This is fiction. The names, characters, places and events in this book are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people (living or dead), companies, events or places is pure coincidence. The editor has no control over the author’s or third party’s websites or their content and does not assume responsibility for anything deriving from them.

Iacobus © Matilde Asensi, 2013
Translated by Tina Hart

Cover page image: © Jacobo Blasco

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Galceran de Born is a knight of a military religious order, the mortal enemy of the Knights of Templar. He has been commissioned by Pope John XXII to investigate the murders of Pope Clement V, King Philippe IV of France, and William of Nogaret. Helped by his son Jonas and Sara, a white-haired Jewish witch, Galceran finds incriminating evidence against the outlawed Knights of Templar, who avenged their master’s death by perpetrating these three murders.
On their way to Santiago, they also find a parchment which reveals that when the Knights of Templar were banned by the previous pope, they hid their gold all along the road, in places marked by the golden cross Tau. The Pope’s greed, however, is insatiable and so he entrusts Galceran with another important mission: Galceran has to disguise himself as a pilgrim and seize the treasures that the Knights of Templar had hidden along the road: more than a thousand five hundred chests full of gold, silver and precious stones. In an underground labyrinth, they will find one of the greatest secrets in history: the Ark of the Covenant.

Iacobus

Matilde Asensi
Translated by Tina Hart

To my little friend Jacobo C. M., who is convinced that this book is his

art

About the Author

Matilde Asensi (born 1962 in Alicante, Spain) is a Spanish journalist and writer, who specializes mainly in historical thrillers.

She has more than 20 million readers worldwide and has become the reference of quality bests-sellers in Spanish language. According to the magazine Que Leer she is the ‘Queen of the adventure novels’.

Her books, of an indubitable quality and proven historical documentation, have been translated to 15 languages. The English translation of The Last Cato won the 2007 International Latino Award in the category ‘best mystery novel’ and an honor mention for ‘best adventure novel’. The following year, Everything Under the Sky won the second place for the International Latino Award.

In 2011 she received the Honour Award of Historical Novel Ciudad de Zaragoza for her career in this genre. She also was awarded the Premio Juan Ortiz del Barco (1996) and the Premio Felipe Trigo de Relato (1997)

OTHER BOOKS BY MATILDE ASENSI

Everything Under the Sky
The Last Cato
Checkmate in Amber
Peregrinatio
The Lost Origin

PROLOGUE

It is inexplicable that at this point, I, Galceran of Born, until recently knight of the Order of the Hospital of St. John of Jerusalem, second son of the noble lord of Taradell, who was crossed in the Holy Land and is a vassal of Our Lord James II of Aragon, can still believe in the existence of an inescapable destiny hidden behind the apparent hazards of life. However, when I think about everything that has happened over the last four years, and I think about it too often, I cannot get over my suspicion that a mysterious fatum (1), perhaps that supremum fatum spoken of in the Qabalah, weaves the threads of events with a lucid vision of the future, without taking into consideration our wishes and projects in any way. So, in order to try and clarify my confused ideas and wishing to record the strange details of this story so as they can be accurately known by future generations, I begin this chronicle in the year of Our Lord thirteen nineteen in the small Portuguese town of Serra d’El-Rei, where, amongst other jobs, I work as a physician.

CHAPTER I

Having just disembarked from the Sicilian nau on which I had made the long voyage from Rhodes — with exhausting stopovers in Cyprus, Athens, Sardinia and Mallorca —, and after presenting my papers at my Order’s provincial captaincy in Barcelona, I was in a haste to leave the city and go to Taradell to pay a quick visit to my parents, whom I had not seen for twelve years.

Although I would have liked to have stayed with them for a few days, I was barely able to stay for a few hours, as my real purpose was to reach the distant monastery of Ponç de Riba as soon as possible, two hundred miles south of the kingdom, on land that, up until not long ago, had still been in the hands of the Moors. I had something very important to do there, important enough to suddenly leave my island, my home and my work, although officially I was only going to spend a few years immersed in studying various books that were in the possession of the monastery and which had been made available to me thanks to the influence and requests of my Order.

