"You got anything else?" the toothless Innkeeper asked in Latin. "Something you might want to trade?"
Good lord, Solomon thought to himself. These people use a barter economy. Better go back outside and see if we've got anything that might interest him.
"I'll be right back."
Outside, he searched through his saddlebags.
"Jalal, have we got something that might interest an Innkeeper?"
Jalal reached into his own saddlebags, searched around for a bit, and then produced two skeins of crimson silk: "We were saving these as a gift for the Bishop."
"You think it'll work?"
"No harm in trying," Jalal answered as he handed over the rolls of silk. "We don't need them now."
"I'll take one of them."
Solomon re-entered the Inn holding the skein at arm's length. The Innkeeper's eyes lit up as he rubbed his hands together in eager anticipation. The investigator laid the barter on the counter and the man's fingers quickly made their way over to fondle the soft silk.
"A night's lodging along with food and drink," he offered.
Solomon realized this wasn't a fair exchange, but he was in no mood to quibble after his disastrous meeting with the Bishop of Santiago. If his business took longer he could resort to offering the second skein for an additional night's lodging.
"Done. . ."
After dinner they walked. That meal began with a stew. They wondered what ingredients had gone into its preparation. Solomon guessed it to be a vegetable stock laden with cabbage leaves and small bits of lamb or goat meat. Jalal wouldn't even venture a guess and it became obvious the Caliph's personal military guard had been accustomed to richer fare. Half a loaf of rye bread, a Galician staple, helped alleviate their hunger.
They sampled the locals' favorite beverage, but the sour cider drink made their lips pucker. Two goblets of a local white wine erased that taste and rounded out their nourishment. No multi-course meals like they enjoyed back home in Córdoba or inside Mérida's caravanserais.
They strolled back to the town square as twilight snuck up on the day while night waited patiently in the wings for its opportunity to envelop weary travelers. The peddlers had already taken down their stalls and tables and returned to their homes. Pilgrims hunkered down for the evening, readying themselves for the cold Galician night. The church stood silent in the dusk, its locked doors offering no refuge to these transient souls, the open sky their only shelter. Solomon knew wealthier pilgrims were resting comfortably in rooms at the Inns or as guests at the nearby monastery.
They walked simply for the joy of movement.
So good to be down off the horses.
They turned around at the end of the plaza and began the walk back to their overpriced room at the Inn. They continued through the quietly devout town square and then back down a side street leading to their lodgings. They felt the languor of past efforts easing them into a sense of relaxation and quiet contemplation.
"I miss the amenities of Córdoba," Solomon said aloud.
The world had darkened as night set in and the absence of street lights made for little illumination. A misty fog settled down into the unpaved street and a dim glow, coming from the open doorway of a tavern two blocks away, served as their only beacon.
Solomon led the way as he continued to wax nostalgically about the comforts of life in the capital.
"I'm not sure I could survive in a place like this," he opinioned. "It appears deprived of any significant culture. It's more backward than I'd imagined."
This time the lack of a response caused him to stop walking for a moment. Jalal had dropped back a few steps, and Solomon soon heard the beginnings of a loud scuffle. What the hell is going on he wondered as alarm bells created a subliminal warning inside of him. He began to shake from fear. He turned around to get a closer look at the source of the disturbance when an unknown assailant thrust a hard punch upwards into his solar plexus.
The aggressor pushed him over and he fell to the ground, landing awkwardly on one shoulder. A stab of pain. He cried out as the attacker added a few hard kicks into his rib cage along with a final boot dug deep into his abdomen. He heard footsteps running away and a loud groan followed by more footsteps.
Solomon felt nauseated as the stew he’d eaten forced its way up into his esophagus where stomach acids burned the moist, pink tissue. The food lodged in his throat, chocking him and preventing him from catching his breath. He gasped for air. None was forthcoming. He struggled harder, desperate to inhale air into his lungs. His efforts proved futile.
