Iacobus (22 page)

Upon leaving Navarrte, the dirt track that was our road crossed the path of Ventosa and gently climbed through the forests to the Alto de San Anton, where it began to rain again.

“This area is unsafe,” commented Nobody, looking around suspiciously. Unfortunately, bandit attacks were a regular occurrence. “We should pick up some speed and get out of here as quickly as possible.”

Jonas’ face suddenly lit up.

“Are there really bandits around here?”

“And very dangerous ones at that, boy. More than we need. So get your horse moving and let’s go!” he said, spurring his on with bravado and racing downhill.

Just before we reached Najera, the Camino passed alongside a small hill on the north side.

“This is the Podium of Roland,” said Nobody, looking at Jonas. “Do you know the story of the giant Ferragut?”

“I’ve never heard of him in my life.”

“Liber IV of the Codex Calixtinus,” I pointed out with a certain amount of annoyance from the old man, who seemed to know everything about the Path of the Apostle, “includes the Turpino Chronicle, Archbishop of Reims, who narrates the exploits of Charlemagne in these lands and speaks of the struggle between Roland and Ferragut.”

“That’s right,” admitted Nobody, nodding his head. “Turpin said that in Najera, the city you see before you, was a giant, family of Goliath, called Ferragut, who had come from the land of Syria with twenty thousand Turks to fight Charlemagne at the request of the Emir of Babylon. Ferragut feared neither lances nor arrows and had the strength of forty strongmen. He measured almost twelve cubits high, his face was almost a cubit long, his nose a palm, his arms and legs four cubits, and his fingers three palms.” Nobody displayed his tiny, calloused hands as an example of the hands of the giant. “As soon as Charlemagne heard of his existence, he went straight to Najera, and when Ferragut found out that he was there, he left the city and challenged him to a one onone combat. Charlemagne sent his best warriors: First, Ogier the Dacian whom the giant, seeing him alone in the field, slowly approached and in front of everyone picked him up with all his weapons in his right arm and took him back to the city as if he were a gentle lamb. When Charlemagne sent Rinaldo of Montelban, Ferragut again picked him up with one arm and took him to the jail in Najera. He then sent the King of Rome, Constantine, and Count Hoel, and Ferragut picked them both up, one is his right arm and the other in his left, and put them in jail. Last, he sent twenty fighters, two by two, and he locked them up as well. Given this, and amid the general expectation, Charlemagne did not dare send anyone else to fight him.”

“And then what happened?”

“Then, one day, Charlemagne’s bravest knight, Roland, appeared. Standing on top of that hill you see there, he saw the giant’s castle in Najera and when Ferragut appeared at the door, he picked up a round rock from the ground, weighing about two arrobas, carefully measured the distance and, taking a run up, threw the rock with force, hitting the giant between the eyes and bringing him to the ground. Ever since, that hill has been know as the Podium of Ronald
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.”

“But do you know the best bit about that feat, Garcia?” I asked my son with a smile on my lips. “That the story proves that Charlemagne never entered Spanish territory. He stopped in the Pyrenees, in Roncesvalles, and didn’t go any further. Remember the Cemetery of Alyscamps in Arles, where according to legend ten thousand warriors from Charlemagne’s army rest? That means that he could never have reached Najera. What do you think of that?”

The boy looked at me puzzled and then laughed, swinging his head from side to side with the condescension of an old sage who does not understand the world. Nobody also laughed loudly, echoing my laugh.

We continued our journey, leaving Huercanos to the right and Aleson to the left, and shortly after we arrived in Najera, crossing a bridge with seven arches over the River Najerilla. Najera had suffered greatly as a border city between Navarre and Castile and repeatedly suffered the conflicts between both kingdoms until its final incorporation into Castile. We found shelter at the noble Monastery of Royal St. Mary, founded three hundred years before by a person with the same namesake as Jonas, Garcia I of Najera. We prepared our mattresses with plenty of crunchy rye straw and soft sheep skins, willingly ate the delicious food we were served (barley bread, bacon, cheese and fresh beans) and went in search of the elusive Sara, making use of our pilgrim staffs. On that occasion, to my regret, I could not shake off Jonas or Nobody.

