Three days after leaving Portomarin, under a white sun that barely warmed our bones, we crossed the Porta Franca and entered the very noble and illustrious city of Compostela, where, it is said, all miracles are possible.
“At last!” shouted Jonas over and over, against the background of the sparkling, joyous laughter of my lady witch. The two Hospitaller freixos who rode next to us continued being haughtily impassive.
A huge, confusing bustle of men of all races and languages and all kinds of animals covered the city’s narrow, crooked, muddy and stinking streets. For someone like myself, who had traveled to the greatest cities on the globe, both in the East and in the West, the town of Santiago, which was one of the three Axis Mundi, was the greatest disappointment imaginable. Even the impressive street of Casas Reais, flanked by rich palaces and manor houses, looked no better than the vulgar Via Francigena thanks to the dirt and the stench, and was constantly crowded by a noisy crowd of inn-keepers, merchants, beggars, prostitutes, money-changers and people selling amulets and relics. But just as I had given up hope of finding anything decent in that abominable place, drowning my risky plans in a bog of uncertainty because of the environment in which I had found myself, the carriage turned the corner of a wretched street and the dazzling Basilica of the Apostle came into view where hundreds of pilgrims were congregated in a grotesque and stinking mass of human flesh and dirty rags, either pushing one another to pass through the door, kissing the long desired ground or kneeling in earnest with their heads bent and uncovered, and their staff (a companion through so many days!) thrown on the cobblestones and abandoned. It was impossible to cross that crowd with the horses so we turned around in search of another street to take us to our lodgings at the Palace of Ramirans. While Sara, Jonas and the escorts lodged in the palace, I, just as I had planned, would rest my bones in a corner of the tack stable, amongst saddles, harnesses, straps and trappings. It was an important detail, because as frey Ferrando and his men didn’t take their eyes off us during the day, at night, with due precaution, a man on his own, an anonymous servant, could silently leave the palace without being noticed.
On the afternoon of our arrival, Sara and Jonas went out shopping in the city while I stayed behind at the stables, cleaning and brushing the animals. The Hospitaller freires from our retinue also had to split up and one of them, the youngest, stayed with me; at first he didn’t say a word but then after a few games of checkers he began to talk endlessly about the agricultural crops and annual income of our captaincies. I listened to him intently, as if what he was telling me, which was boring me to death, was the most interesting thing I had heard in my life, and I asked him many pertinent questions, delving into the issues that seemed most important to him and agreeing with him that our Order should better manage the cereal crops and vines to increase yields. In exchange for patiently listening to him drivel on, I earned his respect and along with it, the lowering of his guard.
When at last that night the palace was silent and I was on my own in the tack room I got rid of my crippled, hunchbacked and toothless disguise and changed into the charlatan clothes that Sara and Jonas had bought me that afternoon — just as I had requested — which they had sent me hidden in a bundle of Jonas’ dirty clothes. I buried my head in a felt cap to hide my blond hair and left the palace, hiding amongst the servants and maids who were on their way home. Before the group became dangerously small, I went into the first tavern I came across, and as I sat in a dark corner, taking large swigs of that hot, sweet drink that the Galicians make with apples, I wrote the risky letter that would free us from that dangerous situation (or at least that’s what I hoped).
I wasn’t willing to be separated from Sara, whom I loved more than life itself, or from my son, whom I wanted to see grow into a man, while I grew old working as a doctor in Rhodes under the watchful eye of my superiors. And that was a best-case scenario, because in the worst case (if we managed to escape), we would be relentlessly pursued by the Church and the Hospital, greedy for wealth and power, and also by the Templars, eager to keep their valuable deposits a secret and, above all, to silence the existence of the Ark of the Covenant. There wouldn’t be a place in the world where we could hide and I wanted to live in peace, without fear, embracing Sara’s warm body every night and watching my son grow which is why I knew that I had to write that risky note.
Upon the death of Don Rodrigo of Padron the previous year, Don Berenguel of Landoira had been appointed as the Archbishop of Santiago, a man known for his affection towards the Order of the Temple, and it was rumored that he had secretly placed more than one Solomonic freire amongst the members of his entourage, advisers and palace servers. My letter was for him and so I walked to his place of residence, adjacent to the cathedral, and quietly tapped on the door. It was so cold that clouds of steam were coming out of my nose and mouth. A long time passed and nobody came to open the door so I tried again and at last the face of a half-asleep boy came to the window.
“Pax vobiscum.”
“Et cum spiritu tuo.”
“What do you want at this time of night in the house of God?”
“I want to give you a letter for Don Berenguel of Landoira.”
“The Archbishop is sleeping, sire. Come back tomorrow.”
I was getting impatient. It was really cold and it had started to drizzle.
