Iacobus

by Matilde Asensi

  “Unfortunately I’m better known for my ability for these types of strange missions than for my abilities as a doctor. Everyone knows me as Perquisitore.”

  “Well, it’s a shame, Perquisitore,” she said sadly, “that you aren’t just a simple knight or a plain barber surgeon.”

  We were both silent for a while, saddened for the person I could never be, for what we could never be. Sara’s words conveyed the yearnings that I felt, like daggers in my heart but I could not answer them because it would have been like accepting a promise that I could not fulfill. And I loved her.

  “You’re a coward, Perquisitore,” she whispered. “You’re leaving all the work up to me.”

  The idea that I would soon be separated from her forever broke my heart.

  “I can’t help you, Sara. I swear that if there was a door I could walk through to be with you, I wouldn’t think twice about it.”

  “But that door exists, sire!” she protested.

  My body screamed with the desire to take her in my arms and air was not reaching my lungs. I could feel her so close, so near, so warm, that pain was throbbing through my temples and my heart was beating madly in my chest.

  “That door exists …,” she repeated, moving her lips towards mine.

  There, under the setting sun, I could taste her mouth and feel her sweet engulfing breath. Her kisses, dry and shy at first, gradually became a torrent that dragged me into forgotten places. I loved her, I loved her more than life itself, I wanted her so much that it hurt and I couldn’t handle the idea of losing her because of some absurd vows. Desperate, I embraced her in my arms until I almost broke her and we rolled through the grass.

  For hours I only existed inside Sara’s body. Night came, and the cold, and I didn’t even notice. I can vividly remember the shine of her polka-dotted, sweaty skin under the light of the moon, the curve of her hips, the pointedness of her small breasts and the smoothness of her back, of her stomach, of her thighs which my hands caressed non-stop. She guided me, taught me, and we passionately came together once or a thousand times, I don’t remember, we kissed until our lips hurt, until we couldn’t anymore and even so, delirium, a craving desire, kept burning, the poor and useless longing to stay there forever with our bodies fused into one.

  It had begun amid sadness, although it ended with laughter and murmurs of pleasure. I told her over and over that I loved her and would always love her, and she, sighing with satisfaction at hearing that, nibbled my ear and my neck with a smile of happiness that I could feel being drawn on my skin. We slept on the grass, hugging, exhausted but we were awakened by the damp cold of dawn, and gathering our clothes from the ground and throwing them on, we went inside the dilapidated mill, smiling and settled down together on one of the two mattresses, covering ourselves with the furs. Our bodies quickly found the position to sleep together and molded naturally, as if they had been doing it forever, as if every corner, bump and swell fit perfectly into the grooves of the other. And we stayed like that until the next day. If Jonas heard, saw or guessed anything on that first night, he covered it up very well with his stillness and shut eyes but strangely, shortly after recovering from his illness, he decided that he wanted to sleep alone downstairs.

  I knew that my love for Sara would never end but I didn’t want to think about what would happen to us when real life returned to that little paradise. My mind and my body rejected the idea that every second spent with her was a second stolen, a threatened second, and that later we would both have to pay them back with interest. The young love I had felt for Jonas’ mother was like a dream full of purity, like a pleasant afternoon next to a gentle stream; the love I felt for Sara wasn’t anything like that, since the hot passion caused that crazy river to overflow. I knew that there was no way to combine my position as a Hospitaller with that wonderful Jewish woman who had brought me back to life but I didn’t want to think about it, I didn’t want to waste a single drop of that euphoric potion.

  But destiny, that mysterious and supreme destiny the Qabalah speaks of, the one that weaves the threads of life without asking us — gently pushing us towards the unknown —, decided once again that I should face reality in the harshest way possible to reach the truth faster. Exactly two months after beginning our pilgrimage, on the ninth day of November, misfortune suddenly appeared at the mill.

  Sara and I had been making love for most of the night, after which we had fallen into a deep sleep in each other’s arms, with our legs intertwined like knotted ropes under the fur. Her head was leaning on my chest while my arms were greedily and protectively wrapped around her. My nose was touching her platinum hair and I was used to how it tickled every time I breathed in her fragrance throughout the night. Sara took great care of her hair. She was always washing and brushing it, because she said that she couldn’t stand to have it stuck to her head, greasy and dirty. The truth is that she liked the silvery sheen of her exceptional hair which she had apparently inherited from her mother’s side of the family, where everyone, men and women alike, had beautiful abundant white locks from childhood.

