Iacobus

by Matilde Asensi

  Invisible unless the sun was shining on it, and only from a certain point of the arch — the slightest variation to one side or another would have made the image disappear —, a cross in the shape of a Tau could be made out on the wall of Oria’s cell. Sara was looking as hard as she could but couldn’t see anything.

  “The Tau! The Tau again!” said Jonas triumphantly.

  “What do you mean again?” I asked, surprised.

  “Didn’t you tell me that you found another one in the Cathedral of Jaca?”

  Another, another, another … Jonas’ words bounced around in my head, as if someone was shouting inside a deep cave and the echo came back over and over again. Another Tau. Yes, another Tau in Jaca, in the cathedral, in the Chapel of St. Orosia. St. Orosia, Orosia … Oria, St. Oria. Christ! It couldn’t be! It was too beautiful! Too obvious! The distortion of the names of the alleged saints had confused me. In both, the key was in the Latin diphthong ‘au’ which had become, as in French, ‘or’. ‘Au’ from ‘Aureus’, gold, and Oria came from ‘Aurea’ which means ‘from gold’, and Orosia, ‘Aurosea’, ‘from the color of the gold’, both were very well signaled by their respective Taus. ‘Tau-Aureus’, as Manrique of Mendoza’s message to his companion Evrard stated, ‘the sign of the gold’. That’s what the two lions on the tympanum at the Cathedral of Jaca were roaring, for whoever knew how to hear them.

  “Jonas!” I shouted. “Go down to the village of San Millan de Yuso and find accommodation for the night. Don’t worry about the price! And take Sara with you!”

  I ran up the hill like a man possessed and began to look for rocks and branches that I could use as a mallet and chisel, tools that I would need that night to knock down the wall of that poor girl’s tomb, the girl whose actual physical existence I was seriously beginning to doubt. Creating legends, myths, changing lives, constructing saints or blessing false relics is a well-established habit of the Roman Church.

  “You’ve found it, have you?”

  The voice made me jump. I turned to my left and came face to face with Count Joffroi of Le Mans. His sinister appearance shocked me again. Despite his clothes, which were without a doubt very elegant, his great girth and that rocky, overhanging forehead gave him a distinctly criminal look.

  “In the tomb of St. Oria, correct?” he continued.

  What was the point of getting angry? Before me was the representative of the Pope in person, John XXII himself, disguised as a soldier avidly awaiting his gold. Whatever I had found wasn’t mine and never would be, so why get in a rage over it?

  “Correct,” I muttered with distaste, “in the tomb of St. Oria. You just need to knock down the wall that’s covering it. It’s most likely been buried under the ground or behind a rock in the walls of the cave. It won’t be difficult to find.”

  “That’s my job, freire. You have finished. Continue your journey.”

  “You are mistaken, Count,” I exclaimed with rage. “We have not finished at all. If you wish to know, what is hidden in the tomb of St. Oria is but a small part, a tiny amount of the riches that are hidden along the Camino. And I need to be there when you dig it up because there may be some sign that helps me to continue the search. You can also find more gold in the Cathedral of Jaca. Send a messenger, or whoever you wish. In the chapel of the town’s patron saint, St. Orosia, most likely behind the wall with the figurine of a seated Virgin carrying a Tau-shaped cross, you will find what is probably the first batch of Templar gold on this side of the Pyrenees. But listen carefully: I demand a detailed list of everything you find.”

  Le Mans looked at me expressionless, and after a while, he nodded. It was likely that he was limited to follow out a more or less routine job but I had grown to hate him so much, more than anyone else in the world, that I considered him to be my main enemy.

  “Neither the woman nor the boy can be there, only you.”

  “Very well,” I replied, and turning my back on him I walked down the hill, no longer worried about whether they would need me for that night’s work. Wasn’t the Count in charge of the treasure? Well, he could also be in charge of all the heavy work. I wasn’t going to lift a finger to uncover it. Deep down, he was right. My only obligation was to find it; the rest was up to him.

