Song of the Eight Winds - An Epic Tale of Medieval Spain

by Peter Kerr

  It was ironic, Pedrito silently considered, that the expedition’s most senior prelate should host a conference aimed at devising the maximum loss of life for the ‘disbelievers’, while one of the linchpins of his own belief was ‘Thou shalt not kill’. But that had been the paradox of so-called holy wars since time immemorial, so why should it change now?

  A servant brought a simple supper of bread drizzled with olive oil and topped with slabs of pork that had been preserved in vinegar and garlic. He also brought a goatskin of wine, a jug of fresh water and two horn beakers.

  ‘I’m afraid the bread’s a mite stale now,’ the king told Pedrito, while pouring himself a goodly measure of wine, ‘but it’s still a whole lot better than the hardtack we’ll be eating for a while after this.’

  ‘Mmm, bread,’ Pedrito pondered, helping himself to a cup of water. ‘It’s funny how little things like the smell of fresh-baked bread can remind you of home.’

  ‘Oh?’ queried the king, clearly unfamiliar with this particular line in nostalgia.

  Pedrito pointed towards the mountains to the east of the bay. ‘In fact, I thought I could almost smell the smoke from my mother’s bread oven drifting over that ridge a bit earlier.’

  A humourless little laugh escaped the king’s lips. ‘I’ve had more homes in my life than I care to remember, and the only smells I associate with them are the stench of sweat, rust and dried blood drifting out of suits of mail – oh, and the mustiness of priests’ bibles.’

  ‘Armour and bibles,’ Pedrito murmured. ‘War and religion – constant companions.’

  ‘And it will be ever so until the whole world learns to follow the path of Christ.’

  ‘But I’ve heard it said that Jesus was also a prophet of Islam, according to the followers of Allah.’

  ‘Ah yes, but they’d say anything to suit their own ends,’ the king pooh-poohed.

  ‘Maybe, but there’s much in common between the Christian and Muslim religions – the Jewish religion too, because it came before either of them, and many Christian and Muslim beliefs are based on what the old Hebrew scribes laid down.’

  The king gnawed at a chunk of pork and washed it down with a slug of wine. ‘None of those old fairy tales matter. No, no, all that matters is converting the followers of Allah to the true teachings of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God.’

  ‘So, you believe there are two gods, just as the ancient Romans and Greeks believed there were several?’

  ‘The gods of the Romans and Greeks? Pah, more fairy tales! No, no, amic, as you must be well aware, having been brought up as a Christian yourself, there is only one god, our Lord God Almighty, father of our Lord Jesus Christ.’

  ‘But what about those who say there is no such thing as any religion?’

  The king looked at him in utter amazement. ‘You’re speaking in riddles again, aren’t you? At least I hope you are!’

  Pedrito knew well enough that his tongue might be leading him into dangerous territory once more, but he couldn’t resist the urge to find out how much thought, if any, the king had put into the beliefs that were the driving force behind what he saw as his God-given mission in life. And what better time to find out than when the king was succumbing to the sedative influence of the grape.

  ‘Not that I necessarily see eye-to-eye with those who support it,’ Pedrito began, by way of ameliorating what he was about to say, ‘but there is a line of thought that all organised religions came about because of our fear of dying.’

  The king’s look of amazement morphed into one of confusion. ‘But surely the whole point is that, if we believe in the word of Christ and follow his path, then we needn’t fear death, because we’ll live with him in the house of God forever.’

  ‘Yes, but those who worship Allah say basically the same – as do the Jews, and Jesus was a Jew himself.’

  The king lowered his eyes and stared blankly into his wine. ‘What exactly are you trying to say?’ he muttered, his tone exuding an odd mix of curiosity and menace.

  ‘Oh, just that believing we’ll be rewarded with eternal life in heaven if we live a good life on earth is a worthy enough belief, if it encourages us to be better people in the here-and-now.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, some people – and I repeat it’s not that I necessarily see eye-to-eye with them myself – some people suggest that this basic hope for eternal life was seized upon in ancient times by opportunists who saw a measure of power and even profit in it for themselves, if they could convince everyone else that they were the earthly spokesmen of the gods.’

