Iacobus

by Matilde Asensi

“That has all been seen to, freire.” John XXII had the exasperating habit of not letting others finish. “Here are the reports, money, and anything else you may need.” And he handed me a leather chartapacium that he took from a chest at the foot of the table. “Naturally, you will not find anything that proves you are a papal envoy and you will not have my support if you are uncovered. All the authorizations that you need will have to come from your own Order. I am sure that you understand …. Do you have any last requests?”

  “None, Your Holiness.”

  “Splendid. I expect you back as soon as possible.”

  And he held out Peter’s ring, the Fisherman’s ring, for us to kiss.

  On the way back to our captaincy, Sir Robert and I remained in absolute silence. The energy of the tiny John had left us utterly exhausted and any further words from him would have been too much to handle; we desperately needing to rest our ears from his dizzying verbiage. But as soon as we entered the patio of our house, with the first lights illuminating the sky, frey Robert invited me to have a final goblet of hot wine in his private quarters. Despite being tired and worried, I would never have refused his offer.

  “Brother of Born. The Hospital of St. John has another mission for you,” began the Commander, when we were settled with our goblets of wine in our hands.

  “The mission entrusted to me by the Pope is difficult enough, sire, I hope that my Order’s mission is not as demanding.”

  “No, no …, they are both related. You see, the Grand Master and the Grand Seneschal thought, seeing as you will have to travel through certain areas, come into contact with certain people and listen to certain things, that you would be in the position to gather some important information for our Order.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “As you know, following the dissolution of the Templar Order, its immense wealth and prosperous possessions were divided into equal parts between the Christian monarchies and us, the Order of the Hospital of St. John. The definitive distribution of its numerous assets has taken three years and tough disputes with the Kings of France, England, Germany and Italy as well as with the kingdoms of Spain. I can assure you that the Hospitaller knights who carried to term the agreements with the various parties well deserve the paradise of the patient and of the meek. I have never seen agreements that were so arduous to reach, or victories that were so unsatisfying. The shares of the Templar treasures were distributed based on the amounts that, according to the documents, were in the possession of collectors, auditors, accountants and royal treasurers, as well as the Lombard and Jewish bankers. However, when we went to retrieve the gold from the chests, we didn’t find a penny.”

  “What!”

  Frey Robert held out his hand to stop me.

  “More in-depth studies were quickly commissioned from eminent officials and auditors,” he continued. “We tried to find out what had happened to the gold, because fortunately, they couldn’t hide the castles, land, livestock, mills, forges, etc. The cartularies with the Order’s economic activities were investigated: donations, purchases and exchanges, loan contracts, bank records, transactions, arbitrations, perception of rights, etc. Well,” continued Commander Arthus, raising his goblet to the ceiling in a desperate gesture, “the reports revealed that either the Templars had been poorer than rats, or they had been smart enough to make the huge quantity of one thousand five hundred chests full of gold, silver and precious stones — the amount calculated, grosso modo, as the amount they had at the time when a stop was put to their activities, maybe even more —, disappear into thin air.”

  “And what happened to those treasures? Where are they?”

  “Nobody knows, brother. It is another of the great mysteries that the condemned Order left following its disappearance. You could say that we settled with the first explanation that the accountants gave us, that the Templar was poorer than rats. Better that than to accept the public humiliation of having been laughed at right under our noses. If the Kings prefer to ignore the truth for reasons of personal prestige, then that’s fine but we want to recover the treasures that legally belong to us. Which is why, Brother Galceran, any information that you can get about the gold during your mission for the Pope will be of the utmost importance for our Order. Think about how many hospitals could be built with that money, how many works of mercy could be carried out, how many hospices we could build ….”

  “And of the power and influence it would return to us,” I added critically, “almost as much as the Templars had before their disappearance.”

  “Yes, that too, of course. Although it’s best we not get into those delicate subjects.”

  “True,” I mumbled. “Best not to get into those.”

