"He sketches," Solomon offered by way of explanation. "A skill he learned doing reconnaissance."
"And the inscription?" inquired the Berber.
Solomon walked up the six granite steps, taking him close enough to decipher the words below the temple's lintel.
"This tells us the architect is Gaius Julius Lacer. I believe this is his tomb. He dedicated this temple to the Roman gods and Emperors of Rome: Nerva, Trajan, Caesar Augustus, and Germanicus." The investigator paused to contemplate the remainder of the inscription, hoping to offer an interpretation in layman's terms. He repeated a sentence to himself: Pontem perpetui mansurum in saecula mundi.
"What does it mean?" the Commandant wanted to know.
Solomon was surprised by the acuity of the Berber's hearing.
"Gaius Lacer claims he leaves a bridge forever in the centuries of the world. In other words, he says this bridge will last forever. Will it last another thousand years?" he wondered aloud. "That remains to be seen."
"I see no reason why not," Jalal ventured.
"Nor do I," the Berber agreed.
The outpost's Commandant turned serious. He stared hard at Jalal while issuing a stern admonition:
"Proceed cautiously," he advised. "The frontier holds many dangers."
Jalal acknowledged the warning with a subdued smile.
"I hope I've solved your mysteries." Solomon said to the Berber.
"Yes, quite splendidly, and a good deed deserves reciprocation," the officer stated. "I'm going to assign an elite squad of my men to accompany you the first ten miles into the frontier. After that . . . I'm afraid you're on your own."
"Time for us to take you up on your offer," Solomon said. "In spite of your hospitality, for which we are grateful, we'll be leaving as soon as possible."
Jalal looked at Solomon with disbelief in his eyes. He hadn't foreseen this new sense of urgency. The soldier continued to stand transfixed as Solomon turned and walked back across the timeless bridge using long, fast strides.
At the far end of the bridge, Solomon turned and found the mercenary engaged with his army superior. He watched as the Berber shot his military inferior a quizzical look and all the Slav offered in return were raised eye-brows and a puzzled expression. The mercenary was promptly dismissed. Solomon waited as Jalal set out across the Alacantara Bridge to rejoin his suddenly impatient traveling companion.
Chapter 21
Their first day in the frontier zone brought nothing to be concerned about. They traveled along a route marked by human-sized milestones with numerals etched into rock surfaces, indicators left by the Romans who'd set them in place on their major roads to mark the distance between important towns and mining districts. A squad of eight cavalry accompanied them for a few hours before turning around to return to their Citadel on the Tagus.
They camped out in the open that night with few words passing between them.
Solomon wasn't sure about this next leg of the journey. They had left everything familiar about their world and he was beginning to worry about what might lie ahead. Anticipation tempered by an underlying fear. He wanted to move forward with the mission, but he understood this involved taking unavoidable risks.
He also sensed an unresolved tension between his escort and himself. Jalal had proven trustworthy, but the nascent investigator in Solomon still knew very little about the mercenary's background. The soldier might be looking for an opportunity to escape Andalusia altogether. While contemplating his hopes and fears, Solomon fell asleep on his bedroll.
The next day, shortly after noon, Jalal allowed him to take the lead while the soldier fell behind with the pack mule. A brief time later, Jalal rode up alongside Solomon in order to gain his attention:
"We're being followed."
"Are you sure?"
"I noticed them earlier this morning," the mercenary replied. "I count five."
"Are we in danger?"
"I don't think so. I quicken our pace, they increase theirs. I slow down and they do the same. They always maintain the same distance. They're well-trained. I think they're tracking us."
Solomon shared his worst fear: "Maybe they're waiting until we're deeper into the frontier before making a move."
"I hadn't thought of that," Jalal confessed and then he thought over the possibility. "It does make sense. . .dispose of us in some anonymous place far from the Caliphate. . .let the wild animals devour our carcasses . . .no trace of us . . . no investigation."
"Then, again," Solomon reminded him. "My cousin Hasdai has friends in León and they occupy high positions. Maybe these are soldiers sent to insure our safe passage to Galicia so we arrive safely in Santiago."
"I hope you're right, Solomon."
The frontier zone felt desolate and lonely.
The region had been almost completely depopulated in the wake of the Islamic invasion when the Christian residents of the region were transported north to León and to the mountains of Asturias. An occasional, unoccupied Muslim watchtower stood out against a deserted and uncultivated and barren landscape. The frontier zone had always been considered a place of danger, a locale to be avoided.
As the two men continued north towards Salamanca, Solomon couldn't resist looking back over his shoulder. He found the dark silhouettes still close enough to be seen. He counted quietly to himself. There were five trackers. He couldn't imagine Jalal having a chance in hell against that many men; and, he realized he wouldn't be much help if it came to a fight. He tried to suppress his fears, to act like he was still in control of his emotions. He didn't think of himself as a complete coward, but he'd never been forced to consider self-defense in a life and death situation.
Solomon felt a tight knot forming down in his stomach
Welcome to the frontier, he told himself.
