Iacobus

by Matilde Asensi

  To begin our false pilgrimage, both Jonas and I had to take on new identities that would protect us from the dangers we would obviously come across. After much deliberating, and so as not to stretch the truth too far — as the time would come when we would have to —, I became the person I would have become had I not followed the dictates of the spirit and knowledge, that is to say, I became Knight Galceran of Born, second son of the noble gentleman of Taradell, recent widower of a distant cousin, who was on a pilgrimage to the site of the Apostle accompanied by his first-born, Garcia Galcerañez, to seek forgiveness for wrongs done to his young, deceased wife. The plot was completed with the penance imposed by my confessor to walk the Camino in abject poverty, taking advantage of people’s generosity. Luckily, according to the Codex calixtinus:

  Peregrini sive pauperes sive divites a liminibus Sancti Jacobi redientes, vel advenientes, omnibus gentibus caritative sunt recipien-di et venerandi. Nam quicumque illos receperit et diligenter hospicio procuraverit, non solum beatum Jacobum, verum etiam ipsum Dominum hospitem habebit. Ipso Domino in evangelio dicente: Qui vos recipit me recipit (9).

  Jonas, who since leaving Ponç de Riba, was shamelessly losing his character of a respectful and humble novicius, energetically protested:

  “Why can’t we make this tough pilgrimage with a little comfort? It’s terrible thinking of what lies ahead! I don’t think I want to go with you.”

  “You, Garcia Galcerañez, will come with me until the end, whether you want to or not.”

  “I don’t agree. I wish to return to my monastery. Patience, patience!”

  “This again?” I exclaimed, snapping my fingers.

  Finally, on Thursday the 9th of August, we crossed the walls of Avignon on foot and left behind the magnificent Pont St. Benezet over the black Rhone, while the sunlight was still barely glowing in the sky. It didn’t take long before we came across the first group of pilgrims who, like ourselves, were en route to Arles. It was a large Teutonic family who, together with their close relatives and all their servants, were going to Santiago to fulfill an old promise. On that first day we shared their food and their wine but at dusk, the Teutonics realized that they were losing a lot of time pulling back on their wagons and their horses to stay at or pace, as we were on foot, and they happily bade us farewell with friendly gestures. We were glad to say goodbye, as the Germans are the most friendly but the most boring people I have ever met, and we were again alone on the road. At sunset, we lit a fire next to the river and slept on the ground, listening to the tireless croaking of the frogs.

  It took us another half a day to reach Arles, and we did it pretty pathetically: First, neither the boy nor I were used to so much walking, so our leather sandals had cut into our flesh to the point of almost leaving our bones exposed, and secondly, our limp had caused us to walk the last few miles completely off-balance, so in addition to the bloody sores and ulcers, we were suffering from pain throughout our bodies, from the hair on our heads to our toenails. If we could have at least stayed in an inn like the one in Paris, we would have rested our sorrows on some good straw mattress but the penance of poverty imposed by the non-existent confessor on the non-existent Knight Born denied us even this meager comfort. This penance was not a foolish whim on my part, even though Jonas couldn’t see it any other way. The fact of having to depend on the charity and mercy of others allowed us into almost any house, castle, borough, village, parish, monastery or cathedral we came across which really helped us to chat to and make contact with the locals. No information is trivial when you are lacking all of the necessary data.

  So, battered and injured, we had to seek shelter, like so many other pilgrims, in the naves of the venerable Basilica of St. Honoratus, where we were kicked out at dawn by a sacristan so the first Mass of the day could be held. And by God was I glad when he did! I was sick of the smell, the dirt, the rats, the insects and the fleas in our lodgings, as well as the stench of our fellow companions.

  That morning, with the last of my money, I bought linen and ointment for our wounds, as well as some barley bread and honey. With a thin bone needle, I pricked the blisters on mine and on the boy’s feet, taking care not to tear the dead skin when removing the serum, and then carefully applied the ointment. Although we really wanted to visit the famous Cemetery of Alyscamps — where, according to the legend, rest the ten thousand warriors of Charlemagne’s army —, our bodies didn’t allow it, forcing us to rest next to the fountain in the square until night. So we returned to the Church of St. Honoratus to sleep badly and wait for the following day, Sunday, when the solemn religious ceremony of blessing and bidding farewell to the many concheiros who had gathered for that purpose in Arles over the last few weeks took place. It is customary for pilgrims to travel in groups to protect themselves from the bandits and thieves who infest the roads, however I was not planning on traveling with anyone (at least not until we had entered the land of Aragon) but it was more prudent to begin the long journey with the food and gifts that the city gave to the travelers upon their departure.

  The crowd began to gather outside the gates of the basilica in the early hours of the morning. There was a festive atmosphere and the weather was on our side, as it was hot and the sun was rising strongly. The canons from all the churches in the city celebrated the Holy Mass with great pomp, at the end of which they gave us the pilgrim’s supplies, after blessing each article or garment: the food bag.

  “In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, take this bag, an insignia of your pilgrimage, so that punished and amended, you may reach where you long to reach, the feet of St. James, with more haste, and so that after completing your journey you return to us with joy, with the help of God, who lives and reigns forever after. Amen (10).”

