In Filhos da Terra, António Manuel Hespanha studied developments in early modern Africa, Asia and the Americas in order to examine the nature of the Portuguese presence across the globe.1 Instead of inquiring only into the formal empire, dependent on the establishing of sovereignty, he suggested that what made certain places and peoples ‘Portuguese’ was not necessarily their origin, descent or even political subjection, but rather their behaviour as such. Portuguese identity could be appropriated, reclaimed or imposed, but in all cases entailed a certain treatment (or expectation of treatment) that non-Portuguese would not share.
Hespanha’s proposed analysis thus questioned our ability to distinguish clearly where the empire was, who formed part of it and what it included. It focused on peoples rather than on governments and territories, or even networks, and argued that status, which was often locally negotiated, was more important than royal declarations. It also demonstrated that hegemony could be cultural rather than political or economic, and questioned distinctions we once believed were firm, such as the dichotomy between Europeans and non-Europeans, and between Portuguese and non-Portuguese, by revealing that many individuals were classified as ‘more Portuguese’ than others or as Portuguese only in certain ways. The proposal Hespanha advanced also interrogated the chronology by indicating that, at least in some respects, the distinction between pre-empire, empire and post-empire was much less meaningful than we had assumed, with individuals classified as Portuguese being able to come into being before the empire arrived and to persist even after it vanished. Because being Portuguese depended on adopting certain tools, concepts and habits, the presence of Portugal across the globe was both extremely solid and incredibly ephemeral, and its meaning could dramatically change over time.
To arrive at this point and marking the culmination of an extremely distinguished career that revolutionised much of what we know and believe about the past, Hespanha transited through an enormous topography, almost as wide as the Portuguese overseas presence itself. Rather than repeating what I have written elsewhere about his contributions to both the history of the state and
As I have stated elsewhere, Hespanha belonged to a small, but select group of scholars that set out to revolutionise our understanding of the past by asking us to shed our common sense assumptions and instead approach history as anthropologists equipped with both curiosity and respect. When he began publishing in the 1980s, the habitual narrative suggested that the early modern state and its laws were a predecessor (albeit somewhat deficient) of present-day structures. The state was a polity headed by a king who gradually centralised power by expanding his bureaucracy. Law, then, was the product of this activity and could be found mainly in royal enactments, where it propelled, as well as demonstrated, the continual drive to extend royal jurisdiction and, indeed, royal sovereignty. Royal ambitions were promoted by jurists who helped monarchs navigate a highly complex legal universe and who, while pursing the royal agenda, also assisted in the gradual yet spectacular enlargement of royal authority. In the Castilian case, for example, these tendencies were exemplified by the thirteenth-century Siete Partidas and the early modern Nueva and Novísima Recopilación , which featured a royal law that was both general to the kingdom, as well as prescriptive.3 The same applied in Spanish America, where a famous collection of royal decisions (Recopilación de Indias) of 1680 was taken to represent ‘the Law’.4 Somewhat similarly, Portuguese historians pointed to several books, mostly the various Ordenações enacted by the
According to these depictions, these developments came mostly at the expense of nobles (who were domesticated) and local communities (whose autonomy was gradually curbed). Whereas in Europe kings had at least to contend with the existence of these other powers, in the colonies they were free to do as – or almost as – they wished. Overseas, European monarchs encountered very little opposition to their claims of sovereignty, either because the nobility and local corporations were not particularly powerful, or because these groups found that expanding royal powers were useful for what they themselves wished to obtain.
The first to question these narratives were those historians of European law who, from the late 1960s, and particularly in the 1970s and 1980s, asserted the profound alterity of the past. In the late medieval and early modern period, they argued, law (direito, derecho, diritto, droit) was not the same as legislation. Rather than its being dependent on the arbitrary will of kings, law reproduced, indeed revealed, a pre-set order that was stable, prescriptive and indisputable. This order was focused on justice, not legality, as it aimed to allot to each person the treatment due according to his or her status. Legal practitioners, whether jurists or otherwise, were charged with revealing what this order prescribed
Because a plurality of actors engaged in these efforts of discovery, in which a plethora of sources were examined, this hermeneutical undertaking often led to debates and disagreements. Law, then, was the sum of all these interactions. Rather than prescribing solutions, it advanced methods of analysis and reasoning. In such a setting, what the king said or mandated could obviously make a difference, but only to a degree, given that royal decisions were only one of the several sources that most interlocutors considered, and were not necessarily the most important. The general assumption at any rate was that the king could not modify the normative order, only ensure that it was correctly applied.8 In other words, the king was bound to the existing order, which he had to reproduce and protect. There was no ‘law in the books’ that individuals had to follow, nor royal legislation that mandated how to behave. To believe otherwise would be to fall into an anachronism, as well as to misunderstand how law operated.
