"It means health from water. Roman soldiers always searched for hot mineral springs to relieve aches and pains after long marches and battles."
"Like I said. They make life bearable."
If nothing else, Solomon and Jalal shared this sentiment in common.
The hot waters and cool air lulled the two men into a contemplative state of mind, and another question occurred to the mercenary.
"What else do you miss about Córdoba, Solomon?"
"Just about everything."
"Too simplistic," Jalal protested. "What do you miss most of all?"
"I miss time spent with my poet friends, and surprisingly I miss my work."
"What kind of work are you engaged in?"
"I translate valuable texts," Solomon explained "I've been engaged in translating the work of the philosopher Aristotle from Latin into Hebrew."
"Who's Aristotle?"
"He was a Greek philosopher and a teacher to Alexander the Great. Many consider him the world's first scientist. In my mind, his importance cannot be overestimated. He was the first and greatest teacher in everything. Shells, fish, plants, animals, man; there was nothing that didn't interest him. Observe the world using the senses. Before him, everything was attributed to the gods. I'm probably exaggerating because my love of nature and culture endears him to me. I know for certain his work would've been lost if not for the interest the Arabs in Bagdad took in preserving Greek texts."
A long silence ensued as they allowed the soothing heat to relax tired muscles.
"And you, Jalal, what do you miss most?"
"I miss my woman."
"What is it you miss about her?"
"I don't know you well enough to share my personal life with you," Jalal informed him.
The mercenary was painfully honest. Solomon groused about it, but he guessed it was an honorable trait. Did it mean he was trustworthy? This was difficult to know for sure. The investigator decided to change the subject once again and move the conversation to something that had been on his mind of late. He wanted to see how honest Jalal would be regarding his misgivings about the mission they'd been entrusted with.
"This whole situation makes little sense to me," Solomon confided as he began to share his frustrations. "I've been struggling to find some meaningful explanation, some real purpose in our circumstances. I don't understand the Foreign Minister's thinking. Why send us on a time consuming chase. How long have we been traveling?"
"Too long."
"Exactly what I was thinking."
"From a military and strategic perspective it makes perfect sense," Jalal told him. "They don't know who murdered Umar. If this Galician woman is an agent of the Christian north, we stand a good chance of finding her and uncovering important details about their plans. If she perpetrated a crime of passion, we'll find that out as well. If this was a Fatimid attempt to create unrest from their perch in North Africa, which is the most likely scenario, then we're covering the Caliph's backside."
Solomon reconsidered.
The Fatimids did seem the most likely culprits. He thought of Ahmad and his journey from Córdoba to Tangier and probably beyond. Hiding his curls and traveling incognito, he might've stumbled upon a Fatimid plot to overthrow Rahman III and seize complete control of the Islamic world given the disintegrating state of the Abbasid Empire, in Bagdad. Three different contenders vying for the right to rule Islam. It made sense to destroy the most viable enemy first.
Solomon wondered if Ahmad was traveling with an escort as powerful as Jalal. He hoped that was the case. He may have journeyed as part of an entourage. Ahmad hadn’t shared the details of his mission. Neither had he. They hadn’t had time. Had Ahmad discovered something to implicate the Fatimids? Was Umar’s murder a political assassination?
This line of inquiry led the investigator into more speculation.
"What if this Galician woman didn't have anything to do with the murder?" he asked Jalal.
"Then maybe she's an important witness who knows something about the person or persons who did. Or, perhaps Umar was assassinated and this Galician woman was kidnapped and whisked away to North Africa where she was forced into a harem."
"The possibilities are endless," Solomon sighed. "We might as well continue with the mission until the outcome puts an end to our conjecture."
"If we find this Galician woman and bring her back to Andalusia, our mission will be deemed a success no matter who is responsible for Umar's demise." Jalal offered.
"I think you're right." Solomon agreed. "As much as I enjoy relaxing here, I think we'd better leave for Santiago first thing in the morning."
"Means we have time for a swim,"
The Slavic mercenary climbed up and over the boulders ringing the thermal pool and he ran for the riverbank, his naked backside visible for a few moments before he splashed his way into the river and made a diving leap out towards the middle of the stream.
Solomon laughed out loud.
Appreciating the audacity and spontaneity of the act, he decided to join his companion without taking time to calculate the extreme differences in water temperatures.
Solomon Levy was in for a shocking surprise.
Sunlight, the great awakener, streamed down into the green Galician world as Solomon awoke the following morning feeling more relaxed than at any time since leaving Córdoba. He had fallen asleep to the gentle murmur of water, the river's ancient, regenerative song.
He looked around the camp and was surprised to discover himself alone.
Feeling warm under his blankets, he hesitated to crawl out from under them. Clouds of steam rose from nearby hot pools and wafted up into the surrounding colder air. The investigator gazed over at the dying embers of a fire that had served its purpose by warding off predatory wolves and bears. No sign of Jalal, but his tethered horse stood unsaddled next to the second mare and the mule. He's probably gone off to fulfill his natural functions. Solomon admitted to himself that he appreciated this consideration.
He didn't appreciate what happened next.
