“How awful!” said Jonas, completely absorbed in the tale; young people like those kinds of stories a bit too much.
“My friend Evrard was already seriously ill and couldn’t escape in time from Paris, and now,” she said furiously, her eyes burning, “he is dying in the prison, unfairly accused of a crime that he did commit.”
“Did you say Evrard …?” I asked with the little voice I had left in my body.
“Do you know him?” she asked in surprise.
Know him …? I thought. No. The truth was that I had only met him once, many years ago, and that was not what you’d call knowing a person. Evrard … Evrard and Manrique of Mendoza.
I was only slightly older than Jonas when Manrique, Isabel’s brother, returned to his father’s castle after spending many years in Cyprus where he had established the leadership of his Order following the loss of the Syrian city of Acre in 1291. Manrique was a Templar knight and arrived accompanied by his friend, Evrard. During the few weeks they spent at the castle, they told us countless stories of crusades, battles, monarchs and warriors. They told us about the great Moorish leader Salah Al-Din (4), of the Leper King, of the black stone of The Mecca, of the ‘Old Man of the Mountain’ and his fanatic followers, the Assassins, the fresh water of Lake Tiberius, of the loss of the True Cross in the Battle of Hittin … Isabel, Jonas’ mother, adored her older brother, and I simply adored her. Those unforgettable nights, while Manrique and Evrard told stories next to the fire in the noble hall of the weapons room at the Mendoza castle, I looked at Isabel’s beautiful face in silence from the dark which was lit up by the flames, that face that her son was looking at me with now, day after day and week after week, as if he was the perfect picture of his mother. She knew that I watched her, and all her movements, her smiles and her words were directed at me. The names Manrique and Evrard had become linked in my mind forever with the precious memories of the years that I spent, first as a page and then as a squire, in the Mendoza fortress, built next to the River Zadorra in Alava.
“Do you know him?” repeated Sara.
“What? Ah, yes, yes! I knew him many years ago; so many in fact that I had almost forgotten about him. Tell me, your other friend, Evrard’s companion, is his name Manrique, Manrique of Mendoza?”
The witch’s face suddenly turned into a rigid mask, into a black hole where a flash of anger and sadness passed.
“You also know Manrique!” she mused.
It seemed that Sara and I shared similar feelings of loss and longing for two different members of the same family. I must admit that it was funny. I had spent my life fleeing from my ghosts to come and find them in the humble house of a witch in the Jewish quarter of Paris. I needed some time to get my thoughts together but I didn’t have any.
“Tell me, Sara, what’s wrong with Evrard?”
“He’s dying. He has terrible fevers, it’s in his bones and he barely regains consciousness.”
“Do they let you visit him then?” I asked, bewildered.
Sara chuckled.
“No, they don’t let me visit him but I don’t need anyone’s permission to see Evrard. Remember that he is locked up in the dungeons of the fortress in which I grew up.”
“Do you mean to say that you know some secret access?”
“That’s correct. You see, the underground of Paris has hundreds of tunnels and galleries that connect to the old Roman sewers. On the left of the river there are three mountains: Montparnasse, Montrouge and Montsouris. Their insides were dug out and used as quarries before the time of the Romans. They are large passages that cross under the river and the city and reach another mountain, Montmartre. Over the centuries they were forgotten about and today nobody even remembers that they exist. The Templars, however, used those tunnels to store valuable objects, to hide part of the Crown’s treasure when they were its guardians as well as to hold some of their private ceremonies.”
“And how do you know about them?”
“Because I used them to escape from the King’s guards,” she remembered with fury. “Later, when I was older, I went back to visit them with other children, although in secret, of course. Most of those tunnels are blocked. The walls crumbled, especially in the galleries that pass under the river. But our area, which connects the Jewish quarter with the fortress, is in good condition because the knights underpinned and reinforced the ceilings. However, one must know the underground well; if you don’t, you might be able to go in, although it is difficult, but you will never be able to get back out.”