These visions completely changed how we consider both the history of the state and legal history. The king was no longer seen as a legislator; his role was somewhat akin to a judge who had to apply an existing legal framework to a particular case and do so justly. Furthermore, the king was not the head of a unitary structure; instead he led a polity that, from the 1980s, was identified by historians as a ‘jurisdictional state’. This state was internally divided by a great variety of corporations and republics (cities, guilds, estates and so forth), each with its relatively autonomous legal and political sphere. The king mainly
On several occasions during the late medieval and early modern period, Iberian royal authorities sought to limit the power and importance of other normative sources and ensure the centrality of their own designs. In Castile, the Ordenamiento de Alcalá (1348) and the Leyes de Toro (1505) attempted to establish a hierarchy of legal sources placing royal orders at the top, followed by customs, and only then by ius commune. Portuguese monarchs endeavoured to accomplish the same by establishing the rule that the ius commune would serve only as a subsidiary system, and specifically where royal orders and customs were insufficient or unclear. However, scholars who studied what
From the 1970s onwards, European legal historians have also affirmed these underlying structures to have been common across most of the continent. Predating the age of national legal systems, despite the pervasiveness and importance of local reiterations, early modern law was pan-European.13 Of great importance to Iberian history were the widespread and constant communications between scholars and practitioners in southern Europe, including Italy, Spain, Portugal and, to a certain degree, France.14 Equally essential to Iberian history was the close association between Portuguese and Spanish law, which not only formed part of the same ius commune, but where jurists, theologians and authorities constantly read and cited one another, while also sharing a common past. This close affinity between the Spanish and Portuguese legal systems explained, for example, why Portuguese practitioners and jurists frequently used the Castilian Siete Partidas as if it were their own. The Partidas was a thirteenth-century compilation of ius commune authored under the auspices of King Alfonso X (1252−1284) and considered a true encyclopaedia of contemporary juridical knowledge. Portuguese jurists, who used this compilation throughout the Middle Ages and into the seventeenth century, did not consider the Partidas a foreign law book made in Castile.15 Instead, they
As historians of Europe began questioning the centrality of kings as law-makers in the way that nineteenth- and early twentieth-century historians led us to believe, some historians of empire followed suit. These historians insisted that neither in the colonies nor at home was there a codified written law, nor could law be reduced to royal orders. Indeed, even the famous Recopilación de Indias, which many have taken to embody a ‘Spanish colonial law’, was a very limited and partial restatement of decisions, not legislation, made by the king. This compilation, therefore, had to be interpreted as fitting within the pre-existing and superior normative order, and its instructions could be ignored in cases in which it failed to do so.17
Historians of Iberian colonial law also argued that the tendency to distinguish European from colonial law was another dangerous anachronism. Although Iberian monarchs indeed insisted on exporting metropolitan law overseas, what best demonstrated the relations between law in Europe and the colonies were not royal instructions, but the nature of the legal system itself, which mainly featured debates among jurists, theologians and practitioners who were not distinguished by geographical location or even by subjection to a political system. Historians have thus pointed out that discussions regarding how to reveal the pre-existing order, which sources to use and how to interpret them constantly crossed oceans and operated similarly overseas. If the results they achieved overseas were sometimes distinct it was only because, so, too, were the local circumstances.18
By the late 2000s, this questioning extended to colonial law, with some historians asking why narratives of a distinct colonial law concentrated primarily on royal legislation, and seeking to establish who was involved in promoting these narratives.19 Who invented an Iberian colonial law that was different both from other colonial laws and from Spanish ‘domestic’ law, as well as being a product created by royal will? To that question, historians – including Hespanha – responded that this depiction was also the result of an ideological project, albeit different from that pursued by nineteenth-century European state- and nation-makers. This characterising of Spanish colonial law as being different and as mostly embodying legislation promoted a vision of Spain and its monarchy as bearers of a Christian civilisational endeavour. In this depiction, implementing this endeavour required that the monarchs proceed to elaborate a systematic colonial law, now referred to as derecho indiano. This interpretation, a new generation of historians maintained, enabled the older generations to claim, on the one hand, the superiority of Spanish colonialism compared to similar enterprises and, on the other hand, to emphasise the distance between the colonies and the motherland. Spanish colonial law was said,
To all these ideological presuppositions, a new generation of legal historians responded by insisting that the normative system in Spanish America was an American version of ius commune. They mentioned that contemporaries identified it as ‘municipal’, not colonial, because it was, indeed, but a local reiteration of the general common normative framework.21 This American version of ius commune was extremely similar to its European counterpart; it never had the unitary or systematic character that proponents of derecho indiano once suggested, and it was certainly not the product of a ‘colonial state’ or a king. Instead, as in Europe, the law in Spanish America was based on a multiplicity of sources and constantly debated by a plethora of authors, all of whom sought to uncover what the pre-set order dictated and find the solution that would be most just.22
Similar conclusions were reached by scholars of the Portuguese empire, who also warned against equating law with royal orders or separating metropolitan from colonial law.23 These historians insisted that royal enactments
So how does Filhos da Terra add to these discussions, to which António Manuel Hespanha consistently contributed?