My horse, a beautiful animal with powerful legs, made a real effort to go as fast as my haste imposed, while we galloped through the wheat and barley fields and passed quickly through various hamlets and villages. The year of 1315 was not a good year for crops, and hunger spread throughout the Christian kingdom like the plague. However, the long time I had spent away from my homeland made me see it through the blind eyes of a lover, as beautiful and rich as it had always been.

I soon spotted the vast Mauricenses territories, close to the town of Tora, shortly followed by the high walls of the abbey and the pointed towers of its beautiful church. Without a doubt, I dare say that Ponç de Riba, founded one hundred and fifty years earlier by Raymond Berenguer IV, is one of the largest and most majestic monasteries that I have ever seen, and its abundant library is one of a kind in this part of the world, as it not only possesses the most extraordinary sacred Christian codices but almost all of the scientific, Arabic and Jewish texts condemned by the church hierarchy, because luckily, the St. Maurice monks have always characterized themselves as having a very open mind to all kinds of wealth. I have seen things in the Ponç de Riba archives that nobody would believe: Hebrew cartularies, papal bulls and letters from Muslim kings that would have impressed the most imperturbable scholar.

It is obvious that a Knight Hospitaller such as myself had no place, at least on the surface of things, in a sacred place devoted to study and prayer but my case was unique, because besides the real, secret reason that had brought me to Ponç de Riba, my Order, who for the general good of our hospitals was particularly interested in learning about the terrible eruptive fevers, the smallpox which had been so magnificently described by Arabic physician, and the preparation of the syrups, alcohols, creams and ointments that we had heard about during our years in the Kingdom of Jerusalem.

I was especially eager to study the Atarrif by Albucasis of Cordova, a book also known as Metodus medendi following its translation into Latin by Gerard of Cremona. The truth is, I fully understood the language in which the monastery’s copy was written, because, like all knights who have had to fight in Syria or Palestine, I speak many languages fluently. In this book I was hoping to find the secrets of painless incisions and cauterizations on living bodies — which were so necessary in times of war —, and learn everything about the Persian physian’s marvelous medical instrument, meticulously described by the Great Albucasis, so as it could be accurately replicated when I returned to Rhodes. So that same day I would be abandoning the doublet, the coat of mail and the black cloak with the white Latin cross and would be swapping the helmet, the sword and the shield for the pen, the ink and the scrinium.

It was still an exciting project, of course, but as I said it was not the real reason I was entering the lands of the monastery; the real reason that had taken me there — a purely personal reason, that had been protected from the start by the great seneschal of Rhodes —, was that I had to find somebody very important there who I knew nothing about: not their name, nor who they were, what they looked like, not even if they were there at that time. However, I had faith in myself and in Providence to be victorious in that delicate mission. There is a reason they call me the Perquisitore.

I went through the wall’s large gate and quietly dismounted my horse so as not to give a violent impression in a place of peace.

I was met by my cellarer brother who had been forewarned of my arrival — I later found out that a novicius always keeps watch of the surrounding area from the church’s lantern, a practice that they had kept in force since the not-so-long-ago time of the Aceifas Moors —, and holding my horse by its reins and accompanied by the tiny cellarer, I entered the enclosure, observing the perfect distribution of the monastery whose annexes and buildings were very well laid out around the main cloister. There was another cloister, the smallest and oldest, located to the left of a small building that looked like a hospital.

At last we stopped in front of the main door to the abbey where I was courteously greeted by the sub-prior, a young and serious monk who had a noble appearance and, without a doubt, was of exalted birth which I could tell by his manners and posture as he promptly introduced me in the abbot’s very beautiful house. Both he and the prior greeted me very politely and it was clear that they were accustomed to greeting illustrious visitors but they were even more welcoming and friendly when they saw me leave my new cell, dressed with the closest thing to a Mauricense habit that I could find without violating the respect of its Rule: a full length white tunic with a cloak, no scapular or belt, and for my feet, undyed leather sandals, very different from their closed black shoes. Walking through the cloister I could see that those garments were very appropriate for the cold, much warmer than my wide-sleeved doublet and my coat of mail, so my hardened body, accustomed to great hardships, quickly got used to that outfit which from then on would be mine.

Winter was approaching, and although snow isn’t rare in Ponç de Riba that year was especially hard not just for the fields and the crops but also for the men. On Christmas Eve the inhabitants of the monastery were besieged by an endless white blanket.