  Violent footsteps and heavy banging on the wooden stairs that accessed the second floor barely roused me from my sleep but I was stunned when the footsteps stopped next to my face.

  “I am Brother Valerio of Villares, Commander of Leon,” said a firm and solid voice, “and this is my Lieutenant, Brother Ferrando of Çohinos. Get up, Brother Born.”

  I opened my eyes and jumped up from the mattress, completely naked. My many years of military discipline prevented me from thinking.

  “Put your clothes on, brother,” ordered my commander. “Out of respect for the woman, we will wait for you downstairs.”

  Sara’s terrified eyes found mine, and although they showed my guilt for a brief moment, they soon showed the firmness of my thoughts.

  “Don’t worry, darling,” I said with a smile, bending down to kiss her. “You mustn’t be afraid of anything.”

  “They’ll take you away from me,” she stammered.

  I held her hands in mine and looked into her eyes.

  “There is nothing in this world, my love, that could take me away from you. Do you hear me? Never forget, Sara, because this is important! Whatever happens, believe this: We will never be apart. Do you believe me?”

  Her eyes filled with tears.

  “Yes.”

  Jonas appeared at that moment in the stairwell.

  “Who are those freires, father?” he asked shakily.

  “They are great dignitaries from my Order,” I explained as I got dressed. “Listen, Jonas, I want you to stay here with Sara while I speak to them. And I don’t want either of you to worry about anything.”

  “Will they make you go back to Rhodes?” Jonas sounded rather terrified which surprised me. While I had been living in true happiness, the boy had been worrying about the idea of my most likely return to Rhodes. I couldn’t lie to him.

  “It’s very probable.”

  I turning around, leaving them alone. Downstairs, inside the mill, frey Valerio and frey Ferrando were waiting for me. A heavy silence engulfed the three of us as I stood before their accusing looks.

  “This is a complicated situation, brother,” frey Valerio coldly attacked me.

  “I know, sir,” I said humbly. It wasn’t the time to act dignified.

  “I’m sure that you are fully aware of the implications of you having been in bed with that woman.”

  “I do, sir.”

  Both men stared at me icily. For them, it must be unimaginable that a Hospitaller of my ranking and training was ready to lose the robe and the house, to be expelled from the Order without honor, for a simple fling with a Jewish woman. They gave each other a knowing look and remained silent.

  “O.K.,” said frey Valerio finally. “We can’t lose time right now with this situation. I urge you to continue your mission, brother Galceran. It’s the only thing that matters and the most important thing. This little incident must be forgotten here a
nd now. You will leave the boy at the Fortress of Portomarin under the charge of Don Pero and you will finish the job you were given by His Holiness.”

  It took me a little while to react, and my surprise must have shown on my face because frey Ferrando waved his hand impatiently, like a father tired of having to put up with his son’s impertinence.

  “Do you not understand your orders?” he asked, irritated.

  “Forgive me, frey Ferrando,” I replied, regaining control, “but I don’t think that there is any mission to complete. The matter was settled when I was captured by the Templars in Castrojeriz.”

  “You are wrong, brother,” he said. “The gold that was found in no way covers the amount calculated by the inquiry commission’s Sergeants-at-law. It barely reaches the ridiculous amount of fifty million francs.”

  “But that is a huge fortune!” I exclaimed. For a moment I was tempted to tell them what I had seen in Las Medulas, to tell them about the huge basilica, the Ark of the Covenant, the leather covered in secretive drawings …, but something stopped me, a strong, irrational instinct sealed my mouth.

  “That’s pitiful, it’s insignificant. You should know that our Order is greatly indebted to the King of France for the costs of the proceedings (which, due to stupid legal loopholes have fallen on us), and that the lifelong pensions payable to the old Templars, the maintenance of the prisoners and the administration of the assets, is ruining our Treasury and that of the Church. So, you, brother, must continue to search for that damn gold and find it for your Order and for the Holy Father. At whatever cost.”

  “Even if it costs me my life?”

  “Even if it costs you your life and the life of fifty others like you, Perquisitore,” said frey Valerio coldly.