Throughout his career, Hespanha struggled against various strands of Luso-tropicalismo that portrayed the Portuguese empire as vastly distinct from, and indeed superior to, all other empires because of being decentralised, pluralist, communitarian, assimilationist and, according to some, even sentimental.26 These characteristics were seen as being tied to a particular national spirit, with the Portuguese being regarded as different from other Europeans in general and from Spaniards, with whom they constantly competed, in particular. Breaking away from these portrayals, Luís Felipe Thomaz argued in 1985 that, rather than explaining the empire by referring to specific Portuguese traits, it was time to pay close attention to what the empire actually was. Observing primarily the situation in Estado da Índia, Thomaz argued that the ‘empire’ consisted in reality of a conglomerate of ‘territories, establishments, properties, persons, and interests,’ which were either managed or taken care of by the Portuguese.27 In some parts and in certain ways, the Portuguese crown
Decentralisation, pluralism, communitarianism and assimilationism, as rightly detected by other historians, had nothing, therefore, to do with who the Portuguese were. It was not the result of a choice, but rather the fruit of a compromise that had to contend with what was feasible. In Filhos da Terra, Hespanha engages with similar topics by asking how this odd conglomerate functioned. How should we imagine the structures and laws that both enabled and produced such an arrangement? How can we account legally for the existence of people who either chose to identify or were identified by others as Portuguese even though they lived outside the boundaries of the formal empire, and their relations with Portugal was tenuous at best? Or, to cite Hespanha’s own question, what did the ‘etc.’ that appeared at the end of the long enumeration of royal titles mean?29 What else was included, but not specified? After all, if we were to keep to a state-centred analysis and to observe only sovereignty or consider only royal legislation, this organisation would make absolutely no sense. In fact, it could not exist. But what would happen if we were to imagine a truly heterogenous social, cultural, legal and political space, where extreme pluralism reigned? Could the recent lessons of European and colonial legal scholarship help us here?
Though Hespanha never answered these questions explicitly, Filhos da Terra supplies a plethora of responses. First, by writing a socio-legal history of the expansion, Hespanha invites us to move away from concentrating on the empire and Portugal to analysing the people who animated these configurations.30 Second, he draws our attention to the degrees of mixing, overlapping and entanglement that were typical of these structures. In Angola, he tells us, the Portuguese authorities had jurisdiction over serious crimes, but most other penal and civil procedures were in the hands of natives, who strategically used
Pluralism was sometimes political and identified who could tell or apply the law. It sometimes also included private or criminal law arrangements. In certain places, it could assign jurisdiction to the Portuguese in religious, but not secular matters, while in other places it could create complex situations in which the different sides to the same legal dynamic could simultaneously take different views on what had transpired. On occasions, the same ceremony could be viewed by the Portuguese as affirming their jurisdiction and by the Chinese as demonstrating Portuguese submission.37 Hespanha explained how the multiplicity of models and the variations in readings – and the
For a more detailed analysis of this book, see my review in e-Journal of Portuguese History 17, no 1 (2019).
