Day 1 (Evening)
Pamplona. Seventh, do not steal.
Chapter 17, as we all know, is rather lengthy. Those pages of the Manual swirl in the cool air of a June evening in Pamplona as I leave the antiquarian bookstore in the narrow street near the Archivo General y Real de Navarra. I had gotten lost there, among the shelves, for more than an hour. Before my enchanted eyes, checkerboards, stacks, rows of ancient volumes, and dust. Queen amongst the literary genres, almost naturally, is spiritual literature, especially from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Small books, many with parchment yellowed covers, and worn leather closing strings.
The elderly bookseller’s long, pale, geometric fingers bring me more books. He then continues in his tasks as if I were not there. I can open, read, unpack whatever I want. It almost seems strange that I ask him if I can. The stereo, clearly there since the 1990s, vibrates on the dull frequencies of a radio program apparently specializing in classical music: a cellist, but also a violinist, and his interpretations of Bach. But Django’s guitar plays as well. Which is actually a kind of a classic. I bargain down the price. For these two, irresistible volumes, the first a 17th-century anonymous, French book, and another by Feijoo y Montenegro, I asked for a discount. The bookseller looks at me straight in the eye for the first time, turns his head a little, raises an eyebrow and smiles. His blue and complicit gaze tells me that he knows that I know. He stuffs the two volumes into the bookstore’s cloth bag. To pay, he invites me to go to his sister who, at that moment, is running the family store’s booth at the book fair, being held these days at Plaza del Castillo, a few hundred meters away. I walk out of the store, incredulous, with my newly-acquired treasures under my arm, the pink card with the agreed price and name of the bookshop to be found amongst the fair stands, and the limpid, old-fashioned confidence of the bookseller who handed me the package, the seventh commandment – do not steal – underlying his certainty that I would go to his sister to settle my debt. I could have just disappeared with the books already mine, into the shadows of the evening that were now beginning to fall over the green hills of Navarre. And betray the trust of the bookseller and the locals. Seventh, do not steal. Martín, watching me from his glory room in the city’s Cathedral Museum, knows I have arrived.
Day 2 (Morning)
Pamplona. The gateway to Barásoain.
I meander through the winding streets, uphill and then downhill. I retrace the steps that were his own, and I can almost see him around the corner of the stone house of yet another emblazoned palace. In each coat of arms, I absent-mindedly look for the inverted crescents and checkers of Martín de Azpilcueta y Jaureguízar’s one. I know I will not find it here: to see it I should go further south, to his palace in Barásoain. Somehow, I arrive in Barásoain, a few minutes later, crossing the threshold of the Archívo General de Navarra. The monumental stone portal clearly shows that this was once the royal palace of Pamplona, seat of the government of the viceroys of Spain from 1512. The spaces are majestic and reveal the traits of a very careful and well-done restoration. I enter the archive consultation room through the small stone-arched door. Welcoming me at the end of the room is Miriam, the archivist and study room manager. With expertise and patience, she orients me among the fonds, illustrates the reference material, and follows me with a curious and very attentive gaze as I tell her about what I am looking for in Pamplona: Azpilcueta’s “men”, his network, the universe of those who – as my historian’s intuition is telling me – acted as Azpilcueta’s agents in the Spanish territories (but perhaps not only), thus enabling him to exert that control over the production and circulation of his books, primarily his Manual, that would otherwise be inexplicable. A quick exchange of glances and Miriam and I realize that we share the same enthusiasm for research. Miriam, like an information volcano, begins to provide me with leads and open doors of research as she opens folders of the accompanying material searchable in the computers in the room. One of these leads to Barásoain, more specifically to the papers of one of the notaries active in the small village for whom (if it were not for the powerful Azpilcueta family) it would be hard to imagine the presence of a notarial office. The envelope I am requesting contains the papers of a notary active in the mid-sixteenth century: Miguel de Azpilcueta – an Azpilcueta, of course. Inside, the documents are organized in folders according to the year the document was made. I excitedly begin the perusal.