During the weeks following my arrival I tried, whenever possible, to remain on the borders of the life and intrigues of the monastery. Although of a different nature, the captaincies of the Knights Hospitaller also suffered from very stressful situations, mainly because of petty reasons. A good abbot or a good prior — just like a good master or a good seneschal —, are in fact distinguished by the control they exercise over their community to avoid these problems.

However, I could not entirely distance myself from monastery life because as a Hospitaller monk I had to attend the religious and community ceremonies, and as a doctor I spent a few hours every day at the hospital with the sick brothers. Naturally, I skipped the chapters that were of a private nature, and I was under no obligation to perform tasks that were not to my liking. Lauds, Prime, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers and Compline regulated my study, eating, walking, working and sleeping schedule with mathematical precision. Sometimes, seized with anxiety and the nostalgia of my distant island, I restlessly circled the cloister, looking at its unique capitals, or I went up to the church’s lantern to keep the novicius watchman company, or I walked aimlessly between the library and the chapter house, between the refectory and the bedrooms, or between the bathrooms and the kitchen, in an attempt to calm my mind and temper the urgency I felt to finally meet with the person I had secretly named Jonas in my head; not like the frightened Jonas who was swallowed by the whale but rather the one that came out of it, free and renewed.

That day, during prayer, I heard the cavernous cough of a child amongst the chants that made me jump: If it hadn’t have been for the fact that the cough did not come from my chest, I would have sworn that it was I who was coughing and spluttering. I looked eagerly toward the area from which, under the watchful eye of the very patient nursing brother, the pueri oblati continued with the liturgy between yawns but the only thing I could make out was a group of tiny restless shadows; the nave was in darkness, barely lit by a few dozen altar candles.

When I entered the infirmary first thing the next day, the nursing brother was carefully examining a child, almost an adolescent, who looked at everything around him grimly and with distrust. I stood discretely in the corner and performed my own examination of the patient from afar. His color was definitely off, his eyes and cheeks were slightly sunk and he looked sweaty but he didn’t seem to have anything out of the ordinary, just a common cold; his scrawny chest heaved with anxiety, producing a faint whistle, and he suffered with sudden attacks of a bad, dry cough. The best thing to do, I told myself, would be to put him to bed and feed him hot broths and wine for a few days and let him sweat it out …

“The best thing to do,” said the nurse, however, while tapping him on the back, “is to give him a bloodletting and a gentle purgative. Within a week he’ll be fine.”

“See?” shouted Jonas, turning towards the benevolent nursing brother. “See how he does want to do a bloodletting? You promised me that you wouldn’t let him!”

“That is true, brother nurse,” he said. “I did promise.”

“Fine, well the strongest purgative you have!”

“No!”

It’s strange how nature plays with flesh and blood from one generation to the next. Jonas, who had not inherited a single one of my features, had however a voice that was identical to mine, a child’s voice that every now and again, as he was becoming a man, deepened, and it was at those times when nobody would have been able to tell the difference between him and I.

“If you don’t mind, Brother Borrell,” I said to the nurse while approaching the scene of the drama, “maybe we could substitute the purgative for an exudatio.”

I lifted up Jonas’ right eyelid and got close enough to see the back of his iris. His overall health was excellent. Maybe he was a bit weak just then but a good exudation and a long sleep would do him a world of good. I couldn’t help but notice that, like his mother’s, Jonas’ eyes were also light blue with flecks of gray, eyes that they had both inherited from a distant French ancestor. Although Jonas didn’t know it, his mother was of noble lineage, descending from the Leonese branch of the Jimenos and from the Alava lineage of the Mendozas, and his paternal lineage was ancient and royal, and although not as great, the Wilfred the Hairy origin was not to be forgotten. The blood of the founders of the Spanish kingdoms ran through his veins, and their crests — although he still didn’t know that he had crests —, were a mix of beautiful quarters of castles, lions and crosses pattée. If, as I suspected, that boy really was Jonas, he would never, under any circumstance, be ordained as a monk, however puer oblatus he may be. He had a much greater destiny and nobody, not even the Church itself, could stand in the way.

“I don’t like exudations,” grumbled Brother Borrell, standing his ground. “They have little effect on bile fluids.”