Tamar Herzog, ‘António Manuel Hespanha according to Tamar Herzog’, Práticas da História. Journal of Theory, Historiography, and Uses of the Past 9 (2019), 133−138; Tamar Herzog, ‘António Manuel Hespanha: el historiador como antropólogo y el derecho como una forma de vida’ in Estudos de história e historiografia do direito em homenagem ao professor António Manuel Hespanha, ed. André Peixoto de Souza (Curitiba: Editora InterSaberes, 2020), 213−225, and Tamar Herzog, ‘António Manuel Hespanha: How Jurists (and Historians) (Should) View the World’, Quaderni Fiorentini per la storia del pensiero giuridico moderno 49 (2020), 525−537.
See, for example, Salvador Minguijón Adrián, Historia del derecho español (Barcelona: Editorial Labor, 1927), vol. 1, 76−82 and vol. 2, 121−123. Those criticising these conclusions include Luigi Nuzzo, ‘Dall’Italia alle Indie. Un viaggio del diritto comune’, Rechtsgeschichte/Legal History 12 (2008), 112−113.
Ricardo Levene, ‘Introducción al estudio del derecho Indiano’, Revista del Centro de Estudiantes de Derecho 59 (1916), 110−118; Ricardo Levene, Las Indias no eran colonias (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1973); Alfonso García-Gallo, ‘La ley como fuente del derecho en Indias en el siglo XVI’, Anuario de historia del derecho español 21−22 (1951−1952), 607−730 and, more recently, José Manuel Pérez-Prendes, La monarquía indiana y el estado de derecho (Madrid: Asociación Francisco López de Gómara, 1989).
See, for example, Antonio Godinho and Francisco Caeiro, Resumo de história do direito português, 1914−1915 (Coimbra: Imprensa da Universidade, 1914), 124−126. These ideas persisted into the 1960s and the 1970s: Marcello Caetano, Lições de história do direito português: feitas ao curso do Io ano da faculdade de direito, em 1961−1962 (Coimbra: Coimbra Editora, 1962), 256−268.
Arno Wehling and Maria José Wehling, ‘A questão do direito no Brasil colonial (a dinâmica do direito colonial e o exercício das funções judiciais)’ in História & direito: jogos de encontros e transdisciplinaridade, ed. Gizlene Neder (Rio de Janeiro: Revan, 2007), vol. 1, 77–80, analysing some of these conclusions.
This genealogy can be traced back to Francesco Calasso, Introduzione al diritto commune (Milan: Giuffrè, 1951), but became particularly powerful from the 1970s and 1980s, when many legal historians began affirming the particularity of medieval and early modern law and what distinguished it from Classical Roman law and from modern legal systems: Paolo Grossi, L‘ordine giuridico medievale (Bari: Laterza, 1995); António Manuel Hespanha, Cultura jurídica europeia: Síntese de um milénio (Coimbra: Almedina, 2012); Jesús Vallejo, ‘El cáliz de plata: Articulación de órdenes jurídicos en la jurisprudencia del ius commune’, Revista de historia del derecho 38 (2009), 1–13.
Pietro Costa, Iurisdictio. Semantica del potere politico nella iuspubblicistica medievale (1100–1433) (Milan: Giuffrè 1969); Jesús Vallejo, Ruda Equidad, Ley Consumada: Concepción de la Potestad Normativa (1250–1350) (Madrid: Centro de Estudios Constitucionales, 1992). Indeed, even theorists of sovereignty such as Jean Bodin never imagined that the king could contravene the dictates of divine and natural law, and the law of nations: Jean Bodin, Six Books of a Commonwealth (1576), M.J. Tooley (ed. and transl.) (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1955), chapter VIII, Concerning Sovereignty, 24–36.
These ideas can be traced back to Otto von Gierke in, for example, Political Theories of the Middle Age, Frederic William Maitland (transl.) (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1938 [1881]) or Community in Historical Perspective, ed. Antony Black and trans. Mary Fischer (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1990 [1868]), and Otto Brunner, Land and Lordship: Structure of Governance in Medieval Austria, transl. and ed. Howard Kaminsky and James Van Horn Melton (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press 1992 [1939]). Historians have since insisted that these structures applied not only in medieval times, but also throughout the early modern period: António Manuel Hespanha, ‘A historiografia jurídico-institucional e a morte do estado’, Anuario de Filosofía del Derecho 3 (1986), 191–228; Bartolomé Clavero, Tantas personas como estados: Por una antropología política de la historia europea (Madrid: Tecnos 1986).
