Iacobus

by Matilde Asensi

  Nobody’s throw came to 7, Jonas’ 3 and mine 12, so I began. The dice gave me five points.

  “Seeing as you got a five on your first throw,” explained Nobody happily, “you have to go straight to square number 53 and throw again.”

  “What nonsense,” scoffed Jonas.

  “Those are the rules of the game, boy,” snapped Nobody with a serious face. “There are also lucky breaks in real life.”

  I picked up the dice and threw again: six and four, ten points in total. I’d gone straight to the last square with only two throws!

  “That’s not fair! I haven’t even started yet,” protested the boy, looking at my piece in the center in disbelief.

  “I already told you,” Nobody patiently explained, “that those are the rules of the game. If your father reached the end with such good luck, it must be for some reason. There are no coincidences. You, Don Galceran, have already reached the finish, you have traveled the route in the fastest way possible. Think about it. Now it’s my turn.”

  He shook the dice between his hands and threw them onto the table. The pieces of bone showed a six and a one. In other words, a total of seven.

  “Have you noticed that the dice, on their opposite scores, always add up to seven, the magic number?” he asked as he moved his piece and placed it on the image of a fisherman.

  “Now it’s my turn …,” said Jonas, reaching for the dice.

  The boy got a three and a four. “Seven as well!” he exclaimed, placing his piece next to Nobody’s.

  “None of that, Garcia,” he said, picking up the green piece of wood. “If a player repeats a previous number on their first turn, they have to stay in the first square. So, back to the beginning.”

  “This game is stupid! I don’t want to play anymore!”

  “If you have started, you must finish it. You must never leave a game half way through, just as you shouldn’t leave a task or a duty without finishing it.”

  The old man shook the dice again and threw them onto the cloth. Four and six, ten, like my last throw. Then it was Jonas’ turn: two and one, three. Then on his third throw, Nobody reached square number 27 which had a goose.

  “From goose to goose, I throw and you can’t refuse!” he shouted excitedly, putting his piece on square number 36 and shaking the bone cubes again. He got a six in total. His red piece of wood moved like lightening to square 42, where, however, a labyrinth stopped him in his tracks.

  “Now I miss a turn and I’ll then have to go back to square 30.”

  “What did you say before?” I asked impressed.

  “That I’ll have to miss a turn.”

  “No, before that!”

  “From goose to goose, I throw and you can’t refuse. Is that what you’re referring to?”

  “From goose to goose …?” I smiled. “Do you know the origin of that saying and its meaning?”

  “As far as I know,” he mumbled moodily, “it’s just a phrase from the game but you seem to know more.”

  “No, no,” I lied, “the verse just amused me.”

  The game continued for a while longer between the two of them. I watched how it unfolded with great interest, because the truth is that that game gave no respite to whoever had to take the slowest route. When Jonas ‘fell’ into the Inn, he missed two throws, in the Well he had to wait until Nobody also ‘fell’ in to be able to get out of there and finally the dice made him get ‘lost’ in the Labyrinth, while Nobody had a good run and jumped ‘from goose to goose’ until the end.

  “Well, if the game is over,” said Jonas, standing up, “let’s go. At this rate we’ll never get to Logroño.”

  “The game is not over, young Garcia. You still haven’t reached Paradise.”

  “What Paradise?”

  “Can’t you see that the last square, the big one in the middle, has a drawing of the garden of Eden? Look at the springs and the lakes, the green meadows and the sun.”

  “I have to finish on my own, without playing against anyone else?” he inquired, surprised. “What a strange game!”

  “The objective of the game is to be the first person to reach the last square but the fact that somebody else gets there before you doesn’t mean that you’ve finished. You have to take your own route, face the difficulties and overcome them before you reach Paradise.”

  “And what happens if I land on that square, the one with the skull?” he said pointing to it.

  “Square 58 is death but in the game death is not final. If you land on it you just have to go back to number 1 and start again.”

  “Fine, I’ll play … but another day. Now I really want to go.”

  There was such sincerity and exhaustion in his voice that Nobody picked up his things and we went out to the stables without saying another word. That night we slept in Logroño and the next day we headed towards Najera and Santo Domingo de la Calzada. The wind and the rain continued to make our journey unpleasant, hindering our progress and excessively tiring the animals who writhed and refused to cooperate with the orders from the bridles. If there is one natural phenomenon that changes one’s mood, it’s the wind. It’s difficult to understand why but just as the sun enlivens the spirit and the rain saddens it, the wind always disturbs and upsets it. I myself felt distrusting and annoyed but in my case, there was a good reason. Upon waking at dawn in Logroño, I had found a note stabbed to the straw of my mattress with a dagger, right next to my face, that said: ‘Beatus vir qui timet dominum’ (31). Just as I had imagined, Count Joffroi of Le Mans was losing his patience and wanted results but what more could I do? I quickly hid the dagger that was holding the letter in my clothes and crumpled the message before throwing it on the floor and kicking it away with my foot. Knowing that the Pope would not harm us until we had at least found the gold did very little to settle my nerves.

