The Galician Woman

by William Mesusan

  They spent a night in relative contentment, resting at a deserted Inn near the center of the hilltop fortress and village of Medellín. The hard earth makes for a difficult mattress night after night so the two men found it relaxing to sleep in a comfortable bed for a change. They rose early, pushed hard, and arrived on the outskirts of Mérida, late in the afternoon.

  The city of Mérida cast its spell over them the moment they saw the bridge.

  Sixty-two arched spans crossed over the Rio Guadiana and neither of them had ever witnessed such a marvel of Roman engineering. Annexed to the bridge, on the far side of the river, stood the Alcazaba, an Umayyad fortification built in 835 CE. This brainchild of Emir Rahman II commanded a city which had stubbornly rebelled, for the umpteenth time, only thirty years earlier.

  The massive square fortress, with thirty foot high walls and twenty-five towers, was a study in opportunism. Like in many Umayyad structures, the building materials were salvaged Roman walls and Visigoth granite blocks. The entire perimeter was surround by a large moat except on the side overlooking the river.

  Inspired by Byzantine models, architect Abd Allah designed a fortified palace serving as Umayyad Administrative offices and as a residence for the local governor. Above all, the Alacazaba filtered access to the city from the Roman Bridge. It also offered shelter to the Arab minority during the repeated local revolts against Umayyad rule from far-away Córdoba. The Emir's troops were sheltered here to quell these disturbances by the local Mozarabs or to carry out raids in the Catholic Asturian kingdom to the north.

  The ongoing strife in Mérida may have been a result of the city holding out against the Muslim invasion. If they had offered armed resistance, the city would've met with a horrific fate. The adult males would have been executed and the women and children enslaved. Memories of these atrocities might've etched themselves deep into the local consciousness and been kept alive by stories passed down from generation to generation. Two and a half centuries may not have erased the bitter taste of defeat.

  Solomon and Jalal were about to enter a relatively peaceful Mérida as they led their mule across the Rio Guadiana Bridge and arrived at a military checkpoint. They waited in line while soldiers inspected pedestrians and merchants bringing goods into the city. As the queue advanced they had an occasion to view the nearby military installation. Two towers flanked the main gate. From their vantage point they were able to read the proud inscription chiseled into stone above a horseshoe shaped arch, words celebrating Rahman II's patronage of the work.

  Solomon decided against using the considerable influence the Foreign Minister's signet ring offered although it meant a chance to pursue an audience with the Caliph's local administrators and a night spent in relative comfort, if not luxury. Knowing spies worked the city, both militant Christian and Fatimid infiltrators, he chose to maintain a low profile. Those seeking to find them would discover their whereabouts soon enough, he reasoned. Better to find refuge in one of Mérida's anonymous caravanserais.

  Solomon guessed it wouldn't be long before the trackers became the tracked.

  He had no idea they were already being watched.

  They entered the welcoming caravanserai. Merida's largest roadside inn offered a great opportunity for rest and recovery from an arduous day's journey. Riding through a long, square-walled exterior beneath a high arched portal tall enough for heavily laden camels to pass under, they found themselves in an open courtyard under a deepening azure twilight-

  Travelers and merchants mingled in the cool shade of the caravanserai.

  The inside walls of this enclosure were outfitted with a number of identical stalls. This series of bays and niches accommodated merchants and their servants, animals, and a wide array of merchandise. The caravanserai provided water for human and animal consumption, for personal hygiene, and for the enactment of ritual ablutions. It also bestowed upon weary travelers the added attraction of an elaborate communal bath.

  After arranging for bedding and feed for three animals, the two men replenished their dwindling supplies and opted for separate bed chambers. Solomon looked forward to retiring in peace, left alone to reflect upon personal thoughts; but, first their famished appetites required the sustenance the caravanserais specialized in providing its clients.

  Too much time on the trail had dulled their palettes.

  They selected from among a half dozen eateries. Surrounded by chattering Iberian merchants, they delighted in a leisurely dinner, course after course, thanks be to Ziryab, of their favorite familiar foods: soup, hors d'oeuvres, lamb and couscous, an array of vegetables, with fruit and nuts for dessert. They drank wine from delicate glassware rather than heavy ceramic or silver goblets, another of the courtier's innovations.

  Soon their dinner conversation turned to the future.

  "We've worked hard to get this far, and our journey will get more difficult when we enter the frontier zone," Solomon opinioned. "Let's enjoy ourselves in the morning and do a little exploring."

  "I'm not sure that'd be wise."

  He's questioning my judgment Solomon couldn't help but thinking. I hope Jalal doesn't think he's in charge here. He decided not to reveal his irritation. He simply wanted to be an investigator in the full sense of the word.

  "I want to visit the Roman ruins. . .they might inspire me to write some poetry."

  "Are you serious?"

  Turns out cousin Hasdai was correct. The change of scenery was invigorating. Sometimes others, especially those closest to us, know us better than we know ourselves. The budding poet inside of Solomon laughed at his own ignorance. The Foreign Minister even suspected he might attempt to turn the mission into a bit of a vacation. Heaven forbid.