  The staff for walking and for defense.

  “Take this staff to support you in your travel and work, for walking your pilgrimage, so you can defeat enemy hordes and arrive safely at the feet of St. James, and, having completed your journey, you can return to us with joy, with the consent of God himself, who lives and reigns forever after. Amen (11).”

  The pumpkin to hold our water, the hat for the sun and the cloak for the cold and the bad weather. Most of us also had a tin box thrown over our shoulder where we kept the documents and passes necessary for the journey (Jonas’ and mine were obviously false). Later in the square, there was food and drink for all while the minstrels sang bold versus and they acted with the magicians. Jonas stuffed himself on sugared almonds and I had to pull a cup of flavored wine from his hands as it was reaching his lips.

  We left Arles as a group, later breaking off into smaller groups as we headed towards Saint Gilles, about ten miles away, between Nimes and the Rhone, where the body of the saint with the same name was buried; he had an excellent reputation throughout France for his speed in responding to pleas. This sanctuary was an inevitable stop along the Camino when taking the Toulouse route since visiting the tomb of the saint and kissing his alter was considered to be very advantageous and miraculous.

  We arrived at dawn, and once we had left our possessions at the inn, we set out to fulfill the salutation. Accustomed to the dark outside, we had to raise our arms to our faces to protect our eyes as we entered which did little good as the temple shone like gold, illuminated by thousands of altar candles and lamps, and it was such a strong light that Jonas, whose admiration had no limits, spent a long time blinking with watery eyes until he became used to it. The truth is that the tomb of that gentleman was remarkable and something worth visiting. His body was protected by a golden chest, whose pitched roof was decorated with fish scale shapes, with thirteen crystals set into the finish. In the center of the front of the chest, inside a golden circle surrounded by two rows of all kinds of precious stones, was the seated image of Jesus Christ imparting a blessing with one hand while the other held an open book with the words: ‘Love, peace and truth’. Nevertheless, what really caught my attention was the center strip on the left of the chest which crudely displ
ayed the twelve solar signs: Aries, Taurus, Gemini, Cancer, Leo, Virgo, Libra, Scorpio, Sagittarius, Capricorn, Aquarius and Pisces. I was asking myself, intrigued, what the hell those signs were doing there, when I was suddenly startled, and my hand reached for my belt, without remembering that I was unarmed:

  “Beatus vir qui timet dominum (12),” said a gruff voice from behind me.

  “Caeli enarrant gloriam Dei (13),” I quickly replied, turning around to look at this unknown person whom I had been waiting for since we left Avignon.

  Half hidden in the shadows and wrapped in a long dark coat, a disturbing-looking individual of great stature and girth stood watching us. We stared at each other sullenly for a few seconds, until the man took a step into the light and I could see him more clearly. I signaled to Jonas to stay where he was and I slowly moved towards him, without taking my eyes off his which were a very clear shade of blue. He had short hair and a long beard, both of an intense blond color, in deep contrast to his clothing. His complexion was formidable; he had a very prominent jaw and a huge, bulging forehead. He must have been very important within the ranks of the Holy Father’s guard.

  “Sire Galceran of Born,” he said when he was closer, “I am Count Joffroi of Le Mans, your shadow.”

  He couldn’t have made it any clearer.

  “Count Joffroi of Le Mans, I am frere Galceran, knight of the Hospital of St. John of Jerusalem, doctor and your charge.”

  He seemed surprised by my response, probably because he was more accustomed to causing fear and consternation than indifference.

  “These are my orders,” he continued, as if he hadn’t heard me, or as if anything that didn’t have to do with what he had to say wasn’t of importance. “To follow you day and night until you find the Templar treasure, to help you with my weapons and the weapons of the five men who accompany me in the event that you need help, to kill you and your apprentice if you try to deceive the Holy Mother Church.”

  I could feel my indignation growing inside me as that damn count continued to speak. There we were, my son and I, searching for a treasure that we cared nothing about, carrying out an ambitious mission that, if we were successful, would only serve to further enrich those who were already rich, suffering hardship on a pilgrimage that we didn’t want to do, and to top it all off, here was this idiot threatening us with death.

  “Your orders are of no interest to me, Count,” I replied irritably. “It’s as if you don’t exist to me, given that you are only my shadow. I have a mission to fulfill and I shall fulfill it.”

  “For reasons of the state, His Holiness John XXII would like you to do your job as quickly as possible.”

  “I had already guessed that, so it’s of no great surprise,” I replied. “But you should know, Count Joffroi, that I still don’t know how to do miracles, and His Holiness will have to settle for the speed at which my feet and the sharpness of my eyes can perform. I only need to know one thing from you before asking that you disappear from my sight: How can I request help if I need it? As you can see, I’m not carrying any weapons.”

  “We will know,” he replied, turning around and walking away. “We will always be watching you.”

  “Thank you, Count,” I said as a farewell.

  And the echoes of my voice faded out in the naves of the temple but not without me noticing an acute tone of fear in my last syllable. Was my Order also behind that threat or was it the exclusive work of the Pope? In either case, I couldn’t request help from anyone.