Indeed, even when kings did not explicitly identify the reasons underlying their decisions, these decisions were nonetheless always embedded in that same legal universe, where actors constantly strove to reach the right solution, but where disagreements were frequent, and the options multiple.
On how these debates applied to Spain, see, for example, José Luis and Mariano Peset, ‘Vincent Vives y la historiografía del derecho en España’, in Vorstudien zur Rechtshistorik, ed. Johannes Michael Scholz (Frankfurt: Vittorio Klostermann, 1977), 235–243; Bartolomé Clavero, ‘Historia, ciencia, política del derecho’, Quaderni Fiorentini per la storia del pensiero giuridico moderno 8 (1979), 5–58.
For criticism of authors who consider there to have been a clear hierarchy of norms in Spain and its empire, see: Nuzzo, ‘Dall’Italia alle Indie’, 109–110.
Jean-Louis Halpérin, ‘Est-il temps de déconstruire les mythes de l’histoire du droit français?’ Clio@Thémis 5 (2012), who criticises the move to equate the history of law with the history of the state, and Soazick Kerneis, ‘La forge du droit. Naissance des identités juridiques en Europe (IVe-XIIIe siècles)’, Clio@Thémis 10 (2016).
António Manuel Hespanha, ‘The Law in the High and the Late Middle Ages: The Learned Ius Commune and the Vernacular Laws. Southern Europe (Italy, Iberian Peninsula, France)’, in The Oxford Handbook of European Legal History, eds. Heikki Pihlajamäki, Markus D. Dubber and Mark Godfrey (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), 332–357.
Guilherme Braga da Cruz, Obras Esparsas: Estudos de História do Direito. Direito Moderno (Coimbra: Biblioteca Geral da Universidade de Coimbra, 1981), vol. 2, 280–286; José Domingues, ‘As Partidas de Castela e o Processo Medieval Português’, Initium 18 (2013), 237–287; José Domingues, ‘O elemento castelhano-leonês na formação do direito medieval português’, Cuadernos de Historia del Derecho 21 (2014), 218–224, and José Domingues, ‘Códices medievais de ius commune em Portugal; Status quaestionis’, Anuario de Estudios Medievales 46, no 2 (2016), 740. Spanish jurists also regarded the Partidas similarly: Rafael Gibert, Historia general del derecho español (Granada: Imprenta Román, 1968), 41–45.
Bartolomé Clavero, ‘Lex Regni Vicinioris. Indicio de España en Portugal’, Boletim da faculdade de direito de Coimbra 58, no 1 (1983), 239–298.
Víctor Tau Anzoátegui, El Poder de la Costumbre. Estudios sobre el Derecho Consuetudinario en América hispana hasta la emancipación (Madrid: Fundación Mapfre 2000), 32–33.
Víctor Tau Anzoátegui, ‘El derecho indiano en su relación con los derechos castellano y común’, in Hispania entre derechos propios y derechos nacionales: atti dell’incontro di studio Firenze-Lucca 25, 26, 27 maggio 1989, eds. Bartolomé Clavero, Paolo Grossi and Francisco Tomás y Valiente (Milan: Giuffrè, 1990) vol. 2, 573–559 and in La ley en Hispanoamérica (Buenos Aires: Academia Nacional de la Historia, 1992) and Javier Barrientos Grandón, Historia del derecho indiano. Del descubrimiento colombino a la codificación. Ius commune – ius proprium en las Indias occidentales (Rome: Il Cigno Galileo Galilei, 2000). On how Spanish American jurists operated, see, for example, Thomas Duve, ‘Los privilegios de los indios: Derecho local?’ in Actas del XV Congreso del Instituto Internacional de historia del Derecho Indiano, ed. Manuel Torres Aguilar (Córdoba: Universidad de Córdoba 2005), 112–130.
José Luis Bendicho Beired, ‘O hispano-americanismo historiográfico: Espanha e América na perspectiva de Ricardo Levene e Rafael Altamira’, História Unisinos, 13, no 1 (2009), 43–53; Luigi Nuzzo, ‘Between America and Europe. The Strange Case of the derecho indiano’ in New Horizons in Spanish Colonial Law. Contributions to Transnational Early Modern Legal History, ed. Thomas Duve and Heikki Pihlajamäki (Frankfurt: Max Planck Institute for European Legal History, 2015), 161–191, and António Manuel Hespanha, ‘O ‘direito de índias’ no contexto da historiografia das colonizações ibéricas’ in Actas del XIX Congreso del Instituto Internacional de Historia del Derecho Indiano, ed. Thomas Duve (Madrid: Dykinson 2017), vol. 1, 43–83.