  I didn’t have much time to think and I needed to desperately. I won’t deny now that it was during those few minutes (in which I asked a thousand irrelevant questions to keep frey Valerio and frey Ferrando distracted) that I organized, at least in theory, all of my next moves. In my heart, besides my love for Sara and my son, I harbored the corpse of my loyalty to the Order of St. John. The people I had respected and admired were no more than shadows of a past life to which I would never return. There was no way I was going to be separated from the woman and the boy who were now my only Order, my only destiny and my only home but escaping from the Hospitallers, from the Templars and from the Church at the same time was too much for a renegade monk. It didn’t even cross my mind to impose upon my noble and elderly father the task of hiding an honorless son accompanied by an illegitimate child and a Jewish witch in his castle and on his land. It was simply unthinkable. So I didn’t have many options; the world was too small and I had to calmly think about the few options I had.

  “You need not worry, brother,” added frey Ferrando. You shall be escorted at all times by Knights of St. John, just as you were escorted previously by the Pope’s soldiers. I myself will be leading the group and you will communicate with me, as you did beforehand with the late Count Le Mans. You will be well protected from the Templars.”

  “I won’t go anywhere without the Jew and the boy.”

  “What?” he bellowed. “What did you say?”

  “I said, sir, that I won’t go anywhere or do anything without the woman and the boy.”

  “You do realize that you will be severely punished for this disobedience, don’t you brother?”

  “I don’t want to offend you, sir, nor you, frey Valerio, but I wouldn’t be able to find the gold without them. I would be incapable of continuing the search on my own which is why I’m asking you to let them come with me.”

  “You haven’t asked, brother, you have demanded, and there is no doubt that you will be punished by your superior and your chapter when you return to Rhodes.”

  “You must have very little appreciation for them if you wish to put them in such danger,” Villares pointed his finger at me furiously.

  “No, I don’t wish to put them in danger, I wish to get them out of that captaincy in Portomarin where they would certainly be held against their will until I have finished the task and then sent to remote places where I would never be able to find them.”

  The inability shown up until now to find the Templar treasure without my help demonstrated very clearly that they wouldn’t let me escape easily, even if I slept with a thousand women or broke all of my vows and all of the precepts of the Hospitaller Rule.

  “I can’t do it without them,” I repeated insistently. Valerio and his lieutenant exchanged knowing looks again although this time there was a hint of desperation in them. They must have been under the same sort of pressure as I and as worried as I was minutes before.

  “Fine,” said the commander. “How do you wish to continue? Do you want to return to Castojeriz to restart the search from there?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said thoughtfully. “That’s exactly what the Templars expect us to do. I think that we should continue to Santiago, receive the Great Forgiveness, and retrace our steps as peaceful concheiros who are returning home with our well-earned scallops on our hats and on our clothes. The woman, the boy and I must adopt some very good disguises, very different f the ones we have used until now, and we will need some time to prepare.”

  “Time is something we don’t have, brother. What do you need?”

  “When I know, sir, I will let you know.”

  And they left. During the week it took us to prepare our new personas and appearances, I wasn’t allowed to sleep with Sara and was forced to spend the night inside the fortress. I missed her terribly but I told myself that if I wanted a future for the both of us, a long future, I had to make it look as though I was submissively complying with the orders from my superiors. Frey Valerio disappeared the day after our conversation but brother Ferrando of Çohinos became my damn shadow. Don Pero, meanwhile, was annoyed, and he showed it; he didn’t like being disassociated from such important matters that were being planned in his domain and very reluctantly stood aside from our goings-on without daring to ask any questions for fear of another nasty response from frey Ferrando who didn’t bite his tongue when the prior of Portomarin tried to stick his nose in.

  With the help of a lot of beer, swallow droppings, hazelnut roots, ox bile and chamomile infusions, Jonas and I dyed our black hair and eyebrows blond which was not all that easy. My beard was also a difficult issue as it grew like a discrepant dark shadow that gave the dye away, so I would have to let it grow and dye it with great care every day. But Sara, however, was much easier. Her white hair soaked up the leek bulb broth in one go and she became a beautiful brunette, with milky, immaculate skin, thanks to the white powders that covered her moles. She turned into a great French lady who was going to Compostela to plead for her husband’s health, and who traveled in a beautiful carriage driven by a deformed and toothless groom (for which I added a hump and hunched over, painting some of my teeth black), and her wise and caring brother. Two Hospitallers from the accompanying armed retinue (one was young, with a strong jaw and vacant eyes, and the other was middle-aged and although he didn’t say much he showed a couple of rows of malformed and rotten teeth when he spoke), became soldiers at the service of the distinguished lady, whom, I explained to frey Ferrando, would stop to pray in every one of the sanctuaries along the Camino to allow me to carry out my investigations and studies, and who would be very generous, giving alms to poor pilgrims and to the sick, so that the eyes of the Temple, who were expecting to discover a group of three mendicant fugitives, would be thrown off by the profile of a group of five people who left abundant riches behind them.