  Jonas was impatient to hear what had happened. He and Sara were waiting for me at the entrance to the inn, sitting next to a fire with a group of Breton pilgrims. When they saw me, the boy jumped and wanted to stand up and run over to me. However, a concealed gesture from Sara, who gently held his hand, stopped him. Again I realized that that Jew was an admirable woman. She didn’t know anything about what I was doing but instead of asking, inquiring or fishing for information, she calmly accepted the mystery and kept watch over the boy’s passionate temperament so as not to arouse anyone’s suspicions, as if she could sense that there were many eyes watching us.

  Without saying a word, I sat next to them and we stayed to chat with the Bretons until dinner time, drinking an excellent wine they were carrying in a goat skin that was being handed around. The monks served us bowls of thick onion and squash soup, accompanied by bits of dry bacon and loaves of wheat bread.

  At the end of the night, when everyone had retired to rest, I went back up to Suso to meet the Count. The same forest that had felt placid and pleasant during the day seemed sinister in the dark. My footsteps crunched on the dry leaves and all around me, in the tops of the trees, the long-eared owls hooted and the barn owls screached. The dim flame of my tallow lamp shuddered and suffocated with the cold breeze that blew through the grove. I was grateful for Le Man’s dagger, which I carried in my belt, although if a dangerous gang of thieves had attacked me at that moment, I wouldn’t have felt any worse than I felt when I finally arrived at the old monastery and reached the tomb of St. Oria.

  Some wooden planks resting on the rock covered the entrance to the crypt which was now open since the wall that enclosed it had disappeared. There were piles of rubble everywhere and not a soul was to be seen as if the world had become uninhabited due to some curse. Inside the cell, the floor had been dug out and there was a wooden ladder leaning inside a slightly larger-than-normal well. When I got closer, from the light of my tallow lamp which I held above my head I could see a small, empty chamber, a completely empty cellar, with the exception of several rolls of abandoned hemp ropes. The bloody count couldn’t wait to get his hands on the treasure.

  “Jofrooooooi!” I yelled in the silence of the night with all the strength that rage and helplessness gave my lungs. But I didn’t get an answer. I was chocked with indignation, I was seething with rage.

  I didn’t give Sara or the boy any explanation even though they were both dying to know what had happened and why I was in such in a bad mood. Ignoring them, I shut myself in a hermetic silence and the next day, without saying a word, we began walking the next stretch. I didn’t stop to think about what had happened. Did the Pope and my Order give such little value towhat I was doing? Had they given that bastard, Le Mans, instructions to act behind my back, to disregard me and treat me like a servant? Could they have maybe thought that I was going to steal the gold? At that moment it was like I had gone back to the beginning: empty-handed because of the blindness and greed of those who were comfortably awaiting the benefit of my work back in Avignon. Perhaps there was nothing amongst those treasures in the cell that would have helped me continue with my investigation but what if there was? And what if that stupid Le Mans had ruined something important? There was no point in getting angry. In any case, the bad deed had already been done.

  We passed through Santo Domingo de la Calzada (35) and Jonas and I worshiped at his tomb, as is the tradition of the Camino. The peace that filled the inside of the temple slowly began to calm me down. I took advantage of that brief separation from Sara to fill the boy in on what had happened. After listening until the end, he was engrossed looking at the wooden birdcage that housed two white-feathered poultry (in commemoration of a miracle performed by St. Dominic,
who resurrected an innocent man who had been unjustly hanged). Then, lowering his head, he said:

  “I’m sorry to say, sire, but Le Mans is just a henchman of His Holiness. From what we know of him, he wouldn’t be able to do anything that his master had not ordered. May God forgive me for speaking badly of the Pope,” — why did I get the feeling, listening to him, that it was a man and not a boy who was speaking? What huge changes from one day to the next! I wished with all my heart that when the wheel of transformation stopped spinning, that the end result was as admirable as that which stood before me —, “but I think that the Count only did what he was ordered to do.”

  “Which proves, once again,” I added, following on his reasoning, “that we are being used by company with little honor or dignity.”

  The rooster then began to sing unexpectedly in his cage. There was a buzz inside the church. Jonas and I looked at each other puzzled and looked around for an explanation to that racket. An old Lombard dressed in a pilgrim’s outfit smiled at us.