“But brother!” I protested. “Take a good look and you will see that this boy is not suffering with bile but from a cold, and furthermore, he’s going through puberty, he’s growing into a man. However, you can apply a poultice of pumice, sulfur and alum which will help with the exudation, and also prepare some pills for his cough with small amounts of opium, castoreum, pepper and myrrh.”

Convinced by this suggestion which would test his ability as a herbalist, Brother Borrell went to the pharmacy to prepare the mixture while Jonas and the nurse looked at me with admiration.

“You are the Knight Hospitaller who has been living in our monastery for the last few weeks, correct?” asked the old man. “I have seen you many times during prayer. There are many rumors about you in the community!”

Guests always arouse curiosity. I just smiled at him.

“The children do nothing but talk about you and I have had to pull more than one away from the library windows when you have been studying. Haven’t you noticed? This one for example, who seems to be more a cat than a boy, has gotten more than one slap for just that reason!”

It made me laugh looking at Jonas’ astonished face, who was looking straight at me without saying a word. Due to my height and the shape that the constant handling of my sword had given my arms and shoulders, I must have looked like Hercules or Samson to him, especially if he compared me with the shaven-headed monks in the community, always fasting and giving penance.

“So, you’ve been watching me through the window ….”

My voice woke him from his daydream and he jumped. Pulling the folds of his habit up to his waist, he jumped down from the table and ran, shooting through the door and losing himself amongst the buildings.

“Blessed be God!” shouted the nursing monk, chasing after him. “He’ll die of pneumonia!”

Brother Borrell, holding the foul mixture in his hands, sighed in resignation from behind the curtains of the pharmacy.

The heart of the library was the scriptorium, a heart that beat powerfully under the high stone-vaulted ceiling, breathing life into the beautiful codices that the scriptor monks copied and used to enlightened themselves with such devotion and patience. Anyone who lived at the monastery, whether they were monacus, capellanus or novicius, had full access to go there and be educated whenever they wished. Inside an annex, which was accessed through a low door, the main archives were jealously guarded, a great documentary corpus where the slightest incidents that occurred in the monastery were recorded, so I thought that I would find the information I needed about Jonas there and requested permission from the prior to look through the documents.

“Why are you interested in the monastery’s annals?”

“It would take a long time to explain, prior, and I can assure you that there is no hidden malice in my request.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you with my question, frere,” he immediately replied, rather upset. “Of course you have my permission to look at the archives. I just wanted to talk to you for a while. You have been living with us for nearly two months and you haven’t made friends with any of the monks, not even with the abbot, who has made an effort to help you with everything he can. We know that other than our books nothing can interest you in a place like this, dedicated to learning and contemplation but we had hoped that you would tell us things about your travels and your life.”

It’s always the same, I thought, alarmed. I mustn’t let my guard down or the Knights Hospitaller will end up like the Knights Templar.

“Please forgive me, prior. My isolation has nothing to do with me being a Knight of St. John. I have always been this way and I don’t think that I can change now. But you are right, maybe I should open up more to the brothers. In fact, the nursing brother recently told me of the pueri oblati’s interest in me … Do you think that I could attend one of their breaks to talk to them?”

“But frere … children have very vivid imaginations! Your adventures would only excite them and rob them of the sleep that they so need at their age. No, I’m sorry, I cannot authorize these visits. However …,” he added with thought, “I think that it would very good if some of the older pueri served you as your assistants and you could teach them some of the elements of your science so that in the future they can take charge of the hospital and the infirmary.”

“That certainly is a good idea, prior …,” I agreed. “Would you let me choose or would you yourself appoint my assistant?”

“Oh, there is no rush, no rush …! Speak to the nursing brother and choose the novicius that you think has the best skills.”

After all, I told myself pleasantly surprised, that monk was not prior for nothing.

That afternoon I walked to the library and pulled the chartae from the shelves of the archives corresponding to the Year of Our Lord 1303, the year of Jonas’s birth. On my lectorile, next to a beautiful copy of Comments on the Apocalypse by Beatus of Liebana and Collectaneorum de re medica by Averroes, I unfolded a sea of documents relating to donations, work undertaken to construct barns, repopulation yields, improvements to the naves of the church, crops, deaths and births of servants, wills, purchases and sales and an endless amount of official tedious matters. Over the long days, I searched with infinitive patience until I found the information about children who had been abandoned at the monastery during that year. I was glad that I didn’t know the Christian name that the monks had given Jonas – because in the end there were three children to investigate –, so no prior preference would cloud my reading.