  ‘And?’ the king repeated, still gazing inscrutably into his beaker.

  Pedrito shifted his feet uneasily, wishing now that he’d curbed his inherent inquisitiveness. But he’d talked himself into a corner, and there was nothing else for it but to try and talk his way out again. ‘Well, I think what these people are saying,’ he ventured, ‘is that those few self-appointed holy men, for want of a better description, would have had the advantage over everyone else of a certain amount of education, and may have used this to complicate everyone’s hope for life after death by creating a set of rules and regulations that would be of most benefit to themselves.’ He cleared his throat. ‘That’s, ehm, to the benefit of the holy men, I mean.’

  Slowly, the king ran a finger tip round the rim of his beaker. ‘Complicate everyone’s hope for life after death? What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Well, I – I can’t speak for the people who say these things,’ Pedrito stammered, ‘but, you know, I suppose they mean holy men confusing and mystifying the uneducated by, well, let’s say preaching in Latin to people who can’t understand Latin. And, some would say, by also setting themselves apart, and even above, everyone else by dressing up in fancy clothes.’

  King Jaume raised his head and looked at him coldly, but, as Pedrito was becoming accustomed to at such awkward moments, the young monarch said nothing.

  Nervously, Pedrito tugged at the lobe of his ear again. It was becoming increasingly apparent that King Jaume wasn’t prepared to even discuss the complexities of this thorny though, to Pedrito, fascinating subject. And while he had no desire to offend the king, of whom he was an extremely privileged guest after all, he felt he had to put him right on one important point.

  ‘Although I was brought up as a Christian, I was never preached to by a priest, simply because our Moorish overlords in Mallorca prohibited them.’

  ‘That’ll change soon enough, never fear,’ the king grunted, then quaffed a mouthful of wine.

  ‘Yes, but what I meant was that I learned the teachings of Christ from my parents, who had learned them from their parents, and so on. All word of mouth, of course, because none of them could read or write. And neither could I.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, no one had an axe to grind – no religious organisation to support, no priests to pay, no churches to build and maintain, no evangelical motives, nothing but a simple belief that it was right to pass on this good code of living from one generation to another.’

  ‘There you are then – proof enough that the Christian faith can survive in even the most barren of situations.’ The king poured himself another cup of wine.

  Pedrito rubbed the tip of his nose to conceal a smile. It was refreshing to see the young king relaxing again, and amusing to note that he was also becoming a little tipsy. Pedrito took a sip of water.

  ‘But what I’m getting round to,’ he went on, ‘is that we were taught to tolerate and respect those in Mallorca who worshipped Allah, just as they tolerated and respected us Christians – by and large anyway.’

  King Jaume swiped the air with a chunk of bread. ‘Allah? Puh! He was only one of many pagan idols who existed long before Mohammed came along with his weasel words for the gullible. Sí, sí, sí, I learned the truth about all that Islamic mumbo-jumbo from the Knights of the Temple even before I was old enough to lift a sword.’ He prodded Pedrito in the chest. ‘Take it from me, Allah was neve
r the God of the Bible. He was the pagan Moon-god the Arabs built Mecca in homage to. Nothing but a myth created by the infidel to further his own selfish ends.’ He raised a resolute eyebrow. ‘Why do you think the Moors took Mallorca in Allah’s name?’

  Pedrito was sorely tempted to fire the king’s question straight back at him, but substituting Christians for Moors and God for Allah. However, he doubted if even the consumption of the whole goatskin of wine, never mind a few swigs, would make King Jaume receptive to such a profane proposition.

  ‘Nevertheless, life under the Moors in Mallorca wasn’t a bad one for us,’ Pedrito said instead, ‘and it proves that the two religions can co-exist reasonably well.’

  The king’s expression grew deadly serious. ‘Yes, and that’s something else that will change soon enough. Those who worship Allah will convert or die. It’s as simple as that!’

  Pedrito dipped his head in mute acknowledgement, having promptly decided it was time to button his lip again.

  The king seemed to read his thoughts. ‘And I’ll give you a word of advice, my friend. I’m an open-minded fellow who’s prepared to listen to the views of others, no matter how misguided, but if you ever come out with the abominations you’ve said to me here in front of the likes of the Bishop of Barcelona, he’ll have your tongue cut out, then have you burned alive as a heretic. Sí, and if the Bishop asks me to, I’ll gladly light the fire!’

