The Galician Woman

by William Mesusan

  "Andalusia?" Her ancient eyes widened.

  "Yes, Andalusia," he repeated so the woman could hear the correct pronunciation.

  "Please, wait here."

  She sauntered off, her feeble smile revealing a life of deep devotion.

  Solomon did as he was told. He waited. And, he waited. And the wait lasted longer. He caught himself tapping his fingers nervously on the satchel's closed flap. The longer he waited, the more he found himself disliking the Bishop who had kept him waiting. Is he really so busy, Solomon wondered, or was he trying to send the courier a not so-subtle message.

  The old woman appeared from out of nowhere and led Solomon to an open door. He'd been kept waiting for more than an hour before the Bishop of Santiago de Compostela finally initiated a meeting.

  Now I know why they sent me, thought the translator. They wanted someone who spoke the Bishop's language. Maybe Hasdai didn't have too many options available. It was hard to know. Maybe his trust had increased after the success of that first assignment. Too many questions. Time to get on with his audience.

  "You may enter," boomed a strident voice speaking in Latin.

  The old woman ushered Solomon inside as the square-jawed Bishop of Santiago--looking overweight in his long, close-fitting, ankle length black cassock--bounded forward. He appeared light on his feet for such a bulky man.

  "I'm Bishop Sisnand."

  "Solomon Levy."

  The Bishop extended his hand. His fourth finger, next to the little finger, was adorned with an outsized gold ring inlaid with a fiery red ruby. The gemstone's glow emitted light from some mysterious internal flame.

  "Your ring is beautiful," observed Solomon.

  He didn't kneel nor kiss the ring and this lack of ritual decorum wasn't lost on the Bishop.

  "You're not Christian. . ."

  "Jew. . ."

  The Bishop frowned below bushy gray eyebrows.

  "You are aware of the importance of this sacred site, are you not?" asked the Bishop.

  "Vaguely," was the investigator's honest response. He realized his mistake and understood he was about to endure a history lesson. What might have been a promising beginning soon worsened as the overweight clergyman swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

  "Our church is the burial-place of the Apostle Saint James who brought Christianity to Galicia and Asturias. He was beheaded, in Jerusalem, forty-four years after the death of Christ, but his remains were eventually returned to here. Following Roman persecutions of Christians, his tomb was abandoned in the 3rd century. Can you imagine such a thing, abandoned? But. . ." the Bishop paused and a wide smile spread across his oversized mouth. "His tomb was rediscovered five centuries later by the hermit Pelagius who witnessed strange lights in the night sky that led him to this place. This miracle led to the construction of a chapel on this site. King Alfonso II, ruler of Asturias and Galicia, was the first pilgrim to visit the shrine he had personally financed. The chapel was replaced by Alfonso III of Leon who ordered the construction and consecration of this church. We are now becoming a major site for pilgrimage, and one day we will erect a monumental cathedral on this very spot."

  The Bishop is amazingly long-winded, Solomon thought to himself. He had just learned a valuable lesson. One he wouldn't soon forget. It taught him to keep his lack of knowledge to himself while in the cleric's presence. It also occurred to him that the Bishop had this personal version of historical events memorized and he loved to parade it out for unsuspecting souls.

  Solomon's benign expression couldn't hide his skepticism.

  The shaggy-haired Bishop rose from his throne-like armchair and went over to stand before a sword and body armor. There was a wild gleam in his steely eyes as he licked his lips and picked up the long-bladed weapon with both hands. Sisnand raised the sword overhead, holding the pose for dramatic effect. He's either a good actor or he's totally mad, the investigator told himself.

  Sisnand lowered the blade to the floor.

  "You think relics and symbols are mere hocus pocus? Your hubris betrays you, Jew. Mark my words, we Catholics will rise up and drive the Muslims from your lands and St. James will lead the charge," bellowed the bombastic Warlord.

  Solomon found himself nurturing an intense dislike for the man. Then, he remembered Sara. She seemed unpretentious and devout. Must be as many different types of Christians as there are Christians practicing their religion, no two are exactly the same; and, Muslims are no different, nor are Jews. But these thoughts on the relativity of worshipers didn't change how he felt about the Warlord.