  “The rooster has sung!” he said in his language, blowing out air and saliva between the few teeth he had left. “Anyone who hears it will have good luck from here on in for the Camino.”

  On the day of the autumnal equinox, September 21st, we left Santo Domingo crossing the bridge over the River Oja and followed the road that led to Radicella (36).

  We crossed Belfuratus (37), Tosantos, Villambista, Espinosa and San Felices walking along path full of puddles and stones that destroyed our leather sandals and in the evening, after crossing the River Oca (38), we arrived — tired, hungry and dirty — in Villafranca, Navarre’s western border with the kingdom of Castile which, according to our guide Aymeric, ‘is a land full of treasures, gold, silver, rich cloths and vigorous horses; plenty of bread, wine, meat, fish, milk and honey. However, it lacks trees and is full of evil and vicious men’. The truth is that the water was not very calm in Castile and the country was not a very safe place in those times. Following the death of King Ferdinand IV, his mother, Queen Maria of Molina, had frequent disputes with the kingdom’s princes (her own children and son-in-laws) due to the regency of the present King Alfonso XI, a minor. These disputes often turned into bloody clashes that left hundreds dead in every corner of the kingdom. That September of 1317, things had quietened down a little due to an agreement stating that Queen Mary had become the King’s legal guardian, along with Prince Peter, the boy’s uncle, and Prince John, his great-uncle, as he was the son of Alfonso X, given the epithet of the Wise.

  For one thing, contrary to what our guide said about the lack of trees in Castile, the next day we would have to cross the wooded Montes de Oca (39), a brief but extremely tough leg of our journey, so that night we rested to regain our lost strength.

  We found accommodation at the church’s guest house and because poor Sara’s feet were swollen up like wine bottles, I had to prepare a remedy from a base of cow marrow and fresh lard.

  “You see?” she commented jokingly. “My feet have grown.” Seeing as the pain in her back didn’t allow her to apply it properly, I ordered Jonas to help her. It was a predicament for the boy, who turned a scarlet color and began to sweat despite the cold in the room, where just the three of us were staying but it would have been much more dangerous and sinful for me, as I would have surely sweated just as much or even more than my son, breaching my vows in such a way. However, what I did do was wrap her feet in very hot cloth to finish off the healing but not without first sinfully noticing that her toes were incredibly agile and flexible, almost like her fingers, and my heart raced when I saw that there were also moles on them. When I raised my eyes, Sara was looking at me in such a special way that I felt it in areas that were prohibited for me so, with a great effort, I had to calm myself and look away.

  The strange name of the mountains hadn’t escaped my attention. It was very significant that the gateway to Castile was so eloquently marked by the Goose, as it was not just the mountains but also the river, the statue of Our Lady of the Goose (40), who remained in the parish church, and the town itself which before being called Villafranca, or Town of the Franks, due to the custom of the pilgrims naming it as such, had also received the name of Oca, or Goose. I couldn’t stop thinking while I was trying to get to sleep, shivering with cold and with an almost empty stomach, that there must be some unknown relationship between the sacred animal, the initiatory game that old Nobody had taught us, the gateway to Castile and the symbol of the Goose Foot used by the initiated stonemasons, builders and bridge builder brotherhoods.

  The next day started off overcast but, as the sun rose in the sky, the clouds cleared and the sun became strong and firm. After a breakfast of some bread crusts soaked in water and a few pieces of sheep cheese given to us by a shepherd, we spent some time cleaning and greasing the straps of our sandals, while Sara washed our shirts, robes, cloaks and breeches in the river which had been screaming out to be washed for weeks. I built a timber frame in the shape of a cross with various crosspieces which I attached to Jonas’ shoulders and we hung the clothes there to be dried by the sun while we continued with our journey.