  Pedrito dipped his head once more, though with considerably more reverence this time.

  A slightly woozy smile replaced the glower that had been darkening the king’s handsome features. He punched Pedrito lightly on the arm. ‘But why are you drinking water when we have wine, man?’ He let out a snigger. ‘When I was a boy, an old drunkard of a monk who was my tutor told me, never drink water, my child – fish shit in it!’

  After the king’s burn-as-a-heretic remark, Pedrito was glad to join him in a hearty guffaw, even though he’d heard the same old joke a thousand times from pirate-galley oarsmen when long at sea and obliged to slake a searing thirst with rancid wine they’d willingly have swapped for water any day, fish shit and all.

  The king raised his beaker. ‘But as sacrilegious as some of your utterings are, Little Pedro, at least they’re more scholarly than one expects from a common sailor, and that’s why I summoned you to talk with me this evening.’ He clicked his beaker against Pedrito’s. ‘So, come on – tell me your story, marinèr. Explain how an illiterate peasant, turned slave of Moorish pirates, could blossom into a philosopher before a Christian king.’

  Pedrito began by informing him that, from the day he was captured, he had shared an oar with an Arab known simply as al-Usstaz, ‘The Professor’, a tall, wiry fellow in his late twenties or early thirties, who would reveal no other name. According to shipboard rumour, he’d once been a highly respected academic in the court of the Sultan of Seville, but had fallen out of favour and had been banished to a deliberately short life as an oarsman on a pirate galley. No one knew what crime, if any, had justified such a fate, and the man himself would brook no question on the subject. Indeed, it was said that he hardly spoke a word to anyone until Pedrito was shackled beside him and established a bond by revealing a genuine hunger for knowledge.

  ‘I’d always been an inquisitive sort of child,’ Pedrito continued, ‘– asking my father why the sky was blue and the clouds were white, and where the rain came from and where the sun went at night. That sort of thing.’ He chuckled quietly. ‘I can’t remember what answers my father came up with, but I’m sure he did his best to explain many things he knew precious little about himself.’

  ‘In that respect,’ said the king, nodding absently, ‘your father had much in common with the drunken monk who taught me for a while.’

  Pedrito cast the king a sardonic glance. ‘Well, I know nothing of drunken monks, but that’s how it is with illiterate peasants, you know.’

  ‘Quite,’ said the king. He gestured imperiously with his beaker. ‘Do, uh, do carry on.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Pedrito, then revealed that, while they were resting between the usual twenty-minute bursts of oar-heaving on the galley, the Professor would tell him stories about history and faraway places, and would gladly answer any questions he cared to put to him. Then, at night, when crammed like grilling sardines beneath the galley’s rowing thwarts, he’d lie and listen to more of the Professor’s teachings, while all around the crew snored, whimpered and passed wind in their despairing sleep. ‘It may seem strange,’ Pedrito admitted, ‘but, just as the smell of new-baked bread reminds me of home, the stench of urine, excrement and sweat will always make me think of education.’

  The king smiled a rueful smile. ‘Just as the smell of blood, sweat and bibles does for me. But tell me – you said you translated the old song of the eight winds from the language of the Moors. Surely you don’t mean that this Professor fellow also taught you read?’

  ‘Well, as I told you before, I could already speak both languages, just as most of the fisher folk around Andratx can. But yes, it was the Professor who taught me to read, and to write as well.’

  ‘But how? I mean, with all that rowing … when did you have time?’

  ‘Ah, but we didn’t spend all our time at sea,’ Pedrito laughed. ‘No, no, truth to tell, pirates probably spend most of their time ashore, either lurking up some concealed creek waiting for a passing ship to pounce on, or roaming the surrounding countryside looking for plunder and capturing sellable natives.’

  ‘And what do their galley slaves do in the meantime?’

  ‘Well, a few of them, if they’ve earned enough trust, will be taken along on these pillaging raids – more or less as pack animals, really – you know, to lug the booty back to the ship.’