  The Bishop would've made it easy to dismiss all Christians as religious bigots, but Sara provided the counterpoint. She embodied what each of the major religions represented in their most essential teachings: practice love and humility, give service, and treat others the way you desire to be treated. So often preached; so often unpracticed.

  Solomon wondered if only individuals like the woman Sara offered a glimpse into true religious sentiment. He had found her spiritual yet not lacking sensuality. Devout, yet fiercely independent. Her enigmatic personality gave him hope. She personified what the investigator already knew. True religion begins in the heart and not in the mind.

  The others, the clergy and administrators, had forgotten their mission, the true mission of all religions, to foster the belief that where love rules there is no desire to exploit, overpower, or control others. There are good people to be found in all religions, Solomon reflected. And, those like this Bishop who are more interested in bending the precepts to attain their own ends. Teach love, but practice hate.

  He sighed deeply as he stood waiting to see if Sisnand would continue his diatribe.

  The Bishop, having taken no notice of him, returned the prized sword to its resting place and resumed his seat behind the massive desk. His library, unimpressive by Aldalusi standards, appeared to contain only tomes written in Latin. The investigator looked closely, but could find no Arabic, Hebrew, or Greek titles.

  "You speak Latin," commented the Bishop.

  "And Hebrew and Arabic. . ."

  "Why in the world did the Caliph's Foreign Minister send a Jew into our Catholic stronghold of Galicia?"

  "It's a long story. . ."

  Solomon took the satchel off his shoulder and rested it on the floor so he could open the flap to search for something. He found the letter of introduction, withdrew it, and stared down at a piece of cotton-fiber paper impressed with Bishop Racemundo's wax seal.

  He handed the letter to the Bishop Sisnand.

  "This explains a part of it. . ."

  Sisnand broke the seal, opened the correspondence, and read quietly as another frown furrowed his brows and his mouth contorted into an unmistakable scowl. The Bishop of Santiago became preoccupied with something more than the text. The Warlord appeared as interested in the cotton paper as in the message written upon its surface. He fingered it and seemed to marvel at its very existence.

  This really is a cultural backwater, Solomon thought to himself. This man has probably never seen cotton paper in his entire life. The Bishop's interest in the paper gave the investigator an opportunity to have a look around the room. The Bishop's sword, shield, and armor, obviously displayed for intimidation, left little doubt in his mind he was standing in the presence of a soldier. The dichotomy of a Bishop-Warlord wasn't lost on his once idealistic soul.

  The library was likely a singular presence in Santiago de Compostela and that spoke volumes. Did they use their knowledge to control the less fortunate, he wondered. Were the Catholic clergy in Europe monopolizing learning as a basis for gaining power and control over their worshippers.

  Solomon had hoped the contents of the diplomatic message would change the tone of the exchange, but they produced the opposite effect.

  "Racemundo," fumed the Bishop. "That traitor."

  The hostile remark took Solomon completely by surprise.

  Despite the detailed briefing Hasdai had prepared for him there w
as nothing suggesting he'd encounter such deep enmity in Santiago. The Foreign Minister had arranged a truce with his friends in Leon, and the Asturians apparently kept Sisnand on a rather short leash. Given the Warlord's vehemence, the Andalusi wondered how long they could hold keep him in check.

  "I have no respect for Catholics who work with Muslims," bristled the Bishop of Santiago. Solomon personally held no respect for Catholics who refused to work with Muslims. He also believed it his duty to defend the honor and integrity of Bishop Racemundo.

  "The Bishop of Elvira is a respected member of the Caliph's diplomatic corps," he pointed out. "He represented the Caliphate as an envoy to Constantinople and the Byzantine Empire."

  "I hold no regard for him or his ilk." repeated the Bishop.

  Solomon thought of a venomous response but he refrained himself. Best to be cautious in the service of his cousin, the Foreign Minister. He settled for a different approach, more gracious and tactful.

