Iacobus

by Matilde Asensi

  “And …?” Sara urged when she saw that I had stopped to take a breath.

  “And …? Isn’t it already clear enough? Well, take a good look, witch, and tell me whether or not that rooster is identical to the rooster drawn on this piece of sheepskin.”

  I held out one of the pieces which she took from my hand and illuminated it with the torch, taking a good look at it.

  “It’s the same sign!” she exclaimed, showing it to Jonas who, as he was almost a head taller than her, leaned over her shoulder.

  “There’s something here,” said the boy, taking the fragment from Sara’s hands. “Can you see? It’s got a stamp on it. It’s very blurred but it’s definitely connected to the symbol of the rooster.”

  It was then my turn to grab the leather. The boy was right, there was something else there: I could make out the image of a slender tree rising above a reclining figure, crowned by a spherical Chi-Rho. It was clearly a shortened representation of the Tree of Jesse, with the prophet Isaiah sleeping at the base and Jesus Christ on the top.

  “Et egredietur virga de radice Iesse (49),” Jonas recited, who seemed to have reached the same conclusion I had.

  “I see that you haven’t forgotten your years of puer oblatus,” I said, pleased.

  He blushed to the tips of his ears and his mouth curved into a satisfied smile which he tried to hide to no avail.

  “Because I’ve got a very good memory I was always chosen to help with the Services at the monastery and I learned them from start to finish,” he said proudly. “I can’t remember it very well now but before I could recite the whole thing, without making any mistakes. The part I liked the most was the Dies Irae.”

  “So it won’t be difficult for you to explain this enigma.”

  “All I know is that this tree is the Tree of Jesse that describes the genealogy of Jesus Christ, the forty-two kings of Judah, based on the prophecy of Isaiah, whose first verse I recited.”

  “Since you know the Divine Services so well, tell me: which of them recites the names of the forty-two Kings of Judah?”

  Jonas thought for a minute.

  “On Christmas Eve, during the first Service after midnight which is held to commemorate the birth of Jesus.”

  “Haven’t you figured it out yet …?” I asked, watching his surprised face. “Well, tell me how that first Mass held after the birth of Jesus is popularly known.”

  His face lit up with a big smile.

  “Ah, O.K.! Mass of the Rooster!”

  “Of the Rooster?” inquired Sara, looking in turn at the animal drawn on the floor and the one drawn on the leather.

  “You’re starting to get it.”

  “Not really,” she snorted. “I don’t understand a thing.”

  “Really? Well, look.”

  I stood in the middle of the chamber and lifted my head up into the darkness above me, stretching ut my neck like the rooster in the pictures.

  “Liber generationis Iesu Christi, filii David, filii Abraham,” I began to recite loudly. I was really hoping that I didn’t forget any of the names, as it had been many years since I had recited the genealogy of Jesus, one of the common memory exercises in boy’s studies. “Abraham genuit Isaac, Isaac autem genuit Iacob, Iacob autem genuit Iudam et fratres eius, Iudas autem genuit Pha-res et Zara de Thamar, Phares autem genuit Esrom, Esrom autem genuit Aram, Aram autem genuit Aminadab, Aminadab autem ge-nuit Naasson, Naasson autem genuit Salmon, Salmon autem genuit Booz de Rachab, Booz autem genuit Obed ex Ruth, Obed autem genuit Iesse, Iesse autem genuit David regem.”

  I completed the first group of fourteen kings — the genealogy of Christ is always listed in three groups of fourteen, as St. Matthew relates in his Gospel —, and I stopped to calm my pulse and my breathing. Nothing out of the ordinary happened.

  “Have you finished already?” asked Sara with a touch of irony.

  “He’s still got two groups of kings,” explained Jonas. I carried on.

  “David autem rex genuit Salomonem ex ea quae fuit Uriae, Salomon autem genuit Roboam, Roboam autem genuit Abiam, Abia autem genuit Asa, Asa autem genuit Iosaphat, Iosaphat autem genuit Ioram, Ioram autem genuit Oziam, Ozias autem genuit Ioa-tham, Ioatham autem genuit Achaz, Achaz autem genuit Ezechiam, Ezechias autem genuit Manassen, Manasses autem genuit Amon, Amon autem genuit Iosiam, Iosias autem genuit Iechoniam et fratres eius in transmigratione Babylonis.”