“I don’t want to give a letter to Don Berenguel of Landoira, boy! I want to give you a letter for Don Berenguel of Landoira!”
“Oh, yes sir, sorry!” he muttered in distress. “I didn’t understand you correctly. Give it to me, sir and I will make sure that he gets it on the morning.”
“Listen, boy, this letter is very important and it is imperative that the Archbishop reads it. Because I want you to remember this errand as soon as you wake up and so you don’t delay in doing it, here,” I said, holding out the piece of paper with a gold coin, “here is a good bonus for you.”
“Thank you, sir. Don’t worry.”
I went back to the Palace of Ramirans and slept like a log until the following day.
I had decided to make a deal with the devil. I had never been a good salesman but I had something to sell and I knew that the devil would pay any price to get it. At sundown the next day, while Sara and Jonas, accompanied by the St. John’s retinue, went to the cathedral to visit the tomb of the Apostle, I went back to change my outfit and my appearance and left the palace behind them.
I immersed myself in the multi-colored crowd of people that roamed the muddy streets of Compostela and after wandering around for a while, looking at the goods being sold in the stands under the arches, I bought a piece of honey pie and went towards the cathedral. I didn’t know who would approach me in the middle of the multitude but whoever it was should be holding a staff with white bows. It was silly, yes, but I had fancied playing a cruel joke on the messenger. I strolled amongst the ragged pilgrims who had arrived in the city that day, knowing that the eyes of a hundred Templars were watching me from all over, and calmly finished my honey pie. I had chosen that place specifically because of the fact that it was so busy. If I hadn’t, my life wouldn’t have been safe. They would never dare do anything to me amongst that crowd.
I felt a strong blow to my side, and before I had time to turn around, a hand subtly slipped something into the pocket of my robes.
“Forgive me, brother!” a dirty pilgrim said happily. He smiled slyly as he showed me a tall staff covered in white ribbons. But neither the wide-brimmed hat, nor the clothes, nor the long, dirty beard managed to throw me off: That man, who was quickly walking away was, without a doubt, Rodrigo Jimenez, better known to us as Nobody. I gritted my teeth and watched him, with my eyes full of hostility, until he disappeared into the crowd.
The truth is that I almost regretted my decision but there are times in life when trying to go backwards makes you trip and fall down noisily, so despite my furious desperation I decided that I had to carry on forwards. I joined the throng trying to enter the
temple through the west gate, the one known as the Portico de la Gloria, or the Gate of Glory. Pushed forwards by the human tide, I moved forwards blindly until I suddenly found myself before an amazing wonder carved in stone: Presided over by an enormous statue of the Saviour, at least three fathoms tall, and surrounded by characters from the Apocalypse and the Gospels, a gigantic tympanum crowned the door to the cathedral, in whose mullion I instantly saw a symbol that had guided my destiny over the previous, long months …. The Apostle James was leaning his feet on the Tree of Jesse and his hands on a staff in the shape of a Tau!
I felt dizzy, light-headed, too tired to try and understand those signs, that set of signs that jumped out at me from the Gate with refined cruelty. I absolutely refused to put my hand on the trunk of the Tree of Jesse, like all the other pilgrims were doing, nor did I touch my head to the stone head of the grotesque effigy which, facing away from the gate, looked unperturbedly towards the inside of the temple. I was wondering who that midget could be, when I heard some Aragonese pilgrims explain to each other that the stocky person was Master Mateo, the architect of the gate. How funny, I though, amused and perplexed, that people, without knowing it, were performing the gesture of transferring knowledge with a master builder who was unquestionably an initiated member. I closed my eyes and let myself be dragged by the tide again. Inside, shining with lights and gleaming with gold and precious stones, I saw people crying with emotion, people kneeling, curled up into a ball, people who were stunned, people with their mouths open, who couldn’t take their eyes off the immeasurable riches that surrounded them. People, people, people …. All around were people who had come from all around. And the foul stench that emanated from those poor bodies mixed with the pungent smell of incense that combined, in turn, with the aromatic smoke and with the smell of thousands of flowers atthe alters (that of St. Nicholas, of the Holy Cross, of the Holy Faith, of St. John the Evangelist, of St. Peter, of St. Andrew, of St. Martin, of Mary Magdalene, of the Saviour, of St. James …).
I’m not too sure how I got to the altar of the sanctuary, the high altar, under which in a marble chest were the supposed relics of the blessed Apostle James. The tabernacle was large, five palms high, twelve long and seven wide, and was covered at the front by a beautiful cover of gold and silver which depicted the twenty-four elders of the Apocalypse, the image of Christ and the twelve apostles. That altar, under which, as I said, was the invisible tomb of St. James, was covered by a shrine standing on four slender columns and decorated inside and out with remarkable paintings and drawings and with various ornaments. What better place was there to read the message that the spy Nobody had hidden in the pocket of my robe? Even if I had waved a red handkerchief until my arm was tired no one would have paid me the slightest attention. Thanks for your help, venerable Priscillian, I thought, looking at the tomb. I pray that you continue to receive the world’s adoration for centuries to come, even if it is under a false name.