Luckily, one of the babies stood out straight away. On the morning of the 12th of June the operarius brother who went out to repair the broken blades of a mill found a newborn at the door in a basket, wrapped in rich fabrics without any markings or embroidery. Hanging from the child’s neck was a small, black, jet charm set in silver in the shape of a fish — which worried the monks in case he was of Jewish descent —, and hidden amongst the diapers was an unsigned note requesting that the infant be gracefully baptized with the name Garcia. I didn’t look any further; I had all the proof I needed. Now I just needed to check whether the Garcia in the documents was the Jonas from the infirmary so as soon as I could I headed for the house of the pueri oblati to select my future apprentice. But why wait? mocked destiny, and before I’d even walked through the door, a shout suddenly answered all of my questions:

“Garciaaaaaaaaa!”

And Garcia shot past me, running like he did when he escaped from the infirmary with his habit gathered in bunches so as not to get in the way of his legs.

And then it was Christmas again, and this year we were celebrating the holidays with the sad news of the death of the abbot of Ponç de Riba. I had made an effort, without much success, to alleviate the pain of his last days with large doses of opium but it had not done much good. When I palpated his stomach, which was swollen like that of a woman in labor and just as hard, I knew there was no hope for him. To ease his mind I suggested removing the malignant tumor but he flatly refused and amidst great suffering he gave his soul to God during the Epiphany of 1317. The dreadful noise of the ratchet could be heard throughout the grounds for the next three days, making the community’s mourning even more overwhelming.

The funerals lasted for several months and were very ostentatious and filled with pageantry. They were attended by the prelates from the sister abbeys of France, England and Italy and at last, at the end of April, the whole community locked itself in and the chapter began — led by the abbot from the mother house, the French monastery of Bellicourt —, to chose a new Abba from amongst its members. The deliberations continued day after day, with the few of us who were left outside having no information about what was happening inside, although at the end of the first week we had got used to the situation and were even enjoying ourselves, as the presence of the abbot of Bellicourt helped to improve the quality and quantity of the food: On meat days, the cook brother gave us rations of up to three quarters more beef, mutton or lamb, depending on what there was, and as we were nearing summer, the food was accompanied by parsley or blueberry sauce; Wednesdays and Saturdays was stew, and the daily amount of bread increased by an average of a whole pound per person.

We were already into the third week of the chapter when, on a warm morning where silence reigned throughout, the novicius from the lantern vigorously rang the bell announcing the arrival of visitors. The sub-prior left the funeral to see to the newcomers and the cellarer pulled several servants from the garden to whom he entrusted the service and hospitality duties in the absence of the monks.

Jonas and I were working at the forge, filing delicate surgical instruments which, with great sacrifice and ineptitude, we had made to resemble the ones displayed on the pages of the master Albucasis. That task required enormous concentration because in the absence of the blacksmith monk the alloys and forging left much to be desired and the instruments broke in our hands like clay figurines. We were so concentrated on what we were doing that we didn’t go to greet the travelers which would have been the correct thing to do. They, meanwhile, took no time at all to make an appearance at the forge.

“Knight Galceran of Born!” shouted a familiar voice. “How dare you wear that dirty blacksmith’s apron in the presence of other frates milites from your Order!”

“Joanot of Tahull! Gerard!” I exclaimed, quickly lifting my head.

“You will be severely punished by the Provincial Master!” bellowed my brother Joanot, giving me a big hug; the noise of the steel from his chain mail and the sheath of his sword knocking on his greaves abruptly awoke me from a long sleep.

“Freires!” I stammered, still amazed. “What are you doing here?”

“Your holiday is over, freire, you have to go back to work,” laughed Gerard, also hugging me.

“We have come to get you, so you don’t continue getting old and fat with this easy life of a convent monk.”