  We crossed the wide plain of the River Ebro under an overcast sky, traveling through a landscape of vineyards and work fields, cut at the south by the snowy peaks of the Sierra de la Demanda. After a tough slope, we came across the city of Navarette, a prosperous and artesian village, with very good hospitals for pilgrims. We crossed its street, following the path of the Camino, admiring the numerous emblazoned houses and palaces we saw to our left and right. The locals, more good-natured then most, greeted us with courtesy and kindness.

  Upon leaving Navarrte, the dirt track that was our road crossed the path of Ventosa and gently climbed through the forests to the Alto de San Anton, where it began to rain again.

  “This area is unsafe,” commented Nobody, looking around suspiciously. Unfortunately, bandit attacks were a regular occurrence. “We should pick up some speed and get out of here as quickly as possible.”

  Jonas’ face suddenly lit up.

  “Are there really bandits around here?”

  “And very dangerous ones at that, boy. More than we need. So get your horse moving and let’s go!” he said, spurring his on with bravado and racing downhill.

  Just before we reached Najera, the Camino passed alongside a small hill on the north side.

  “This is the Podium of Roland,” said Nobody, looking at Jonas. “Do you know the story of the giant Ferragut?”

  “I’ve never heard of him in my life.”

  “Liber IV of the Codex Calixtinus,” I pointed out with a certain amount of annoyance from the old man, who seemed to know everything about the Path of the Apostle, “includes the Turpino Chronicle, Archbishop of Reims, who narrates the exploits of Charlemagne in these lands and speaks of the struggle between Roland and Ferragut.”

  “That’s right,” admitted Nobody, nodding his head. “Turpin said that in Najera, the city you see before you, was a giant, family of Goliath, called Ferragut, who had come from the land of Syria with twenty thousand Turks to fight Charlemagne at the request of the Emir of Babylon. Ferragut feared neither lances nor arrows and had the strength of forty strongmen. He measured almost twelve cubits high, his face was almost a cubit long, his nose a palm, his arms and
legs four cubits, and his fingers three palms.” Nobody displayed his tiny, calloused hands as an example of the hands of the giant. “As soon as Charlemagne heard of his existence, he went straight to Najera, and when Ferragut found out that he was there, he left the city and challenged him to a one onone combat. Charlemagne sent his best warriors: First, Ogier the Dacian whom the giant, seeing him alone in the field, slowly approached and in front of everyone picked him up with all his weapons in his right arm and took him back to the city as if he were a gentle lamb. When Charlemagne sent Rinaldo of Montelban, Ferragut again picked him up with one arm and took him to the jail in Najera. He then sent the King of Rome, Constantine, and Count Hoel, and Ferragut picked them both up, one is his right arm and the other in his left, and put them in jail. Last, he sent twenty fighters, two by two, and he locked them up as well. Given this, and amid the general expectation, Charlemagne did not dare send anyone else to fight him.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “Then, one day, Charlemagne’s bravest knight, Roland, appeared. Standing on top of that hill you see there, he saw the giant’s castle in Najera and when Ferragut appeared at the door, he picked up a round rock from the ground, weighing about two arrobas, carefully measured the distance and, taking a run up, threw the rock with force, hitting the giant between the eyes and bringing him to the ground. Ever since, that hill has been know as the Podium of Ronald (32).”

  “But do you know the best bit about that feat, Garcia?” I asked my son with a smile on my lips. “That the story proves that Charlemagne never entered Spanish territory. He stopped in the Pyrenees, in Roncesvalles, and didn’t go any further. Remember the Cemetery of Alyscamps in Arles, where according to legend ten thousand warriors from Charlemagne’s army rest? That means that he could never have reached Najera. What do you think of that?”

  The boy looked at me puzzled and then laughed, swinging his head from side to side with the condescension of an old sage who does not understand the world. Nobody also laughed loudly, echoing my laugh.

  We continued our journey, leaving Huercanos to the right and Aleson to the left, and shortly after we arrived in Najera, crossing a bridge with seven arches over the River Najerilla. Najera had suffered greatly as a border city between Navarre and Castile and repeatedly suffered the conflicts between both kingdoms until its final incorporation into Castile. We found shelter at the noble Monastery of Royal St. Mary, founded three hundred years before by a person with the same namesake as Jonas, Garcia I of Najera. We prepared our mattresses with plenty of crunchy rye straw and soft sheep skins, willingly ate the delicious food we were served (barley bread, bacon, cheese and fresh beans) and went in search of the elusive Sara, making use of our pilgrim staffs. On that occasion, to my regret, I could not shake off Jonas or Nobody.

  With the remaining light of dusk, we crossed the sturdy oak and iron doors of the city’s great aljama. It was hellishly cold and a thick damp seeped through our clothes to our bones. Unlike in Estella, Najera had great respect for the Israelites who, living without the fear of being insulted by the Gentiles, had set up businesses in all of the neighborhoods and in all of the main streets of the city center in particular around the market place and the Palace of Doña Toda.

