Republican Liberty: Renaissance Values in the Age of the Counter Reformation (Berkeley, CA, 1968), p. 445. The most popular panegyric of several by humanist Venetian patriots, Gasparo Contarini’s De magistratibus et republica Venetorum [On the Magistrates and Republic of the Venetians] (1543), which represented the city’s institutions as a perfect organic harmony, went through at least six editions in Italian translation, and was certainly known in the Peninsula. Román y Zamora is one example of this philo-Venetian sentiment: recalling with pride his many conversations with the former Venetian ambassador to Spain, Leonardo Donato, and referring to the works on Venice by Contarini, Pietro Bembo, Flavio Biondo, Bernardo Giustiniani, Pancrazio Giustiniani, Marcantonio Sabellico, and Andrea Mocenigo, his praise for the city republic is higher than for any of the other commonwealths he surveys: ‘La república de Venecia […] ha sido la más dichosa y de más ventura que todas las monarchias que ha avido desde Nino hasta hoy’ [the republic of Venice has been the most happy and the most fortunate of all the kingdoms that have existed from Ninus to the present day] (fol. 371r), because it has maintained its independence and prosperity longer than any other empire. Something of this sentiment certainly filtered through to a civic level, too: local historians often compared their own city to the ‘Serenissima’, and as Xavier Gil argues, municipal government was one of the spheres in which republican principles could persist within a broader monarchical framework.6 Xavier Gil, ‘Republican Politics in Early Modern Spain: The Castilian and Catalano-Aragonese Traditions’, in Republicanism: A Shared European Heritage, ed. by Martin van Gelderen and Quentin Skinner (Cambridge, 2002), II, 263–88.

To regard the Araucanian government described by Ercilla at the outset of his epic as an ordered republic of any variety is at first sight paradoxical. In the proem he presents it as something of an outlandish prodigy, typical of the travel literature of the period:

The idea that, as Román y Zamora put it, ‘todas las repúblicas comiençan en Dios, o sea verdadero, o sea falso’ [all commonwealths begin in God, whether a true God, or a false one] (fol. 355r), was equally ingrained. Ercilla’s shocking assertion that the Araucanians, while superstitiously reverencing the devil, have no creed, religion nor G/god(s) at all can therefore only bolster the impression of their lack of policía.8 A catch-all term denoting the qualities of both political life and civility in this period. When, in the second canto, the assembly convened to select a ‘capitán general’ for the forthcoming war against the Spanish colonists quickly descends into bravado and fighting as the drunken caciques begin to contend for supremacy, the reader might remember that the counterpart to ‘good’ democracy was the primordial state of anarchy. Even when Caupolicán’s election as leader is settled by a superior show of strength in the notorious ‘prueba del tronco’ [test of the tree trunk], in which no other cacique can hold the heavy piece of wood longer than him, the dispute over ‘cuál era el más valiente | y digno del gobierno de la gente’ [who was the bravest and the worthiest of governing the people] (II. 19) points towards at best a primitive form of society.9 As some ill-disposed contemporaries were quick to point out: the episode is satirised by Luis Zapata, whose Ariostesque epic Carlo famoso (1566) on the life of Charles V had been quickly eclipsed, in his Miscelánea (c. 1592), quoted in Medina, La Araucana, vol. III, p. 117. In the cycle of republics in the third chapter of Machiavelli’s Discorsi, for instance, anarchy evolves first into a mutual gathering for the purposes of defence, in which people ‘began to look to the strongest and bravest one among them’ (p. 28), only after which does a regard for justice and wisdom gradually develop.

As we saw at the opening of this chapter, however, the representation of the Araucanians is ambivalent from the outset. Shortly prior to the election of the ‘capitán general’ described above, Ercilla presents the reader with a catalogue of warriors in the style of classical epic. Immediately following the gigantic and ferocious Lincoya comes Peteguelén, the lord of the valley of Arauco, and with him an unusual epic simile:

Ercilla’s initial geographical description of Arauco is also ambiguous in this light. His emphasis on its remote situation in the ‘Antarctic’ region, ‘la postrera que los españoles han pisado’ [the last that the Spaniards have set foot in] (‘Prólogo’) recalls the convention that the northern (or in this case southern) nations furthest from the equator are, as Ptolemy paraphrases Aristotle, ‘full of courage but deficient in intellect and art […] they persevere more in their liberty, but they do not live politically, and they cannot govern their neighbors on account of their lack of prudence’ (p. 105). Yet, we have seen that despite its location Ercilla stresses that Arauco is temperate, fertile and indeed potentially idyllic, a perfect location for Ptolemy’s city state. The significance of this emphasis is made clear by comparison with Bartolomé de las Casas, who dedicated the first twenty-two chapters of his unpublished magnum opus, the Apologética historia sumaria de las gentes destas Indias [Apologetic Summary History of the People of these Indies], to describing and extolling the physical setting of the New World. The following seventeen chapters demonstrate how these ‘causas naturales’, the position of the stars, the climate, the clemency of the seasons, the adequate means of subsistence and so on, combine to create a perfect environment for human rationality and true government, which the remainder of the voluminous work goes on to prove. As if to press home the point, Ercilla also stresses that Arauco is one ‘estado’ surrounded by many others, similarly bellicose and attached to freedom, who appear in relation to it at various intervals in this part of the poem, subdued and hostile or in productive diplomatic relations, neutral or in alliance with it or the Spanish enemy. In other words, Ercilla’s Chile is perversely like Machiavelli’s Europe, which ‘alone has had several kingdoms and infinite republics’.10 Niccolò Machiavelli, Art of War, ed. and trans. by Christopher Lynch (Chicago, 2003), p. 58. For the term ‘estado’, used almost exclusively by Ercilla in conjunction with ‘señoría’, see José Manuel Zavala Cepeda and Tom D. Dillehay, ‘El “Estado de Arauco” frente a la conquista española: Estructuración sociopolítica y ritual de los araucano-mapuches en los valles nahuelbutanos durante los siglos XVI y XVII’, Revista de Antropología Chilena, 42.2 (2010), 433–50. Luis Sánchez Agesta, in El concepto del estado en el pensamiento español del siglo XVI (Madrid, 1959), suggests that in this period the term primarily designated a republican form of government.

Returning to the scene of the pugnacious Araucanian assembly and the eventual election of Caupolicán, the initial suggestions of anarchy and barbarity are increasingly questioned as it progresses. First, the quarrels between chiefs are quelled, as ‘otros caciques se metieron | en medio destos bárbaros de presto’ [other caciques quickly separated these barbarians] (II. 27), implying that both ‘barbarous’ and ‘political’ elements exist within the same assembly. Then the elderly cacique Colocolo delivers a set-piece speech (II. 28–30), which partially paraphrases the opening of Lucan’s Pharsalia with its excoriation of civil war, and presents Arauco as a free ‘patria’ defending itself against foreign tyranny. The change of lexis at this point, as the ‘junta’ is described as a ‘parlamento’ moderated by ‘opiniones’ and ‘consentimiento […] acordado’ [agreement and consent] in the language of institutional procedure (II. 36), is further indication of the shift. All this prepares for the stroke of irony as Ercilla informs his reader – surprised, he imagines, that ‘una provincia poderosa, | en la milicia tanto ejercitada | de leyes y ordenanzas abundosa, | no hubiese una cabeza señalada’ [a powerful province, so militarily proficient, abundant in laws and ordinances, did not have a designated head] (II. 37) – that the Araucanian senate always elected a single leader. The current interregnum was due to the sudden death of the previous incumbent, whom the Spanish had allegedly poisoned (II. 38) – a textbook violation of both ius belli and ius gentium. Poisoning of political rivals is a charge frequently brought against the peoples of Chile by the earlier chronicler Gerónimo de Vivar (1558), and its transferral to the Spanish is a disconcerting reversal. The reader’s second ‘objection’, that ‘un senado | de tan gran diciplina y pulicía | pusiese una elección de tanto peso | en la robusta fuerza y no en el seso’ [a senate of such great discipline and policía should base such a weighty choice on physical strength and not on brains] (II. 60), is similarly answered by Colocolo’s ‘prudencia’, astute enough to realise that Caupolicán’s strength is only a means by which to ensure his election.11 This stanza appears for the first time in 1578a, perhaps in response to criticism of the episode, but it also seems to be implied in 1569, with the slippage between the literal and metaphorical significance of the ‘pesada carga’ [heavy weight] resting on Caupolicán’s Atlantan shoulders. Ercilla’s description of the leader (II. 47) introduces distinctly political virtues – his ‘autoridad, grave y severo […] áspero y riguroso, justiciero’ [authority, grave and austere, harsh and uncompromising, righteous] – alongside physical prowess. As Barbara Fuchs puts it, the ‘prueba del tronco’ is also a test for ‘hasty readers’.12 Barbara Fuchs, Mimesis and Empire: The New World, Islam and European Identities (Cambridge, 2001), pp. 47–48.

In fact, the order of government that now emerges has more than a passing resemblance to the institutions of Venice as they were understood in common parlance. That there is no truly popular element would be unlikely to surprise the sixteenth-century reader: Contarini had already manipulated the definition of the mixed government so that the (essentially aristocratic) Council and Senate formed a microcosm of the perfect political community in and of themselves. Here, then, the ‘senado’ seems to represent both democracy and aristocracy, while the sixteen caciques (apparently an innovation of Ercilla’s) who possess jurisdiction over the region may owe something to the prominence accorded the sixteen Savi or ‘Wise Men’ of Venice in Contarini’s account. Caupolicán’s authority, like that of the Doge, is clearly kinglike rather than kingly: although surrounded by an aura of dignidad anxiously maintained by ceremonials, on each occasion he must persuade the senate to endorse his directive with a majority vote ratified after a fixed interim (I. 35–37). In later assemblies, we see debates regulated by an elaborate ritual of courtesy, in which right of speech is accorded to various members in turn according to their seniority, as in Venice or republican Rome.