  We began the steep climb from inside the village itself. The road soon became a carpet of oak leaves, yellows and ochers, that had fallen during autumn and crunched beneath our steps. Even though it was not a long way, the climb was endless and to make matters worse we almost got lost in a thick forest of pine and fir trees, where I could sense the presence of wolves and thieves. But the rooster at the Temple of St. Dominic brought us luck and we came out of there safe and sound but worn out. Finally, at around midday, we reached the highest point of the Pedraja Moors and began our descent, crossing the Peroja Stream. With the sun at its highest, we reached the Hospital of Valdefuentes, a real haven for any passer-by to rest, with a spring with fresh, clean water that delighted us.

  A group of Burgundian pilgrims from Autun livened up the surrounding area of the hospital with their banter and revelry. We asked them which of the two roads they thought best to take because from that point the track split into two, to later join up in Burgos.

  “Tomorrow we will be taking the route of St. John of Ortega (41),” said one of the lads in the group, whose name was Guillaume, “because that is the route recommended by our countryman Aymeric Picaud.”

  “We have also been following his directions.”

  “His fame is universal,” he said with pride, “given the large number of pilgrims that travel the Camino de Santiago every year. If you get going now, you will reach the village of San Juan de Ortega while it’s still light, and the inn at the monastery is famous for its excellent hospitality.”

  The young Burgundian was right. Having followed an intricate path that crossed the forest, we stumbled upon the apse of the temple and we followed it around until we came to a courtyard with the inn to the right where we were welcomed with warmth and sympathy by the old monk in charge of looking after the pilgrims. The cleric was an old windbag and was delighted to listen to the adventures of those who came his way. He placed huge amounts of food on the table and offered to show us the church and the saint’s tomb when we were finished.

  “St. John of Ortega, he was called, or in the rest of the world, John of Quintanaortuño, and he was born here in the year one thousand and eighty,” he explained to Jonas and I as we walked around the courtyard towards the two twin entrance doors of the main facade. Sara, respectful but indifferent to our Christian fervor, had stayed behind at the inn to rest. “People considered him to be a simple collaborator of St. Dominic of the Causeway, who is much more famous for having cleared the trees of the forest between Najera and Redecilla, using a simple sickle to construct that part of the Camino.” His tone indicated that the feat of St. Dominic was not of great importance to him. “But John of Quintanaortuño was much more than just a collaborator. John of Quintanaortuño was the real architect of the Camino de Santiago, because although St. Dominic cleared the forest, built a bridge over the River Oja and a church and a
hospital for pilgrims, St. John of Ortega built the Logroño Bridge, rebuilt the bridge over the River Najerilla, built the Hospital of St. James in the city and this church and this inn to help the people traveling along the Camino de Santiago.”

  We had entered the small sanctuary, gently illuminated by the light filtering through the alabasters on the windows. A deafening buzz of flies circling the nave drowned out the voice of the priest. The stone tomb, heavily carved on all sides, was placed before the altar, and there it remained, alone and silent, utterly indifferent to our presence. The priest pulled us to one side.

  “Sterile women come here a lot,” he continued. “St. John’s popularity is largely due to his miracles of restoring fertility. And this blessed ornament is greatly to blame,” he said while pointing to the capital above our heads, the one on the left apse which depicted the scene of the Annunciation to Mary. “But I think that our saint deserves better fame which is why I am compiling the numerous miracles that he performed of healing the sick and resuscitating the dead.”

  “Resuscitating the dead?”

  “Oh, yes! Our St. John returned life to more than one poor deceased person.”

  Was it a coincidence …? I didn’t think so; I had stopped believing in coincidences a long time ago. While this conversation was taking place, a ray of light that shone through the middle ogive of the transept began to illuminate the head of the angel who told Mary of her future motherhood. I was dumbfounded.

  “Yes, it is pretty,” said the old man, observing my distraction, “but I prefer the other one, the one on the right.”

  And he took us to it without much hesitation. Jonas followed him like a puppy, avoiding the gravestone with a quick turn, just like our mentor. The top of the column of the apse depicted a warrior with his sword held high, facing a knight on horseback.

  But I was still puzzled by the other thing, by that light that illuminated the angel. An idea was forming in my head. I turned around and went back. The ray of light was now illuminating Mary. If it followed this path, it would end up illuminating the stone statue of an old man, probably St. Joseph, who was resting all the weight of his age on a staff in the shape of a Tau …