  The layout of the aljama in Najera was identical to the Jewish quarter in Paris and to the calls and juderias of Aragon and Navarre: tight streets, ramparts, courtyards and small houses with wooden bars on the windows, public toilets, etc. The Hebrews, wherever they were and across borders and cultures, were a people ardently united by the Torah, and their neighborhoods (authentic walled cities within Christian cities themselves) kept them safe from the beliefs, customs and behaviors of others. Their fear of an unexpected exodus led them to perform tasks that did not require them owning possessions that would be difficult to transport in the case of an expulsion which is why most of them were great scholars and appreciated artisans, although those who engaged in usury and made fat profits, or those who collected the tithes for the Christian kings, awoke a deep hatred amongst the Christians.

  In the streets of the aljama, we asked everyone we came across if they had heard of a French Jewish woman named Sara who must have passed through that same day or maybe the day before but nobody could tell us anything definite. When at last somebody told us it would be a good idea to speak to Judah Ben Maimon, a renowned silk dealer whose establishment was a meeting point for the muccadim of the Najerense juderia, we decided to pay him a visit because if the Frenchwoman had passed through there, he would know for sure and could give us some information.

  Judah Ben Maimon was a venerable old man with long, white, curly sideburns. His wrinkled face was serious and his black eyes shone brightly by the light of the fire. A pungent smell of dye permeated the narrow yet opulent shop and very beautiful iridescent fabrics hung from the ceiling, covered in clothes racks which shimmered in the light of the flames. To the side and to the front of the counter were shelves stacked with boxes of Persian and Moorish silk which was the only furniture in the shop.

  “How can I help you, noble gentlemen?”

  “Shalom, Judah Ben Maimon,” I said, talking a step towards him. “They say that you are the best man to tell us about a Jewish woman who must have come through Najera in the last few hours. Her name is Sara and she’s from Paris.”

  Judah paused for a moment and tilted his head in question.

  “What do you want with her?” he asked.

  “We met her not long ago in her city, and a few days ago in Puente la Reina we were informed that like us she is on her way to Burgos. We would like to see her again and we don’t think she will mind that we’re looking for her.”

  The Jew began to drum his fingers on the counter while he lowered his head as if he were making an important decision. After a while he raised it again and looked at us.

  “What are your names?”

  “I am Don Galceran of Born, on a pilgrimage to Santiago, and this is my son, Garcia. The old man is a traveling companion who has kindly joined us.”

  “O.K.. Wait here,” he said, disappearing through the curtains behind him.

  The boy and I looked at each other, puzzled. I raised my eyebrows to show my perplexity and in response he shrugged his shoulders. I still hadn’t lowered my eyebrows when the curtains were pulled back again and the stunned face of Sara appeared before us.

  “But how is this possible …?” she asked, raising her voice.

  “Sara the witch!” I said, chuckling. “Where have you left your talking crow?”

  “He stayed in Paris, at my neighbor’s house. I sold all of my witchcraft supplies to him.”

  She smiled. What a charming smile! I was certainly under some sort of spell since I couldn’t stop looking at her. Through a non-existent mist I noticed that she wore her hair pulled back behind her head in a hairnet, that her pearly skin had taken on a nice golden color, no doubt due to her journey, and that the constellations of moles and freckles remained in their respective places, just as I remembered, although perhaps a little too well. Just like the other times I had been with her, I had to exercise a tight control over my emotions.

  I realized that I was in the exact situation that I had wanted to avoid when I found Sara. She knew that Jonas was my son but had promised to treat him as my squire which is what the boy thought he was, however there was Nobody, who, thanks to a lie, thought that Jonas was my actual son, as he indeed was. Now what should I do? I had to quickly take control of the situation, before I made an irreparable slip-up.

  “Here is my son Garcia, do you remember him, Sara?”

  Sara looked at me without understanding but since she was an insightful woman she rose to the occasion as soon as she saw me glance towards the old man.

  “It’s good to see you, Garcia,” she said, standing on tiptoe to tousle Jonas’ disheveled hair. “I see that you are still growing and are now as tall as your father.”

  “And I’m glad that you didn’t bring your crow,” said Jonas
as his way of a greeting, although despite the bluntness of his words, his mouth curved into a smile and the bright red flush on his cheeks showed how happy he was to see her again.

  “And this, Sara,” I said, continuing with the greetings and presentations, “this is Nobody, a traveling companion who has generously helped us to find you.”

  “What a strange name! What did you say you’re called?”

  “I’m called Nobody, Doña Sara. It was Don Galceran who gave me this name, although,” he quickly pointed out, “I do have a more suitable name for my occupation as a traveler and a trader. But seeing as I like Nobody, if it doesn’t make you uncomfortable, you can call me that.”

  “Of course, sir, everyone is free to be called as they wish.”

  “And you, Sara?” I asked without taking my eyes off her. “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s a long story for the short time that has passed since you left Paris. And now is not the time to tell it. The important thing is knowing whether or not you’ve had dinner, and if you haven’t, whether you would like to share the humble food of the Ben Maimons.”