Iberia

by James A. Michener

  Legend. Late in history a beautiful legend developed in Europe to the effect that following the decapitation in Jerusalem and burial in Caesarea of St. James, his body was mysteriously disinterred and found to have its head once more intact. Into the port of Jaffa, where shipping for Jerusalem customarily landed, came a ship made of stone and manned by knights; the body of James was rescued and brought in seven days to the harbor of Iria Flavia (now Padrón) on the west coast of Spain in the region now called Galicia. Here a willful pagan queen denied burial to the cargo of the stone ship, but miracles awakened her to a Christian understanding, and she allowed the saintly body to be taken inland to an unlikely spot where a Roman burial ground had long existed; here St. James was buried, sometime around the year A.D. 44. It was nearly eight hundred years later, in 812 (some say 814), that a hermit happened to see in the heavens a bright star hovering over a vacant field, a phenomenon with which we are familiar, and when he reported this fact to his religious superiors, excavations were begun and the body of St. James was brought to light, uncorrupted by the passage of time. As a saint descended from heaven, he assumed personal leadership of the Christian remnant who were battling the superior Muslims who had overrun Spain, and at the crucial but legendary Battle of Clavijo in 844, was clearly seen by the Spanish Christians, riding before them on a white horse, swinging a great sword and killing Moors by the thousands, from which he gained the name by which he would henceforth be known in Spain, Santiago Matamoros. It was under his banner that Christianity reconquered Spain; it was following his white horse that Spaniards expelled the Moors, drove out the Jews and conquered the Americas. St. James became the patron saint of Spain, as well he deserved, and his burial place became the most sacred spot in Spain, Santiago de Compostela, the last word of which could have been derived from either the Spanish Campo de la estrella (in Latin, Campus Stellae, meaning Countryside where the Star Shone) or the latin Compost Terra (from compostum, burying ground). In Spain the name James appears in a variety of forms. In Latin it was, of course, Jacobus, so that the pilgrims’ road we are about to follow has always been known as the Jacobean route; in Old Spanish it was Iago and evolved into Jacóme and Jaime, the latter of which is still preferred along the eastern Mediterranean coast; as the name of our saint it became the composite form Santiago, which is the prevailing Spanish form today; through a false division this produced Diego; and in nearby France it became, of course, Jacques. In some years all these names could have been heard along the way.

  History. We have seen, during our visit to Córdoba, that the Moors of southern Spain kept in a vault in that city a relic of considerable emotional significance in their wars against the Christians: the visible arm of the Prophet Muhammad, and there are historians who believe that much of the advantage which the Moors enjoyed in their triumphant sweep across Spain derived from their belief that they were invincible as long as the arm of the Prophet led them into battle. The Christians, on the other hand, were supported by no comparable relic from their New Testament, and we know from documents that a kind of fatality overcame them when without heavenly assistance they had to face Muslims who had such assistance. I think it neither ungenerous nor unlikely to suggest that the body of Santiago was found not by a hermit following a star but by hard-pressed soldiers who needed a rallying point; certainly it arrived on the scene when some kind of counterbalance to the Prophetic arm was needed, and over the centuries this heavenly figure riding his white horse, sword in hand, proved more potent and of farther-reaching significance, if we consider his role in helping conquer the New World, than the arm of the Prophet.

  At any rate, we can be certain that after the year 812 Christian fortunes took an upward swing, but not all the miracles connected with Santiago were military. A bridegroom riding his horse along the sands to his wedding was swept into the waves and drowned, but his bride appealed to Santiago and from the sea rose the groom, his garments covered with white cockleshells, after which this beautiful symbol of the shell shaped like human hands extending alms became the mark of all who fought the infidel and the badge of those who made the pilgrimage to Compostela.

  It is not surprising that at the scene of such miracles a series of churches should have risen to mark the grave, culminating in the early 1100s in a cathedral of majestic proportions, much of which can be seen today. It was to this ancient site that pilgrims from all over Europe made their way for more than eleven hundred years.