Here and there, next to Miguel’s signature and seal, some documents also return the unmistakable “little house” signature of Dr. Navarro. But there is more. His (and therefore my men) begin to appear and the net starts to draw: printers, and agents. In particular, I spot the signature of Miguel de Asco, whose name appears, as “procurador del autor” in a copy of the Manual preserved at the University Library of Seville [image 3]. This is one of those figures who, as I see it, may have allowed Azpilcueta to control not only the material production of his books, through the choice of the printer (which guaranteed him control over the formal correctness of the text) but also to minutely follow the circulation and sale of the book, thus fully enjoying the powers guaranteed by his rich “collection” of printing privileges he requested and obtained for his Manual. The key to Azpilcueta’s network of agents lies, therefore, in Pamplona. To my regret, however, I must put the documents back in the envelope, return it quickly to the distribution counter, and set out for Pamplona’s futuristic underground bus station. The heart of my mission in Navarre has yet to begin. The next destination of the mission takes me to Roncesvalles, where expectations are high. There, in the Pyrenees, in the Colegiata where he served as “canonigo”, I am indeed counting on finding nothing less than his books.
(Afternoon)
Roncesvalles-Pamplona, round trip.
I arrive in Roncesvalles on the solitary, once-a-day bus that connects Pamplona to the small village (that, if we do not consider the pilgrims that start walking the Camino de Santiago from there, counts around 20 – rumours say even less – stable inhabitants). A little more than an hour’s ride up the Pyrenees, my gaze sways first over the soft green hills, then among the dense branches of oaks and conifers, lulled by the heavy metal music of the driver with a ponytail (so I find out from the radio, that Black Sabbath will perform one last concert next July!).
The bus drops me off at the side of the road, in front of the gate of La Posada, where I will be staying for the night. In the background is the imposing building set in the green: the Colegiata. The blue-gray roof blends in with the colour of the sky, in the clear, cool air of the almost 1,000-meter altitude. On this spot, in 1523, Azpilcueta, then in his early thirties, entered the Order of S. Augustin and took his vows. This was just after he had returned from his study period in Toulouse, and before he began the great intellectual adventure of teaching at the University of Salamanca. He always maintained a special relationship with the Colegiata, to the point of providing (in the will he signed in Rome in September 1582) that the goods he owned should be destined for the monastery.
The inventory of his possessions, made shortly after his death in June 1586, reveals how among them – not surprisingly – there were also his books. It is precisely those books, that I expect to find on the shelves of the Roncesvalles library.
But, of course, it is not that easy. I show up at the library’s door, five minutes after the agreed-upon time (the bus had been running a little late): it’s 3:05 p.m. David, the archivist, who has opened the library just for me, welcomes me with a courteous and professional greeting. We walk up the darkened wooden stairs together, and cross the long hallway – the floor inside is also darkened wood – until we reach the door to the small study room. Apparently not many scholars have ventured this far. It seems, however, that of those few who do, they all get there by following Azpilcueta’s trail. The thought of being one of those few makes me smile. Outside, the bright afternoon and the green lawns and trees surrounding the building are almost dazzling. Talking with David, and from looking over the material he provides, I learn that it was a practice of the Augustinians at the Colegiata to leave their possessions (consisting mainly of books) to the monastery library upon death. I also discover, however, that the collection that is preserved at the library today is actually, in all likelihood, only a part of the original collection that was seized by the civil government in 1867, transferred to Pamplona, and then brought back to Roncesvalles in 1875. This means that if Azpilcueta’s volumes actually reached Roncesvalles from Rome at some point, they may then have been lost or dispersed. It does not help that the titles mentioned rather roughly in Azpilcueta’s post-mortem inventory provide information that is far from accurate. After all, precision regarding the indication of edition data in that time was not required. In fact, it just wasn’t of interest. Not least because the volumes to be inventoried were not few.
