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aged and infirm. The looting, an interminable orgy, continued for weeks. Soldiers drunk from blood and alcohol dragged destroyed works of art and religious reliquaries through the streets, decapitated humans and statues alike, stole anything they could stuff into their pouches, and ground the rest to rubble. The famous frescos in the Sistine Chapel were saved because that was where Charles de Bourbon lay in state. Thousands of cadavers floated down the Tiber River, and the odor of decomposing flesh fouled the air. Dogs and crows devoured the corpses strewn throughout the city. Then came the faithful companions of war: hunger and plague, which attacked both ill-fated Romans and their victimizers.
    During those apocalyptic days, Pedro de Valdivia went through the streets of Rome with sword in hand, furious, vainly attempting to stop the pillaging and killing and to impose some shred of order among the troops, but the fifteen thousand mercenaries recognized neither superior nor law, and were ready to kill anyone who stood in their way. By chance, Valdivia found himself at the gates of a convent just as it was attacked by a dozen German mercenaries. The nuns knew that no woman escaped being raped, and they had gathered around a cross in the patio and formed a circle around the young novitiates, who stood as frozen as statues, holding one another’s hands, heads low, murmuring a prayer. From a distance, they resembled doves. They were asking God to save them from being stained, and to take pity on them by sending them a speedy death.
    â€œStand back! Anyone who dares cross this threshold will have to deal with me!” roared Pedro de Valdivia, brandishing his sword in his right hand and a short saber in his left.
    Several of the Germans stopped out of surprise, calculating that the prize was not worth having to confront this imposing and determined Spanish officer, and that it might be more sensible to go to the next building, but there were others who rushed to the attack. Valdivia had in his favor that he was the only sober one among them, and with four well-aimed thrusts he incapacitated four Germans, but by then other men in the group had recovered from their initial befuddlement and they, too, were upon him. Even with their minds clouded with alcohol, the Landsknechts were as formidable as Valdivia, and soon they had surrounded him. That might have been the last day of the young Extremaduran’s life had not Francisco de Aguirre happened by.
    â€œTry me , you Teuton whoresons!” the enormous Basque shouted, red with rage and swinging his sword like a club.
    The uproar attracted the attention of other Spaniards passing by, and when they saw their compatriots in grave danger, in less time than it takes me to tell it, a great free-for-all ensued. A half hour later the attackers fell back, leaving several of their own bleeding in the street, and allowing the Spanish officers to bolt the convent doors. The Mother Superior asked the nuns of stronger character to collect the ones who had fainted, and they all placed themselves under the orders of Francisco de Aguirre, who had offered to organize the defense by fortifying the walls.
    â€œNo one is safe in Rome. For the moment, the mercenaries have withdrawn, but I have no doubt that they will return, and when that happens it will be best for them to find you prepared,” Aguirre advised them.
    â€œI will round up some harquebuses,” Valdivia said, “and Francisco will teach you to fire them.” He had not missed the impish gleam in his friend’s eyes when he imagined himself alone with a score of virgin novitiates and a handful of mature, but grateful, and still attractive, nuns.
    Two months later, the horrible sacking of Rome was ended, bringing papal rule to a close. The carnage and destruction would go down in history as a shameful stain on the life of our emperor, Charles V, even though he was far away from the scene of the horror.
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