This model also touches on the traditional controversy of virtue and nobility. This was particularly contested in Spain during the reign of Philip II, which saw the opening of important posts within the administration and the military to talent, as well as ongoing disputes in the Indies over the heritability of the encomiendas originally awarded for military service to the Crown. Arauco is a meritocracy taken to extremes: the leading offices ‘ni van por calidad, ni por herencia, | ni por hacienda y por ser mejor nacidos; | mas la virtud del brazo y la excelencia, | éste hace los hombres preferidos’ [are not awarded according to social standing, nor lineage, nor estates, nor good birth; but the virtue and excellence of the fighting arm, this is what makes men favoured] (I. 17). The Araucanian social structure even parodies the encomienda at some points, with caciques imposing manual labour on their vassals (the infamous ‘personal service’ which ignited controversy from the early stages of colonisation in Chile), in return for indoctrination not in the Catholic catechism, but the art of warfare:

Nevertheless, Ercilla’s treatment is, again, ambivalent. In the first canto, the Araucanian army is presented as a citizen militia, in a dense series of stanzas that essentially fuse the structures of two of the best-known artes de la guerra of the period that advocate for such an institution, those of Vegetius and Machiavelli.15 See also Jorge Checa, ‘Los araucanos y el arte de la guerra’, Prolija Memoria: Estudios de Cultura Virreinal, 2 (2006), 25–51. Beginning with a selection of suitable youths from among the citizens (I. 16), a levy conducted, as in Machiavelli’s Art of War, such that men are enrolled ‘neither forced nor altogether willingly’ (p. 159), the recruits are trained for a particular specialism in arms (I. 15–17) along with regular exercises such as foot races, drills and jumping (I. 27), as in the first book of Vegetius. A list of arms follows (I. 19–22), whose lexis is mostly contemporary and European (pikes, halberds, lances, etc.), with some elements added from the ancient Roman legions, and others from actual Amerindian practice (lassoes, cotton armour). The emphasis on defensive armour rebuts a common stereotype of the Amerindian fighter and corresponds to Vegetius’s evaluation of its importance (I. 20). In battle, the army’s formation is disciplined, divided into companies and squadrons (I. 23–24); the manoeuvre of one small row of infantry replacing another resembles the Swiss battalions of pikemen in Machiavelli’s modern equivalent of the phalanx, with sheltered bowmen interspersed among the pikes rather like European harquebusiers. The Araucanians’ fortification of camps, a practice whose fall into disuse is lamented by both treatists, accords with Roman practice in its demarcation and adaptation to aggressive sallies (I. 28), while the interior structure with towers and embrasures from which to shoot (I. 29) reflects Machiavelli’s preference. Both treatists, like the Araucanians, prefer mobile infantry warfare on open, broken ground to the colonists’ practice of defensive siege (III. 80). The strategic effectiveness of such preparations is seen repeatedly in the battles that follow, as the dense clustering of pikemen deters or surrounds the Spanish cavalry, for example (III. 23), or the hasty erection of a barricade blocks the enemy flight (VI. 39). More generally, the emphasis on the adaptability of the army, and the employment of ruses such as disguise from the very first battle (II. 68), reflects the high valuation of novelty, invention and prudent assessment of the enemy in both previous treatists, as well as the actual practice of the Spanish tercios described in earlier épicas de la pólvora. Like the virtuous ancient militia of Machiavelli, they require no payment incentive for their services, and cultivate valour through neither expecting nor showing mercy.

The critical literature has a tendency to regard the Araucanians as uniformly idealised by Ercilla, whether as epic heroes, exemplars of chivalry or ‘a perfect republic of soldiers’.16 Martínez, Front Lines, p. 137. As will become increasingly clear in this chapter, however, the oscillation between a host of bárbaros furiosos and a model republic is, on the contrary, one of the central dynamics and tensions in the poem, and a constant challenge to the reader’s expectations. The Araucanians’ usage of violence is not always ‘consistent with civilization’, but contains a diabolical force of its own, constantly, in practice inevitably, threatening to overpass its sanctioned limits, whether moral or strategic.17 Beatriz Pastor Bodmer, The Armature of Conquest: Spanish Accounts of the Discovery of America, 1492–1589, trans. by Lydia Longstreth Hunt (Stanford, CA, 1992), p. 220. The question this ambivalence implicitly raises concerning the relationship between civil and military power, or laws and force, is one raised throughout Machiavelli’s writings. The latter’s assertion in Il principe that the strength of all principalities should ultimately be measured by their capacity for self-defence alone, that ‘if there are good arms there must also be good laws’, and that a ruler ‘should have no other objective and no other concern, nor occupy himself with anything else except war and its methods and practices’ are highly contestable premises, and it remains to be seen how Ercilla negotiates the ethical and literary challenges they present.18 Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince, ed. and trans. by Quentin Skinner and Russell Price (Cambridge, 1988), pp. 42–43, 51–52.