Solomon began to panic.
He became dizzy and disoriented and his eyes widened with fear as he frantically shoved two fingers down his throat to dislodge the blockage. He regurgitated the stew and wine upon the roadway, the noxious mixture oozing back into his face. Solomon sucked in a deep breath before the world surrounding him vanished into the mist.
Upon regaining consciousness, the first sounds Solomon heard were groans and cursing nearby. He recognized the sound of the voice and knew Jalal had also survived the attack. Looking back up the road, he found the battered mercenary crawling to his hands and knees before rising slowly, regaining his balance, and then making his way down the street to check on the investigator.
Solomon ran his tongue over his lower lip and tasted blood and salt. He experienced a burning in his esophagus. He was lucky to be alive given this circumstance. He glanced down at his hand and discovered the signet ring, wrapped snugly around his finger, exactly where it had been before the attack. That indicated to him the incident wasn't a robbery.
"I'm sorry," bewailed Jalal. "This is my fault. I let my guard down. I didn't hear or see them coming until it was too late. They might have killed you."
Solomon had little doubt about who had orchestrated the attack
"They didn't want me dead. The Bishop wanted to send me a message. He doesn't like people poking around into his business."
"Are we through here?"
"Hell, no!"
"Are you sure, Solomon?" Jalal evinced real concern in his voice. "The next time it might not be a warning."
"I suppose you're right," Solomon agreed. "Still, I can't help but feel the old Warlord's hiding something. I'm convinced Lia's back here, in Galicia. If it comes down to protecting her, I'm not sure Sisnand will choose that option. He can't afford to risk a war with the Caliphate. Despite his braggadocio, he's not ready to initiate a Reconquest. At least not just yet. Rahman III would squash him like a bug."
"You called her Lia," declared Jalal. Where did that sense of familiarity come from?"
Solomon thought about this for a moment, but he had no answer.
"I don't know. . ."
"You said the Bishop told you her whereabouts."
"I think he might be trying to use us in some kind of weird plot. I suspect he wants us to find Lia and take her back to Andalusia to stand trial. This will buy him time and help him create a martyr to attract others to his cause."
"What about the attack?"
"I think he wants us to go about our business as soon as possible. He's not comfortable with our presence in Santiago. The longer we stay in the town, the more we might find out about Sisnand and his motives and the people who are backing him."
"Now what?"
"Let's go get some sleep," Solomon said with a weary voice. "We have work to do in the morning."
Several hours later, as Solomon lay recuperating from his wounds, he began to experience a deep sense of homesickness. His thoughts returned to his beloved Córdoba as a series of images flashed before his mind's eye: he saw himself sitting at his desk writing a poem, and then he was browsing the merchant stalls in the souk, enjoying the public baths, and savoring a glass of wine with friends.
He looked across the room and found Jalal sleeping soundly.
His thoughts turned to Layla. Had he been stupid not to take her up on her generous offer. He wondered if she'd give him another opportunity and how he would re
spond if she did. In his imagination, he saw himself sitting next to her on the soft-cushioned sofa inside the living room with vermillion painted walls. He could almost feel the warmth of her breath and the pressure of her hips as they rubbed against his own..
Solomon was imagining kissing her soft lips when he fell into a desperately needed sleep. He awoke, at dawn's first light, and opened the room's only window to allow fresh air inside.
The last stars were fading in a pink and blue sky as the day broke, and a haunting, soulful melody echoed somewhere in the distance. The notes sounded alien, their source from some origin unknown. Our ears taste sounds just as our tongues taste flavors, he reflected. He'd never encountered these distinct resonances before. Another series of plaintive notes led him downstairs in search of the Innkeeper.
He stepped slowly down the dim, narrow stairway.
Candlelight and low voices emanated from the doorway leading into the tavern.
An old man sat in the shadows behind the counter in the lobby.
"Where does that haunting music come from?" Solomon asked.