  I paused again after completing the second group, between the generations born before and after the Babylonian captivity. But I still couldn’t hear anything in particular.

  “Et post transmigrationem Babylonis,” I continued rather disheartened, “Iechonias genuit Salathihel, Salathihel autem genuit Zorobabel, Zorobabel autem genuit Abiud, Abiud autem genuit Eliachim, Eliachim autem genuit Azor, Azor autem genuit Saddoc, Saddoc autem genuit Achim, Achim autem genuit Eliud, Eliud autem genuit Eleazar, Eleazar autem genuit Matthan, Mat-than autem genuit Iacob, Iacob autem genuit Ioseph, virum Mariae, de qua natus est Iesus qui vocatur Christus (50).”

  A thud, like a mechanism slowly starting up, could be heard over our heads when I said the name of Mary. However high I held the torch, the light didn’t reach the ceiling, so we couldn’t see what was happening up there until an iron chain, as thick as a man’s arm, entered the reduced circle of light. It slowly descended, lazily unwinding from somewhere high up in the arched ceiling.

  When it was within my reach I grabbed hold of it, and once it had stopped, pulled down hard. Another strange noise, like cogs clicking around each other, could be heard from somewhere behind the rock wall in front of us. Sara took an awkward step back, and stood next to me.

  “How can words start up a mechanism?” She asked in awe.

  “All I can tell you is that in certain places of the world, where giant slabs and huge stones, mysteriously transported by humans in the distant past and balanced on sometimes implausible plinths, vibrate and roar to certain sounds or when specific words are said before them. Nobody knows how, who or why but the point is that they exist. In your country they’re called rouleurs, and here, oscillating stones. I’ve heard of two places where they can be found, one in Rennes-les-Bains, in Languedoc, and the other in Galicia, in Cabio.

  The rock wall gently slid down, without any other sound other than the clicking of the devices that moved it. The passageway was free at last. On the other side we saw a chamber identical to the one in which we were standing, with the only difference being some steps that went up to a higher level.

  “Jonas, do you remember the second scene from the chapel in Eunate?” I said suddenly, evoking the image of that Navarran column.

  “That one where blind Bartimaeus was calling Jesus?”

  “Exactly. Do you remember the message on the tablet that had the words of Bartimaeus?”

  “Hmm!.. Fili David miserere mei.”

  “Fili David miserere mei! ‘Son of David, have mercy on me’. Don’t you get it?”

  “Get what?” he asked, surprised.

  “Fili David, Fili David …,” I exclaimed. “Bartimaeus shouted ‘Son of David’, which is the term used to assert the royal descent of the Messiah, his genealogy. And the verse from the Gospel of Matthew begins Liber generationis Iesu Christi, filii David … Don’t you see? I still don’t know why it started the mechanism that opened this rock but I don’t doubt that they are related.”

  We started walking again along the endless tunnels and endless passageways. Our sandals had turned a reddish color from the earth and our eyes had sharpened to enable us to see in the dark. We didn’t need to bend down anymore to make out the markings at the entrances to the tunnels; a glance as we were going past was enough to get a good look at them.

  I was starting to get very worried about the fact that there weren’t any Templar patrols anywhere. I had left the dungeon convinced that sooner or later we would have to hide or confront the freires, and the fact that we had been on the run for over an hour without coming across a soul was beginning to make me
nervous. No footsteps, no shadows, no human sounds ….

  “What’s that noise in the distance?” Sara suddenly asked.

  “I can’t hear anything,” I said.

  “It’s a murmur, like a droning sound.”

  Jonas and I listened carefully but we couldn’t hear anything. The only sound was the faint crackling of the torch and the echo of our footsteps. Sara, however, insisted again a little while later:

  “Can you really not hear that?”

  “No, I really can’t.”

  “Well, it keeps getting louder, as if we were approaching something that makes a humming sound.”

  “I can hear it!” said Jonas happily.

  “Thank goodness for that!”

  “It’s a chant!” the boy explained. “A psalmody, a kind of hum. Can’t you hear it, sire?”

  “No,” I grumbled.