“And you use these galleries to get to Evrard.” Sara smiled and said nothing.
“Take me to him,” I begged. “Take me to your friend.”
“Why?”
“For several reasons. The first is because I am a doctor and even if I can’t cure him, I can at least help him; the second is because Evrard knows me; and the third is because he is my last hope of getting the evidence I need to be able to return home. I can’t pay you anything; I have already given you all my money. But if you really cherish your friend, you will take me to him.”
The witch stared at me for quite a while, without blinking or looking away. She was a woman with a strong spirit and an ungovernable character, and I presume she weighed up the positives and the negatives that my visit could bring to her cherished and sick Evrard. In the end she went with the most prudent decision.
“I can’t promise you anything,” she stated. “But come back tomorrow at the same time and I will let you know what Evrard decides. I will ask him tonight.”
“Tell him my name, tell him that we knew each other fifteen years ago at the Mendoza castle. Tell him, please. He’ll remember me.”
“Tomorrow, sire Galceran, at the same time tomorrow.”
Evrard agreed to see me but such an honor wouldn’t go without dangers and problems. The old Templar was very sick, Sara told me, and he was in a state of no-return. I mustn’t be put off by the dirt and the smell, which was unbearable, as it came from the blood in Evrard’s feces and ulcers. To reduce the inflammation of the painful buboes, Sara had made different dressings from waxes, oils, fats, gums and salts, very effective for softening certain types of abscesses but completely useless for his illness. She also gave him several opium brews to numb the pain, which was unbearable, although with the same negative results. Evrard was dying in his jail like a mangy dog and there wasn’t anything that could help him to die with respect.
She told me all this as she was preparing a bag of essentials to take down into the tunnels: torches, phosphorus, wool, a little lime and a deadly silver dagger with beautifully carved Hebrew characters on the blade which I didn’t have time to read, although I’m sure it was the stylus she used in her magic ceremonies. She had never come across anyone during those night walks, she told me but she had to be prepared, just in case she ran into the fortress guards.
As Sara lifted the bag onto her shoulder, I had to give Jonas the bad news that he would not be coming with us. At first he was completely shocked, as if he hadn’t properly understood what I had told him, and then he reacted with pure rage.
“You’re going to a Templar fortress and you’re not taking me with you! I don’t believe it. I’ve accompanied you on all of your visits and now you leave me in the house of a witch with a crazy raven as my only companion!” He began to stomp his feet on the ground. “No, no and no! I’m going as well, whatever you say!”
“I’m not changing my mind this time, Jonas. So make yourself comfortable and await our return. Take advantage of this time to go over your knowledge of Hebrew and the Qabalah, there are plenty of things here that can help you.”
“O.K., sire,” he shouted angrily, “you asked for it! But it’s better this way because I’m fed up. I’m going back to the monastery.”
“Really …?” I asked, leaving the room behind Sara, who was waiting for me at the front door. “And how do you think you’ll get there?”
“I don’t know but I’m sure that the Parisian monks
from the Convent of St. Maurice would be pleased to take me in and help me get back to Ponç de Riba! I’ll go and see them tomorrow. I’m tired of traveling with you.”
His words stopped me in my tracks for a moment but with a heavy heart, I kept on walking without looking back. If he wanted to go, I wouldn’t stand in his way. I certainly wasn’t going to put him in danger letting him come with us to the King’s dungeons in the old Templar commandry. Not only was his presence unnecessary but he could end up being a burden if the guards caught us inside the prison. Fourteen years is too young to face a life sentence or even the fire which the Franks are huge fans of. I must confess, however, that it also worried me that Evrard could recognize Jonas as the son of Isabel, given the huge similarity between the boy and his mother, and I was thinking about that when Sara whispered from the dark, “I’ve been meaning to point out, sire Galceran, that your son has a remarkable resemblance to Manrique of Mendoza. The only difference I can see between them is Jonas’ great stature, identical to yours.”