The Innkeeper, a thin old man with half-shut eyes and a soft grey beard, looked like he might be the brother of the afternoon attendant. They appeared so very much alike. The presumed brother looked up upon hearing the question put to him and he quickly regained his lucidity.
"I beg your pardon, Sir."
"That music. . .where is it coming from?"
"Bagpipes, Sir."
"Bagpipes?"
"It's a musical instrument, Sir. They make it from the skin of a small goat or sheep. The natural openings in the skin, for the animal's legs, are used to attach pipes."
Solomon felt perplexed. He couldn't visualize what a bagpipe might look like so he returned upstairs to his room where he contemplated the possibility it wasn't an honor to be sent north to search for the mysterious Galician woman.
Have they sent him into exile, he wondered. Maybe they hoped he wouldn't return, that.he'd perish in the savage north. Perhaps this whole drama, murder and all, had been orchestrated by Rahman III to do away with an embarrassing, ungrateful scion. Maybe he was just a pawn in the game the same as Lia was a pawn in the Bishop's machinations.
Complete his mission or return empty-handed. Given the circumstances, neither choice offered a viable alternative. Solomon felt lonely and sad and he didn't know why. He closed his eyes and once again imagined the familiar sights and sounds of the Andalusian capital. He began to think he was beginning to understand the meaning of morrina, the homesickness inflicting one's soul Only his longing wasn't for this misty, melancholy land of the Gallegos. Solomon's heart yearned for his cherished golden city on the Guadalquivir, his own personal nostalgia.
A sense of unhappiness overcame Solomon.
So far from everything familiar. So far from home. What if he perished in the savage north and never returned home, never enjoyed Córdoba and all it had to offer, never smelled or touched or tasted that unique world again, or enjoyed its vibrant pulse coursing through his blood.
He remembered something Sara had told him and it began to make sense.
"Lia felt homesick. I think this is the key this mystery," Sara had told him. "For Galicians the longing for home is a sickness."
Could this homesickness lead to a kind of mental pressure resulting in an act of passion? He thought about his own longings and found himself commiserating with the Galician woman. Maybe this wasn't such a thin motive. Perhaps a deep yearning could develop into a debilitating malady. More likely she was trying to earn some money before reuniting with someone dear to her and returning to far-off Galicia.
The music outside ended and the dawn gave way to silence as the mercenary continued to sleep and recover from the attack. Solomon closed the window and remembered the Nasi's instructions: "Find her and bring her back to me so that justice may be served."
Chapter 25
They emerged from a side street riding two mares and leading a mule. Solomon saw Vitor in front of the church pacing impatiently while throngs of pilgrims eagerly passed him by as they entered through the massive open door leading into Santiago de Compostela's singular house of worship. The ex-priest was scanning the town square, hoping to catch a glimpse of his potential benefactors.
His frown betrayed a sense of hopelessness. He hadn't caught sight of them and he was probably imagining he'd be abandoned and left to endure bitter memories of the strangers from Andalusia.
Solomon didn't call out to him.
It would've been useless. He was too far away and the church bells were tolling.
The investigator halted their progress at the churchyard they'd first entered a day earlier. He handed his reins to Jalal, dismounted, and walked down to the church. Vitor kept his gaze focused in the direction of the plaza so he didn't notice the approach. Solomon tapped him on the shoulder. The young man flinched and then he spun around.
Vitor exhaled a sigh of relief.
"I didn't think you'd come for me."
"You don't mind if I have a look inside first?"
Solomon walked on without waiting for an answer.
"It's alright for me to attend mass," Vitor called after him as he scurried to the door and crossed the threshold.
They stood against the back wall of the church, looking on as hundreds of travel weary pilgrims crowded together celebrating a morning mass. Standing at the altar, in Bishop's robes, Sisnand the Warlord conducted the mass in Latin. Solomon marveled at the dichotomy between the public face and the reality behind closed doors.