  Finally, on the sixteenth day of October, leaving behind the oak trees of the commandry, we headed off to Santiago de Compostela. Although only I knew it, Portomarin was the last Hospitaller site that I would ever step foot in.

  As we crossed Sala Regina and Ligonde, as we stopped to pray in the Church of Villar de Donas, and carried on through Lestredo and Ave Nostre towards Palas de Rei, t
he intertwined elements of our difficult situation flew around in my head like crazed birds. It’s never a good idea to do things without having first anticipated all of the likely moves of the game, and as I guided the splendid animals who were pulling the impressive-looking black carriage inside which Sara and Jonas were traveling in comfort, my mind went around and around, thinking of all the possible outcomes based on the decisions I would take or on the actions I would perform. When the whole plan was solidly prepared, I informed Sara and Jonas of the when, the what and the how of the parts that involved them.

  As we got closer to Compostela, which was barely two days away, numerous groups of humble pilgrims quickly advanced in the same direction as us with their faces full of excitement, as if after such a long journey — of hundreds or thousands of miles of walking — they didn’t have time to lose now that they were so close to their objective. Indeed, even from the driver’s seat I could see the strong yearning that shone in their eyes to reach the adored city of Santiago.

  Even though I really had no interest in finding Templar clues in the places we passed by, luck was on my side and I didn’t need to look for them since it seemed that around those Galician parts the Solomonic freires had had little to nothing. The Camino, which alternated between forests and countless villages in close succession, had become as straight as a pole and gently inclined, with slight ups and downs, as if determined to help the pilgrims to reach their longed destination, and as if nothing else was important in those green, wet and cold lands, in which reigned sovereign the glorious son of Zebedee (who, for some, was the glorious brother of St. James, and for a few initiates, the glorious heretic Priscillian), also known as Santiago, Jacobo, Jacques, Jackob or Iacobus.

  In the fourth century AD, Priscillian, a disciple of the Egyptian hermit, Marcus of Memphis and episcopus of Gallaecia, had been the instigator of a Christian doctrine that the Church of Rome immediately condemned as heretical. Before long he had thousands of followers (including many bishops and priests) and his beautiful heresy based on equality, freedom and respect, as well as his talk of ancient knowledge and rituals, spread throughout the Spanish peninsula, and beyond its borders. The naive Priscillian, who confidently went to Rome to ask Pope Damascus for his understanding, was tortured and condemned by the ecclesiastical judges who tried him in Trier and he was finally beheaded mercilessly. However, his followers, far from being intimidated by the threats of the Holy Church of Rome, recovered the headless body of Priscillian and returned it to Spain, and his heresy continued to spread throughout like a Greek fire. Very soon, the tomb of the heretic martyr, who had been a good man, became a place of mass pilgrimage and as neither the centuries nor the fruitless efforts of the Church had managed to puta stop to this custom, the long ecclesiastical arm once again did what it had so magnificently demonstrated that it knew how to do: Just as it invented non-existent saints, transformed the celebrations of the ancient gods of humanity into Christian holidays or disguised the lives of popular people — almost always pagans or initiated people —, to conform them to the Roman canons of saintliness, it took advantage of the forgotten time when the tomb of Priscillian had been left forgotten due to the confusion, death and terror that the peninsula had suffered following the Arab invasion in the eighth century, and turned the tomb of Priscillian into the tomb of the Apostle James the Greater (or Santiago el Mayor), brother of St. John the Evangelist, and son of the fisherman Zebedee and of a woman named Mary Salome, giving him a beautiful legend laden with miracles to justify the impossible, because James the Greater had never been to Spain, as demonstrated in the Gospels and in the Acts of the Apostles, and his body, curiously beheaded, had never returned from Jerusalem on a stone boat pushed by the wind.