  “A final warning, freire Galceran. You know that our Order and the Order of the Temple were secular enemies due to questions of fame and popularity. Therefore, your captaincy in Rhodes thinks it best if you don’t refer to yourself as a Hospitaller freire, given that you are going to be carrying out an investigation with the interests of so many involved.”

  “And with what identity, if I may ask, should I carry out the investigation?”

  “No identity, Brother, just as yourself. But if at any time you need to identify yourself in order to protect your life, you will say that you are a member of the new Military Order of St. Mary of Montesa, recently created by James II of Aragon to clean his honor, tainted by the accusations that he swooped on the Templar property like a bird of prey. For this reason the least desirable remains of this property in the Kingdom of Valencia has been appointed to the foundation of this small Order, whose members, the Montesinos, consider themselves to be spiritual and ideological heirs of the Templars, even though there are barely a handful of old Valencian freires milites amongst their ranks who were not able to flee.”

  “So, I am now a Valencian Montesino.”

  “First and foremost, you are a learned and prudent man, Brother Perquisitore, and you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that being known as a Hospitaller would hinder your work while a Montesino will always be well received in the places that you will be forced to visit.” He carefully untied the knotted rope that belted his fake Franciscan habit and pulled out some sealed letters from amongst the folds which he handed me. “These are the passes, permits and affidavit that the Pope mentioned, issued by the Order of Montesa. In them, you appear as a doctor. We thought it would be best for you in the case that you are ever in danger.”

  Micer Robert wearily rose from his chair, stretching his muscles with a pained look on his face. My bones also cracked as I stood up.

  “It’s late, Brother. The sun is out. We must get some sleep and rest. You have a long journey ahead of you. Where are you going to start?”

  “With the documents that I have in this folder,” I replied, tapping on the file that John XXII had given me. “It’s never a good idea to do things without having first anticipated all of the likely moves of the game.”

  CHAPTER III

  On a chilly and cloudy dawn at the beginning of June, a few days after the visit to the Pope’s castle, Jonas and I set off towards Paris. Our horses looked great following several days of plenty of food and rest at the captaincy stables, and they also seemed to be very satisfied with their new luxurious garments. I, on the other hand, couldn’t say the same for myself. In addition to being tired, I felt uncomfortable and strange in this stuffy court outfit, imprisoned in an elegant brocade coat and looking ridiculous with the terrible red and gold boots with a curled toe.

  The young Jonas was still angry with me, feeling little less than a victim of a shameful abduction. He had barely opened his mouth since the first night, only speaking to me when absolutely necessary, as if he didn’t have time for any nonsense, and as I was focused on the papal documents, I didn’t pay him the slightest attention.

  Shortly after leaving Avignon, barely a couple of hours later, I came to a halt at the entrance of a small town named Roquemaure.

  “We will stay here,” I ann
ounced. “Go on ahead to the inn and order us some food.”

  “Here?” protested Jonas. “But this village doesn’t even seem to be inhabited!”

  “Well it is. Ask for François’ inn. We will eat there. Take care of everything while I take a look around.”

  I watched him enter the village with his head sunk between his shoulders, dragging behind him the mares we had been given in Avignon to carry our equipment and which, due to their large size, are highly sought after there and are known as haquenées. Jonas was actually a remarkable boy; he wasn’t to blame for his great pride, as it was a family trait that only improved over time and with the blows of life.

  Roquemaure was made up of four or five peasant houses and, taking advantage of the fact that the Avignon-Paris road ran through the village, they all sold food and offered lodgings to travelers. Its proximity to the city somewhat lessened the benefits but it was said that, precisely due to its location, the prelates from the court of Avignon frequently went there to discretely meet their lovers which is how they all stayed in business.

  Well, on the morning of the 20th of April 1314, the retinue of the poor, sick Pope Clement had stopped in Roquemaure. The Pope had begun a journey — which had ended in death —, to his hometown of Wlaudraut, in Gascony, to recover from what the medical reports in my leather folder described as ‘attacks of anxiety and suffering, whose only physical symptom was a persistent fever’. The deterioration of the Pope forced the retinue to stop and seek refuge in the only official inn in the village, the one belonging to the innkeeper François. A few hours later, between sharp spasms of pain, Pope Clement died, bleeding from every orifice in his body.

