Diego shook his head and the friar went on talking.
“The poet Virgil said that divinity loved odd numbers. I don’t think he was wrong, for being indivisible, there is greater immortality in them, unlike the even ones. But look as well, how even the names of our monastic prayers, like the prime, the terce, and the none, are numbers. That book you’re trying to study also speaks of numbers, especially about their interpretation,” he explained to Diego, who was enchanted by his words.
“I never imagined that numbers were so important.”
“Let’s make a deal. I won’t say anything about your visit if you promise to keep the secret I am going to tell you.”
“You have my word.” Diego brought his hand to his heart as a sign of his surety. Friar Tomás sighed and decided to speak.
“I adore studying this type of ancient belief, the kabbalah, for example, but also what has come down to us from Egypt and Greece. I have to recognize that I learn something from all of them, and there’s nothing worse than closing yourself up inside one single truth.”
“Even worse is to defend it with fanaticism.”
“You speak well, young man. He who defends his opinions with violence or tries to impose them on others does it because, at bottom, he is not sufficiently sure of them. Sadly, in this very monastery you can find brothers of mine who act this way. I hear that Friar Servando has treated you poorly, undoubtedly because he envies your talent, or because you’ve made him aware of his own limitations.”
“Friar Tomás, it comforts me to know that for you, intransigence is the fruit of ignorance.”
“It’s true. I live in a monastery that is a treasure trove of knowledge, and yet, because it’s something good, instead of spreading it to the four winds, we keep it hidden. We prohibit access to anyone who is not religious or a nobleman, maybe to avoid people from a lower station, commoners, as was your case, beginning to think more than they should.” He breathed in deeply and changed his tone of voice, becoming graver. “I am a person of deep religious convictions, and for that reason I wish for a faith more open to all, one that is taught and not forced. And besides, I believe that in every one of these books”—he stretched his hand out, as if trying to reach for them all—“there is God. I look for him inside them and I assure you that I find him there.”
Diego thought of the poverty of thought that accompanied the life of Friar Servando compared with Friar Tomás. If only he had been the one in charge of the stables and Diego’s education. Everything would have been much easier for him.
“So can I read this book?” He pointed to Las Fuentes de la Viva.
“I encourage you to. It may open new pathways in your thought, and maybe it will help with your work, as you say.”
“Do you think I can apply it to one of my cures?”
“Don’t dismiss its science until you know how numbers influence our lives and, why not, our illnesses as well. If you make of them your allies, you will see how they will point you toward certain solutions. Try to give three medicines instead of two, or have your treatments given three times a day, or for three days straight …”
“Forgive my commentary, it may seem stupid, but that seems more like magic than science.”
“The next book I will get to you through your friend will be Cato’s. Look at it with other eyes. As an example of what I’m saying, you will find in it a potion recommended for oxen that has to be given for three days and to each ox three times. The recipe has twelve ingredients, a multiple of three. In reality, and this is the most mysterious fact of the matter, it is a philter, a remedy for the conjuring of pain. I know it by heart. It goes:
“‘If you fear illness, give your healthy animals three grains of salt, three leaves of laurel, three shoots of leek, three cloves of garlic, three grains of incense, three plants of Sabina, three leaves of rue, three of white bryony, three white beans, three burning coals, three pints of wine, and give this potion to each ox for three days.’ What do you think?”
“I just remembered something similar in Columella,” Diego interrupted. “To expel the excess humors from an intestinal ailment, he proposed the use of three measures of a certain liquid for three days. And to avoid bleeding, he recommended three ounces of ground garlic with three cups of wine. And all this without letting the animal drink for three days.”
“See? Pay attention to me and don’t forget to use numbers in your favor when you work as an albéitar. They can help you. …”
“For other things, too?” Diego thought of his worst enemy, Pedro de Mora, and his sisters, and last, of winning Mencía’s love.
“What are you referring to?”
“I don’t know, when I’m praying, for example.” Diego hid his true thoughts.
“Yes, my son. Also when you are praying to God.”
XIII.
Diego read the strange treatise that conversed about philosophy and the kabbalah and then one by Cato called De Re Rustica.
At that time, he met with an unexpected circumstance that led him to deal with the most notorious of the monastery’s inhabitants: the prior.
Everything happened one Monday in February, when his best horse began moving its head in a strange way. Instead of calling Friar Servando, as he would have normally, the prior wanted to see Diego.
Without knowing what the problem was, Diego showed up in the stables that very morning. From a first inspection, knowing the terrible prognosis of its particular disease, he decided he wouldn’t be the one to administer the cure and recommended they let Friar Servando know. He didn’t feel ready to suffer more late nights in that stinking muck heap just because his master felt put down once more.
When Friar Servando learned of this, he was so thankful that he asked him to be present during the observation of the animal.
The prior, present all the while, seemed very worried and was rightly concerned about the animal’s awful appearance.
“Has he been very cold?” Friar Servando broke the tension ineptly.
