Iacobus

by Matilde Asensi

  We could barely make out the first houses in Puente la Reina when I drew Jonas’ attention to the tower of the church in front of us: Although it began with a strong, square shape, it ended in a beautiful, delicate, octagonal dome. The boy smiled at me knowingly. We later found out that it was the parish church of the village of Murugarren district, the Church of Our Lady of Orzs, property of the Templars until the dissolution of the Order. It seemed that King Garcia VI had given the village over to the Knights of the Temple in 1142 on the condition that they took in the propter Amoren Dei pilgrims. That tradition of hospitality was still very deeply rooted and alive in that area.

  Although all the pilgrims who like us entered the city stopped at the parish church of Our Lady of Orzs (23) to pray, Jonas and I continued to commit ourselves to the pilgrim ruas. We were hungry and wanted to rest, so we left the prayer and mandatory visits for later and headed towards the other side of the town, to the pilgrim’s inn located next to one of the city’s two hospitals. We passed by the Church of St. James which had a beautiful Mozarabic door, and crossed the rua Mayor, flanked with numerous palaces and homes with lineage — the noble shields could be seen on the gangways —. At the end of the road was the famous bridge that gave its name and fame to the city.

  Never, in all my years or during my many journeys, had I seen a bridge of such merit, as elegant and light as the bridge of Puente la Reina. It seemed to rise from its base as if by magic and its image was so perfectly reflected in the water that it was hard to tell where the real bridge began and where its reflection ended. Six arches and five pillars accented by small arches kept the stone floating in the air and facilitated the Jacobean pilgrim’s passage over the River Arga. It was Queen Doña Mayor, wife of Sancho Garces III, King of Navarre, who ordered for the beautiful bridge to be built. But who was the pontifex (24)? Although I would never find out his identity, I’m sure he was an initiated master. And Jonas’ shrewd insight did not disappoint me.

  “What I don’t understand,” he said frowning, with an ominous tone, “is why they built this bridge like a steep hill, so we have to walk to the top of the bridge before we can see what is waiting for us on the other side. And we’re tired enough as it is!”

  “This beautiful bridge with two slopes is another symbol of the many that we are finding along the Camino. You should analyze its structure in detail and give the message an opportunity.”

  “You mean to say that instead of building a comfortable bridge with a flat crossing, they built this horrible ramp, this punishment for walkers, on purpose?”

  “Well, yes …, that’s more or less the idea.”

  “I don’t understand it at all!”

  I sighed. This son of mine had no middle ground. He either showed an amazing intelligence and the curiosity of a wise man, or, faced with the most insignificant physical discomforts, he became stupid and stubborn like a mule.

  At the inn we stuffed ourselves on roast kid with chickpeas and sweet squash and took a good nap on comfortable mattresses. At midday we were ready to visit the city.

  “I think it’s going to rain,” said the boy as we went outside, looking up at the sky covered with clouds.

  “Maybe, which is why we should get a move on.”

  “I’ve been meaning to tell you something, sire.”

  “What is it?” I asked distractedly as we were walking over the extraordinary bridge again.

  “Do you remember that count who threatened you in Saint Gilles?”

  I came to a stop on the top of the bridge. The city seemed to be drowning in a foggy haze at our feet.

  “Yes. What about him?”

  “He’s been following us since we passed through Obanos.”

  “He’s been following us since we left Avignon,” I growled, resuming my pace.

  “True, sire, but now he’s being more brazen about it. I’m telling you this because I think he wants to talk to you again.”

  “If he wants to talk to me he knows what he has to do!”

  My mood was suddenly as black as the afternoon. I was no longer interested in visiting the city. The sad truth was that I didn’t have a single damn clue that would lead me to the gold — except, perhaps, the insignificant capital in Eunate which could end up being nothing more than an error by the master mason — and Joffroi of Le Mans knew it, he knew that my hands were empty. That’s why he was trying to intimidate me. His ostentation was nothing more than pressure. I was perfectly aware of my failure without all of his bravado. A dreadful thunderbolt clapped in the sky and remained vibrating in the air, as if it had split the universe in half with a stone and the pieces were crumbling.