I sat down heavily, overwhelmed, on one of the benches and looked at my brothers who were full of enthusiasm. There they were, in front of me, the most dignified and honored Hospitaller Knights in the Christian world, with their black cloaks, their long beards hanging over their ventails and their blessed swords at their hips. We had fought so many battles together, traveled so many roads to near death, studied, trained and served for so many hours! I hadn’t even realized up until then just how much I missed them, how much I yearned to go home …

“O.K.,” I said, standing up, “let’s go. I have learned everything I can here!”

“Stop right there! Where do you think you’re going?” My brother Gerard stopped me in my tracks, resting his chain mail glove on my chest.

“Did you not say that I must return?”

“But not to Rhodes, brother. You’re not going home yet.”

I assume that I must have had a stupid look on my face.

“Oh, no, not that!” warned Joanot. “I swear, I cannot stand to see tears in the eyes of a Knight Hospitaller!”

“Don’t be silly, freire. The tears will be in your dirty eyes as soon as I recover my sword … and as soon as I recover the strength to wield it, of course.”

“Well said, brother, because you look like a ….”

“Quiet, both of you!” yelled Gerard. “And you, Joanot, give him the letters!”

“The letters? What letters?”

“Three very important letters, freire Galceran: one from the Seneschal of Rhodes himself, whose orders you remain under; another from the Grand Commander of the French Hospitallers, whose orders you will now follow; and lastly, a third from His Holiness Pope John XXII, whom the Almighty protects and who is to blame for this web of letters.”

I could only murmur a sad ‘Good God!’ before falling in a heap on top of my poor surgical instruments.

The letters were exhaustive. The one from the seneschal said that I must present myself before the Grand Commander of France before the end of May; the one from the Grand Commander of France said that I must present myself at the papal headquarters in Avignon before the 1st of June; and the one from His Holiness John XXII contained my appointment as papal legate with all the rights and honors that this represented especially, as explicitly stated, that of using the fastest horses that I myself would chose from the stables of any monastery, parish, or Christian house from Ponç de Riba to Avignon … Or what amounted to the same thing. Briefly summarizing, that I had to get to Avignon in under two weeks … Admirable.

I personally took charge of settling my brothers into the cells in the pilgrim’s house, and then, with the afternoon drawing in, I locked myself in the church to meditate. It’s never a good idea to do things without having first anticipated all of the likely moves of the game, without having calculated all the possibilities — the most plausible, at least —, without having carefully thought about the gains and the losses, the eventual consequences and the repercussions on one’s life and on the life of those who depend on you … even if they don’t know it, as in the case of Jonas. That’s how I spent the rest of the evening and night, alone in the middle of the church, wrapping the white habit around myself for the last time, a habit I would leave behind as soon as the sun rose to definitively retrieve my own attire, the attire that would bring back the Galceran who disembarked in Barcelona seventeen months before.

I prayed the morning prayers with the monks in the chapter house, and asked if the prior would meet with me for a moment in his cell to inform him of my hasty departure from the monastery. I would never have given him any details about the reasons for my departure had it not have been due to the fact that I was looking to obtain something much more valuable in return, and so I laid out the epistle from the Pope before him, leaving him speechless, and made him believe that I was sharing my worries with him, as if he were a friend, by confessing how unhappy this appointment made me and how upset I was about my departure from Ponç de Riba, especially now that he was going to be chosen as the Abbott.

Before he could open his mouth, while he was still dazed and bewildered, I requested his permission to take Garcia, my novice, with me so as not to interrupt his preparation and I assured him that I would return him to the monastery without fail, matured and trained, ready to take his vows. I swore that the boy would always live in the closest Mauricense monastery to wherever I was based, and that he would perform all of the obligations and practices pertaining to his Order.

Needless to say that I conscientiously committed perjury and everything I said was a pack of lies but I had to get the prior to give me custody of Jonas and take him away from the confines of those walls, to which, of course, he would never return.

The retinue, formed by three Hospitaller knights, two squires, known as armigeri, also from the Hospital of St. John, a Mauricense novice about to turn fourteen, and two mules loaded with the baggage, left the convent at midday under a blazing sun and headed north towards Barcelona.