  We carried on, and after passing the opening to a mine marked with a triple sign, I could finally make out the noise. It was indeed a monotonous chant, a De profundis sung by a formidable chorus of male voices. That was the reason, I told myself, why we hadn’t come across a single Templar since we had escaped from the dungeon: They had all gathered at the end of the passageway we had just entered, and were holding a Divine Service. Never, in my whole life, had I had the opportunity to listen to such a large group of men singing in unison and the feeling that it was awaking in me was one of deep exaltation, of intense rapture, as if the revelry was plucking at my nerves like harp strings. The noise got loader and loader the closer we got and after turning a bend in the tunnel, we also caught a glimpse of a bright glow. Jonas covered his ears, deafened by the noise of the chant which was considerably enhanced by the acoustics of the curved ceilings but just then, at the end of a slight rise in tone, the voices suddenly fell silent. A faint rumbling sound hung in the warm humid air.

  With an imperious wave of my hand, I ordered maximum stealth. I had just seen a shadow in the darkness, a slight movement in the light at the end of the tunnel. Sara and Jonas pinned themselves to the rock with a look of horror. There was no doubt that there was someone up there, and he couldn’t find out that we were there. I signaled for them to stay still and I continued silently, with gentle footsteps, holding my breath. The passageway narrowed like a funnel until it was human size and at the very end, in front of a balustrade overlooking the emptiness, I saw the back of a Templar with a helmet on his head and shrouded by the long white cloak with the large bright red cross with wide ends. He seemed to be on duty and was very attentive to what was going on beyond the railing. Trying not to be discovered, I cautiously retreated, walking backwards without losing him from my sight but that day Lady Luck was not on my side, and a damn pebble, small as a mouse’s tooth, embedded itself between the straps of my sandals, digging into my flesh and throwing me off balance. I swung out my arms and turned around as quietly as I could but the palm of my hand sought balance on the rock, making a sharp cracking sound. The Templar turned around; I assume that he wasn’t expecting to find anything, because when he saw me, his eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. Unbelievably, he took a few very vital seconds to react, to decide what he should do, and although he composed himself quickly, the thrust of my arm throwing the scalpru was much quicker and it cleanly embedded itself in his throat, under his Adam’s apple, preventing him from making any noise and cutting his life short. His eyes became glassy and he began, absurdly, to try to lower his head to look at the end of the weapon sticking out of his throat but he couldn’t: A river of blood started to gush from the wound and his large body staggered. He would have fallen like a bottle of wine had I not been holding him by the waist.

  After making sure that the excommunicate was really dead, I quickly removed his cloak, letting it fall over my shoulders, and covered my head with the cylindrical helmet, occupying his place at the balustrade.

  My disbelief and my desire to stay alive kept me standing. Below me, the most beautiful basilica, sparkling light and splendor, shone like one of those lady’s mirrors exquisitely set with precious stones. The whole temple was made of pure gold and an intense aroma of incense and other perfumes wafted around it. The dimensions of that great octagonal nave carved into the rock far exceeded those of Notre Dame in Paris, and none of the most magnificent mosques in the East, not even the great mosque of Damascus, was as ornate or opulent: Marble finishings, velvet draperies, beautiful cabinets, long panels of splendid mosaics with motifs from the Old Testament, frescoes with scenes of the Virgin Mary, bronze lamps, gold and silver chandeliers, jewelery, and in the center, on a floor covered with rugs, was a sumptuous altar (about ten palms high by fifteen or more wide), covered in filigree and a shrine next to which a chaplain freire stood preaching. Surrounding the altar, hundreds of Templar Knights, wearing their white robes and with their heads uncovered and bent in respect, were on bent knees and totally subjugated by the words of the priest, who was holding forth on the values necessary to affront the bad times and the spiritual forces that must feed the Order to carry out its eternal mission.

  From my observation post on the narrow pithead converted into a surveillance balcony, the vision before me was that of a magical place full of mystery, and I felt so confused that it took me a while to discover that the altar in the center was nothing more than an elegant casing whose sole function was to guard something much more valuable and important. I listened to another chant — during which Sara and Jonas stood silently behind me —, before realizing that the thing inspiring such devotion from those ecstatic and fascinated Templar Knights (who, like stone statues, remained kneeling without moving even a fold of their cloaks), was no less than the Ark of the Covenant.

