Iacobus (25 page)

A group of Burgundian pilgrims from Autun livened up the surrounding area of the hospital with their banter and revelry. We asked them which of the two roads they thought best to take because from that point the track split into two, to later join up in Burgos.

“Tomorrow we will be taking the route of St. John of Ortega
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,” said one of the lads in the group, whose name was Guillaume, “because that is the route recommended by our countryman Aymeric Picaud.”

“We have also been following his directions.”

“His fame is universal,” he said with pride, “given the large number of pilgrims that travel the Camino de Santiago every year. If you get going now, you will reach the village of San Juan de Ortega while it’s still light, and the inn at the monastery is famous for its excellent hospitality.”

The young Burgundian was right. Having followed an intricate path that crossed the forest, we stumbled upon the apse of the temple and we followed it around until we came to a courtyard with the inn to the right where we were welcomed with warmth and sympathy by the old monk in charge of looking after the pilgrims. The cleric was an old windbag and was delighted to listen to the adventures of those who came his way. He placed huge amounts of food on the table and offered to show us the church and the saint’s tomb when we were finished.

“St. John of Ortega, he was called, or in the rest of the world, John of Quintanaortuño, and he was born here in the year one thousand and eighty,” he explained to Jonas and I as we walked around the courtyard towards the two twin entrance doors of the main facade. Sara, respectful but indifferent to our Christian fervor, had stayed behind at the inn to rest. “People considered him to be a simple collaborator of St. Dominic of the Causeway, who is much more famous for having cleared the trees of the forest between Najera and Redecilla, using a simple sickle to construct that part of the Camino.” His tone indicated that the feat of St. Dominic was not of great importance to him. “But John of Quintanaortuño was much more than just a collaborator. John of Quintanaortuño was the real architect of the Camino de Santiago, because although St. Dominic cleared the forest, built a bridge over the River Oja and a church and a hospital for pilgrims, St. John of Ortega built the Logroño Bridge, rebuilt the bridge over the River Najerilla, built the Hospital of St. James in the city and this church and this inn to help the people traveling along the Camino de Santiago.”

We had entered the small sanctuary, gently illuminated by the light filtering through the alabasters on the windows. A deafening buzz of flies circling the nave drowned out the voice of the priest. The stone tomb, heavily carved on all sides, was placed before the altar, and there it remained, alone and silent, utterly indifferent to our presence. The priest pulled us to one side.

“Sterile women come here a lot,” he continued. “St. John’s popularity is largely due to his miracles of restoring fertility. And this blessed ornament is greatly to blame,” he said while pointing to the capital above our heads, the one on the left apse which depicted the scene of the Annunciation to Mary. “But I think that our saint deserves better fame which is why I am compiling the numerous miracles that he performed of healing the sick and resuscitating the dead.”

“Resuscitating the dead?”

“Oh, yes! Our St. John returned life to more than one poor deceased person.”

Was it a coincidence …? I didn’t think so; I had stopped believing in coincidences a long time ago. While this conversation was taking place, a ray of light that shone through the middle ogive of the transept began to illuminate the head of the angel who told Mary of her future motherhood. I was dumbfounded.

“Yes, it is pretty,” said the old man, observing my distraction, “but I prefer the other one, the one on the right.”

And he took us to it without much hesitation. Jonas followed him like a puppy, avoiding the gravestone with a quick turn, just like our mentor. The top of the column of the apse depicted a warrior with his sword held high, facing a knight on horseback.

But I was still puzzled by the other thing, by that light that illuminated the angel. An idea was forming in my head. I turned around and went back. The ray of light was now illuminating Mary. If it followed this path, it would end up illuminating the stone statue of an old man, probably St. Joseph, who was resting all the weight of his age on a staff in the shape of a Tau …

Ego sum lux
…, I remembered, and suddenly everything made sense.

