Columbus died on May 20, 1506, in Valladolid, Spain. He was 54 years old, broken by illness, debt, and the weight of unfulfilled promises. The years of ocean voyages, brutal weather, and battle with both nature and men had left his body twisted with arthritis and his spirit worn thin. Once the toast of Europe, he spent his last months largely ignored, left to draft long, pleading letters to a royal court that no longer had use for him. The riches he believed he had opened to Spain never arrived as he’d hoped. The lands he had claimed in the name of the Crown were now being governed without his input. The titles and powers promised to him, especially his lifelong demand to be restored as Viceroy of the Indies, were never granted.
He finalized his will on May 19, 1506. In it, he asked that a male heir of his family always live in Genoa, the city of his birth, to honor his roots. He also instructed Diego to care for Beatriz Enriquez, the mother of his illegitimate son Fernando. “This weighs much upon my conscience,” he wrote. “The reason cannot be written here.”
To this day, some claim the line of Columbus still exists, quietly, anonymously, somewhere in Genoa. A descendant who still honors the will. A man who keeps a house there, who lights a candle on Ascension Day, and keeps a worn copy of the Admiral’s map tucked in a drawer. Some believe this quiet heir maintains legal presence through the Bank of St. George or resides near the old Casa di Colombo, where the Admiral himself was once a boy. He may even be tied, however distantly, to the noble line of the Dukes of Veragua, descendants who were ennobled by the Spanish crown but never fully embraced in Genoa.
The next day, Ascension Day, he died. Tradition says his final words were taken from the Gospel of Luke: “Into your hands, Lord, I commend my spirit.” He was buried first at the Franciscan convent in Valladolid. From there, his body was moved to Seville’s Monastery of Santa María de las Cuevas. Later still, it was reportedly taken to San Domingo. Centuries after, some claimed his remains were moved again to Havana, then returned to Seville after Spain lost Cuba. No one knows for certain where he lies. His body, like so many parts of his story, is disputed.
He left behind little wealth and no confirmed gravesite, but his legacy stirred centuries of praise, resentment, and confusion. In Seville, his name is etched into plaques and memorials, yet most modern tour guides accompany these with a pause or an asterisk. There is a statue of him at the Cathedral of Seville, where some say his bones rest in a massive tomb guarded by four heraldic kings. His chains, the ones he wore when he was arrested and sent back to Spain in disgrace, are still displayed at the Cathedral of Seville, a sobering relic of how far he fell. At museums in Genoa, you can see models of his ships and maps he helped inspire. And in Valladolid, a small plaque marks the building where he died.
Columbus died convinced of his mission. He believed that God had called him, and he convinced himself that he had been justified in what he had done. But the weight of his actions never fully left him. He was tormented by sins he could not name, ones he carried to his deathbed. He died a man of fierce will and great ambition, but also one worn down by a world that changed faster than he could.
The world continues to remember him, uneasily, unevenly, and in ways that shift with each generation.