  "What about our assignment?" Jalal wanted to know, interrupting Solomon's musings. "Don't you want to overtake the Galician woman as soon possible?"

  Solomon convinced himself he had time to find her without rushing ahead. He understood most people experience the future like it's a dimension of time they are moving towards. How could he explain the inexplicable, his sense that the future was moving towards him. He decided not to share this these thoughts with Jalal. He won't understand, thought the investigator.

  "For all we know zealots might still be hiding her somewhere in the Christian suburbs of Córdoba," he suggested in an attempt to lesson his escort's apprehension.

  A pensive Jalal wrinkled his brow as he considered the possibility.

  This soldier isn't interested in dawdling, thought the investigator. Too bad his curiosity quotient is so deficient. Better attempt to assuage his doubts.

  "If she's in Galicia," Solomon continued, "We'll catch up to her. My cousin, the Foreign Minister, says I have a proclivity for finding missing things."

  "The Foreign Minister is your cousin?"

  A look of shock come over the Slav's face and the soldier turned away from Solomon to contemplate this revelation in private. When he turned back around, his expression revealed nothing. Jalal's face had changed into an impenetrable mask.

  "You didn't know?"

  "They told me you're a well-connected translator chosen for this mission because of your knowledge of Latin. General Naja never mentioned the Foreign Minister is your cousin."

  At least Jalal isn't a sycophant. All his good-natured banter was authentic if he was telling the truth, and Solomon found no reason to think he wasn't. Then again, he was a mercenary groomed for the life since childhood, and he stood a lot to gain if the mission succeeded. Hasdai could intervene and influence the Caliph and that could lead to Jalal's manumission. An opportunity to attain the legal status of a freeman was a real possibility. Jalal must know this so why wouldn't they tell him who Solomon was before sending him on the assignment?

  Too many questions. Stop already. Give it a rest, Solomon told himself.

  "We need to get an early start in the morning," he said. "There’s are a lot of historical architecture I want to see."

  "Are you sure about this lingering behind?"<
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  Solomon felt the stab of disappointment. Jalal seemed ambitious and there was nothing inherently wrong with that trait. Unrestrained ambition, however, led directly to the political world where corruption ran rampant. The investigator still wasn't sure if his companion was looking out for the mission's best interests or for his own. In an honest moment, he realized he wasn't even sure about his own intentions.

  Solomon knew he was being selfish and stubborn, but he’d learned to accept and live with these personal shortcomings over the years. The more he thought about it the more he felt inclined to trust himself. Mérida offered a world he desired to experience in more depth, an unanticipated gift evoking his poetic soul. He sensed a wonderful opportunity to enter more fully into the eternity of an ever changing world. He was determined to stay the morning and wasn't about to allow Jalal, with his ignorance or lack of curiosity, talk him out of this rare chance to explore this dimension of his life.

  Chapter 18

  It broke their hearts to set the two Galician stallions free before arriving in Mérida, but they couldn't risk selling them and having the new owners questioned by the Muslim authorities about the circumstances surrounding their possession of two mounts from an undeclared enemy's territory. Two horses showing no traces of Arabian bloodlines.

  There was an additional reason behind the painful release. Lia's companion learned that walking pilgrims had priority over those who traveled by horseback. The man explained to Lia that proceeding on foot was necessary, a part of his plan to insure their safe journey home. He had planned carefully, knowing there was no room for error.

  They entered the city separately. Lia piled her long red hair atop her head and hid it under the hood of a long pilgrim's cloak. She followed so close behind a band of pilgrims that it appeared she might be one of them.

  The man rejoined her on the far side of the bridge and the couple trailed behind the pilgrims through the hustle and bustle of Mérida's busy streets until they arrived at one of the city's many shelters, all dedicated to followers of the Way of St. James. Lia and her companion left the street and followed the pilgrims into the refuge where they entered a large room with a clean, red-tiled floor. On one side of the room they saw a wooden table surrounded by eight chairs, three on each side and one on each end. Four additional chairs were stacked in a corner in sets of two. On the opposite side of the room there stood a dozen simple beds supplied with thin, cheap straw mat-tresses. Twelve cots arranged in three rows of four.

  An old Mozarab couple, wrinkled and grey, worked at the table. The woman was placing small loaves of bread on wooden plates while the man filled ceramic cups with water he poured from a glass pitcher. The couple invited the pilgrims to partake of the simple repast and then they left by way of a hallway leading to the rear of the building.

  Before sitting down to eat, the weary travelers realized they had two strangers in their midst. All eyes turned to examine them. The Galician woman asked to speak to the leader of the group and a tall, ascetic-looking man with long, scraggly hair stepped forward.

  "I am brother Nathaniel," the man told her. "How may I be of service?"

  Like most of the Andalusi pilgrims, hollow-cheeked brother Nathaniel was Mozarabic.

  They spoke in Arabic.

  As Lia shared her plight, the other pilgrims gathered around to listen to her story. She felt duty bound to speak the truth because it would be sacrilegious to travel with a band of devout Christians under a false pretext. She admitted to brother Nathaniel that she and her companion were fugitives from the Muslim authorities, but she was careful not to divulge too many of the details surrounding her flight. She asked if these devout folk would allow her and her companion to join them on the Via de Plata route to the north.