  "Didn't Christ say 'love your enemies?'" he asked the old Warlord."

  This drew no response.

  Solomon now understood Racemundo's letter of introduction would open no doors. He suspected reasoning with such a militant clergyman would be a waste of precious time. He ignored yet another frown while deftly turning the conversation back to the subject of the Bishop's earlier inquiries.

  "Here's the other part of my story," Solomon began.

  Then he waited patiently, allowing time for the Bishop to turn his attention to less contentious matters. "I'm here searching for a woman. We knows she's from Galicia. I believe Lia is her name. She worked in Andalusia as an entertainer, a singer. That's all we know."

  "Ah, yes, Lia." responded the Bishop with a smug look.

  Solomon waited again while the Bishop considered his relationship to the woman in question and how much of the connection he desired to reveal to a foreigner.

  "May I ask why you want to find this woman?"

  "I'm not at liberty to explain. "

  The Bishop smirked.

  "We had reason to employ this woman," the Bishop admitted.

  Probably so he could feast his eyes upon her on a daily basis. Solomon tried to quell his emotions and think like an investigator. This approach suggested to him that he follow his train of thought with another pointed question.

  "Did you find her attractive your grace?"

  "My concern was for her soul; but, yes she is quite a lovely young woman."

  "Is? You've seen her recently?"

  The Bishop's solemn smile was the only hint of a response.

  "Unfortunately, we could only offer her a small room and her meals. She decided to seek employment elsewhere. I counseled young Lia not to make the journey south to Córdoba, not to enter a city of sin. She claimed she needed to earn a substantial sum of money to ensure the survival of her family's farm."

  Solomon could barely hide his contempt.

  "Do you know where I can find her?"

  "I believe she lives on a farm somewhere between Santiago and the Finnesterre."

  "Finnesterre? Isn't it Latin for end of the earth?"

  "Yes, and make no mistake. It will be the end of the world for you."

  Solomon's mouth fell open at the not so veiled threat.

  "And, it will take you close to the Coast of Death," added the Bishop.

  This sounded ominous, but the investigator didn't have time to seek elaboration.

  "She lives with her family?"

  "Her parents are dead, but I believe she has two siblings, a sister and a brother."

  Solomon's original plan was to have the Bishop enlist the aid of local Latin-speaking clerics to help him locate the Galician woman's farm so it surprised him how forthcoming the Bishop was with information regarding the general location of the farm. Did he intend to make her a martyr and use this situation to drive a further wedge between the Christian North and Muslim Andalusia? Was the Galician woman a pawn in the Bishop's plan to initiate a Reconquest of the South?

  "Anything else I should know?" Solomon asked.

  "I can't think of a thing."

  "Very well," he replied. "My escort and I need lodging and a bath."

  "We have no room for you, and you should know that here in the north bathing is a luxury not a daily ritual."

  The Bishop's reply, curt and dismissive, appeared to bring the conversation to an end. Solomon realized he'd receive no further help from the Warlord. The Bishop waved him out of his chambers, then stopped his progress just as he reached the doorway:

  "I hope your stay in Galicia is a pleasant one," he shouted out.

  The Bishop conveyed this sentiment in an unmistakably hostile tone, and Solomon had no doubt this so-called man of God fervently prayed his stay would be anything but pleasant.

  Chapter 24

  Solomon fumed as he left the Bishop's lair and retraced his steps to the side yard. He now realized the ring Hasdai had given to him held little sway in Galicia. The Bishop's ruby ruled this countryside. Seething inside, he rounded the corner and discovered the boyish looking gardener waiting for him.

  A facetious comment entered his mind: "Just what I need."

  The gardener eagerly approached, but Solomon chose to ignore him.

  "Wait, please, I need to talk with you."

  The investigator increased his pace and left through the gate. The agitated young man followed him out to the road where Jalal waited with their mounts. The bodyguard saw Solomon coming towards him and began unhitching the two horses and the mule.

  "Doesn't look like we'll be spending the night as guests of the Bishop," Solomon informed him.

  The ex-cleric interrupted before the mercenary had a chance to respond.