  It is difficult to describe, in a scientific age, the spiritual hold that pilgrimage had on citizens of the Middle Ages. There was, of course, in those days but one Church, and so far as the Christian world was concerned, it was truly universal. Existence outside the membership of this religion was unthinkable, and the three physical locations upon which the imagery of the Church depended were Jerusalem, where Christ was crucified; Rome, where Peter founded the organization of the Church; and Compostela, from which point Europe had been evangelized. Any Christian who made a pilgrimage to one of these places was assured of extraordinary blessing, but a man who had journeyed to all three had a right to consider himself in an almost heavenly state. Those who went to Jerusalem were called palmers, since they returned with palm branches; those who went to Rome were romeros; it was only those who made the terribly hazardous trip to Compostela who were entitled to be called pilgrims, and no devout man in that age bothered to estimate which of the three journeys was most important, for in sanctity they were equal.

  Stoned roadway.

  The Way of St. James, as it is customarily referred to in English, was primarily a French road, and I suppose that in its years of maximum greatness some eighty out of every hundred pilgrims who traveled it were from outside of Spain, and of these the bulk came from France, although the road was also popular with Englishmen and Germans. In the famous monasteries we shall see, French was spoken, and in the cathedrals French priests officiated. Indeed, the road started at that curious tower in the middle of Paris which still stands to excite the imagination of the visitor, the Tour St. Jacques on the right bank of the Seine not far from Notre Dame. Here, in all ages, pilgrims from various parts of Europe used to convene to form bands for the long march to Compostela, some nine hundred miles away. Kings and beggars, queens and cutthroats, butchers and knights, poets and philosophers all met here, and for a wild variety of reasons.

  To appreciate those reasons, let us gather with the crowd that clusters around the Tour St. Jacques one spring morning in the Middle Ages. Some two hundred pilgrims have assembled from Germany, England, France and the Low Countries. A few have even drifted down from Norway and Sweden, and all are divided into seven fairly well understood groups. First are the devout Christian laymen who seek salvation at the tomb of the saint; since many are advanced in years, there will be frequent deaths en route. Second are knights who in battle vowed to make the journey if they survived; they ride horses and take their ladies with them. Third are the monks and priests, and sometimes even cardinals, who have dreamed for years of visiting Santiago as a crown to their life within the Church.

  Fourth are those criminals who were told by their judges, ‘Five years in jail or pilgrimage to the tomb of St. James, whichever.’ These criminals, if it is proper to term them such, for many of their offenses were petty, are required to get a certificate at Compostela proving that they have completed the pilgrimage, and in Spanish border cities like Pamplona a lively trade operates in these ‘Compostelas,’ for venturesome businessmen make the journey frequently, collect their certificates and sell them to those who do not wish to undergo the hazards of western Spain. The criminal, having laid out good money for the ‘Compostela,’ stuffs it in his pocket, has a high time in Spanish inns and returns seven months later to submit his proof to the sentencing judge. Fifth are the beggars, forgers, thieves, robbers and others who hope to make financial gain from the journey, and of this unsavory group some move backward and forward along the endless pilgrims’ road, living off the devout for years at a time. Sixth are t
he merchants, the architects, the itinerant painters, the weavers and that horde of people who use the road as a marketplace. Finally, there is a fairly constant movement back and forth of government agents who keep watch on what is happening in northern Spain, for this is an unquiet land coveted by France and England, by Austrian adventurers and Italian, and among these watchful persons are those French clerics who are inspired more by colonialism than by religion. The buildings they erect are outwardly monasteries and churches, but inwardly they are intended as stepping stones for the French king.

  But all groups this morning have one thing in common. All wear the same uniform, famous throughout Europe: a heavy cape which will serve as raincoat, comforter and nightly blanket; an eight-foot stave with gourd attached at one end for carrying water; the heaviest kind of sandal for hiking the nine hundred miles to Santiago; and a curious kind of broad-rimmed felt hat, turned up in front and marked with three or four bright cockleshells.