The Templar’s refinement to hide their gold was incredible. They had hidden their riches so magnificently that, if it hadn’t have been for the fact that I had managed to get my hands on Manrique of Mendoza’s message, I would never have found a single part of it. The key was the Tau but the Tau was only a decoy, the call that attracted the initiate; then came the clarification of the clues. Like the pieces of a machine they all had to fit together in order to work. I began to wonder if the Tau was just one of many possible routes, whether there were other decoys such as, for example, the Beta or the Pi, or perhaps Aries or Gemini. The huge number of possibilities made me dizzy. And that’s when the ray of light fell upon the old man with the Tau-shaped staff, and seemed to linger lazily on it.

“When the gentleman wishes,” said the old clerk from behind me, “we can return to the inn.”

“We are deeply grateful for your kindness. But if you wouldn’t mind, my son and I would like to stay for a while and pray to the saint.”

“I see that St. John has awoken your piety!” he said joyfully.

“We will pray for one of my brother’s daughters who has been trying to conceive a child for years.”

“You’re doing a good thing, a good thing! There is no doubt that St. John will grant your prayers. I will wait for you back at the house with your Jewish friend. May God be with you.”

“And with you.”

As soon as he had gone, Jonas turned around and scrutinized me.

“What’s going on? We don’t have a sterile cousin.”

“Pay attention, boy.”

I put my hand on his neck and moved his head, as if he were a rag doll, towards the capital of the Annunciation.

“Take a good look at old St. Joseph.”

“Another Tau!” he said elated.

“Another Tau,” I agreed. “And look at that ray of light that’s disappearing; it’s still illuminating it a little bit.”

“If there’s a Tau here,” he said, shaking my hand off, “there must be another hiding place for the Templar treasures.”

“Of course there is. And I know where it is.”

He looked at me with huge, gleaming eyes. “Where, sire?”

“Think, boy. What was it that caught our attention the most in Eunate?”

“The history of King Solomon and all those strange animals on the capitals”

“No, Jonas! Think! There was only one capital that was different from the rest. You pointed it out to me yourself.”

“Ah, yes, the one with the resurrection of Lazarus and the blind Bartimaeus!”

“Exactly. But if you remember well, the phrase chiseled on the tablet of the resurrection scene was incorrect. In it, Jesus, while he was reviving his friend, said: Ego sum lux, but according to the Gospel, Jesus didn’t say those words then. And what do we have here in St. John of Ortega?”

“We have a ray of light illuminating it.”

“And a saint who was a miracle worker who, according to the priest here, was an expert in reviving the deceased like the scene in the Chapel of Eunate and like the one in the chapel of the Templar church in Torres del Rio, remember? There was also a single capital that looked normal with the motif of the resurrection of Jesus.”

“That’s right!” he exclaimed, punching his thigh. You couldn’t deny that he was my son. Even his most thoughtless gestures were a poor imitation of mine. “But that doesn’t tell us where the gold is hidden.”

“Yes it does, but in case you have any further doubts, we also have the information we got from the Templar church in Puente la Reina.”

“What information?”

“Do you remember I told you about the wall paintings of Our Lady of Orzs?” the boy nodded. “Well, from the top of a Y-shaped tree, or a Goose Leg, a symbol of the secret brotherhoods of initiated bridge builders and architects (and remember that St. John of Ortega was one of them), a majestic eagle was looking at a sunset. As you know, the eagle symbolizes sunlight and the sunset painted there corresponds to the time now; that ray of light that illuminated the Tau is a ray of twilight.”

“O.K., fine, but where’s the gold?” he said impatiently.

“In the tomb of St. John of Ortega.”

“In the tomb! You mean … Inside the tomb?”

“Why not? Don’t you remember the capitals? The tombstones were also pushed to one side to allow the revived dead to get out.

It’s the same as the wall that covered the crypt of St. Oria, and I bet you anything you want that they found the treasure of St. Orosia of Jaca inside a tomb where a wall had to be removed. Although ….”

“Although … what?”

“In Torres del Rio there was a cloud of smoke coming out of the tomb. In fact, the two female figures, those two Marys of the Gospel, looked more like corpses. It’s possible, Jonas, it is very possible that the tomb of St. John of Ortega has some sort of trap, some kind of volatile poison suspended in the air.”

“Well, don’t tell Count Le Mans,” he said happily. “He must be just about to show up. Let him open it. Isn’t that what you want?”

