“We’re at the exit!” shouted Sara, pointing to the strands of sunlight.
“What exit?” asked Jonas, disheartened.
“That exit …,” I muttered, pointing my chin towards a strange silhouette on the rock. But no sooner had I finished pointing, we heard a distant roar, a kind of roar that came from inside the earth, a roar that came accompanied by a slight trembling of the floor and walls.
“What the hell is that?” I said annoyed.
“I don’t know, sire,” murmured Jonas looking back towards the tunnel, “but I don’t like how it sounds.”
“Let’s not waste time,” urged Sara. “The exit, sire Galceran.”
“Ah, yes, the exit!
A strip of rocky wall in front of us was artificially constructed with large blocks fitted together, and at ground level, like a door, with the height and the width of a person, was a block with a circle with a dot in the middle chiseled into it.
For alchemy, the Qabalah and the Zodiac, that symbol represented the Sun — the One —, and it was obvious that its presence was not a mere coincidence or a decorative whim. The fact that it was the last obstacle before reaching the exit — that light peeking through the border of holes —, clearly indicated that the solar symbol had a lot to do with the way to get out of that underground labyrinth. Did it by any chance fit in with the rule described by the clues we had found along the Way of the Apostle? Yes, well, for now we had a slab to move, a rock to push to reach the objective, like at the churches of Jaca, St. Millan and St. John of Ortega, although here, instead of the Taus, there was the symbol of the sun. What could it mean? I wondered.
“Something’s not right,” whispered Jonas, taking a few steps towards the tunnel to better hear the horrific noise coming from the depths of the earth. The trembling floor could be clearly felt underfoot and increased in proportion to the noise.
“The exit, sire, the exit …,” urged Sara with a distressed look on her face.
The exit … The block marked with the symbol looked like it was holding the whole ashlar together, which meant a deadly trap because if we pushed it out the heavy pieces of rock would collapse over our heads. In a best case scenario that would close off the exit forever. Ego sum lux, prayed the capital at Eunate. Solar door, door of the sun, door of the light, holes where light shone through … But we could have reached there at night, like at the Church of St. John of Ortega, for example, in which case the light wouldn’t have entered … The light, the ray of light that illuminated the capital of the Annunciation at St. John of Ortega … Why was it always the light?
“God help us!” shouted Jonas, turning his desperate face towards me. “They’re flooding the tunnels!”
“What?”
“They’ve released the water from some ancient Roman reservoir to flood this part of the tunnels and drown us! Can’t you hear it? Ruina Montium … That noise is the water, the water that’s coming this way!”
All of a sudden the roar seemed very sinister. We were inside a mousetrap!
“The exit, sire Galceran, the exit!” screamed Sara.
“The exit, father!” screamed Jonas, coming over to me in search of protection.
Why were my thoughts wandering to a distant past instead of seeking the solution to the riddle of the solar door? Why, as I was putting my arm around my son’s shoulders, my mind was bringing back images of my youth, where I saw myself walking through the countryside, under the warm rays of the sun, with Isabel of Mendoza? As if I were accepting death, my heart returned to the sunny mornings of my past, when I still had the rest of my life before me, when the heat made my blood and the blood of Isabel’s young body boil.
And then I figured it out. I figured out the solution as Sara’s warm hand held mine searching for heat before the cold of death.
“Push!” I shouted, trying to make myself heard over thedeafening roar of the water which, judging by the noise, must have been just about to reach our chamber,
“The rocks will crush us, father!” cried Jonas in my ear.
“Both of you, push as hard as you can! Push that rock, God damn it, or we’ll all die in here like worms.”
The three of us leaned against the stone marked with the solar sign and pushed with all our might. But the rock didn’t move. I don’t know how it came to me to push directly on the symbol but as I did, the stone door slid outwards, although not without difficulty, and not a single one of the ashlars that were held in the air above our heads moved even an inch. We rushed outside and ran like souls running from the devil, climbing one of the nearby slopes to get out of reach of the torrent of water that, like an enraged snake, had knocked down the border of rocks in its rush to get out which were miraculously held above us as we crossed the doorway.
“How did you know that we could get out of there without the risk of being crushed to death?” asked Sara shortly after, as we were watching how the water flowed between the peaks of the strange landscape of Las Medulas.
“Because of the sun,” I explained, smiling. “If it had have been night, we would have died an inevitable death. The stones would have fallen on us when we pushed the slab trying to get out. But the heat, the heat from the sun in this case, produces a strange phenomenon in our body: it dilates it, makes it swell, while cold makes it shrink. Sine lumine pereo, without light I die, as the saying goes. When the ashlars of the rocky wall heated up, they expanded, keeping the structure intact, even though we removed the door with the solar symbol. At night however, everything is kept in place thanks to the door,” I paused and thought for a moment. “Something like that must have happened at the Church of St. John of Ortega, there’s no doubt about it but I didn’t understand it at the time. Most likely, if we had had all the keys, the crypt wouldn’t have fallen down.”
“And where do we go now?” asked Sara.
