The Last Emir

by The Last Emir (retail) (epub)

  ‘Oh, well that clears up everything,’ grunted Arnau, and turned to hurry off up the hill once more in the wake of the grey-bearded Brother Balthesar.

  Chapter Two

  Thursday, 3 June 1199

  Despite the clear fact that the Almohad lord and his men had been waylaid beyond the market under the watchful gaze of the emir’s men, Arnau could not shake his nervous feeling as they moved off through the town. He checked every side street carefully as they passed, and continually glanced over his shoulder. There was no sign of this ‘Lion of Alarcos’ or his men, but that did not stop the young sergeant checking repeatedly.

  He made a mental note to ask about this Almohad lord when they next had the opportunity in private. The past of the grey-bearded brother stomping up the street ahead of Arnau was shrouded in mystery, and had been since he first met the man. He was certainly not what the young man had expected a glorious knight of the Temple to be. Yet in the growing catalogue of enigmas that surrounded Balthesar d’Aixere, the identity of the Lion of Alarcos seemed to be rising to the top in terms of priority.

  Mahón showed every sign of Moorish city design, its layout based around tribal groupings and religious structures, resulting in a collection of narrow streets separating blocks that were formed of community ties, all with a nod to defensive cohesion, in that much of the city could easily be sealed and held with the minimum of effort. There were no wide thoroughfares such as one might find in the old Roman cities of Tarragona or Barcelona, for example. Arnau was convinced before they had got very far that they were hopelessly lost among the tangle of curving, vertiginous streets. Certainly he could not have found his way back to the port even with a map and a guide.

  The population of Mahón, naturally overwhelmingly Moorish, largely went about their business completely ignoring the two figures moving through their midst, though one or two noted the swords belted at their sides and gave them a wide berth, eyes narrowed suspiciously. Arnau was careful to keep his hand away from the sword hilt, his face lowered and his mouth firmly shut. Just a poor Moorish mute.

  Gradually, though, the town began to change. They passed a grand mosque at the centre, a walled compound, several fountains and smaller civil structures, and then moved out into a more suburban area away from the port. There were subtle differences in the architecture, and only a man who had spent time walking the streets of Barcelona or Tarragona and seeing the shift between neighbourhoods would be able to spot them.

  The main difference he noticed as they passed into a distinctly separate region of the city was the level of upkeep. The buildings in this area had an unkempt and shabby feeling about them, presenting only peeling shutters, dirty plaster and blank-faced doors to the street. If this was, as he now felt sure, the area Balthesar had been making for all along, then it differed from other Jewish quarters he had passed through in other cities. Whether you approved of the Jew or not (and Arnau’s father had long since drilled into him the fact that the Jew had a legitimate place in Iberian society) it was hard to deny that they kept their tightly packed houses in good order. This place appeared to be different. Whether it was because they were a different kind of Jew, or perhaps that they laboured under the laws and taxes of the Moor, he could not say.

  They turned into a street with purpose as though Balthesar had a clear idea of his destination, and ahead Arnau could see a sign on a wall beside a door denoting the presence of a Jewish temple. He had seen such places back in the north, but this had a subtle, almost hidden nature. An old man sat on a stone block close to the temple door, the first person he had seen in this entire quarter.

  The old man wore a long, dark blue robe with a white and blue scarf about his shoulders, hanging down the front, and a strange hat that rose to a tall point as though gesturing to God. His face was wrinkled and lined with a century of cares, and his forked beard, though mostly grey, was still long and curled into ringlets.

  They came to a halt in front of the man, and Arnau added a new question to his inquisition list as Brother Balthesar immediately opened up a conversation with the Jew in fluent Hebrew. There was a brief exchange, with short and non-committal-sounding answers from the local who then, with Balthesar’s aid, rose from the stone and began to pace off down a side street.

  The two men followed and as they moved into the narrow alley Balthesar leaned closer to Arnau. ‘I have no idea what attitudes to the Jew lurk in that skull of yours, Vallbona, but be sure to be courteous and respectful here. Even if you despise their kind, you will hide it well, for I will not be halted in my search by something so base.’