My tired spirit could not find the necessary strength to carry on denying that which was so evident to the witch.
“Listen, Sara, he still doesn’t know the truth. Please don’t say anything.”
“Don’t worry,” she assured me. “But tell me if my suspicions are correct.”
I felt an infinitive weariness in my soul.
“His mother is indeed Isabel of Mendoza, your friend’s only sister.”
“But, if I remember correctly, Manrique’s only sister professed in a monastery following the death of her father.”
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Please.”
“Do you know what your problem is?” she said, quickly changing the subject. “That you don’t know how to express your affections.”
We walked in silence along the narrow streets of the Jewish quarter until we stopped in front of a small, abandoned house, whose walls looked like they were about to cave in and whose roofing looked like it fell down a long time ago. The rickety, hingeless door was half leaning on its primitive opening and it looked dark and dingy inside. However, despite its appearance, Sara went inside with the confidence of someone who was traveling a safe and familiar path, so I followed her without fear. At the back, in the center of an overgrown garden, a dry well proved to be the entrance to the old sewers. We groped our way down the steps of a concealed staircase and only when we were on terra firma and had gone about fifty paces down a narrow, wet gallery full of mold and cinder did the white-haired witch finally decide to light the torches.
“We are safe now,” she said loudly, breaking the heavy silence; her words echoed from a thousand depths.
By the light of the flames I could see the walls of living stone that made up those ancient tunnels, carved out in forgotten times. Sara took me through tunnels that branched off time and time again and I told myself, worried, that if that woman left me there, I would be incapable of finding my way out. She knew the route by memory and moved quickly, although, maybe for safety reasons, she made certain variations now and again, because at one time I saw her lean down to the ground and then change direction. We walked for at least half an hour without stopping; we moved through secondary galleries that ended in large caves which, in turn, opened up to other galleries and other caves. The closer we got to the fortress, the more signs we found of the underground’s prior use by the Templar monks: A mutilated effigy of the Archangel Michael lay abandoned in a corner, a chest of three seals lay open and empty in the middle of the path, alcoves in the walls with strange paintings in the intersections (solar signs, three-masted lunar boats, two-headed eagles …). Every now and again we tripped over piles of rocks from where the ceiling had collapsed. Sara told me that years before, when she had snuck into that labyrinth, there were hundreds of chests, full of gold, jewels and precious stones lined up against the walls, some even stacked on top of others, forming columns that reached the ceiling. In those which were open, displaying their contents, she had seen shiny coins, rings, gorgeous pendants, tiaras, crowns studded with rubies, pearls and emeralds, ebony and ivory lockets, goblets, chalices, mother of pearl jewelery boxes, crosses with beautiful embellishments encrusted with gems, fabrics embroidered with gold and silver thread, candelabras as tall as a person and glowing like the sun, and many more objects that were just as marvelous. A treasure difficult to imagine if you haven’t seen it, she told me. How was it possible that all those riches had disappeared into thin air, I asked myself surprised, vanishing before the eyes of the guards, the King and the Parisians themselves, like smoke? When, and most of all, how had they removed the hundreds of chests that Sara said she had seen without arousing suspicion or curiosity? I found it inexplicable.
At last we stopped at an intersection of the paths.
“We’ve arrived. Now, complete silence, or the guards will hear us.
The Jewish woman walked over to one of the walls which, at first sight, looked no different from any of the others, and began to climb it like a cat using strategic slits carved into the rock. We entered what appeared to be the mouth of another tunnel and which proved to be the entrance to the sewers of the Templar fortress; we were suddenly hit by an overwhelming stench of decomposing excrement. Above our heads we could hear the dull echo of far-away voices and the endless sound of footsteps moving in all directions. We followed the path along those stinking canals until we reached an enormous iron grill which, despite its fearsome appearance, easily bent under the pressure from the witch’s hand. Minutes later the ceiling began to drop and when my hair began to graze the rock Sara stopped, gave me her torch, and with both hands gave a strong push upwards on one of the slabs. Mysteriously, the stone gave way and, looking like it weighed little more than air, moved to the side to let us through.