  "You'll need a guide. . .someone you can trust. . .someone who speaks the local dialect," the young man blurted out.

  "How do we know we can trust you?" asked Solomon. "The Bishop might be setting us up, and you just might be his spy."

  The young man became silent, unbuttoned his shirt while turning his back to the Andalusis, and then he lowered the garment down from his shoulders until it gathered at the waist. Deep, raw wounds crisscrossed his backside. Solomon shuddered and looked over at Jalal to check his reaction. The stoic mask; the soldier had probably seen worse. The young man turned around and pulled up his shirt and said:

  "The Bishop doesn't possess a lot of tolerance."

  "What's your name?"

  "I'm called Vitor."

  "Meet us in front of the church before the morning mass, Vitor."

  The ex-cleric accepted the offer with a slight nod and the barest hint of a smile.

  After finding livery for the animals, Solomon and Jalal set out on foot carrying their valuables on their backs, in packs, like the pilgrims they’d encountered along the way. It was good to spend time at ground level after so much time in the saddle so they took time to peruse the diversity of foodstuffs and goods offered in the market stalls lining Santiago de Compostela's town plaza.

  In the center of the square, pilgrims had created a lively make-shift camp. They should've appeared a ragged, tattered group, weary from long weeks of travel; but, there was a festive spirit among them as they shared a communal meal and swapped stories of pilgrimages. They looked joyous, beaming with beatific faces.

  The church dominated the plaza from its vantage point across a dirt road. This vertical structure, the tallest building in the town, had been formed from block-units of stone mortared below a tile roof. Solomon noticed it lacked a bell tower. Although not measuring up to the aesthetic standards of Córdoba's Catholic churches, Solomon appreciated the builders' attention to detail. Their obvious pride of workmanship revealed itself in the church's rich external silhouette. He wondered about the appearance of its interior, but not enough to venture back across the road to satisfy his curiosity.

  They continued to stroll through the plaza.

  Down one length of the square sat tables displaying rye bread and honey; meats they recognized as hare a
nd partridge, ham, and chicken; cold weather vegetables like cabbage, potatoes, and several root crops; and, an astounding variety of fresh seafood: octopus, oysters, lobster, cod, sea-bream, huge conger eels, pilchards, and lamprey.

  Solomon didn't appreciate the sea's smelly invasion into his nostrils so they continued on through the market as it took a decided turn. Running off at a right angle they found tables stack-ed with goods catering to the pilgrim trade like leather sandals and waterproof cloaks. Rudimentary tools, all made of iron, were available in the market of Compostela: axes, mattocks, plough, billhooks, and sickles.

  "What do you make of this place, Jalal?"

  "Galicians don't appear to be an advanced people, but their land is abundant."

  Leaving the square, they sauntered down a side street looking for a place to spend the night.

  Knowing nothing of the town, they chose the first likely candidate because tiredness had overcome them. A sign announcing the name of a two-story lodging establishment, scripted in Galician, meant nothing to them. They had no idea the scalloped sea shell, painted on a banner hanging above the doorway, beckoned to rich pilgrims.

  "You're definitely not one of the Silent Ones, Jalal, but it might be best if you remain mute in public. If Galicians overhear us speaking together in Arabic, it might not bode well."

  Solomon made his way inside the lobby where an opening in the wall led next door into an adjoining small tavern. He took a peek inside A few men sat at tables scattered around the darkened room drinking from ceramic goblets and eating food from wooden bowls and plates.

  The investigator resumed his business and approached the Innkeeper, a whiskered old man with drooping eyelids, sitting half-asleep behind a wooden counter. He hoped the proprietor understood some Latin. Merchants and tradesmen would have needed at least a little familiarity with the language to survive economically, he reasoned.

  "I'm in need of a room for the night." Solomon pronounced the words slowly in Latin as he withdrew a gold dinar from his leather purse and placed it on the counter in front of the man.

  The grey-bearded Innkeeper looked down at the gold coin and laughed out loud. He then looked Solomon over like he was some sort of curiosity.