“What kind of stupid question is that?” The prior’s cheeks lit up with ire. “Are you not the one person responsible for the stables? Don’t you even know what’s happening right in front of your blessed nose?”
The man seemed truly upset.
“Forgive me, prior. I was thinking about a cause that, if confirmed, will mean a grave prognosis. Before saying anything to you, I wanted to be sure. …”
Diego understood that Friar Servando was right in his diagnosis by the commentary he had just made.
“He had a problem with his lung, maybe a year back.” Friar Servando remembered. “Maybe it was in those same days …”
“Yes, it’s true. He suffered a high fever, but this is different.” The prior motioned to him bitterly, almost ready to lose his patience. “For days now he’s been moving his head strangely and lots of liquid is coming out of his nose.”
“He has nasal catarrh,” Friar Servando explained. “It’s a secondary illness related to what was wrong with him last year.”
The prior looked at Diego to see if he could find any hint of disagreement on his face. He saw none.
“I will treat him with a very effective remedy and you’ll see that his sickness will clear up soon.”
Diego’s expression became perplexed when he heard him say that, since the disease in question had no cure. He looked at the friar but preferred to say nothing, waiting to see him act.
Friar Servando ordered the stable boys to pass a rope around the animal’s head and tie it to the rings in the wall. That way he would keep the horse from bucking its head. Then he opened a cabinet where he kept his cures and took out a box full of silkworm cocoons. He counted them and seemed satisfied.
The prior observed, confused when Friar Servando placed a little pile of them on the floor, just under the horse’s head, but even more so when the monk began to burn them, so th
at, as he said, the horse would inhale the vapors.
“They will enter through his nostrils and go to his brain, where they will dissolve the bad humors that are concentrated there,” Friar Servando assured, very confident.
“I hope so!” the prior replied, covering his nose. “That smells like the bowels of hell.”
Diego watched Friar Servando and then the horse. He knew the uselessness of this remedy and stepped a bit away, fearful of what could happen.
Still not content with the effects of that pestilential odor, Friar Servando asked a stable boy with a thick stick and a linen cloth to roll it in the ashes. When he had, he took the stick into his hand and began to shove it in the animal’s nose without mercy.
The horse opened its eyes wide and stomped at the floor.
“You’re hurting him!” the prior complained, already angry.
“Don’t think that; I’m just trying to push the humors out of their place, so that they will be better balanced and he’ll recover.”
At that moment, the horse must have noticed a sharp pain and Diego sensed its reaction. He warned both of them, but there was no time. An impressive quantity of mucus exploded from his nostrils into the face of Friar Servando and onto the white habit of the prior. Diego and all those present couldn’t help but break out in laughter.
Diego had known from the first that the horse wouldn’t be cured that way, and he also guessed at the repercussions that would result from his laughter. But he still enjoyed himself like never before.
His punishment consisted of two weeks in his now-familiar and foul-scented latrines, though it was only four days in the end. For the first three, he couldn’t stop laughing every time he remembered the scene, but on the fourth things changed. Once more, the person responsible was Friar Servando, and everything was the fault of his regrettable presence.
Diego was pushing a wheelbarrow full of human dung with the idea of scattering it in a field close to the monastery. When he crossed the central courtyard, he saw Friar Servando come out of the stables with a shattered expression. His head was low, he was grumbling, and he seemed absorbed in his thoughts. Soon he was close to the pestilence of the dung, and when he realized who was carting it, he walked up to Diego decisively.
“You knew that the cocoons weren’t going to work and you didn’t tell me, right?” His face was so close to Diego’s that he could feel his breath.
“You are correct,” he replied unrestrained.
“I thought so. …” The nostrils of the man’s nose flared, and his eyes reddened. “Because of it, I have suffered serious consequences. … Did you know? And it’s your fault!”
“Permit me to disagree with your conclusion, though in reality I care very little about what happens to you from now on.”
Diego walked off again without paying attention, tired of the monk’s constant bitter treatment.
“Stop!” Servando stood in front of him, blocking his way. “The prior just took away my responsibility for the stables and now he’s sending me out to plant the fields, like I was just anyone.”
“Well, that sounds like excellent news. Finally you’ll leave me in peace.”
Without another word, Friar Servando responded to his commentary in an unbelievable way. First he took the wheelbarrow from him and dumped it out in the courtyard with a furious attitude. But Diego was even more confused when he began to stomp on the manure like a madman, kicking and scattering it all around.
Diego looked for someone who might be witnessing his actions, but sadly, he saw no one. Once Friar Servando seemed to consider his work done, and there was no more matter to be spread around, he turned back to Diego, ordering him to clean it up.
“You do it! I refuse!” Diego answered.
The friar, mad with rage, smacked him with all his might and threw him to the ground.
“Insolent little …”
That was all he could say, for Diego, more tired than ever of that man, leapt at his stomach and pushed him as hard as he could. The friar’s enormous strength was not enough to brake Diego’s fury. To the monk’s surprise, he found himself floored and on the receiving end of punches to his cheeks, forehead, and mouth. Diego, out of control, managed to break his nose and then began hitting him in the stomach until Friar Servando called for help.