  I can’t begin to describe the emotion I felt upon discovering that right there, right before my astonished eyes, was the most desired object in the history of mankind, the throne of God, the receptacle of His might and His power. Although I wished it with all my heart — for the sake of moderation —, there was no doubt in my mind about what I was seeing.

  ‘You shall make an ark of acacia wood,’ Yahweh said to Moses, ‘two and a half cubits long, a cubit and a half wide and a cubit and a half high. Overlay it with pure gold, both inside and out, and make a gold molding around it. Cast four gold rings for it and fasten them to its four feet, with two rings on one side and two rings on the other. Then make poles of acacia wood and overlay them with gold. Insert the poles into the rings on the sides of the ark to carry it. The poles are to remain in the rings of this ark; they are not to be removed.

  Then put in the ark the tablets of the covenant law, which I will give you.

  Make an atonement cover of pure gold — two and a half cubits long and a cubit and a half wide. And make two cherubim out of hammered gold at the ends of the cover. Make one cherub on one end and the second cherub on the other; make the cherubim of one piece with the cover, at the two ends. The cherubim are to have their wings spread upward, overshadowing the cover with them. The cherubim are to face each other, looking toward the cover. Place the cover on top of the ark and put in the ark the Testimony, which I will give you. There, above the cover between the two cherubim that are over the ark of the Testimony, I will meet with you and give you all my commands for the Israelites’ (51).

  So it was true that the Templars had found the Ark of the Covenant! Those nine knights who founded the Order in Jerusalem managed to fulfill the mission entrusted to them by St. Bernard. It’s more than likely that a large group of freires milites secretly escorted it out many years before from the stables of the Temple of Solomon in Jerusalem to those underground tunnels in Bierzo and it had been in that unknown place ever since.

  I could feel the emotion running down my spine and shaking my whole body from top to toe. If the words of the Bible were true that Ark contained the Tables of the Law but not the Law understood as a cluster of childish bans unbecoming of a God, but that of the Logos, of the Word, of the sacred architectural measurements, the geometric, musical and mathematica
l relationships of the Universe, of the destructive power that ended the lives of the Philistines, filling them with tumors (52), and of a huge column of fire capable of ascending to heaven (53).

  No other power, destructor or creator, was comparable to that Ark and nothing about its peaceful appearance, of the artificial serenity, of the gold cherubs or of its beauty, betrayed it. So the attitude of the Solomonic freires was not strange, kneeling with genuine reverence. If I could have, I would have also bowed down. There was no doubt that the network of Templar fortresses and houses in the surrounding areas, those that Nobody had mentioned during his visit to the dungeon, were destined to protect the Ark of the Covenant.

  The echo of a cry of alarm suddenly shook the walls of the basilica. A thousand heads were raised and a low rumble began to move like a whirlwind around the area. Before the last rumble had finished, another cry made all the Templars stand up and move their hands to their swords. The clamor grew, and one by one, all eyes turned to me. The dulling of my senses paralyzed me but there was too much commotion to ignore the fact that I had been discovered. How the hell had they known …?

  Jonas’ lanky body remained motionless at my side, with his eyes fixed on the Ark. Neither the noise caused by his appearance on the balcony nor Sara’s pulling on his doublet managed to rouse him from the fascinated contemplation in which he was immersed.

  “Run!” I shouted, pulling the helmet from my head and pulling Jonas by his arm.

  We rushed down the tunnel, hoping to reach the exit before the Templars had time to get there. I picked up the torch from where Sara had left it, and with Jonas running after us like a hare, we pounced on the corners of the tunnels to look at the markings. We were running blind, without knowing where we were going, haunted by the sound of shouting and the murmur of footsteps and running. We ran through countless tunnels, passageways and chambers, we climbed steps and slopes (which made us assume that we were going up to the surface), certain that they were going to catch up with us at any moment. On more than one occasion we heard the threatening barks of hounds and horses’ hooves galloping through the tunnels. Luckily, we managed to make a narrow escape, crossing fragile rope bridges and wooden walkways that hung over mind-boggling chasms. Finally, with aching legs and out of breath, desperate and sweaty, we reached a huge cave which unfortunately had no possible way of escape. Small holes, distributed like a border or edging about ten fathoms off the ground, allowed marvelous rays of natural light to filter through.