  Faced with the inevitable, and to avoid rumors and nasty comments, given the village’s bad reputation, the cardinals of the Apostolic Chamber decided to discretely move the body to the Dominican priorate in Avignon, where the Pope had resided since the Council of Vienne in 1311. Clement’s personal servant, Cardinal Henry of Saint-Valery, had sworn on the cross that His Holiness had not had anything to eat or drink since breakfast, before leaving Avignon. Interestingly, shortly after, Cardinal Saint-Valery had requested to be sent to Rome as a vicar to take control of the Papal State’s taxes.

  The inn’s dining room was a small, dark place, with a strong smell of food and was filled with the steam that was coming from the pots over the fire. Between the wine barrels, stacked here and there, the walls appeared to be stained with filthy grease spots which was not a good recommendation for delicate stomachs. Jonas was waiting for me, bored, at the only clean table in the establishment, playing with crumbs from a loaf of bread that he had been given to accompany the food. I sat in front of him, placing my coat to one side.

  “What are they going to serve us?”

  “Fish. It’s all they have today.”

  “Very well, then fish it is. And while we are waiting, we will talk. I know that you feel offended and I want to clear it up.”

  “I don’t have anything to say,” he uttered haughty, to immediately add, “You made an oath to the prior of my monastery and you have gone back on your word.”

  “When did I do such a thing?”

  “The other day, when we arrived at your captaincy in Avignon.”

  “But there wasn’t a Mauricense convent in the city! If there had been, Jonas, you would have slept there. Remember that I told you that you could leave.”

  “Yes, well … But during our trip from Ponç de Riba to here, you haven’t taken me to sleep in any of my Order’s abbeys.”

  “If I remember correctly, we made the journey at such a speed that we slept outside most nights.”

  “Yes, that’s also true.”

  “So, what’s your problem?”

  I watched him as he agonized between the lack of arguments and the unprovable certainty that I would not allow him to return to the monastery. My silent observation of his impotence was not cruelty; I wanted him to find the way to logically defend what were simply feelings, speculations, that fought within him to find a way of expressing themselves.

  “Your attitude,” he mumbled at last. “I don’t like your attitude. You don’t show the support that a master should give his apprentice to comply with his obligations.”

  “And to what obligations are you referring?”

  “Prayer, the daily holy service, Mass ….”

  “And who am I to force you to do something that should come naturally? Look, Jonas, I would never stand in the way of you carrying out these activities but what I will never do is remind you that you have to do them. If it is your wish, do them. You are old enough to take your vocation seriously.”

  “But I am not free!” he groaned like the small boy that deep down he really was, despite his height. “I was abandoned at the monastery and my destiny is to repeat the sacred vows. It is written as such in the Rule of St. Maurice.”

  “I know that,” I said patiently. “It’s the same in the Cistercian monasteries and in other smaller ones. But remember that you can always chose. Always. Your life, from the time you begin to have certain control over it, is a formation of good or bad choices but at the end of the day, they are choices. Imagine that you are climbing a huge tree and you can’t see the top; in order to get there, you must chose the branches that appear to be the most suitable, constantly deciding against one and picking another which in turn will bring you to a new decision. If you get to where you wanted to go, it’s because you chose the right path. If not, it means that you made the wrong decision and your subsequent preferences were already conditioned by that mistake.”

  “Do you know what you’re saying, frere?” he warned me, unnerved. “You are denying the predestination of the Providence, you are elevating free will above the secret plans of God.”

  “No, the only thing I’m elevating is the hunger in my stomach which is beginning to protest with fury. And remember that you mustn’t call me frere from now on. Innkeeper! Innkeeper!”

  “What!” replied an angry voice from the back of the kitchen.

  “Is that fish coming or do you still have to go to the river and catch it?”