  Arnau made to protest about such an assumption, but Balthesar had turned his back and walked on. In fairness it was a reasonable point to make. Few among the Aragonese nobility would have any time for the Jews, who were largely considered heretical, or even parasitic. It had interested Arnau to discover that the attitudes within the order, a foundation based upon the central tenets of the Christian faith, seemed to be more comfortable with their Jewish and Moorish neighbours than the majority of the secular nobility.

  They stopped further down the narrow street and the old man knocked on a bare door and opened it. He entered, beckoning to the two men, and Balthesar and then Arnau both followed him in. It was as he stepped through the door that Arnau realised where he had been mistaken. The exterior of the buildings, facing onto the streets, were drab, dirty, peeling and decaying. But the inside?

  The door opened onto a corridor paved with bright, colourful tiles, the walls painted the yellow of a spring meadow. Wall hangings on either side showed scenes from the Jewish scriptures, and Arnau was interested to note that he recognised both scenes from accounts in his own Bible. The differences between these people and his own seemed to shrivel and vanish.

  The corridor opened out onto a courtyard that was something of a light well. Three storeys up, the bright daylight shone in and reflected off the white painted walls to make the place light and airy. Pots of flowers hung on the walls and sat in corners, and a small fountain played and burbled in the centre. Three benches sat around the edge. It looked like a small corner of paradise to Arnau and it was with regret that he passed through it and followed the other two through a door and inside once more.

  They were led to another room, and the old man introduced Balthesar to the occupants in his own language and then bowed his head and took a seat with the others. Arnau peered around the room. Four more old men sat there dressed in a very similar fashion to the first: long, coloured robes, the scarf with the holy colours, the grey curled beards. They had, however, plumped for small skullcaps rather than the large pointed hats.

  Balthesar bowed respectfully and spoke once more in Hebrew. Arnau tried not to look out of place as he stood silent beside the older knight. Finally, the brother seemed to put a question to the men and received a tentative affirmative. He turned to Arnau.

  ‘These men are the Beth Din of Mahón, the men who make rulings in the court of the Jewish population. Two of them speak passable Aragonese Spanish and are willing to voice the words of the Beth Din for us, so that you, too, might be involved in this. Bear in mind, Arnau, that not only are we foreign guests here, but we are also seeking their aid. Politeness costs nothing.’

  Feeling peeved again at such an admonition, Arnau stood waiting until Balthesar dropped slowly and with a grunt of discomfort into a crouch. The young sergeant did the same and waited.

  ‘Let me begin by revealing the truth in all matters,’ Balthesar said. ‘We come in the garb of the Moor, but, as you now clearly realise, we are in truth from the Christian kingdoms on the mainland.’

  There was a chorus of nods. The need to switch to the Aragonese tongue alone had made that abundantly clear.

  ‘But we are more than simple Christian travellers. We belong to the Order of the Temple of Solomon, and are here in this guise in order to pass through the Moorish lands without causing undue friction.’

  There was a sudden drop in temperature at the revelatio
n, and several faces hardened. The five men leaned closer together and muttered in their native tongue. Finally the rabbi, the man who had brought them here, leaned towards them and spoke forcefully. They all assented gradually with a single nod, and the youngest of the bunch – a man, by Arnau’s estimation, old enough to remember Jesus walking – spoke.

  ‘The rabbi reminds us that your order is founded on the principle of saving the poor traveller from peril and takes its very name and heart from our most holy of places. We accept you as friends of the Temple. You may speak freely and without fear of falsehood or betrayal. We would ask the same courtesy.’

  ‘Of course,’ Balthesar nodded. ‘After all, we are all men of faith.’

  Another chorus of nods.

  ‘The rabbi informs us that you seek to unravel the history of Manûrqa, and perhaps our part in it. What is it you seek, Brother of the Temple?’

  Balthesar steepled his fingers.

  ‘I seek the bones of one of our saints: Saint Stephen, the first martyr.’