“In search of my people,” I replied. “We are an easy target for the milites Templi: a tall man, a Jewish woman with white hair and a lanky boy. How long do you think it will take them to catch up with us if we don’t find safe refuge? And seeing as my mission has obviously ended, the best thing to do is find the first house of St. John in these parts to request protection and await instructions.”
“We should leave soon, father,” said Jonas, worried. “It won’t be long before the Templars go in search of our bodies.”
“You’re right, boy,” I agreed, standing up and offering Sara my hand to help her up.
Her hand altered my heart rate, as if it wasn’t already altered enough following recent events. The sunlight (from that sun that had saved our lives) lit up her black eyes, causing them to give off magical, and certainly bewitching, reflections.
It took us two days and two nights to reach Villafranca del Bierzo, the first town where we finally found Hospitaller presence. The stretch was uncomfortable and tiring because in addition to traveling from sunset to sunrise (sleeping during the day in makeshift hiding places), the night cold and damp gave Jonas a painful ear infection, and he writhed in pain like a prisoner being tortured. Trying to staunch the flow of pus, I quickly applied very hot compresses that helped a bit, knowing that they would have been much more effective if the boy could have been able to rest on a comfortable straw mattress instead of walking over the night’s dew under the light of a cold, early October moon.
A chaplain freire — or freixo, as he preferred to be called —, greeted us at the doorway to the Church of St. John of Ziz, located to the south of Villafranca, where my Order’s flag waved on the wall. This town, rich in grape vines since the ‘Black Monks’ of Cluny brought the plants over from France, was famous for a very strange peculiarity: Sick pilgrims, incapable of reaching Compostela, could receive the Great Forgiveness at its Church of St. James, as if they had really reached the tomb of the Apostle. Which is why a large number of people of all nationalities, classes and backgrounds clustered along its walls, feeling as though they were a bit closer to the end of the Camino.
The Hospitaller freixo, a
robust man with little hair and no teeth, made himself available as soon as I gave him my name and my position at our common Order. He quickly offered me his house, a humble building with a straw roof alongside the sturdy walls of the Church of St. John, where he and a rather dim lay brother freixo had lived for many years. Both formed a kind of detachment or religious outpost for the Hospital in the eastern gates of Galicia, this kingdom where my Order seemed to have abundant commandries, castles and priories which, since the demise of the Templars, did nothing but progress and grow. The main house, a beautiful fortress built in Portomarin and dedicated to St. Nicholas, was about sixty miles away towards Santiago. With good horses, I told myself, we shouldn’t take more than two days to make the journey. Without giving too many details, I told them that we weren’t in a position to buy either good or bad horses and that I was hoping that they could give us this gift out of generosity and their compassionate nature. When I saw him hesitate and stammer some timid excuses, I had to exercise all the power that my rank of Hospitaller Knight gave me to erase any doubt in his mind: We needed those animals and there was no possible excuse. I didn’t tell him that our lives were in danger and that only at St. Nicholas would the boy, Sara and I be safe. I also had to stay somewhere to await orders from John XXII and from frey Robert of Arthus-Bertrand, Grand Commander of France, who would no doubt be anxious to know the location of the Templar gold, and the Fortress of Portomarin seemed like a good place to do it.
We left Villafranca that same afternoon riding on three good brown mares, and crossed the narrow gouge of the River Valcarce, bordering steep rolling hills filled with chestnut trees, proudly displaying their sharp and menacing green fruits. The pain in Jonas’ ears did not subside and he had a gaunt and feverish look to him. He didn’t even seem to cheer up when, after great difficulty, we reached the peak of Mount O Cebreiro, from where, by the light of the moon, we could see the magnificent descent that awaited us towards Sarria. For two nights we crossed wet and gloomy forests of hundred-year-old oak, beech, hazel, yew, pineand maple trees, and countless villages whose inhabitants slept silently in their wooden pallozas (54) while the dogs barked at the sound of our horse’ hooves. My fear of being recaptured by the Templar freires vanished with my certainty that only crazy people like us would dare to travel at night through those parts, infested with foxes, bears, wolves and wild boar. It’s not that I wasn’t afraid of being attacked by one of those dangerous animals but I knew their hunting and sleeping patterns and tried to make sure that our route was as far away as possible from the burrows to not alert them with our sounds or scent and at the same time keeping the old iron sword that the freixo had given me close to hand.
Finally, at daybreak on the forth of October, we crossed the stone bridge over the River Miño and entered Portomarin, a stronghold belonging to my Order, whose banners and pennons fluttered in all of the main buildings of the city. It was like being in Rhodes, I told myself with my chest swelling with joy. My spirit ardently longed for a well-deserved rest within the familiar walls of the fortress, the closest thing that I had seen to my house on the island in recent years.
We were greeted by four servant freixos who immediately took charge of the silent Sara and the downhearted Jonas, while I was directed through long corridors to meet with the prior of the house, Don Pero Nunes, whom, it seemed, had been awaiting my arrival for several days. I felt dizzy from the lack of sleep and was starving but the meeting awaiting me was much more important than warm milk and a delicious meal; I consoled myself by thinking that at least Sara and the boy had ended their hardship and I would soon be with them again. Although for how long? I asked myself sorrowfully. Now that everything was over, would I have to leave the witch and the boy behind?