This place felt different, ominous. The absence of any Muslim influence provided a sharp contrast and a less than reassuring feeling compared to their well-ordered existence in Córdoba. Were these intimations of the savage north? As much as he might resent Jalal, he began to realize he needed the man's expertise, strength, and training. Cousin Hasdai had chosen well.
Solomon would've been lost out in the frontier zone by himself.
Once again, he found the assignment grating on his nerves. He certainly hadn't asked to be summoned by his cousin, the Foreign Minister. He remembered being reluctant, at least at first. Still, he might have been guilty of giving in too easily, jumping at a chance to serve the Caliph to promote his own opportunity for financial success and occupational freedom.
Solomon knew his current predicament to be one of his own making.
Get on with it, he uttered under his breath. There's no sense looking back. Move on with the mission. It won't be long before you're in Santiago de Compostela and things aren't going to get easier. There'll be tougher challenges to face so prepare yourself inwardly and summon every ounce of courage you possess to see this through to the end.
"Are you feeling all right?" Jalal asked.
"I've never felt better," Solomon lied.
They passed through Cáceres and reached Salamanca where they purchased supplies for the last leg of their journey. Celtic tribes lived in the area centuries before the arrival of the Romans.The town had been resettled by Christians, after the defeat of Rahman III’s forces, a decade earlier at the Battle of Simancas. The same battle where the Caliph had been ambushed and forced to beat a hasty retreat leaving behind his precious Quran. The same battle that had required Hasdai to spend seven months in the Christian capital of Leon to arrange for the return of a captured Muslim nobleman. Solomon and Jalal encountered another Roman bridge, another river crossing. This time the Tormes River.
They pushed on to the north. At Zamora, they crossed the Duero River. Their journey had required them to cross four of the peninsula’s five major rivers. They left the frontier zone behind and entered what may be considered enemy territory.
Continuing on, they arrived at the ubiquitous fork i
n the road. Jalal halted their progress so he could take time to consult the map Hasdai had provided. He marveled at the amount of detail he found just as the investigator had been amazed by the specifics of the research notes.
As far as the map was concerned, Jalal didn't know Muslims had made dozens of forays into Galicia during the previous two centuries and the invaders also possessed the benefit of Latin texts outlining the Roman Empire's four centuries of rule over the Iberian Peninsula. These written accounts included maps of the main roadways and mining districts.
"There are two possibilities," he told Solomon.
The investigator turned his head from left to right to survey the two roads,
That much is obvious, he said to himself.
"The map indicates we should take the route leading west. Otherwise, we'll find ourselves in Astorga and dangerously close to León."
"My cousin is usually correct and we'd be foolish to think otherwise."
They rode a short distance along the west fork before the keeper of the map reined his horse to an abrupt stop. Jalal rubbed one hand along the bottom of his chin and his glazed expression revealed a mind lost in deep contemplation.
"Wait here," he suddenly shouted.
Solomon reined his mount to stop its forward progress while his escort rode up beside him with the mule and handed the Balearic pack animal's rope line over to him. He grasped it in one hand and watched as the mercenary turned his mare around and galloped back down the road while he, the bewildered traveling companion, sat waiting for an explanation.
Ten minutes passed before Jalal returned.
"Those five riders continued north," he informed Solomon.
"I bet they're heading back to León," the investigator ventured to guess. "They must think we'll be safe between here and Santiago de Compostela."
"What do you think?"
"What I think matters very little," Solomon replied. "I suppose it's an encouraging sign."
He handed the mule's guide rope back to his bodyguard, gave his horse a gentle kick in the flanks, and charged off down the road towards their ultimate destination.
The Slav rode out after him.
Jalal wondered why Solomon appeared to be in such a hurry. Why the sudden change of heart? He wondered if his companion wanted to put this whole ordeal behind him before he lost his courage. The disappointed mercenary was no longer enamored of the mission. He suspected he'd be better off in Córdoba where the opportunity to be assigned to troop movements was a real possibility.
For his part, Solomon entertained doubts they'd ever track down the Galician woman. And, what if they did. What difference could it possibly make? Umar was dead. The damage had already been done.
Another divide in the road presented itself at A Gudiña. Jalal checked the map for the desired route and then he shared the information that he had learned: “The Foreign Minister indicates we should take the north trail,” he said. “It appears to be shorter than the southern route.”
No need for discussion, so Solomon rode out ahead and set the pace as they followed a bucolic route through the remote Galician countryside. Magnificent mountains, rising up in the distance, would soon slow their progress.
Solomon had already reviewed Hasdai's well-documented notes.
Their trail led deeper into a land whose original inhabitants had been displaced by two successive waves of Celtic invasions, 900 and 600 years before the birth of Christ. After four centuries of Roman rule, the Suevi, a confederation of Germanic tribes living in lands invaded by the Huns, migrated across the Rhine and down into Iberia, where they formed a new kingdom. They were ousted, in turn, by the Visigoths. After the Muslim invasion, these Goths retreated to Asturias and Galicia to establish the only Christian stronghold left on the Iberian Peninsula.
The Andalusis were uneasy in this foreign territory, experiencing an unfamiliarity both cultural and geographic. The terrain proved difficult as they continued up into the mountains, but an undulating, green landscape provided them with an enjoyable visual compensation. Although conquerors had traipsed through these same mountains for some two thousand years, almost two millennium, the features of the topography had changed very little.