  Arnau couldn’t say what the look that the five men shared following this statement meant, but it certainly did not appear to be overwhelmingly positive. There was an awkward silence, and eventually, Balthesar filled it once more.

  ‘My research has been limited to certain libraries, and I have found only oblique references and vague hints beyond a few simple stated facts. I understand that Bishop Orosius acquired the bones of Saint Stephen in the Holy Land in the early fifth century and took them to Hippo Regius in Africa. He was then, if I am correct, entrusted with transporting said relics to Palchonius, the Bishop of Braga in Portugal. Things beyond that seem to be a little vague. We are aware that Orosius wrote a history text, but when he did so seems to be a matter of debate. One tale I found said that Orosius came to Manûrqa, realised that the Vandals were ravaging Iberia and turned and went back to Africa, leaving the relics here, and finishing his history back in Hippo Regius. Another story has it that Orosius disappeared on the island after some conflict involving the island’s Jewish community, in which I suspect we do not come off as the heroic faithful, and the bones similarly disappear from the record. Whatever the case, it seems that the bones of Saint Stephen never left Manûrqa. It is my quest to secure those relics and return them to Aragon and appropriate veneration. The trail I follow is centuries cold and leads only this far. Since your community is mentioned in one of my sources, you are my single hope in tracing the relics any further. I would greatly appreciate any aid.’

  There was another uncomfortable silence, and then another murmured confab between the Jewish elders. Finally, the rabbi began to speak, and the younger man translated it into Aragonese for the guests’ benefit.

  ‘The events to which you refer are a dark time in our people’s history, and a wicked time in yours. As you say, the story is centuries old, and even a decade sees any tale embellished, so the absolute truth of this perhaps lies only at the core of our telling.’

  Balthesar nodded his understanding, and Arnau felt himself starting to get a little excited. The very idea of following this mad quest had been bothering him ever since they left Rourell, but somehow sitting here, in this Jewish house, listening to their elders picking up the fragmentary story, felt like a massive leap forward and a vindication of their journey thus far. Balthesar had been telling him to have faith now for weeks.

  ‘Orosius came here,’ the old man said. ‘I will not allow him the honour of a title, for to us he is a villain. He came to Mahón bearing one forearm, to the elbow, of Stephen the apostate who angered the Sanhedrin and was stoned to death. The arm, it is said, was kept in a silver case.’

  Balthesar flashed Arnau a look full of interest, hope and fascination, and it was difficult not to feel the same.

  ‘It is said that the bone was magical,’ the Jew continued. ‘In your understanding, it brought miracles to the island. Your Orosius, with the aid of a young priest called Severus, decided that this island would be sacred. The island of Saint Stephen. Whether or not they intended the bone to continue on to the mainland, we are not told. What we do know is that our people were already being shunned and hated by yours. The arrival on the island of this relic fired the blood of your priests and they forced the island’s faithful to convert to Christianity. It is said that half a thousand Jews were made to kiss the cross before our temple was burned to the ground.’

  Arnau felt sick. No wonder these men had been cagey and cold to begin with. Hardly an auspicious beginning. And yet, somewhere deep down inside, Arnau realised that his soul had latched on to the discovery that the bone of Saint Stephen worked miracles. Had the relic been the cause of half a thousand conversions, and centuries of bitterness had shifted the blame to the man who brought it?

  ‘Orosius left Manûrqa within months of his arrival, and he left it a seething, bitter island of Christians and suppressed, forcibly converted Jews. He returned to Africa, perhaps thinking his relic was better here, where it had shown its power. Severus, it is said, regretted his part in the matter, and wrote an account of it, and for that he is forgiven by our people, but not the vile Orosius.’

  Balthesar nodded. ‘It may be meaningless to apologise for slights and wrongs perpetrated by our forebears, but in the spirit that all things can change, and that most things must, I offer my regret and apologies on behalf of the Church.’

  Arnau nodded his agreement vehemently, and this seemed to please the five men. There was another long silence and Arnau realised, uncomfortably, that this was as far as they were going with the tale.