Ricardo Levene (1885–1958) is usually credited with coining this term and advancing this interpretation in the 1910s; see, for example, Nuzzo, ‘Between America and Europe’, 165–166.
Anzoátegui, El Poder de la Costumbre, 51–54 refers to this law as ‘municipal’. Carlos Petit, ‘El caso del derecho indiano’, Quaderni Fiorentini per la storia del pensiero giuridico moderno 22 (1993), 665 refers to it as a version of ius commune.
Despite continual recourse to the Recopilación de Indias, Rafael Altamira, ‘Autonomía y descentralización legislativa en el régimen colonial español. Siglos XVI a XVIII’, Boletim da Faculdade de Direito 20 (1944), 26, warned against doing so as early as the 1940s. For a criticism of the tendency to equate Spanish American law with royal enactments (and explaining its ideological origins), see Nuzzo, ‘Dall’Italia alle Indie’, 108–112. See also Tamar Herzog, ‘Immemorial (and Native) Customs in Early Modernity: Europe and the Americas’, Comparative Legal History 9, no 1 (2021), 1–53.
António Manuel Hespanha, ‘Porque é que existe e em que é que consiste um direito colonial brasileiro’, Quaderni Fiorentini per la storia del pensiero giuridico moderno 35, no 1 (2006), 59–81, Nuno Camarinhas, ‘Administração da justiça em espaços coloniais. A experiência imperial portuguesa e os seus juízes, na época moderna’, Jahrbuch für Geschichte Lateinamerikas 52 (2015), 112 and 120–124; Andréa Slemian, ‘A primeira das virtudes. Justiça e reformismo ilustrado na América portuguesa face à espanhola’, Revista Complutense de Historia de América 40 (2014), 70, 80 and 85, and Gustavo César Machado Cabral, ‘Ius Commune in Portuguese America: Criminal Issues on Local Canon Law in the “First Constitutions of the Diocese of Bahia” (1707)’, Glossae. European Journal of Legal History 13 (2016), 308–327.
Arno Wehling, ‘Sem embargo da ordenação em contrário: A adaptação da norma portuguesa à circunstância colonial’ in Brasil: Construindo uma Nação, ed. Nelson Mello Souza (Sorocaba SP: CNC, 2014), vol.1, 115–135 and António Manuel Hespanha, ‘Modalidades e limites do imperialismo jurídico na colonização portuguesa’, Quaderni Fiorentini per la storia del pensiero giuridico moderno 41 (2012), 122–123.
Gustavo César Machado Cabral, ‘Pegas e Pernambuco: notas sobre o direito comum e o espaço colonial’, Revista Direito & Práxis 9, no 2 (2018), 714–716.
Marcelo Caetano, Tradições, princípios e métodos da colonização portuguesa (Lisbon: Agência Geral do Ultramar, 1951), for example on 32 and 42, and the analysis of these visions in Cláudia Castelo, O modo português de estar no mundo: o luso-tropicalismo e a ideologia colonial portuguesa (Porto, Edições Afrontamento, 1998) and Hespanha, ‘O “direito de índias”’, who criticizes, for example, the work of Oliveira Martins and António Sardinha.
Luís Filipe Ferreira Reis Thomaz, ‘Estrutura política e administrativa do Estado na Índia no século XVI’ in II Seminário Internacional de história Indo-Portuguesa: Actas, eds. Luís de Albuquerque and Inácio Guerreiro (Lisbon: Instituto Investigação Cientifica Tropical, 1985), 515.
Thomaz, ‘Estructura política’, 531–532.
António Manuel Hespanha, Filhos da Terra. Identidades mestiças nos confins da expansão portuguesa (Lisbon: Tinta de China, 2019), 16.
Hespanha, Filhos da Terra, 40.
Hespanha, Filhos da Terra, 75.
Hespanha, Filhos da Terra, 78.
Hespanha, Filhos da Terra, 184–185.
Hespanha, Filhos da Terra, 261.
Hespanha, Filhos da Terra, 113.
Hespanha, Filhos da Terra, 26.
Hespanha, Filhos da Terra, 24–25.