He didn't confine himself to a description of his physical surroundings: the monumental theater structure itself, the massive cypress trees on the hillsides beyond, or the puffy white clouds floating across a vivid blue sky. Solomon found his poetic nature just as receptive to inner impressions, how he felt about this world he was encountering and its emotional impact on his being. His aesthetic response later brought his attention back to the amphitheater as it rose up before him, an architectural and theatrical wonder. One attribute stood out above all others. The Roman presence as palpable, a lingering almost haunting influence. One couldn't escape either its physical or spiritual dimensions.
Before he had time to contemplate this effect further, Jalal once again voiced his reservations about the delay. The mercenary couldn't contain his feelings.
"You're going to sit writing poetry while she gets away?"
Solomon sensed the soldier's disdain and it rankled him. He didn't want to provoke his bodyguard, but the pressed-upon poet believed Jalal's attitude called for a little comeuppance.
"You know nothing about poetry," Solomon began. "You think poems are all about words scribbled on paper, but they are more than you imagine. . .so much more. Poetry captures the essence of emotional experience. An individual's intimations, feelings, thoughts, and sensations. . . a whole world of impressions. . .inside of ourselves and outside as well . . .given expression . . . or, perhaps hinted at using words and sounds. . .the longings and perceptions of the individual soul."
"I didn't know . . ."
"You're so ignorant, Jalal." Solomon interrupted. He supposed his irritation was quite evident, but he didn't care anymore. "You've probably never heard of the nomadic Bedouin warrior-poets and their archaic but elegant desert odes. No, of course you haven't. Well let me enlighten you my friend. Those desert warrior tribes held annual poetry competitions while congregating in Mecca. They didn't write their poems. They delivered them orally, sometimes singing them; and, the winning poem, embroidered on banners in gold thread, hung on display at an ancient shrine called "the House of God." Now called The Kaaba, it became the symbolic heart of Islam, the ancient stone building toward which Muslims pray, in the center of the Grand Mosque, in Mecca. Muslims circle the Kaaba seven times when making the mandatory once in a lifetime pilgrimage to Mecca. Hanging the winning banner at "the "House of God" tells us how vital poetry is to Arab culture. Warrior poets, the ancient Arabic language, and Islam cannot be separated."
"How do you know all this?" Jalal asked.
"We Jews aren't so different from our Muslim counterparts," Solomon confided. "For Islam, Arabic is a sacred language. For us, Hebrew is the same. Nothing less than the "Word of God. "That's why we respect and master their tongue as well as others."
"I didn't know. . ."
He's repeating himself again, thought the investigator.
"You call yourself a soldier, Jalal? You seem half a man compared to those desert dwelling warrior-poets who prized soulfulness just as much as physical prowess."
"I had no idea." Jalal confessed. "I'm sorry."
The mercenary turned and walked away, climbing the steps of the outdoor theater until he found a place to sit alone.
Solomon turned within himself while trying to calm down. He had been harsh on the soldier. Breathing deeply, he reflected upon his short-fused temper. He knew himself to be quick to anger and he often took offense at the slightest provocation. He never understood why. He hoped his saving grace was that he forgave others easily and didn't dwell on these flare-ups. They soon passed, allowing a more generous nature to reassert itself.
The poet returned to work, taking notes in a short-hand he'd later reconstruct, in Córdoba, when he possessed more time to reflect upon this earlier Roman world. He'd revise his impressions, shape them into finished poems, and commit this work to a better quality paper using a more permanent iron, oak-gall ink.
Solomon took his writing seriously.
He felt proud to be a part of a special group of young Andalusi Jewish poets taking Hebrew out of the synagogue and into the world as a viable language for celebrating the wonders of nature and the secular world.