  ‘Can you tell us of what happened thereafter? To the relic, I mean,’ Brother Balthesar urged.

  The men shook their heads. ‘The relic was placed in the church of Mahón,’ the rabbi said finally. ‘Beyond that we can say nothing other than there is no longer a church in the city and has not been since the Moors came. Our people returned to the old faith in time, though in smaller numbers, and there are still Christians in the city who owe their history to those forced conversions. Perhaps if there is more to tell, then they can tell it.’

  Balthesar straightened and flexed his fingers. ‘Thank you for your aid and your honesty. Be assured that if we locate the bone of Saint Stephen, its future holds only good works of which your Beth Din would approve. I have been to Mahón before,’ he said, earning a surprised look from Arnau, ‘but I was not aware of a Christian presence at the time. Would you be able to direct me to anyone?’

  A quarter of an hour later, having profusely thanked the five old men and made their farewells, the two knights were once more stalking through the streets of the city, and despite the lift in his spirits, once more Arnau’s gaze raked every alley looking for men with knives.

  ‘I was entirely unaware of a Christian community in the city,’ Balthesar said as they walked. ‘I was hoping to have learned more from the Xeuta, but perhaps they are passing the torch to the converted here. I am convinced now that there is more to find out. The trail does not stop here. The bone must be somewhere on the island.’

  A day ago, Arnau might have disagreed, been scathing even. Somehow that heady half-hour of listening to the tale of ancient days with the old Jews had kindled something, though. Perhaps the faith that the old knight had kept telling him he needed. He realised suddenly that he’d added another question to his growing list to put to the old knight. It was perhaps the least important of them all, but it was the latest.

  ‘When have you been here before?’ he asked suddenly.

  Balthesar turned a surprised frown upon him. ‘I was not born in Rourell, Arnau, though perhaps I was reborn there. I am an old man and I had a full life before I took my vows with the order.’

  Arnau nodded his understanding and followed on, privately acknowledging that the old knight’s reply was anything but an actual answer to the question.

  They moved through the city’s outer districts this time, staying away from the central mosque and its busy streets. Finally, with somewhat achy legs, they emerged upon a s
treet that ran along a cliff edge, the water down below and a view of the port off to their right. ‘This must be the place,’ he said, gesturing to a nondescript shop.

  The entire frontage here was given over to commercial premises, and the fishmonger’s they stood in front of was flanked by a copper-pot maker’s and a bakery. Loaves and fishes, thought Arnau with a small, private smile, as the older brother moved towards the shop.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Balthesar said to the shopkeeper in Spanish, then repeated it in Hebrew and Arabic, just in case.

  The fishmonger stopped what he was doing, his large, sharp knife sliding back out of the fish’s belly, dripping blood. He dropped the point to the table and spun the knife beneath his finger.

  ‘Who are you who looks like a travelling mercenary but speaks with the tongue of the mainlander?’

  ‘My name is Balthesar, and I am seeking representatives of the Christian community here. Might I speak with you?’

  The fishmonger gave him a deeply suspicious look. ‘Come,’ he said, then waved to a woman busy washing fish in the back. ‘Maria, I will be back in a few minutes.’

  He stepped through a rear door, gesturing for the two visitors to follow. They pursued him into a small room with one high window, furnished with a functional table and two benches. While he sat on one, he gestured to the other, and the two men sat down opposite him. The man, who looked to Arnau like any other poor Moorish shopkeeper, reached across to a platter of food that sat at one end of the table. He forked a slice of pink meat and a piece of buttered bread onto each of two plates and then passed one to each of the visitors.

  ‘Eat,’ he instructed, as he poured two cups of wine.

  ‘A test?’ Balthesar enquired.

  ‘A confirmation,’ the man said in flat tones, and slid a cup to each of them.

  With a smile, Balthesar took a hearty bite of the salted pork and washed it down with wine. Arnau did the same and realised with a start that, being in a Moorish land, this was probably the last wine he would taste for some time. He took another pull and savoured the rich red draught.