CHAPTER II

The constant fighting between the Roman families, Caetani and Colonna, had turned Rome into a bloody battlefield, forcing Pope Benedict XI to look for safety outside of Italy. In view of the situation of the Papal States at that time, his successor, Clement V, who held the office of Archbishop of Bordeaux after being elected by the conclave, had decided not to move to France until things in Rome had calmed down, thus beginning the period know as — although nobody quite knows why —, ‘The Babylonian captivity’. But things didn’t get any better, and John XXII, elected two years after the death of Clement — years during which the chair of St. Peter was empty for the first time in history —, decided to remain in his Episcopal palace in Avignon which thus became the center of Christianity. After two Frankish popes, who could tell whether or not the Papacy would one day return to Italy?

However, what was clear in the second half of the month of April 1317, was that Jonas and I had to travel four hundred and seventy miles on horseback, crossing the risky passes of the Pyrenees, and time was not on our side. Nevertheless, we got held up for longer than we should have in Barcelona when we bid farewell to Joanot and Gerard, who were returning to Rhodes.

Jonas and I, who didn’t have time to relax on our journey, quickly crossed Foix and Languedoc, stopping in Narbonne for a couple of days to rest and change the horses and mules. We almost always slept next to the road, on our cloaks, with the protection of a good fire, and although at first the boy complained slightly about the discomforts to which he was unaccustomed, he soon found the pleasure of sleeping under the stars, with his body lying directly on top of Mother Earth. I couldn’t explain to him how important it is to have contact with the arcane forces of life because he still had not been initiated but after a short time I could see how he came back to life, like a plant in spring, and the pale and drained novice from Ponç de Riba, who was now almost as tall as me, turned into the vigorous armiger to which every Hospitaller knight has the right.

We crossed Beziers at a full gallop, and reached the Nemausus (2) of the Narbonese Gaul just a day after leaving Montpellier. Finally, late in the afternoon on the 31st of May, we entered the Papal territory know as Comtat Venaissin, strategically located between France, Germany and Italy, and at last our animals trod the magnificent Pont St. Benezet on the black Rhone before the sun disappeared behind us.

The Bishop’s Castle, the soul of the world, was the first of the imposing buildings that we stumbled across upon crossing the walls of Avignon. We took a tired and curious look at it and continued with our exhausting ride, reining back sharply towards the Jewish quarters, behind which was the captaincy of the Knights of the Hospital of St. John.

A servant opened the doors and took our horses while an armiger showed us in.

“Where would you like your squire to lodge?” he asked without turning his head.

“Take him with you, brother. He can sleep with the armigeri.”

Jonas winced and looked offended.

“I’m sorry, frere Galceran,” he said “but I cannot sleep in a Hospitaller house.”

“Really?” I replied amused, walking down wide, long corridors covered with rich tapestries. “And where would you like to sleep?”

“If you don’t mind, I would prefer to go to the nearest Mauricense convent. That’s what you promised the prior of my monastery and you have already broken your promise enough times during this trip, don’t you think?”

His insolence had become as big as his body but it was preferable to put up with him like that than see him become a submissive monacus at Ponç de Riba.

“Fine. Go. But tomorrow at first light I want you ready on the patio with the horses prepared.”

The armiger cleared his throat. “Brother ….”

“Speak.”

“I’m sorry to have to inform your squire that there are no Mauricense communities in the city of Avignon.” He stopped in front of a beautifully carved door and grabbed the handles with both hands. We had arrived.

“Very well, Jonas, listen,” I said, turning towards him exasperated. “You will follow the servant and you will sleep with the armigeri, and tomorrow morning you will wash your whole body with cold water, you will clean off the dirt from the journey and you will make that old Mauricense robe disappear from my sight. Now go.”

The Grand Commander of France, the Prior of Avignon, and other prominent officials from my order were waiting for me in the hall. My appearance was not exactly the most suitable for a meeting of such a high level but they didn’t seem to pay much attention to the dirty habit, the bad smell and the several days worth of stubble. In fact, it was just a quick welcome and to update me on how my immediate meeting with the Pope would be. Only the Grand Commander of France, frey Robert of Arthus-Bertrand, Duke of Soyecourt and I would attend the meeting with the Pontiff and to my surprise, I was told that we would go dressed as Franciscans — with whom, by the way, His Holiness did not have a very good relationship due to the famous thesis about the poverty of Our Lord Jesus Christ —, and that we would walk there without letting anybody see us until we reached his private bedrooms, where he would await us at the hour of morning prayer.