At the end of a warm room, leaning against the mantelpiece of a large fireplace that easily illuminated the huge lounge, Don Pero Nunes, Prior of Portomarin, waited until I had entered before lifting his head to look me over. He was dressed in his nightshirt — you could tell that he had been hastily raised from his bed — and covered by a long white robe made of coarse wool, and his eyes, unlike mine, shone with agitation and anxiety.
“Freixo Galceran of Born!” he exclaimed coming towards me with his arms outstretched. His voice was deep and powerful, unbecoming of a body as sleek as his with such elegant manners, much more appropriate to shout orders on board a nao than to lead the prayers in a Hospitaller priory. I couldn’t make out whether the smell of perfume that reached my nose came from the fabrics and tapestries in the room or from Don Pero’s nightshirt.
“Freixo Galceran of Born!” he repeated excitedly. “We were advised of your possible arrival. All of the commandries and fortresses from the Pyrenees to Compostela have received very strict instructions to that effect. What do you have, freixo, to have kicked up so much dust?”
“Haven’t you been told anything, prior? What do you know?”
“I’m afraid, good knight,” he said, changing his tone from soft to dominating, “that I am the one who asks the questions around here and you are the one who replies. But please, sit down. Forgive my rudeness. You must be hungry. Tell me what’s going on while we are served breakfast.”
“Under any other circumstance, prior,” I apologized, “I wouldn’t hesitate to satisfy your demand, because as a knight and as a Hospitaller I must fully obey you but in this case, micer, I beg you, with all due respect, that you first tell me what you know and the orders that you have received regarding me.”
Don Pero grunted and gave me a grim look but the nature of the case must have advised him to act with prudence and moderation.
“All I know, freixo, is that I must advise of your appearance in this house as soon as you arrive, sending two knights to the city of Leon with the fastest horses in our stables. It seems that they are anxiously awaiting news of you. Meanwhile I must assist you with anything you may need,” he sighed. “Now it’s your turn.”
“If our superiors have told you nothing, sire, forgive this poor, tired knight for his obstinate silence but I can’t tell you anything more.”
“Ah, what a shame!” he protested, trying to cover his anger and standing up contemptuously. “Make yourself at home, freixo. You will incorporate yourself into the religious practices and will exercise any of the duties that suit you.”
“I am a doctor at the Hospital of Rhodes.”
“Oh, Rhodes! O.K., well, I will leave you in charge of our small hospital until the messengers reach Leon. Is there anything in particular you wish for?”
“The boy and the woman ….”
“Jewish, correct?” he asked with disdain.
“Correct, frey, she is Jewish. Well, her, the boy and myself are in grave danger.”
“I already assumed that,” he boasted.
“Our presence must not be made known under any circumstance.”
“Well, in that case I will provide you with a house in the mill of a nearby farm where nobody ever goes and which is very well protected by this fortress. Will that do?”
“I am very grateful, prior.”
“Well, that’s settled. Goodbye, freixo Galceran.”
And we dismissed me with a wave of his hand, without any sign of the breakfast he had promised and getting me out of there like someone shooing off an annoying fly.
That afternoon, when we awoke, Sara and I inspected our refuge while Jonas carried on sleeping heavily. That morning, before we had fallen into bed, I had administered him a little opium to help him get a proper rest after so many days of unmanageable pain. Luckily, his breathing was rhythmic and his pulse was calm.
The mill tower was in the middle of a grassy plain and its state of ruin showed its many years of abandonment. It was a basic construction, made of wood and built around a thick central pole protruding through the roof. Our mattresses were on the top floor, and on the ground floor, where Sara and I were at that time, was the old grinding mill, falling apart and with no stones to grind. Giant cobwebs hung from the corners o
f the ceiling and, upon finding one of those hard-working and beneficial insects, the witch sighed with satisfaction.
“Did you know that spiders are a good omen and if you see a spider in the afternoon or evening it means that a wish will come true …?” she said as she held my hand and pulled me outside.
Outside, the pale afternoon sun shone and the air was pure, so we sat, leaning against the corner of the building to enjoy our break and the peacefulness of the place. We didn’t have to run anymore, or travel at night, or escape from fratres milites; we just had to stay there, sitting quietly, enjoying our freedom.
“So, you are finally home …,” she said suddenly in a neutral tone.
“I told you that I was a Hospitaller monk, remember?”
“A Montesino! That’s what you told me you were!”
“I didn’t want to offend you with that lie, Sara, but I had orders to not identify myself as a Hospitaller.”
Her face contorted into a sneer.
“At the end of the day, what difference does it make? You are a soldier monk, a knight of the most powerful Order that exists right now, and, in addition, you are honest, faithful to your vows and the task that you have been entrusted with. I’m sure that you are also a great doctor.”