Three men entered the camp with swords drawn. Their leader stepped forward speaking a language and dialect the translator couldn't understand. The words and the structure of the tongue made no sense to his mind. Judging by the man's gestures and body language, it soon dawned on Solomon that despite the word barrier he'd found himself in a universal predicament.
These men desired to relieve him of his valuables.
He pulled a knife out from under his blanket as he rose up from his bedroll. Try to buy yourself some time, he told himself. Perhaps these men are Catholics who might understand a smattering of Latin.
"I'm traveling to an audience with the Bishop of Santiago de Compostela." he informed them in the Roman vernacular. "I won't disgrace his honor by fighting you."
The perplexed robbers laughed in his face.
Solomon took a deep breath and prepared himself for the worst.
Raising their swords overhead, the emboldened thieves took another step forward. Solomon knew he and Jalal would be rendered helpless if the animals and supplies were taken. Might as well be dead, he supposed, as he raised his knife and took a tentative step forward to meet his fate.
Time went still.
They all heard the roar, a harrowing, fierce animal like growl. This was no bear or wolf. This sounded like some otherworldly primal scream, an unnerving piercing noise. The thieves turned around to locate the intruder in their midst.
Jalal and his sudden appearance and threatening presence stunned everybody in the camp.
Solomon tightened his grip on the knife handle, ready to join in the fray.
Jalal removed his sword from its sheath. A fine honed-blade glistened in the morning sunlight as he made a few slashing motions to warm himself up for the fight. He wielded the weapon with a remarkable expertise and dexterity. It became obvious the soldier had learned under the tutorship of a good master swordsman, but his wasn't a mere display of technical skill. A unique spontan
eity and personal creativity were apparent in his movements and it became evident to the assailants that the bodyguard relished the impending altercation. Jalal's body seemed to expand with every stroke as he stood before the three robbers smiling confidently.
The leader of this thieving trio faltered and lost heart. Turning his back to the mercenary, he fled back into the woods from which he'd emerged with his two accomplices running swiftly after him.
Jalal didn't bother to give chase, He walked over to check on Solomon.
"Think they were sent after us?" Solomon wondered, breathing heavily while simultaneously uttering a sigh of relief.
"I doubt it," came the response. "Those cowards prey on the meek. The pilgrims probably make for easy pickings."
Solomon took a close look at the sword blade. It surprised him to discover no inscription had been etched into the metal. So much for clues revealing deeper aspects of Jalal's personality. Military issue, but still a fine piece of craftsmanship. Perhaps Jalal had left a favorite sword back in Córdoba, a prized treasure inscribed with a proverb or passage a from the Quran. Why risk losing it on their mission. The mercenary's courage and willingness to do battle revealed more about his character than any inscription on a sword blade could offer.
"We should break camp immediately and get on the trail," Jalal advised.
And so they did.
They rode through a dense forest of oak trees and bracken fern.
As the day turned grey and damp, a sense of melancholy oppressed them. Dreary, hard-going, and wearisome travel began to take its toll on their spirits. The pace slackened. Even the animals looked burdened. Solomon soon fell back into his old habit of assessing his escort as they rode silently along the trail, growing nearer their destination.
Did Jalal think he was superior with his obvious strength and physical prowess? That would be a bit ironic, thought Solomon. In the investigator's personal estimation the mercenary was intelligent and practical as well.
For his part, Jalal rode along while engaging in some sizing up of his own. Solomon thinks his poetry and intellect make him better than others. The funny thing is he's also attuned to his natural surroundings and seems to possess an instinctive side. Although he tries to hide this part of himself, these traits have revealed themselves during course of our journey.
Solomon experienced an eerie, disorienting sensation compelling him to share his foreboding. "This place feels spooky."
"Best not to talk about it," Jalal advised with sideways glance. "It only makes it harder for us to face our fears."
Ever the stoic soldier, thought Solomon.
They plodded on as a disquieting thought occurred to the investigator.
"Jalal, what if those five riders on their way to Leon included the Galician woman and her lover?"
"I had not considered that. . ."
"They might have arranged a rendezvous with three escorts." Solomon speculated. "Maybe they were agents of the King of Asturias sent to ferment chaos in Andalusia."
"To what end?"
"The Christians want to mount an offensive to overthrow the Caliphate and take over the entire Peninsula."
"Those riders looked professional," asserted Jalal.
"We'll find out soon enough."
The small band of pilgrims paused at Gudiña. Here, at the divide in the road, Lia's companion told her it was time for them to take leave of their devout friends. He explained to her why they should follow the southern route. He was almost certain their pursuers had chosen the northern trail since it was the shortest route to Santiago de Compostela, and they might be waiting in ambush for the couple. This stood to reason, thought Lia. Good thinking on his part. In her haste to return home as soon as possible, she never entertained this possibility.
A sense of gratitude began to overcome the Galicians.
They had grown fond of their fellow travelers, devout and humble pilgrims whose charity had enabled them to safely return to their homeland. And yet, as they found themselves closer to home and free from harm a feeling of elation began to set in.
Lia found her heart swelling in her breast.