With the remaining light of dusk, we crossed the sturdy oak and iron doors of the city’s great aljama. It was hellishly cold and a thick damp seeped through our clothes to our bones. Unlike in Estella, Najera had great respect for the Israelites who, living without the fear of being insulted by the Gentiles, had set up businesses in all of the neighborhoods and in all of the main streets of the city center in particular around the market place and the Palace of Doña Toda.

The layout of the aljama in Najera was identical to the Jewish quarter in Paris and to the calls and juderias of Aragon and Navarre: tight streets, ramparts, courtyards and small houses with wooden bars on the windows, public toilets, etc. The Hebrews, wherever they were and across borders and cultures, were a people ardently united by the Torah, and their neighborhoods (authentic walled cities within Christian cities themselves) kept them safe from the beliefs, customs and behaviors of others. Their fear of an unexpected exodus led them to perform tasks that did not require them owning possessions that would be difficult to transport in the case of an expulsion which is why most of them were great scholars and appreciated artisans, although those who engaged in usury and made fat profits, or those who collected the tithes for the Christian kings, awoke a deep hatred amongst the Christians.

In the streets of the aljama, we asked everyone we came across if they had heard of a French Jewish woman named Sara who must have passed through that same day or maybe the day before but nobody could tell us anything definite. When at last somebody told us it would be a good idea to speak to Judah Ben Maimon, a renowned silk dealer whose establishment was a meeting point for the muccadim of the Najerense juderia, we decided to pay him a visit because if the Frenchwoman had passed through there, he would know for sure and could give us some information.

Judah Ben Maimon was a venerable old man with long, white, curly sideburns. His wrinkled face was serious and his black eyes shone brightly by the light of the fire. A pungent smell of dye permeated the narrow yet opulent shop and very beautiful iridescent fabrics hung from the ceiling, covered in clothes racks which shimmered in the light of the flames. To the side and to the front of the counter were shelves stacked with boxes of Persian and Moorish silk which was the only furniture in the shop.

“How can I help you, noble gentlemen?”

“Shalom, Judah Ben Maimon,” I said, talking a step towards him. “They say that you are the best man to tell us about a Jewish woman who must have come through Najera in the last few hours. Her name is Sara and she’s from Paris.”

Judah paused for a moment and tilted his head in question.

“What do you want with her?” he asked.

“We met her not long ago in her city, and a few days ago in Puente la Reina we were informed that like us she is on her way to Burgos. We would like to see her again and we don’t think she will mind that we’re looking for her.”

The Jew began to drum his fingers on the counter while he lowered his head as if he were making an important decision. After a while he raised it again and looked at us.

“What are your names?”

“I am Don Galceran of Born, on a pilgrimage to Santiago, and this is my son, Garcia. The old man is a traveling companion who has kindly joined us.”

“O.K.. Wait here,” he said, disappearing through the curtains behind him.

The boy and I looked at each other, puzzled. I raised my eyebrows to show my perplexity and in response he shrugged his shoulders. I still hadn’t lowered my eyebrows when the curtains were pulled back again and the stunned face of Sara appeared before us.

“But how is this possible …?” she asked, raising her voice.

“Sara the witch!” I said, chuckling. “Where have you left your talking crow?”

“He stayed in Paris, at my neighbor’s house. I sold all of my witchcraft supplies to him.”

She smiled. What a charming smile! I was certainly under some sort of spell since I couldn’t stop looking at her. Through a non-existent mist I noticed that she wore her hair pulled back behind her head in a hairnet, that her pearly skin had taken on a nice golden color, no doubt due to her journey, and that the constellations of moles and freckles remained in their respective places, just as I remembered, although perhaps a little too well. Just like the other times I had been with her, I had to exercise a tight control over my emotions.

I realized that I was in the exact situation that I had wanted to avoid when I found Sara. She knew that Jonas was my son but had promised to treat him as my squire which is what the boy thought he was, however there was Nobody, who, thanks to a lie, thought that Jonas was my actual son, as he indeed was. Now what should I do? I had to quickly take control of the situation, before I made an irreparable slip-up.

“Here is my son Garcia, do you remember him, Sara?”

Sara looked at me without understanding but since she was an insightful woman she rose to the occasion as soon as she saw me glance towards the old man.