Nevertheless, I begin the search. Together with David we open and leaf through dozens of volumes (those that, taken to Pamplona, managed to return to Roncesvalles) looking for signs, but none of the identified editions bears any trace of a possible appearance at the library of Azpilcueta. Other clues do appear, however: again, Antonio Suchet’s signature is visible in a copy of the Valladolid edition of the Manual; and Pedro de Salazar’s in the Salamanca one. It certainly seems that the agents are organized by editions and areas. I interrupt the book research to turn to manuscript material. I find papers signed by Azpilcueta, with his characteristic “little house” signature, including a document from 1582 in which an old Martín in his nineties, who had by then become a celebrity, signs with only the initials (again in “little house”). As the light coming in through the library’s large windows begins to fade, I realize how tired I am. I inform David, who looks a bit disappointed, that the research for today ends there. We’ll see where it takes us tomorrow.
Day 3 (Morning).
Roncesvalles. Did Azpilcueta’s books ever reach here?
At 8 a.m. I cross the dark corridor again that leads to the Colegiata study room; David is already there. He asks me about the plan for today. The idea is to see the volumes that might match the list in the post-mortem inventory. But then, we focus mostly on the documents and more precise research leads (and documentary gaps) begin to emerge. For example, documentation attesting to the entries of goods (other than those related to the monks’ personal ones) is missing, especially for the years we are interested in. To understand if and how the books arrived in Roncesvalles, it may then be useful to understand more precisely what relations Azpilcueta had with the Colegiata after he left in 1524. He was canon of Roncesvalles his whole life long, but concretely what did this affiliation mean? The documents are many and testify to assignments related to the Colegiata’s possessions in different territories, Azpilcueta’s intervention in court cases held in Rome, between the prior and the chapter of the Colegiata, and – particularly interesting for our research – the permission to make a will, requested by Azpilcueta and granted by Pope Gregory XIII.
I anxiously photograph the documents, while David – by now also bitten by Azpilcueta’s tarantula of hunting – continues to search. We reason about funds and chronology, suffering together when he tells me that the 16th century inventory of the Colegiata property was drawn up in 1578 (too early!).
Our last remaining hour is devoted to the god of serendipity, hoping that Azpilcueta’s copies (as sometimes it happens to lucky historians) will call us. We move back to the bookshelves, pick the books up, leaf through them voraciously, but nothing. Some return the ex libris of the monks who had owned them only to have them flow into the library when they died. Others bear the stamp testifying to the mid-nineteenth-century government seizure. But no trace of Azpilcueta’s hand, his handwriting, his distinctive mark. This is not to say that Azpilcueta’s books are not there. But another search mission will be needed to verify it. It’s 1:00 pm. Time to go. Before the only available cab – I booked it yesterday – picks me up (I had obviously missed the only bus of the day, which left Roncesvalles at 9:00 am), I hug David and thank him for his time, invaluable help, and complicity. Glad that Azpilcueta’s tarantula bit him too, and sure that we will resume the hunt one day not far off. Next time, that’s clear, with more than two days to spare.
Epilogue. Listen to Don Osvaldo! And a call to readers.
Sitting on the comfortable seat of my Alvia train, computer on my lap, the metaphysical landscape of the 18th-century aqueduct of Noáin just outside the window, and in my ears “Jueves” in Don Osvaldo’s version (1947): I close this blog post with an appeal to the community of readers of Legal History Insight (and friends of Azpilcueta) scattered all over the globe (curious and passionate people; students of any age; doctoral students with the wish of doing something else – or of doing what they exactly do on a daily basis; scholars and Azpi lovers): listen to Osvaldo Pugliese! And if, while you are listening to him, you happen upon a “signed” copy of Martín de Azpilcuta’s Manual de confessores y penitentes on the title page or prologue: let’s say, for instance, in a Valladolid edition, (e.g. Francisco Fernández de Córdoba, 1570) with handwritten signature of Antonio Suchet in the title page, or in a Salamanca edition (Andrea de Portonariis 1556 or 1557) with signature of Pedro de Salazar or Miguel de Asco in the prologue page, write to me at bragagnolo@lhlt.mpg.de: let’s see how far this (possible) supervised circulation of the Manual went, and in what quantity! Let’s give it six months from the publication of this post… Updates will follow!
Cite as: Bragagnolo, Manuela: The Spider and its Web. Travel Notes on the Trail of Martín de Azpilcueta’s Agents and Lost – or Never Sought – Library, legalhistoryinsights.com, 15.08.2025, https://doi.org/10.17176/20250826-114846-0