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘They’d be put to work fetching water or firewood, carrying back slaughtered livestock or sacks of grain stolen from nearby settlements, or doing maintainance jobs on the ship – caulking timbers, scrubbing decks, mending sails, scraping barnacles off the hull. Things like that. And in their rest time, most would sleep, a few would huddle together whispering plans for mutinies that would never happen, sometimes one or two would even die.’ Pedrito fell silent for a bit, his eyes downcast. ‘Then we’d draw on what little reserves of energy we had to dig graves – give them a decent burial – or as decent as you can when all decency has gone out of life.’

  King Jaume gave a knowing grunt. ‘Sí, that’s why we Christians always take priests into battle with us.’

  Although it struck Pedrito that the king had missed the point entirely, and thoughtlessly so at that, he prudently elected to continue with his story as if he hadn’t heard him. He went on to relate how listening to the teachings of al-Usstaz, the Professor, had not only satisfied his thirst for learning, but had also helped keep him from going insane during the seemingly endless years spent on that hellish ship. This and the conviction that he would one day return to his family on Mallorca.

  ‘The minds of so many galley slaves die first, senyor. And if they’ve also lost the will to live, it’s just a matter of time before the body gives up the ghost as well.’ Pedrito smiled reflectively. ‘So you see, I was lucky on both counts. I had stimulation for my mind and I also had the pull of my parents and little sister to prevent the spark of life from being stifled.’

  ‘Hope springs eternal, even from the depths of adversity,’ the king sagely acknowledged, ‘– if you believe in the teachings of our Lord Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Or even if you accept the generosity of a Moorish galley slave, who had nothing but his knowledge to offer, but gave it willingly – even to a Christian.’

  The king chose to let that observation pass without comment, although Pedrito knew from the look on his face that the point hadn’t been lost on him.

  Both young men sat silently with their own thoughts for a while, Pedrito sipping his water and gazing longingly towards the crests of Es Tres Picons, King Jaume savouring his wine and staring bitter
ly at the Moorish army encamped across the still waters of the bay.

  ‘I suppose, Little Pedro,’ he said at length, ‘it was also this Professor fellow who encouraged you to question the motives and merits of organised religion, no?’

  Pedrito readily confirmed that indeed it had been.

  King Jaume then took on a more assertive manner. ‘Well then, just remember, my friend, that although you may have learned a bit more than most men in your humble position, a little knowledge can be dangerous.’ He brandished an admonishing finger. ‘And don’t ever forget that it’s organised religion, and the power and wealth it wields, that supports kings like me.’ He paused to look Pedrito directly in the eye again. ‘And organised religion – the Church – can crush anyone, even kings, if they dare doubt that the Lord appointed the clergy, from the lowest village priest to the Pope himself, as His mortal custodians and conveyors of the Truth.’

  Pedrito could have said that the king, albeit unwittingly, had just endorsed the Professor’s point perfectly, but prudence, and concern for the welfare of his neck, prevented him.

  The king yawned, stretched, then eased himself from his stone cushion and lay down sideways on the sand, his upper body supported on one elbow, his free hand gripping his beaker, which he held out to Pedrito for replenishment. Behind them, the warm September sun was descending towards the Puig de Na Pòpia summit of Sa Dragonera Island, bathing the bay in the golden glow of evening and sending shadows of the fleet’s masts creeping over the hushed Moorish encampment like the legs of spiders.

  ‘So beautiful, yet so fearsome,’ the king murmured, as if to himself. ‘Soon, this tranquil Garden of Eden will be watered by rivers of blood.’ Then, realising that Pedrito was staring critically at his empty cup, he smirked and said, ‘So, Little Pedro, you think I’m drinking too much, eh?’ He laughed as Pedrito passively raised his shoulders. ‘Aha, but you forget I was born in France. I was weaned on wine, amic, so a few cupfuls with my supper now will do me no more harm than my mother’s milk did then.’ The smile gradually faded from the king’s lips. ‘Although it’s highly unlikely that I ever tasted much of that.’ Glumly, he dipped his head. ‘I’d have been clamped like a limpet to the tit of a wet nurse at the earliest opportunity, just as I was bundled off to the citadel in Carcassonne at the age of three, to be educated – and by my father’s enemy, of all people.’