  “It’s about to rain, sire.”

  “Fine. Let’s go into that tavern,” I grumbled.

  Hanging over the door was a crude wooden carving of a small undulating snake, hanging from an iron pin. Underneath it, in Gothic letters, was the word: ‘Coluver’ (25).

  “The owner must be French,” I said as I pushed the door open.

  “The owner and all his customers,” added Jonas, surprised, when we were inside.

  An impassable mass of villagers and Franc pilgrims filled the tavern with an awful racket. I instinctively covered my nose with my hand to avoid smelling the unpleasant odor of human underarms.

  “There’s not a damn table in this place!” I shouted to the boy, with my mouth to his ear.

  “What?” he shouted back.

  “I said, there’s not a damn table in this place!”

  “Look!” he yelled without paying any attention to me, pointing to a dark corner at the back. There, under a string of red meats hung out to dry, a bare, scrawny arm was waving us over. At first I didn’t recognize its owner but then his features became familiar and I finally put a name to his face. Well, a name so to speak. There was Nobody, the old man from the Hospital of St. Christine, happily waving at us and offering us a place next to him on the long bench crowded with people.

  It wasn’t easy to make our way over to him, pushing through the crowd. With each step we received the moans of a load of drunken Francs.

  “Sir Galceran!” exclaimed the old man when we were next to him. “Garcia, dear boy! What a great joy to find you here!”

  “How did you get to Puente la Reina before us, old man?” asked Jonas, with his eyes full of admiration as we sat down next to him.

  “I did part of the Camino by carriage, in the company of Bretons who were in a rush to reach Santiago. I stayed here, in Puente la Reina, to rest; at my age you can’t overdo things.”

  “Well, we didn’t see you.”

  “I didn’t see you either and I was looking out for you. Those Bretons liked to travel at night. I’m sure that you would have been inside a temple when our paths crossed, or sleeping next to the trail.”

  “Maybe,” I agreed reluctantly, banging on the table to get the attention of the tavern keeper.

  “Have you seen much up until now, young Garcia?”

  “Oh, yes, old man! I have seen lots and I have learned lots.”

  “Tell me, tell me, I can’t wait to hear!”

  Those were the magic words that opened the floodgates of Jonas’ verbiage which was always ready to explode. I remember feeling terrified that he would say more than he should but fortunately, the boy kept hold of his sense despite his immaturity. He began to tell the old man, in great detail, of his own personal reflections regarding the legends of the Holy Grail, and then went at full speed with the grueling details of his future career as a Knight of the Grail. Meanwhile, the tavern keeper brought us our drinks (an excellent wine from the region for me and barley water for the boy) and I got lost in my thoughts while I examined the crowd arround us.

  A group of Franc pilgrims had been loudly singing some happy narrative poems in the Provençal language for a while, marking a very cheerful rhythm by banging jars on the table and clapping and whistling. As the noise in the bar was so loud, I hadn’t paid any attention to them at first. But something, I don’t kn
ow what, made me prick my ears up and listen while the blood unexpectedly drained from my face; the words to that ditty told of a French Jewish woman who had come to Spain to visit Burgos and had been propositioned by her fellow travelers to no avail, who seemed eager to count the infinite moles that covered her body, one by one. They had to leave her alone because, as they were pilgrims, they didn’t want to sin against St. Mary but in the end the song revealed that they found out that the Jew was a witch and she had threatened to leave them bald and with no teeth if they continued with their insinuations.

  I grabbed Jonas by the arm and pulled it, turning him towards me.

  “Listen!” I ordered brusquely.

  Between roars and laughter, the Francs were beginning the ditty again, and because the verses were easy to remember, other groups began to join in. Jonas listened and then looked at me.