High above them, suspended on a long rope hanging from a ceiling beam of the church, a five-foot high silver vessel containing burning incense, swung back and forth above the worshippers spreading fragrant smoke into the air.
Solomon's eyes returned to the altar.
He knew in the past Catholic churches had served as safe deposit boxes for local treasures because previous Muslim forays into Galicia had raided many of the churches and discovered gold and silver and property deeds hidden behind the high altars and under the wooden floors.
He leaned back against the stone wall and observed the hundreds of pious pilgrims packed into the church. The ceremony meant nothing to him personally, but the sincerity of these men and women vouchsafed an unexpected epiphany upon his receptive, poetic soul.
Times would surely change and political and theological customs would come and go, but the deep desire for pilgrimage would remain an eternally present mystery beyond the dictates of any religious creed. Jews had made pilgrimages to Jerusalem since the time his namesake, King Solomon, had built the First Temple almost a thousand years before the birth of Christ; Muslims fulfilled one of the five pillars of Islam by making the pilgrimage to Mecca at least once in their lifetime if they had the financial means to do so; and, Christians undertook pilgrimages to Rome, Jerusalem, and now to Santiago de Compostela. This common thread united all three religions in a tapestry destined to outlive the darkest night.
Solomon smiled inwardly as he moved away from the back wall of the church and retreated outside with Vitor close at his heels. He didn't feel like sharing his private revelation just yet so he made small talk about a subject he found intriguing.
"Last night I overheard some pilgrims in the square talking about the censer," Solomon said. "I wanted to see it for myself. I don't understand its purpose in the ritual."
"Its purpose is twofold," Vitor informed him. "To freshen the air defiled by masses of unwashed, pungent smelling pilgrims. The priests also believe the incense smoke protects them against many of the diseases the pilgrims might bring here."
"Can you ride a mule?"
"I grew up on a farm," replied the smiling ex-priest.
"We're going to take a chance on you," Solomon told him. "The Bishop is making our lives miserable, and the aid we expected from him hasn't been forthcoming."
"You won't regret your decision," insisted the young man.
"I'd better not," Solomon countered with a lo
ok of solemn determination.
Solomon felt a tremendous sense of relief at departing Santiago de Compostela. The entire experience, from the uncooperative Bishop to the vicious nighttime attack, had left a bad taste in his mouth not to mention the lingering burning sensation in his throat. And, his shoulder still ached.
He kept his horse at a steady canter and Jalal followed his lead. Vitor had trouble keeping up on the mule and this forced a brief delay as they waited for him to catch up. The reunited trio decided it was time to give the animals a brief rest.
A random conversation led to a startling revelation. When Solomon informed the ex-priest he was searching for a Galician woman named Lia, a rare alignment of destinies divulged itself. He learned the Galician woman was the older sister of the object of Vitor's affections. This young woman, Sabela, had talked about their family farm many times in his presence. Although he didn't know its exact whereabouts, Vitor was certain he could find it by making inquiries in a nearby town she had mentioned.
This seeming coincidence made it feel like their finding Lia was somehow meant to be although they had no idea how or why this amazing turn of events might be stitched into the fabric of their destinies. Solomon felt like he was experiencing a scenario that had been waiting for him, one that he had unconsciously intended. A rare confluence of fates bringing together mysterious unseen forces.
They headed towards the village of Cee, riding through green countryside as a light drizzle began to fall. Anticipating the almost daily occurrence of inclement weather, the Andalusis were already wearing their sealskin raincoats. They continued on the western trail passing pilgrims who had taken shelter under the canopy of trees growing on both sides of the road. It was a strange sight, thought Solomon. Pilgrims traveling to the Finnesterre and the end of the known world after they'd fulfilled the requirements of their pilgrimage by paying homage to St.James the Apostle, in Santiago de Compostela.
The narrow road was waymarked throughout with milestone markers.
The Galician Woman Page 18