“It’s good to see you, Garcia,” she said, standing on tiptoe to tousle Jonas’ disheveled hair. “I see that you are still growing and are now as tall as your father.”

“And I’m glad that you didn’t bring your crow,” said Jonas as his way of a greeting, although despite the bluntness of his words, his mouth curved into a smile and the bright red flush on his cheeks showed how happy he was to see her again.

“And this, Sara,” I said, continuing with the greetings and presentations, “this is Nobody, a traveling companion who has generously helped us to find you.”

“What a strange name! What did you say you’re called?”

“I’m called Nobody, Doña Sara. It was Don Galceran who gave me this name, although,” he quickly pointed out, “I do have a more suitable name for my occupation as a traveler and a trader. But seeing as I like Nobody, if it doesn’t make you uncomfortable, you can call me that.”

“Of course, sir, everyone is free to be called as they wish.”

“And you, Sara?” I asked without taking my eyes off her. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s a long story for the short time that has passed since you left Paris. And now is not the time to tell it. The important thing is knowing whether or not you’ve had dinner, and if you haven’t, whether you would like to share the humble food of the Ben Maimons.”

“Yes, we have had dinner,” I said, devastated, and deeply regretting not having left the boy and the old man at the inn. Other than agreeing that we would travel together to Burgos, I didn’t have a good excuse for prolonging my time with Sara; it was clear that right then I couldn’t tell her the reason behind our journey, and she couldn’t tell me the reason behind hers. I decided that the only solution was to arrange to meet up later, when I had managed to get rid of my two companions but luckily Sara had had the same thought because as we were leaving, having arranged to meet outside Judah’s shop door the next day, she surreptitiously whispered in my ear that she would wait for me at the gate to the market as soon as the boy and the old man had fallen asleep.

At midnight, just before the hour of matins, Nobody’s rhythmic breathing and the boy’s incoherent jabbering told me that it was time to leave the room at the inn and go to meet Sara. I had to hide from the night patrols as I made my way there but at last I reached the gates of the market and made out the silhouettes of the two people who were waiting for me in the shadows.

“This is Solomon, Judah’s aydem
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,” Sara whispered, and taking me by the hand she pulled me towards the aljama. “Come. We are in danger here.”

Like three criminals on the run from justice, we stealthily snuck around the walls of the juderia and when we reached a corner hidden by the foothills of the mountain we went through a tiny gate hidden in the bushes.

After a few minutes we were again in Judah’s silk shop, who was patiently waiting for us, fanning the fire.

“Come, Solomon,” he said to his son-in-law. “They must talk alone.”

“Thank you, abba
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,” muttered Sara, letting the cloak that had been covering her head up until that point fall from her shoulders.

“Take a seat, sire,” she told me, pointing at two stools that had been placed in front of the fire for us.

If the world had have stopped then, if that night, that moment had lasted for eternity, I couldn’t have protested or demanded the return of the sun. I had enough to fill the rest of my life just looking at Sara’s face, illuminated by the fire and her white hair, hanging loosely, falling between the folds of the silk.

“Should I start, or you?” she asked with that impertinent tone of voice that I remembered so well from Paris.

“You start, ma’am, I’m very curious to know what you are doing here.”

Sara smiled and entertained herself looking at the red-hot logs. One of them split with a crack and spilled over the others.

“Remember that I had done some favors for Matilda of Artois, Philip the Long’s mother-in-law?”

“I do, you told me so yourself.”

“Well, it seems that her lady in waiting, Beatrice of Hirson, whom I later found out you had spoken to, told Matilda that it would be a good idea to make me disappear. I knew a lot about the King’s mother-in-law, so much that a slight insinuation could open Pandora’s box.”

“I’m sorry to have been the cause of your misfortune.”

“Oh, no, sire Galceran! You did me a favor!” she replied firmly, pushing her hair away from her face and tucking it behind her ear. “If you hadn’t have kicked up the dirt, I would have probably spent the rest of my life in that dying ghetto in Paris. When a good friend of mine, who is also a lady of the court, told me that Matilda had ordered the troops to arrest me, I realized that I had been wasting my time, and that it was a sign for me to get a move on and do what I really want to do.”