  “Sara!” he exclaimed excitedly. “I’m sure it is.”

  “Who’s Sara?” asked Nobody, curiously.

  “An acquaintance of ours, who we left not long ago in Paris.”

  “Well, I don’t think she’s there anymore, if what the song says is true,” replied the old man.

  The boy and I ignored him, listening only to the song.

  “I’m going to find out,” said Jonas, standing up.

  “It’s best if I go,” I stopped him, making him sit back down. “They’ll laugh at you.”

  I made my way through the crowd until I reached the group of pilgrims and bent down to the dirty ear of the Franc who seemed to be leading the commotion. The big man listened to me, looked at me at length, seemed to think for a while and then burst out laughing and, gesturing to his companions, he got up and took me aside.

  “Absolutely, sire,” he said with a smile, “The Jew from the song is called Sara. Just yesterday she separated from us and joined a group of Jews who were traveling to Leon.”

  “And do you know where she’s headed?”

  “Our song already said, micer! To Burgos. It seems that there is a man waiting for her there. She was in a real rush to get there which is why she left us. The Jews she went with were traveling faster than us. And we’re doing the route using the fastest wagons in France! It’s only taken us two weeks to complete the route from Paris.”

  “How far away do you think she could be now?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know,” he muttered, pinching his bottom lip between his fingers. “She could be two or three days away by horse. I don’t think she could be any further.”

  I thanked him and went back to Jonas and Nobody, who were waiting for me impatiently.

  “Was it Sara?” the boy asked eagerly.

  “Yes, it was her. The Frenchman confirmed it.”

  “And what’s she doing here?”

  “I’m not too sure,” I replied, taking a swig of wine; my throat was as dry as tow. “But she’s only a few miles from here. Two or three days on horseback, maximum.”

  “Do you want to catch up with her?” asked Nobody, in a strange tone.

  “We are pilgrims without means and cannot buy horses,” I told him, rudely.

  “That’s easy enough to sort out. I’m not fulfilling a penance of poverty, so I can buy horses for the three of us.”

  “You’re very kind but I doubt that you have sufficient means,” I uttered, trying to offend him. But Nobody was not a knight who had to defend his honor; he didn’t even have a trace of nobility or lineage, he seemed more like a poor merchant.

  “The means I have is my business, sire. I don’t want to concern you with that matter. I am offering you the chance to catch up with your friend. Do you accept?”

  “No. We cannot accept your generosity.”

  “We can’t?” asked Jonas, surprised.

  “No, we can’t,” I repeated, staring into his eyes to get him to shut up.

  “But I don’t see why not,” insisted the old man. “There are some very good stables behind the Hospital of St. Peter, with first class saddles, and I know the owner. He will sell us the animals we want for a reasonable price.”

  “Are you sure, father, that we can’t?” insisted the boy, emphasizing the word father, using it like a knife.

  I gave him a deathly glare that bounced like an arrow off a shield. That stupid novicius would be in for it when we got back to the inn.

  “Think about it, Don Galceran. You will reach Santiago faster without breaking your vows of poverty.”

  I knew that I shouldn’t, I knew that I had a mission to fulfill and that traveling by horse meant missing important clues, I knew that Count Joffroi was on our heels and was watching our every move, and I knew that above all — what was it making me run after that Jewish woman? — I had never gone against an order.

  “O.K., old man, I accept your offer.”

  Satisfaction spread over Jonas’ face, while the old man stood up from the table with a smile.

  “Well, let’s go then. We barely have enough time to buy the animals and leave for Estella. We will spend the night there.”

  It crossed my mind that Nobody was one of those people who, unable to make friends any other way, bought them with gifts and favors, and that once he had them (or thought that he had them), he took over the agreement, taking the lives of others into his own hands and making them his victims, until they, never in a polite way, since there is no other way to end these tiring relationships, ended up running away in desperation. The second thing I thought at that moment was that we had fallen into a deadly trap in which Nobody was the spider and Jonas and I the small, defenseless insects that were going to be served for dinner. And the third thing was that if we went with him to buy the horses, we wouldn’t have time to visit Our Lady of Orzs, the old Templar church.