They skirted a deep river canyon and, soon after it, a steep descent brought them down into another tiny village. It was little more than a dozen farm houses so they didn't bother to stop. As they left the village and rode higher into the mountains the scenery and weather changed dramatically. Dense, low clouds enveloped them within a thick layer of moist, heavy air. A light drizzle penetrated the canopy forcing them to stop and unpack their rain jackets. They protected themselves from the elements inside water-proof, oiled sealskin outer garments.
The Galician forest offered a rich texture and interesting overlaps, and their adventure continued to unfold under this elaborate mesh of intertwining branches and twigs and leaves. No time for poetry now. Solomon would have to absorb these impressions and wring them out at a later time.
The grey swirling clouds lifted and provided delightful, stunning vistas as they emerged from the woods. They passed countless isolated hamlets, nameless villages where scattered farm houses, built with low stone walls and wooden doors and occasional windows, supported tall thatched roofs. Plumes of charcoal smoke spiraled into a grey sky, high above stone chimney tops, until the colors merged into an indistinct mass.
Despite the wet weather and the slippery path, Solomon refused to slacken their progress.
The sun came out again, in the early afternoon, but the Camino turned shady once more as they entered a cool, green, moist world where temperatures proved conducive to long stretches of travel without breaks. Solomon found himself in a contemplative mood so he slowed the pace. He soon began to realize he'd taken the presence of light for granted in sunny Andalusia. Shadowy Galicia was teaching him how the nature of light can prove elusive.
He pushed on, impressing Jalal with his determination and stamina.
They traveled through a long, flat valley where thin columns of blue smoke curled up out of house chimneys during the middle of the day, and homesteads were surrounded by gardens and fields, compost heaps, apple orchards, and tiny corrals. After passing a few more villages, they began a long climb up through low pines and heather until they reached a place called Albergueria.
Solomon decided to stop here to get a closer look at an unusual, arresting feature. Dotting the countryside were dozens of narrow, rectangular, gabled structures built from stone and wood. They resembled tiny one-room houses and were lying atop massive stone slab platforms resting three feet above the ground.
"What do you make of these?" Solomon asked Jalal.
"Maybe this is how they bury their dead," guessed the mercenary.
They took time to write and sketch descriptions of the unique configurations before starting off on a gentle ride down the other side of the mountain to an area much flatter, greener and more densely populated. They reached a village located on a large plain, nested at the foot of the mountains. Exhausted from the long, arduous ride, they made camp in a rock outcropping on the outskirts of the town, about a mile from the hamlet, in an attempt to remain anonymous.
chapter 22
They left the mountains behind and spent the morning riding through farmland and pastures separated by stacked stone boundaries. Blond Galician cattle, a breed they'd never seen in Andalusia, grazed peacefully amidst the pervasive stone farmhouses, thatched roofs, garden plots, and smoking chimneys. The old Roman road turned pilgrims' path alternated between oak woodlands and open landscapes until they arrived in Xunqueira de Ambia.
Jalal stopped to look at the map.
"We'll be in Orense this afternoon," he announced.
"Which means we'll arrive in Santiago de Compostela, very soon." Solomon added.
The quiet isolation of the mountains became a thing of the past as hamlets merged into one another and they began to encounter more and more bands of pilgrims along the road. The trail meandered, taking t
hem close to a river.
By early afternoon, Solomon spied yet another Roman bridge. It spanned the river a mile in the distance. "Looks like the Romans also settled in Ourense.” He pointed ahead to a crossing supported by five arches.
Nearing the bridge, they found several small pools ringed with rocks and boulders, set back from the riverbank. Steam rose from the pools in spiraling updrafts of misty vapor. Jalal took the animals down to the river to give them water. He tested the temperature with his fingers and found it agreeably cool. Solomon dipped his hand into one of the ringed pools and discovered it contained hot, thermal waters. He joined his escort at the riverbank where they filled their goat-skin water bags.
"I think we've earned respite," suggested Solomon. "We'll camp here, near the river, and leave just after sunrise. We can pretend we're back in Córdoba bathing in the public baths."
They tethered the animals, slipped off their clothing, and eased themselves down between the boulders into hot water. The deeply penetrating heat soothed aching bones and released nervous tension. They barely noticed another fine example of arched bridge construction. The allure of Roman architecture and engineering had finally begun to wear thin.
"Did you know Berbers ruled Galicia at one time, Jalal?"
"No, I didn't know that."
"Amazing, isn't it? They left voluntarily about two hundred years ago because of a devastating drought. They returned all the way back to their original homes, in North Africa. These lands have been in Christian hands ever since."
Jalal eyed Solomon suspiciously.
"It's true. I'm not making this up."
Jalal didn't seem interested so the investigator changed the subject of their conversation so they might talk about his beloved Córdoba.
"I've missed the public baths," he admitted. "This feels so good."
"They make a soldier's life bearable."
"Salus per aquam."
"What's that mean?" asked a curious Jalal.
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