The two Galicians hugged their comrades and wished them god speed on their journey to the Shrine of Saint James. As the band trekked off along the northern trail, brother Nathaniel and the others turned and waved goodbye.
Lia and her companion were now deep inside of Galicia which, along with its neighbor Asturias, constituted the only militant Christian provinces on the Iberian Peninsula.
Soon, they would be home.
It seemed to them the danger had passed.
Chapter 23
Solomon and Jalal entered Santiago de Compostela and found it wanting. A pre-Romanesque church dominated the center of the town while the nearby square of market stalls, exhibiting the region's available tools and foodstuffs, gave shelter to enclaves of pilgrims camping outside in the. open. A few small inns, strategically placed down side streets, accommodated wayfarers with means. The town was rather small by Andalusi standards and it lacked paved roads and street lamps. Not a library, public bath, school, or hospital in sight.
"Welcome to the rest of Europe," quipped Solomon.
"Are all the cities this backward?"
"Worse. Many of them have garbage and raw sewage in the streets."
The Slav grimaced: "Where will we be sleeping?"
"Hopefully, the Bishop of Santiago will make arrangements for us."
They continued on to the church, past its tall wooden entrance door, and discovered a stone hitching-post on the far side of the church yard. The investigator assumed it was used it for deliveries made to the church, but he wasn't sure. They dismounted and tethered the animals to an iron ring protruding up out of locally quarried stone. Solomon found what he was searching for in his saddle pack and he slung the satchel over his shoulder by its long strap.
"Wait for me, here," he instructed Jalal. "If I don't return in an a couple of hours come in and rescue me."
Both men laughed at this ridiculous scenario.
Solomon quickly went about his business and approached a gated entrance. Beyond the unlocked entryway lie a small garden where he found a young man with blond hair weeding a patch of earth with a long-handled hoe. His first look at the gardener was from the side and rear. A tall, lanky youth with the crown of his head shaved and left bare, creating a tonsure. But, he wasn’t dressed in cleric's garb.
Solomon pushed the gate open and entered the church yard. He might only speak the local tongue, thought the translator. He looks like a peasant. Then again, four centuries of Roman occupation should've made the Latin tongue the lingua franca of the entire Iberian Peninsula.
He decided to take a chance.
"I'm looking for the Bishop's office," he called out in Latin.
The youthful gardener turned around. He had a rather solemn demeanor for one so young, and vague, expressionless blue eyes. He continued working the plot, taking time to collect his thoughts before answering.
Solomon wondered if he was intruding.
"You'll find the Bishop's headquarters around the corner of the garden," he replied in Latin, pointing back down the side yard a short distance. "Behind the church. You can't miss it. There's only one door."
"You speak very good Latin."
"I was once a priest," he answered
"Was once," Solomon repeated.
The man stopped working and leaned on the handle of his implement.
"I've been excommunicated."
The investigator offered a quizzical look.
"It happened a year ago, this past Easter, during the most sacred of our religious holidays," the young man began unabashedly. "The bishop caught me with a young girl. She came to Santiago with her older brother and sister. Just the three of them, From a farm out near the Finnesterre. We took a liking to each other. Me and the girl. I guess I should say young woman. Anyway, the brother caught on and the older sister as well. They informed the Bishop and he punished me. He c
an reverse the excommunication, but first he wants me to repent and so far I've refused. They keep me working in the garden because they'd starve to death if I didn't tend to their crops."
"I understand," Solomon commiserated, although he didn't comprehended much of what the young man had tried so hard to communicate.
"I don't think you do, outsider," challenged the former priest. "It wasn't unchaste desire motivating me. I didn't give in to a desire for a woman. . .as if any pretty face would do. No, we talked and laughed together and shared our hopes and fears. My only desire was . . .I should say is. . .for one special woman."
Solomon was beginning to feel uncomfortable. He wasn't used to strangers unburdening their souls in front of him. He tried to appear sympathetic.
"I'm going now," Solomon said. "Thank you for your help."
"You're from the south, aren't you?" the gardener asked. "I saw your horses when you entered town with the mule. I've never seen anything like them"
"Córdoba."
"Take me back with you," beseeched the young man. "There's nothing left for me here. I've been utterly disgraced."
"I'm sorry for your misfortune."
"Please, come back and see me after you talk to the Bishop," the young man pleaded. "Please, I'll wait for you right here."
Solomon was sure the ex-cleric would be waiting for him, but he wasn't keen on the idea of engaging in further conversation with him. He decided to remain noncommittal.
"We'll see. . ."
Solomon stood upon the threshold of a recessed, rectangular opening. A single wooden door stood shut before him. He knocked on its surface half a dozen times and waited. No answer. He rapped again only this time more loudly. Again, he waited for a response. When the door opened a short, wiry woman with a dour expression greeted him.
"I'm here on urgent business," he told her. "I need to see the Bishop. "
"Please enter," she instructed.
The woman led Solomon inside to a large antechamber, a waiting room with a hard wooden bench and little else.
"Please tell the Bishop an emissary of the Foreign Minister of Andalusia is here to discuss a very important matter."
The Galician Woman Page 16