“Yes,” I said, imitating his smile, “that’s an excellent idea. I won’t say that I don’t feel an urge to let him die poisoned. But this time, boy, we will recover the treasure. Le Mans doesn’t have to find out until we have seen inside that tomb.”

“But we will die, sire!”

“No, because we know that there is a risk and we will implement the necessary measures so that doesn’t happen. And now, young Jonas, although I know it will be difficult for you, put on your best angelic face and we will leave this church as if we have been devoutly praying: Not a single gesture or movement that would give away our findings, do you understand? Remember that Le Man’s henchmen are watching us.”

“Don’t worry, sire, watch this.”

All of a sudden he fell to pieces. His depression and sadness were so over the top that I had to give him a slap.

“Not that much, you idiot!”

If we went back to the sanctuary, Le Mans would find out, so we had to find a good excuse to make our visit seem reasonably logical. Luckily, the clerk himself gave us a good reason.

“I have to go to the church to put out the candles in the lamps and the alter candles,” he muttered, stretching and yawning.

We were sitting in front of the fire, wrapped up in old, ragged, wool blankets. Sara dozed restlessly in her chair; she was nervous because the next day she would be meeting up with Mendoza in Burgos. I was also excited about how close I was to meeting with Isabel but I wasn’t sure what was affecting me more, seeing Jonas’ mother after so many years or Sara finding her beloved Manrique.

“Let my son go for you,” I proposed.

“Oh, no! I pray to St. John every day at this time while I put the candles out.”

“Fine, well, let my son and I go, and as a way of thanking you for your hospitality, we will both pray to the saint for you and on your behalf.”

“That’s not a bad idea, no sir!” he said happily.

“It’s a very good idea,” I agreed, so as not to give him time to think.

“Jonas, get the priest’s candle snuffer and let’s go.”

Jonas picked up a staff with a brass cone on the top from the corner and stood by the door waiting for me. I stood up and went over to Sara to let her know that we were going but she was sound asleep and I didn’t want to wake her. I could have put my hand on her shoulder to rouse her and nobody would have thought badly; I could have even picked up her hand and stroked it and nothing extraordinary would have happened; I could have gently touched her hair, or her cheek, and not even the good priest would have been scandalized. But I didn’t do any of those things because I would have known the truth.

“Sara, Sara …,” I whispered next to her ear. “Go to bed. Jonas and I will be right back.”

We crossed the courtyard, illuminated by the light of the full moon. The church was just as empty as when we had left it but quieter because thankfully the flies had disappeared.

“How are we going to lift the lid of the tomb?” Jonas whispered.

‘“Give me a place to stand and I will move the earth’, said Archimedes.”

“Who?”

“Good God, Jonas! Didn’t you receive any education?!”

“Well, now you are the only person responsible for it, just so as you know!”

I pretended that I hadn’t heard him and pulled out an adze and Le Man’s dagger from under my cloak and raising them went over to the tomb.

“Here,” I said, holding out the stylus, “scrape the mortar on the other side and when you have finished bring the candle snuffer.”

It wasn’t difficult to move the slab with the help of the snuffer pole once we had dislodged it, although we had to do it with much care so as not to split the wood.

“Take your shirt off,” I ordered Jonas, “and tear it in half. Then soak the pieces in the holy water of the baptistery.”

“In the holy water!”

“Do what I tell you! And quickly, if you don’t want to die poisoned!”

We covered our faces with the wet cloth, tying them in a knot behind our heads and then gave a final push on the cover which gave way and moved about a cubit. From inside rose a puff of yellow smoke which quickly spread throughout the church.

“Cover your eyes with the wet cloth and drop to the ground!” I shouted as I rushed to the door to open it wide. The night breeze dissipated part of the yellow fog; the rest remained floating in the nave, barely two palms above our head. If it hadn’t have been for the warning of the capital we would have died a horrible death.

“Get up slowly, boy!”

Bending over like a hunchback to avoid the poisonous cloud, I looked into the tomb. Some stone steps descended into the dark interior of a crypt hidden beneath the church.

“Jonas, get one of the candelabras from the alter and bring it over here. But remember to keep your head down! The air is cleaner near the floor.”