“Now, put out the torches. But careful not to get them wet, otherwise we won’t be able to use them to get back.”
After I had completed the order, I went up behind her and entered Evrard’s dark dungeon.
“Did you have any problems?” asked the voice of an old man from the corner. It was so dark that I wouldn’t have been able to see my own hand if I had held it in front of my face.
“No, none. How are you feeling tonight?”
“Better, better … But where is Galceran? Galceran?”
“I’m here, Sir Evrard, and glad to find you again after so many years.”
“Come here, boy,” he said weakly. “Come close so I can see you. No, don’t be surprised,” he said with a chuckle, “my eyes are so used to the dark that what you see as shadows, I see as light.
“Come … Oh, Jesus! You’ve turned into a man.”
“I have, Sir Evrard,” I smiled.
“Manrique heard from someone who knows you that you were living in Rhodes. I think he said that you took the Hospitaller vows.”
“That’s correct, freire. I am a St. John’s Hospitaller Knight. I normally work as a doctor in the Rhodes Order infirmary.”
“So, a Hospitaller, eh?” he repeated with sarcasm. “They’ve always said that our Orders were bitter enemies, although neither Manrique nor I ever had any problems with the Hospitallers we met throughout our lifetimes. Do you not think that at times we freires find ourselves wrapped up in false myths and unsubstantiated legends?”
“I agree, Sir Evrard, but I don’t want you to talk now. I have come to examine you and I don’t want you to use your energy until later, answering my questions.”
I heard a dull laugh escape from his body. Bit by bit I became more accustomed to the dark and although of course I still couldn’t see much, I could make out his face and shape. Knight Evrard — I never knew his surname —, the person who in my dreams, like Manrique, was as big as a giant with the strength of a thousand Titans, had become, to my surprise, little more than a pile of skin and bones holding up a head that was no more than a skull. His sunken eyes, his cheekbones which stuck out of a ravaged face, that old, dirty, gray beard, were not, however much I had been
warned of his poor state, those of the invincible crossed warrior of my youth who I had stupidly wished to meet again.
Unfortunately, the smell of the cell was unmistakable: Every disease emits a characteristic odor, in the same way that old age smells different from youth. There are many factors that influence body odors: food and its ingredients, the material used to make clothes, the texture of the skin, the materials with which one works or the places in which one lives and even the people we live with. Evrard’s disease smelled like a tumor, of one of those tumors that eats away at the body and liquefies the internal organs, expelling them from the body in vomit and excrement. Judging by his appearance, he only had a day or two left.
Evrard, without a shadow of a doubt, had the plague. I went over to him, and pulling up his tattered shirt, gingerly palpated his swollen, hard stomach, taking great care not to touch the painful buboes, swollen to unbelievable proportions which ran from his thighs to his abdomen and from his chest to his neck, going underneath his armpits. His fingers and toes were black, his arms and legs covered in bruises and his tongue was swollen and white. Despite the gentleness of my examination, his cries of pain indicated the terrible extremity that the destruction of his body had reached. He had a very high fever which I felt in my hands when I touched him, his pulse was racing — much faster than racing! — and irregular, and rapid chills shook him every now and again as if he had been beaten with a mallet.
“I must have been bitten by a flea,” he murmured, exhausted. I pulled his shirt back down and thought. The only thing that I could do for him was the same that I had done for the dying abbot in Ponç de Riba: Give him large amounts of opium to make his death less painful. But if I gave him the opium — and I had it in my bag —, I couldn’t take advantage of his final hours to talk to him, I couldn’t ask him anything about the things I wanted to know, I wouldn’t be able to satisfactorily end my investigation. I think that was one of the hardest decisions I have had to make of the many that I had come across throughout my life.