Diego was astonished at himself. He thought he had broken several of the man’s ribs as well as his nose, and yet he felt great. He wanted to keep working on the rest of his bones. It was the best relief for all his miseries that he’d ever experienced.
“Have mercy on me,” the friar pleaded, almost crying.
“Do you even know what that means? You’re asking me for pity?” Diego looked at his fists. They were covered in blood, and he didn’t even know which of them it belonged to. “Here’s your pity!”
He grabbed Servando’s head in both hands and began to beat it against the stones on the ground.
“Let him go, you’re going to kill him!” Diego heard someone shouting in his ear. But he didn’t want to stop.
It was Marcos and Friar Jesús. They were returning from the market in Corella, where Marcos had visited Bernarda. When they entered the courtyard of the monastery and saw that spectacle, they ran to stop the fight.
“Diego!” His friend grabbed with all his might to keep him from killing the friar. That shout awakened him from his madness and he stopped. He looked at Marcos, shocked, when he helped him to stand back up.
Friar Jesús, in the meanwhile, attended to Servando.
“This man is badly wounded,” he said, alarmed. “I’ll go tell the prior and the others.” He threatened Diego with a raised finger. “And don’t you leave until I’m back.”
Diego and Marcos immediately understood that their stay in the monastery had come to its end. They ran to the stables to get Sabba and Marcos’s mule and galloped away.
Part III
Lands of Refuge
Each of the five Christian kingdoms has signed a peace treaty with the Almohad caliph al-Nasir, although not all with the same motives. Some are weaving murky alliances with him.
The territorial disputes and the infighting among the different kingdoms breed discord. León fights against Castile and Portugal, and Navarre against Aragon and Castile.
Without any accord among them, any attempt at unity aiming for the reconquest of the territories belonging to their Visigoth forebears, the lands now known as Al-Andalus, is doomed to failure.
Even within the kingdoms themselves, relations as solid as those between the ensign Diego López de Haro and his king, Alfonso VIII of Castile, are brought to the breaking point. The tension between them reaches such a high point that the king takes by force the territories of Enkaterri and Biscay and now, with his Leonese counterpart, he has turned, in the spring of 1203, to Estella, where Don Diego has taken refuge with his men. They wish to capture him to avenge their recent losses.
I.
Marcos had to decide: follow Diego to Santa María de Albarracín to look for Mencía or stay in Corella where Bernarda would happily take him in.
If he did the second, he wouldn’t want for work, since Bernarda’s family had a good deal of land and normally needed people for the harvest.
He remained quiet as they reached a league of distance from the monastery. Diego looked at him from time to time without wanting to influence him. They were crossing an arroyo when Marcos finally spoke.
“Can you imagine me working from sunup to sundown, every day, bent over till my back breaks, soaked in sweat, just to fill up wheelbarrows and carts with cabbages or carrots that will never belong to me?”
“I can, but only as long as she’s there to sweeten up your rest.”
“Not even then. … It’s inconceivable!”
Marcos pressured his mule to not be left behind.
For the two leagues that followed, he stayed s
erious, his head lowered, perhaps weighing his decision, until he began first to smile and then to laugh uncontrollably.
Diego, a little put off at the beginning, began to do the same, without knowing why.
“What is that laughter about?”
“When I lived in Burgos, that monk who taught me how to read and write told me one fine day that there were more than a million of us in Castile.” He broke into a cackle that stunned Diego.
“I don’t understand …”
“If I told you that at least half that million were women?”
“Ah, you rogue … Now I follow you. Back to your old self, eh?”
“Does not King Alfonso himself say in his legal code that all Castilians are free men?”
“He does indeed.”
Marcos admired the landscape that surrounded them. He was surrounded by gently undulating hills replete with apple and cherry trees. It was a sunny day, warm, with an agreeable breeze that made their travels a real pleasure. He approached one of the trees and took two ripe apples. He threw one to Diego.
“I feel free, and for that reason, I don’t want to pledge vassalage to any knight or noble, the way others do in these lands. They say they give themselves up to be protected. They give them their grains, their meat, the milk from their sheep, sometimes even their daughters for the enjoyment of the lords. It’s absurd. … I say what they actually give up is their freedom.”
Diego had never heard him talk that way and was astonished.
“That’s why I don’t want to stay with Bernarda.”
“My father pledged vassalage to the Calatravans almost his whole life, and thanks to that, he was able to run an inn. But he didn’t want me to follow in his footsteps. He asked me to fly higher than him, to look for proper work, a master; he urged me to make something of myself, without depending on anyone.”
“And did you?”
“I’ve learned almost everything necessary to pursue my craft, despite the many sacrifices, which you know well. And it’s true, I do think I’ve arrived at the moment to put that knowledge into practice. From now on, I will dedicate myself to it! Fitero was much worse than a prison, but still, I did what I set out to do there.”
The Horse Healer Page 29