If, as it seemed, I was willing to make a deal, the note began, Manrique of Mendoza would be waiting for me a week later at the End of the World … I froze. I only had a week to end my past life and reach the end of the world with Sara and Jonas! I realized that I had goose bumps (like when Sara nibbled my ear) and cold shivers were running up and down my spine. Think, Galceran, think, I repeated over and over, as I ran back to the Palace of Ramirans along the most crowded and noisy streets I could find.
I went inside the stables, got my toothless postilion disguise and lay down fodder for the animals to eat. I then sat on my mattress in the tack room and closed my eyes, focusing on the problem at hand, determined not to move from there until I had a solution but I couldn’t stay in that position for long because half-way through my plan I realized that I needed a whole lot of information that I didn’t have. Limping and feigning apathy that I was far from feeling, I went to the palace’s kitchens to speak to the servants.
That night after dinner, when Jonas stuck his nose around the stable door as we had agreed, he saw that our animals were tacked and he stayed for a while to talk to me.
Three hours later, while it was still dark, my sweet Sara (dressed in man’s clothes), the boy and I quietly left the palace, leading the horses by the reins. (To avoid the noise of their hooves on the cobblestones, we had wrapped the animal’s feet in thick material which we removed when we were sufficiently far enough away.) Shortly before joining the line of carriages and pilgrims who were sleepily waiting for the Porta Falguera to open to leave the city, we stopped in the small, silent square, where we covered our faces and hands in a fine layer of reddish-ocher ointment, wrapping our heads like turbans in long pieces of dark cloth as long as mill-wheels, and we dropped long tunics over our heads that covered our feet.
The St. John’s retinue wouldn’t take long to discover our absence (although, to win some time, we had placed cushions in our beds), and they would charge after us in a blind rage as soon as they saw that we had managed to dodge their poor surveillance. If we could also fool the guards at the Porta Falguera with our Muslim disguises, we would be able to get one or two days advantage which would make our capture almost impossible.
Getting out of the city was much easier than getting in. They never ask you for passes when you leave somewhere so, transformed into three Arab merchants, we left Compostela behind without arousing any suspicion and just after crossing the old city walls, we quickly mounted the horses (myself on one and Sara and Jonas, as they were lighter, on the other), and we galloped towards the closest coast, towards the nearby town of Noia which I had heard so much about during my long years of studying in the East. I couldn’t stop thinking about the mysterious destiny that weaves the threads of the events of our lives.
At the entrance to Brion we got rid of our disguises (although Sara continued to wear men’s clothes and a wide-brimmed hat to cover her hair) and we headed on. We reached Noia at midday, passing through the narrow and stately streets, and went down to the port hoping to find a boat that was heading north along the coast. Some old men were resting on wooden crates at the end of the dock and silhouetted against the mountain, I could seevarious boats abandoned on the sand. I gladly breathed in the salty air; Would this be the start of freedom? Naturally, our arrival had drawn the attention of the locals and we carried on, surrounded by a group of children who shrieked as they ran next to our horses. The old men continued to watch us as we approached.
“What do you want?” one of them asked.
“A coastal boat to take us to the port of Finisterre.”
“You won’t find any until high tide, sir.”
“When will that be?” I asked anxiously; I needed time to do what I had to do.
“Ten to twelve hours,” said the other with a malevolent smile.
“Who should I ask for?”
“For Martiño. He has the biggest boat. He transports livestock and goods from Muros to Cape Touriñan.”
“Does he take passengers?”
“If they pay well.”
“We pay well.”
“Then he will take you wherever you wish.”
“Is there somewhere we can rest until the tide comes in?” Jonas asked.
“The tavern is right over there,” said one of the boys, pointing to a row of small houses along the beach front. “My father will take care of you. He’s the owner.”
I accompanied Sara and Jonas to the door of the establishment and told them I would be leaving them for a few hours.
“Aren’t you coming in?” asked Sara, surprised.
“I can’t,” I explained, placing my hand on her cheek. “I have something important to do. But I will be back before high tide. I promise.”
“I want to go with you!” protested my son.
“No, what I have to do, I must do alone. Anyway, you need to look after Sara until I get back.”
I gave Jonas the reins of the horses and walked away down the cobbled streets, as if my feet knew the way, and ended up in the small cemetery of the Church
of St. Mary. How many times had the old masters told me about their own deaths they had faked there? There was no doubt that destiny had reserved the same experience for me. And I was ready.
Iacobus Page 30