  It took us three days to reach Montpellier and another ten to get to Toulouse, visiting the tombs of St. William of Arquitaine on the outskirts of Gellone — who died fighting the Saracens —, of the Martyrs Tiberius, Modesto and Florence, buried in the Benedictine Abbey of St. Thibery along the banks of the River Herault, and of St. Saturninus, confessor and bishop, who suffered martyrdom tied to fiery, untamed bulls that dragged him along stone steps, shattering his head and spilling out his brains.

  I worried about the influence that all of these gruesome stories might have on Jonas’ young mind. Even though I was making sure to tell him other types of stories and sow good seeds in his mind, the time for his full initiation had still not arrived, as he was still a few years away from becoming an armed knight (his origin was officially unknown, and although this would be resolved sooner or later, it would still be a while before he could wear the armor and accessories, handle a spear, and above all, learn how to wield a heavy sword made of good Franc steel). Unfortunately, his training at the Monastery of Ponç de Riba made him very vulnerable to the striking and seductive deeds of saints and martyrs, most of whom if they had not been simple warriors whose battles favored the Church wouldn’t have even been Christians, verifying that the long arm of the church had modified their lives — always almost pagans or initiated members —, to conform them to the holy Roman canons.

  Jonas’ religious fervor grew as we progressed along our pilgrimage and in line with the number of tombs we visited but my concern peaked when, upon reaching Borce at the end of August, at the foot of the Summus Portus, I found him hiding a piece of bacon in his bag that a kind woman had given us when we asked for food for the love of God and of St. James.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I asked him as I pulled his hands out and opened his bag to look inside. After moving two or three things out of the way that were covering the surface, I was hit by a foul stench: Several days worth of putrefied food was rotting in the bottom of his bag. I had sensed that something was up and had been waiting for the time to catch him in flagrante delicto. “And what is all this?”

  Not a flicker of shame or fear crossed his childlike face, where fuzz covered his upper lip and jaw line. Rather, I felt a wave of obstinacy, of offended stubbornness as I stared at him.

  “I don’t have to explain anything to you.”

  “Really? You’re letting all that food, that is so difficult to get, go to waste, and instead of eating it, you’re throwing it in the bottom of your bag like rubbish.”

  “This is a matter between myself and God.”

  “What nonsense are you talking about?” I bellowed with fury. “We walk without taking a break from sun up until sun down, and you, instead of eating to regain your strength, waste food. I want an explanation right now or you will feel the softness of this rod on your skinny backside!” And I pulled a long, flexible branch from a beech tree that was on my right.

  “I want to be a martyr,” he mumbled.

  “You want to be a what?”

  “I said that I want to be a martyr!”

  “A martyr!” I shouted, while a wave of good judgment advised me that I either calmed down or I would lose more than I would gain with that damn boy.

  “Suffering and martyrdom are routes to perfection and closeness to God.”

  “And who told you that?”

  “They taught me at the monastery but I had forgotten about it,” he said as way of excuse. “I now know that my life only has one purpose: to be a martyr of Christ and die purified through suffering. I want to wear the thorny crown of the chosen ones.”

  My amazement prevented me from swearing. I told myself that that son of mine was desperately in need of good military and courtier training. The trouble was that we were surrounded by mountains, between Borce and the village of Urdos — which could be seen in the distance —, about to leave the Aspe valley to climb the summit of Summus Portus, and I couldn’t give him that kind of training in this environment. I had to solve the problem using some kind of ruse. It’s never a good idea to do things without having first anticipated all of the likely moves of the game.

  “O.K., boy,” I said in the end. “You can be a martyr. In actual fact it’s an excellent idea.”

  “Really?” he asked suspiciously, looking at me out of the corner of his eye.

  “Yes. I will help you.”

  “I don’t know, I’m not sure … Your sudden change of attitude seems very strange, sire.”

  “You shouldn
’t be suspicious of someone who just wants to help you successfully reach the gates of heaven. So, starting today, and taking advantage of your weakness, since you haven’t eaten in several days ….”

  “I manage fine with bread and water. That’s all I have,” he said quickly.

  “… starting today, you will carry all of our possessions, mine and yours,” I said, hanging my bag and tin from his shoulder. “And to complete your ordeal, you will not ingest any type of food or liquids. The bread and water has finished.”

  “I think it’s best if I do it my way,” he murmured.

  “And why is that? What you are actually searching for with this sacrifice is death. Did you not say that you wanted martyrdom and the thorny crown of the chosen ones? Well, as far as I know, martyrdom is the unnatural death of Jesus Christ. What’s the difference between dying today and dying tomorrow? Time doesn’t matter, what matters is the amount of suffering that you can present before the Court of God.”

  “Yes, but I think it will be more worthy if I do it my way. The agony will be slower.”

  I wanted to give him a resounding slap on that stupid face of his but I pretended to be taking his words into consideration and weighing up the pros and cons of each option.

  “Fine, do it your way. But if you have bread and water, you should at least make yourself bleed. You already know that it is a foolproof way to avoid sin and maintain the purity of the soul. I’m sure you saw how the disobedient monks bled in Ponç de Riba.”