  “There’s something we must do before we leave, Jonas.” The boy nodded.

  “What is it?” asked Nobody impatiently.

  “Visit the parish church of Murugarren. We can’t leave Puente la Reina without having prayed to Our Lady.”

  There was a look of disappointment on the old man’s face.

  “I don’t think that is essential. It’s just another church, one church of many. You can pray to the Blessed Virgin in many other places.”

  “I’m surprised that an old pilgrim like you would say such a thing.”

  “Well, it shouldn’t surprise you,” he replied bitterly but straight away he changed his tone, softening his voice. “You must understand that because I know the route of the Apostle so well, I know that it’s not short of Marian devotion sites where you can pray.”

  “We know that but it’s possible that we, unlike yourself, will never return to these parts.”

  Nobody looked like he was thinking.

  “At least let the boy come with me,” he said in the end. “His opinion will be very helpful when choosing our saddles.”

  “Yes, please, let me go with him,” begged my stupid son, imploringly.

  “Fine,” I gave in, although I didn’t want to. “Go with him to buy the horses. We’ll meet at the inn within the hour.”

  Why, I asked myself, as I walked alone along the rua Mayor, why all of this? Why did I accept to travel by horse? Why am I letting the old man interfere in our lives? Why am I neglecting my first and foremost duty, a mission in which the Papacy and the Hospital of St. John have important interests? Why am I neglecting what is best for my son, his gradual initiation into the Mysteries, impossible to carry out in the company of Nobody? Why am I defying Count Le Mans like this? Why? Why? Why?

  The parish church — and I couldn’t deny its Templar origin — had a strange structure split into two identical naves (rather than a single nave or three naves, as is normal), although one of them was an adjacent chapel, lacking an altar and a sacred statue. In the first, a Virgin sat on a throne with a child on her lap, staring blankly at the space in front of her, as if nothing that happened there could affect her in any way. It was the statue of St. Mary of Orzs, a neat and well-carved sculpture but of no interest to me. Had
the Templars missed Puente la Reina? I didn’t think so, so I rather anxiously headed towards the second nave.

  Strangely, the apse was covered by a heavy, black cloth which, of course, arose my curiosity. What could be behind it? A church doesn’t have an empty nave for no reason, there had to be some compelling reason for such a puzzling occurrence, and seeing as I couldn’t see any signs of building work or scaffolding that justified this protection, the cover must be for some other reason. I didn’t hesitate, and at the risk of being reprimanded by one of the pilgrims who was praying there at the time, I lifted one of the bottom corners of the cloth.

  “What are you doing?” shouted a high-pitched voice in the silence of the temple.

  “I’m looking. Aren’t I allowed to?” I replied without letting go of the cloth.

  “No, you’re not.”

  “This is not forbidden,” I said, hastily scanning what was underneath.

  “Let go of that cloth right now or I’ll have to call the guards!”

  I couldn’t believe what I saw before me … I just couldn’t believe it. I had to remember all of the details. I needed time to get a good look at it.

  “And who do you think you are, shouting in a church?” I asked stupidly, trying to keep the owner of the voice occupied. His footsteps were quickly approaching through the nave.

  “I’m a member of the brotherhood of this parish!” said the voice just a second later, now next to my ear, at the same time as an old, frail hand crushed the fabric against the wall, concluding my inspection, “I’m the person in charge of its custody and supervision. “And who are you?”

  “A pilgrim of the Camino de Santiago, just a pilgrim,” I exclaimed feigning distress. “My curiosity got the better of me. Tell me, who painted these beautiful paintings?”

  “The German master, Johan Oliver,” explained the mean watchman. “But as you can see, they are not finished. Which is why you can’t look at them.”