Cousin Hasdai, as Nasi of Córdoba's Jewish community and Foreign Minister in the Caliphate political system, found himself in a unique position to encourage this remarkable development. In addition to lending his moral support to the effort, he became a patron of young poets who might have otherwise languished. As the movement's main patron, Solomon's distinguished older cousin almost single-handedly re-energized Judaism in Andalusia, enticing Jewish scholars and clergy from all over the world to make Córdoba a new, international center of the faith. He'd also fashioned a new Jewish calendar for Andalusi Jews, and he generously donated funds to Jewish communities around the world.
During the course of these reflections, Jalal returned.
Solomon noticed him remove small pieces of dry charcoal and paper from his own pack. Jalal sat down beside his disgruntled companion and began to sketch the outlines of the stage back-drop. The poet watched him begin with the marble columns.
His actions piqued Solomon's curiosity.
"What're you doing?"
"I became so intent on serving my assignment that I forget to serve myself."
"You're an artist?"
"I'm a scout. They send me to explore the terrain so observation and sketching are skills in my line of work. I can't afford to allow them to decline."
Solomon continued scribbling random lines of poetry and snippets of ideas he'd return to after assimilating this experience while Jalal deftly sketched the three dimensional theater structure into a reasonable replica on the flat surface of his paper, an image he might decide to render later with more accuracy.
Knowing their time limited, and desiring to visit other ancient sites, Solomon worked quickly. He had gained a co-conspirator and it wasn't long before they were on their way, retracing their steps out through the ground level seating area and back out to the road. They went to the Roman Amphitheater, an even larger venue than the adjacent theater.
At the height of its glory, the stadium seated fifteen thousand spectators. Chariot races were held in the arena along with gladiator combats with the highest priced seats placed dangerously close to the racing and bloodshed for optimal visceral effect.
Jalal was now taking an interest in their sightseeing, but Solomon was now having nagging doubts so they took only enough time to visit rooms once housing wild animals or gladiators waiting to go into battle:
"Can you picture yourself here as a gladiator?" he asked Jalal.
"I'd rather not."
"Then, let's move on. . ."
After visiting he Temple of Diana, Roman goddess of the moon and the hunt, they viewed the Roman Aqueduct. A sense of guilt began to gnaw at the investigator. Perhaps he'd not felt the urgency of his mission with the necessary ardor. Maybe Jalal had been correct to insist on focusing on their assignment. Now at odds with himself, Solomon sensed he needed to rededicate his efforts to the investigation. After all, the presence of the Galician woman in his world felt just as mysterious as the ancient Roman past.
Despite his misgivings, Solomon knew he'd been wise to spend extra time in Mérida, allowing a few random hours of bliss to counteract his apprehension at continuing on to the frontier zone. A partial day spent in pursuit of poetry and art, before trekking deeper into the center of a cultural backwater, couldn't hurt.
Taking leave of Mérida, like leaving any world rich and wonderful in its entrapments, is never easy. To venture from comfort into a realm of impending darkness demanded courage.
They had no choice.
"Go and find the Galician woman. . ." Hasdai implored. "Find her and bring her back to me so justice may be served."
And, Solomon had promised to do his best.
With renewed determination, they returned to the caravanserai, retrieved their belongings and recently purchased supplies, saddled the horses, packed the mule, and departed the
former capital of the Roman province of Lusitania through Trajan's Arch, a forty-five foot high monumental gateway built to pay homage to the first Roman emperor born on the Iberian Peninsula.
Chapter 20
They weren't hard to identify. They wore loose cloaks protecting them from rain and cold, broad-rimmed all-weather hats, carried long walking staffs for support which doubled as weapons against thieves and wild animals, lugged attached calabashes used for drinking vessels and leather pouches carried on long belts, filled with bread and wine. Equipped with good shoes, they fingered rosary beads devoutly while intoning prayers. Packs strung by leather around their backs, or sacks tied with rope serving the same purpose, completed the pilgrim attire.
They traveled by twos and threes and in bands of a half dozen or more with an occasional brave, misguided soul enduring the journey in solitude. Some of them would fall prey to predatory animals as well eternally persistent human predators, thieves and murderers.