  “The gentleman likes to joke, huh?” said the innkeeper, suddenly appearing behind the counter. He was a fat, vulgar-looking man, with huge sweaty jowls, and to complete his grimy look was a dirty apron tied at his waist which he used to clean the fish fat from his hands while he approached our table. The Provençal language he spoke was very similar to my Catalan mother tongue. In any case, we would have been able to communicate without difficulty thanks to the large similarities between the Romance languages.

  “We’re hungry, innkeeper. But I see that you are hard at work and, for my own good, I do not wish to disturb you.”

  “Well you did!” he said crossly. “Now you’re going to have to wait longer until the food is ready. Plus I’m on my own today. My wife and children have gone to visit relatives, so contain your stomachs with that bread.”

  “Are you the famous François?” I asked, feigning admiration and watching him carefully. He turned to face me with a new expression on his face. So, you are vulnerable to vanity. Good, very good …! I said to myself, satisfied. Whenever I was working on a mission entrusted to me by my Order, I was accustomed to forgetting about the sword, the dagger and the spear, because on numerous occasions I had found them to be of no use when trying to get information from people. As such, I had the art of flattery, friendly persuasion, verbal tricks and manipulating the nature and temperament of others down to near perfection.

  “How do you know who I am? I don’t recall seeing you here before.”

  “And I have never been here but your food is famous throughout Languedoc.”

  “Really?” he asked, surprised. “And who told you about me?”

  “Oh, well, lots of people!” I lied. I was getting myself into a rut.

  “Name one!”

  “Well, let me think … Ah, yes! The first was my friend Langlois, who passed through here one day on his way to Nevers,
and he told me: ‘If you ever go to Avignon, make sure that you eat at François’ inn, in Roquemaure.’ Another one who springs to mind is Count Fulgence Delisle, who I’m sure you remember, who had the good taste to try your food a while ago when he stayed here on his way to a party in Toulouse. And lastly, my second cousin, Cardinal Henry of Saint-Valery, who specially recommended you.”

  “Cardinal Saint-Valery?” he asked, looking at me suspiciously out of the corner of his eye. Here, I told myself, is a man with a secret. The pieces started to fall together just as I had suspected. “He’s your cousin?”

  “Oh, maybe I exaggerated slightly!” I rectified with a laugh. “Our respective mothers were second cousins. As you will have noted by my accent, I’m not from around here. I’m from Valencia, on the other side of the Pyrenees. But my mother was from Marseilles, in the Provence.” I gave Jonas a slight kick under the table for him to shut his saucer-like eyes. “I know that my cousin visited you frequently when he was serving Pope Clement. He himself told me that on more than one occasion before he died.”

  I was playing all in but it was an interesting round.

  “So he’s dead?”

  “Oh, yes! He died two months ago, in Rome.”

  “Oh, hell!” he let slip in surprise, and then, realizing what he had said, changed direction: “Heavens, I’m sorry, sire!”

  “It’s fine. Don’t worry.”

  “I’ll bring you your food straight away,” he said, quickly disappearing into the kitchen.

  Jonas looked at me terrified.

  “Frere Galceran, you just told a pack of lies!” he stammered.

  “My dear Jonas, I have already told you not to call me frere. You must learn to call me sire, micer, sir, Knight Galceran, or whatever comes to mind but not frere.”

  “You lied!” he repeated, insistently.

  “Yes, so what? I will burn in hell, if that makes you feel better.”

  “I think I’ll be returning to my monastery very soon.” For a moment I was paralyzed. Due to a mistaken feeling of secret possession for the boy, I had not anticipated that he could appeal to his freedom and return to Ponç de Riba; but rather I had assumed that by my side, he would feel free for the first time in his life, far from the monks and traveling the world. But naturally, he didn’t know my plans for his future and was unaware that his real training was just about to begin. Nevertheless, it seemed that my method was completely wrong. I had to ask myself what I would have liked and how I would have acted if I was Jonas’ age again.