  ‘I shall take the cockleshell.’ becomes the pilgrims’ cry throughout Europe, and already a famous dish has been invented, scallops in wine sauce served in a cockleshell and known as coquille St. Jacques.

  On this medieval day, as we wait under the chestnut trees of Paris, officials move out from the great buildings that cluster about the Tour St. Jacques. Priests bless the throng, musicians lead the pilgrims to the outskirts of Paris, and a detachment of cavalry rides along to provide protection during the first days of the journey.

  Through the most beautiful river valleys of France moves the sprawling army at the rate of nine or ten miles a day. Sandals wear out and new ones are bought. At crossroad shrines the faithful pray, and in each cathedral town the marchers crowd into sanctuaries to offer thanks to local saints. Food is never plentiful, and villages guard their stores with pikes and dogs. However, each community has designated a small body of Christians whose duty it is to bury those pilgrims who die within its gates.

  And so our great, inchoate mass drifts southward through France: Orléans, Tours, Poitiers mark one well-traveled road; Vézelay, Nevers, Limoges define another; Aries, Montpellier, Toulouse are on the famous southern route. And finally there are the Pyrenees leading to Roncesvalles and Pamplona, where Spain begins.

  We can speak with accuracy of this vast movement of people—the incredible number of more than half a million moved along the road each year—because in 1130 what is generally held to be the world’s first travel guide was written, describing the glories and hardships of this route. It was written at the request of the Church, which hoped thereby to encourage pilgrimages, by a French priest, Aymery de Picaud, who lived along one of the pilgrim routes and set the pattern for future travel writers: things near at home he praised, those farther away he questioned, while those distant he condemned. Of the Poitevins, who lived near at hand, he says: ‘They are vigorous and fine warriors, courageous at the battlefront, elegant in their fashions of dress, handsome in appearance, spiritual, very generous and easy in their hospitality.’

  Of the Gascons, who lived suspiciously close to Spain, he writes: They are nimble with words, great babblers, mockers. They are debauched, drunkards, gluttons, dressed in tatters, and destitute of money. They are not ashamed to sleep all together on one narrow bed of rotten straw, the servants beside the masters.’

  But when he reaches the peasants of Navarra, whom he does not consider Frenchmen at all, he says with scorn: ‘These people are badly dressed. They eat poorly and drink worse. Using no spoons, they plunge their hands into the common pot and drink from the same goblet. When one sees them feed, one thinks he is seeing pigs in their gluttony; and when one hears them speak, he thinks of dogs baying. They are perverse, perfidious, disloyal, corrupted, voluptuous, expert in every violence, cruel and quarrelsome, and anyone of them would murder a Frenchman for one sou. Shamefully they have sex with animals.’

  This ancient book can still be read with interest, for it evokes the dangers faced by the pilgrims: the water in most of the rivers is contaminated and brings certain death; in many regions food is almost impossible to come by; hospitals are infrequent; and rogues lie in wait to ambush and murder.

  In one group of twenty-five, all but two will perish because they drink from the rivers. Of another, half will be slain by brigands. One morning in Spain we wake to find all our animals stolen. But still we push on, the pilgrims of the cockleshell, en route to salvation.

  To understand the magnificence of this road, consider a few of the pilgrims we might have met upon it:

  778 Charlemagne, legend says, but tomb not discovered till 812

  813 King Alfonso II, to see what has happened at Compostela

  1064 EI Cid Campeador, about to make his dramatic moves

  1130 Aymery de Picaud, author of the French travel guide

  1154 Louis VII of France

  1214 St. Francis of Assisi

  1495 Hermann Künig, author of a German guide

  1719 James III, of Scotland and England

  1939 Marshal Pétain, of France

  1957 Giovanni Roncalli, later Pope John XXIII

  In the blazing summer of 1966 my pilgrimage along the Way of St. James began at a spot south of Pamplona, on a bare and lonely plain marked only by dusty weeds, where the various routes converge for the long westward thrust to Compostela. On this plain I came to the forsaken church of Eunate, surrounded only by haunting emptiness, and I could not have found a more appropriate introduction to the dead art form that was to dominate my pilgrimage. The architecture of this church is Romanesque—that is, it dates from sometime after the beginning of the eleventh century, that transition period when the ancient Roman style of architecture had not yet been replaced by the Gothic. Rome had almost nothing to do with Romanesque; it developed principally from northern sources, but before we try to define what the new style was, or where it came from, let us see how it looks in the church at Eunate.

  Give me my scallop-shell of quiet,

  My staff of faith to walk upon.

  My scrip of joy, immortal diet,

  My bottle of salvation,

  My gown of glory, hope’s true gage,

  And thus I’ll take my pilgrimage.

  —Sir Walter Raleigh

  The principal characteristic of the church is its low, sturdy weight. It is a church that relates to the soil: its arches are low and rounded, as if they preferred to cling to the earth; its pillars are heavy and rooted in the earth; it does not provide enormous Gothic perspectives. It is solid, well proportioned, weighty with the judgment of intellect. The capitals of its pillars are simple and straightforward: walls are neither adorned nor soaring; windows are small and interior vistas are intimate; there is an impression of almost Scandinavian modernity. It has a tower, but not a tall one; it is built with eight sides, for some reason that no one now remembers, and is surrounded by a curious unroofed cloister of austerely beautiful construction.

  The church remains a mystery. To what organization was it attached? What priests served here, what peasants formed its congregation? Who built it and when? Is there truth in the local tradition that it once pertained to the Knights Templars, that tragic order whose memorials we shall see again on this pilgrimage? Was it, as some think, a kind of Valhalla for knights who died fighting the Muslims? There it stands, a simple, lovely Romanesque construction in weathered brown stone, a forgotten memorial to the millions of pilgrims who passed it during its eight or nine hundred years of existence.

  The Romanesque style, which is the master design of northern Spain, was introduced from France, but once it crossed the Pyrenees it was subjected to Visigothic and Moorish influences, so that it became something new and peculiarly Spanish, especially in the sculpture that came to festoon the semicircular arches that topped the massive doorways. Of all the beautiful things I have seen in Spain, I suppose I liked best the Romanesque churches of the north. To me they were a form of poetry both epic and elegaic; the rows of human beings carved in the doorways were people I have known; the use
of space and simple forms produced an impression as modern as tomorrow; and if on my various trips to Spain I had found only these quiet and monumental buildings, I would have been amply rewarded.

  Technically, I suppose one should think of the Spanish portion of the Way of St. James as beginning a little farther to the west, where that remarkable six-arched bridge at Puente la Reina unites the main roads leading down from France. It is one of the most beautiful bridges I know, exactly right for the little town that supported it in pilgrim days. It has two sets of arches, large ones over the river and smaller ones set into the pillars, so that rising waters can pass through in time of flood. The resultant design is so pleasing that I, like many others, have often been content to sit and study its perfection. Thus, at the start of the route we have two handsome structures to serve as a kind of foretaste of what we are to enjoy on this pilgrimage.

  I had been gone from the famous bridge only a short time when I saw ahead of me a small town which has always excited both my imagination and my pleasure. It is the only town in Spain where women are permitted to fight bulls, and because its ancient buildings have been so well preserved it is better able than most to evoke a sense of what life was like in the apex years of pilgrimage. It is the little Navarrese town of Estella, and if I were to live anywhere in Spain, I suppose it would have to be here.

  Prior to 1966 I had made two other pilgrimages to Santiago de Compostela and on one of them had met the distinguished scholar who now greeted me at the edge of town, Don Francisco Beruete Calleja, president of the Center of Jacobean Studies and leading authority on the Way of St. James. Each year he convenes a seminar of scholars from European and American universities and for two weeks conducts discussions on life along the pilgrims’ route.