  "We will have to consult on this matter," brother Nathaniel replied and he began to gather the pilgrims out of earshot so they might converse in private.

  In addition to brother Nathaniel, Lia saw two couples among the group of pilgrims along with one other unattached man. While Lia and her companion waited for the decision, she explained to him what was happening in his native Galician tongue.

  The pilgrims returned and brother Nathaniel stepped forward.

  "You're asking us to place our lives in jeopardy," he began before Lia quickly interrupted him.

  "We can follow close behind you and if you encounter any trouble we can step back and say we don't know you," she protested.

  Brother Nathaniel held up a hand to stop her from continuing with her appeal

  "It has already been agreed," he said. "We will be of service to you. What you've asked for is a simple act of Christian charity."

  Lia exhaled.

  Seeing the nodding heads of the other pilgrims, her companion understood the verdict. She wondered if the two women had swayed the decision in their favor. She decided it would indiscreet of her to ask.

  "Will you join us in prayer?" asked brother Nathaniel.

  The couple could do no less. The six pilgrims, along with the two newcomers, spread out across the room leaving lots of space between themselves. They extended their arms out wide and each person took on the form of a human cross. Lia closed her eyes and intoned a prayer of thanks to her God.

  Lia and her companion had joined a small band of Mozarabic pilgrims who traveled along the Via de Plata. This name doesn't mean "the silver road," which one might suspect if familiar with the modern Spanish word for that precious metal and knowing of Mérida's role in Roman mining history. More likely, it originated from the Latin word "platea," meaning wide road. It's possible the name derives from the Arabic word "al-balat," which means cobbled road. Then again, the name could come from the Latin word "Lapidata," meaning stone road.

  The origins of the name Via de Plata remain a bit of a linguistic mystery.

  However, a road by any other name would still be this old road engineered by the Romans which was, and still remains, one of the major pilgrim routes in Iberia. It leads north from Seville to Mérida, continues on to Salamanca, and finds its terminus in Santiago de Compestela. The Via de Plata is the longest of the major pilgrim routes.

  Lia and her companion were in good company.

  Pilgrimages along this route, embarked upon by followers of "The Way of St. James," had begun from the time of the discovery of the remains of the Apostle. All the Galicians had to do was tag along with their newfound pilgrim friends while duplicating a journey made successfully many times before over the course of more than a century.

  Chapter 19

  Solomon stood on the top step of a descending, semi-circular seating area at the apex of Mérida's ancient Roman Theater. His breathing was labored, a result of climbing up from ground level. Below him, twenty-eight rows of stone benches stretched one hundred yards wide to frame an area capable of seating an audience of six thousand onlookers.

  Having grown up in Córdoba, with its superbly engineered arched bridge and massive city walls, he'd developed a familiarity with Roman architectural styles and building materials. Remains of ancient temples, mausoleums, and a smaller Roman theater, still scattered around the Andalusian capital, rounded out his knowledge.

  Mérida's impressive Roman Theater dwarfed any site he'd previously encountered. Located adjacent to the city walls, at the at the edge of the old Roman city, nearby groves of fifty-foot tall cypress trees offered the only visual competition. This Roman theater was built in 16-15 CE by Consul Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, son-in-law of Emperor Augustus, and modeled after the great theaters of Rome. Constructed using dry-stone methods, this remarkable structural achievement required the precise placement and interlocking of thousands of stone blocks.

  After taking in an impressive view of the entire theater, Solomon walked down to the grand-stand carrying a small pack with him. Poor, miserable Jalal dutifully followed as they walked down through all three zones of seating from the top tier, the five rows of the middle tier, and the lower tier's twenty-two rows. The bottom of the theater, where the wealt
hier social classes sat, had been excavated and gained its support from the slope of the land without any use of manmade supports.

  They stopped just above the orchestra, an open space for the choir set in white and blue marble, and then Solomon crossed three wide marble steps where the movable seats for senators and the top officials attending the theater were once placed.

  Looking up at the stage from below, they gained the most spectacular view of the theater property. Solomon guessed it to be about twenty feet wide, two hundred feet long, and fifty feet high. It stood framed by massive two-storied Corinthian columns whose bases and cornices were built of marble. The backdrop, adorned with sculptures in the spaces between the columns, contained three doors. A central door and two side doors gave actors ingress and egress to their scenes.

  The aspiring poet found it easy to imagine plays once being staged here, but he didn't think there'd be any shows offered in the foreseeable future. Despite their appreciation of Greek science, philosophy, and medicine, the Muslims displayed little interest in the ancient world's dramas, either comedies or tragedies.

  Solomon retraced his steps back across the orchestra, sat down on a bench in the theater's front row, and searched inside of his pack until he found what he was looking for. Tucked down into one corner were a small vial and a writing instrument. He took them out and placed them on the bench next to himself before extracting a small tablet, a leather-bound sheath filled with linen paper. Smiling quietly, he opened a container of pomegranate juice and dipped a reed pen gently into the liquid.

  Enjoying the simple tools of his art, he began taking notes.