These pilgrims of the "Way of St. James" were more and more evident as Solomon and Jalal made their way north from Zamora. The two Andalusis found the pilgrims intriguing and realized that, given they'd seen none on the Camino Mozarabic, most of these spiritual seekers had begun their pilgrimages in Seville.
Black faces among them indicated some had journeyed all the way from Africa.
Solomon and Jalal found bands of these pilgrims walking by the side of the road along a route leading through oak and pine forests from Mérida to the town of Caceres. They traveled on, encountering similar groups before arriving at the Alcantara Bridge and its strategic Citadel, the last vestige of Muslim power in the region. On the far side of yet another ageless Roman bridge, this one across the Tagus River, loomed the frontier zone.
Their first impression of the bridge: six immense arches, far fewer than on any bridge they'd come upon to date; and, it rested atop longer column supports than any structure they'd previously seen. It stood out in their minds as an impressive crossing over an unbelievably deep and dangerous river gorge. It was the end of May and water flowed downstream with an impressive velocity, but the height of the bridge provided a secure safeguard against flooding.
They passed a mysterious temple, on the river's left bank, before arriving at the bridge's southern entrance where they were greeted by two sentinels. Two additional watchmen stood poised on the far side of the bridge. After stating their business, one of the guards directed them to the Muslim Citadel, an imposing fortress situated on a nearby hillside.
Their hosts at the stronghold, lonely soldiers seeking camaraderie, naturally gravitated towards their professional counterpart, Jalal. These multi-ethnic troops invited the travelers to join them for an evening meal in the mess hall where they were received by the post Commandant. Unlike his men, the clean-uniformed Berber officer was more inclined to pay attention to Solomon once he'd read Hasdai's letter of introduction. The investigator wondered if this light-skinned North African--whose features included a long aquiline nose, sandy colored hair and mustache, and squinty blue eyes--might've had ancestors who sailed across the Strait of Tariq from their North African homeland with the conquering Umayyad armies in 711.
Solomon wasn't so forward as to ask because Berbers were once considered second-class citizens by the Arab elite even though North African regiments made up the bulk of the army. Arabs, who'd recently converted them to Islam, were a decided minority of the invaders but constituted a majority of the officers.
Berbers had been given the least desirable Iberian lands in return for their loyalty, settling mostly in poorer rural areas. Black-skinned Berbers fared worse than their light-complexioned counterparts whose blood mixed with Romans and Vandals. Resentment caused by unequal land distribution, coupled with discrimination, erupted into a Berber revolt in 740 CE. Umayyad troops from Damascus, in concert with local Arab led troops, crushed Berber uprisings in Andalusia and North Africa's Maghreb.
Although long term resentments were inevitable, much of the discrimination lessened with the emergence of Rahman's III's Caliphate. Loyalty and skill fueled the Caliph's meritocracy with little bigotry tolerated because of ethnic or religious backgrounds. Like other non-Arab Muslims, Berbers embraced the increased opportunities and served at the highest levels of the government's administrative and military bureaucracies.
Solomon chose not to reveal the nature of his mission, but the Foreign Minister's signet ring divulged his important connections in al-Zahra's power structure. The Commandant knew better than to pry. Court favor with this unusual young man...obviously sent here on behalf of the Caliph . . . be charming . . . he might remember you upon his return to the Capital. A reassignment would be most welcomed. The investigator was guessing at his host's internal reactions to his presence, but he suspected he wasn't far off the mark.
Solomon even imagined the Berber debating with himself before his misgivings gave way an overwhelming curiosity and the officer requested a small favor of his guest.
"Would it be an imposition if I asked you to help me decipher a mystery or two?"
"I'd be happy to assist you," Solomon responded. "What's on your mind?"
"First, I must inquire. . .what I mean is. . .I'm hoping you read Latin."
"Yes, I possess the skill."
"It requires you to accompany me to the middle of the bridge and afterwards pay a visit to the temple."
"It's getting late."
"Shall we do it first thing in the morning?" the Berber asked. "It won't take long."
Jalal's attention drifted back and forth as he chattered with inquisitive soldiers while attempting to overhear his companion's conversation with the post's chief officer.
"What's the nature of these mysteries?" queried Solomon.
"I'll keep it a surprise."
Whet our appetites, Solomon thought. How clever of him to insure our cooperation in this manner. Out of the corner of his eye, at the farthest reaches of his peripheral vision, he found Jalal wincing. He probably thought they'd already spent too much time on all things Roman. The investigator was starting to agree with him and wanted to get on with the mission. However, acting rude to a high-ranking officer of the Caliph's army was not a wise course of action. His eyes focused back on the congenial Commandant as the Berber rose from the table.
"Until morning, gentlemen."
Solomon and Jalal stood adjacent to the southern pier of the Roman bridge, studying six arches resting atop stone pillars. The distance below the arches down to the river appeared different for each, giving the bridge an asymmetrical appearance. They estimated the stones on the undersides of these arches to be at least one hundred and forty feet above the river's water mark and guessed the bridge's total height at close to two hundred feet.
They couldn't help but admire this great example of the civil engineer's art even though their thoughts gravitated towards the impending journey into the frontier zone.
"I hope he arrives soon," Jalal said.
"I must admit we are in total agreement," Solomon confessed.
"We call it 'Al Qantaret,'" boomed the voice of the Commandant as he approached them from behind.
"The Bridge. . ." repeated Jalal.
"Yes, "The Bridge." Because there is none other like it in the entire world. At least, that's what we choose to believe. Other than that, I call tell you nothing more about it. That's why I've asked you to join me this morning. Shall we proceed?"
"By all means," Solomon replied.
The Berber officer led them across the twenty foot wide roadway, a path heavy wagons and legions of Roman soldiers had passed over centuries earlier. He stopped before the triumphal arch, paused, and then walked over to stand in front of the bridge's right column. He pointed upwards to a marble plaque where an inscription, written in Latin, had been chiseled into the stonework.
"There is our first mystery," he said. "Can you interpret the words for me?"
Solomon clambered up on the side of the bride, steadied his balance, and looked another se
ven feet above his head to study the words etched into the plaque.
"The date of construction was between the years 105 and 106."
"It's more than eight centuries old," the Commandant calculated. "Praise be to Allah. It truly is 'The Bridge.'"
"To Caesar Imperator, son of divine Nerva, Nerva Traianus Germanicus Datius, Maximus Pontifex, Tribunitia Potestas for the 8th time, Imperium for the 5th time, Pater of the Patria." "The dates of construction and the inscription," the investigator began after translating the Latin into Arabic and paraphrasing the words, ". . .indicate this marvelous structure is dedicated to the Roman Emperor Trajan."
Solomon jumped down off the parapet.
Surprised by his companion's agility, Jalal breathed a sigh of relief. The mercenary soldier had worried Solomon would lose his balance and go tumbling down into the river canyon. How would he explain that to his superiors? He found this ghastly scenario disturbing.
"Thank you so much," gushed the Berber. "Now, may we continue on to our next mystery?"
The sooner the better, thought the investigator.
The giddy Berber turned around and led them back across the bridge.
On the left bank stood a small votive temple, a rectangular building with an interior cell.
Built of granite, its exterior stone stairway led up to an entrance flanked by two Tuscan columns. Its gabled roof was also constructed from slabs of stone. At the entrance to the temple, below the roofline, a vertical recessed triangular space made of wood formed the center of a pediment, only it was missing the usual decoration. Beneath this, a marble plaque bore more inscriptions.
"The bridge and temple are built with granite blocks of equal size," Jalal observed.
Solomon and the Berber Commandant felt compelled to assess the veracity of this remark so they turned around to study the bridge.
The Commandant turned back to the mercenary and eyed him with new found admiration:
"I've been assigned to this Citadel for more than a year and never once had that fact occurred to me."
The Galician Woman Page 14