“At the hour of morning prayer!” I shouted in terror. “My Lord Robert, for the love of God, tell them to get my bath ready at once! I cannot be in the presence of His Holiness with this appearance. I would also like to eat something, if there’s time.”

“Relax, brother, relax. Dinner is hot and there is a barber waiting for you behind that door. Do not worry, we still have three hours.”

It was dark when, suddenly transformed into a couple of Frankish poverellos, the Commander and I had to face questions from the papal patrols who were doing the night watch around the citadel. We simply told them that we has been called to the Notre Dame des Doms Cathedral, where an old woman with no family was dying in the sacristy. It was an absurd answer and if the soldiers had taken a moment to think, they would have realized that at this time of night not even Franciscan freires leave their convent for an old woman who must have been very well spiritually and sacramentally taken care of by a prelate of the church in which she was supposedly dying. But they didn’t catch on and let us continue without further problems. I always say that people don’t think enough.

Since Notre Dame des Doms was next to the Bishop’s Castle — within the grounds protected by the ancient Roman walls —, it was the perfect destination, as it allowed us to go in the right direction without arousing suspicions. We finally left it behind and heading off to the side we soon found ourselves in front of the gates of the papal stables.

“Look,” whispered frey Robert. “They’re closed.”

There didn’t seem to be anyone around, so we pushed the wooden doors open and went in. Inside the stables it was hot and wet. Some of the animals were alerted by our presence and whinnied and stamped restlessly but luckily not a soul appeared to see what was going on.

A lantern strategically placed in the tack room showed us the way, and so, following similar signals, we entered the Pope’s private chamber through a hidden door in the wall, concealed behind a heavy damask tapestry. A roaring fire warmed the room which was dominated by an enormous canopy bed whose curtains were embroidered with papal shields. On a plain wooden table, three gold chalices and a silver jug filled with wine indicated that our presence was expected and that we should await the arrival of our host.

“The strange thing is …,” whispered frey Robert; he only reached my shoulders, so he barely looked at me when he spoke, “is that an Episcopal palace can be vacated without anybody asking any questions.”

“Listen,” I said. “They are all downstairs. Can you not hear, sire, the chanting of the Matutinale under your feet …? The Pope must have called all of the staff to prayer to let us enter freely.”

“You’re right. This Pope is as sly as a fox. Did you know that despite his elderly age, in less than a year he has firmly taken the reins of the Curia and has filled the empty chests of the Apostolic Treasure? We are talking about millions of gold florins.”

“I’ve spent almost a year and a half locked in a Mauricense monastery,” I apologized for my ignorance, “and I don’t know much about the things that have been going on in the world.”

“Well you see, the general consensus is that after spending two years locked in conclave without making a decision, the Council Fathers decided to cut their losses and go with the lesser evil. However, despite having been appointed due to sheer boredom, John XXII has proved to be an excellent choice. He has a strong character, very bold and tenacious, and one by one he is resolving all of the problems that the Church had up until his arrival.”

While frey Robert explained the spectacular feats of the new pope with obvious admiration, I noticed that the prayers had come to an end and I began to hear the stealthy footsteps and muffled voices of the servants outside the room. We didn’t have to wait long before the door opened and His Holiness, John XXII, made an appearance in the bedroom, preceded by an eager and solicitous cubicularius.

John XXII, born Jacques Dueze, was a small, insignificant-looking man who moved with grace and elegance, as if he was dancing a mysterious dance and only he could hear the music. He had small, round eyes that were very close together, and his whole face pointed down towards his chin — eyes, nose and lips —, which gave him the strange appearance of a dangerous bird of prey. He wore a great purple cloak whose tail dragged across the floor and he moved like a dog following his master. When he removed his biretta, his noble, small head looked skinned and round like a ball. Despite our Franciscan habits, frey Robert and I knelt on one knee in a military gesture and bent our heads, awaiting his blessing, a blessing that was delayed until exhaustion because while we were kneeling His Holiness made himself comfortable in a brocade chair, the cubicularius carefully arranged his robes, and he drank a chalice of hot wine without paying us the slightest attention. He then cleared his throat and finally offered us the beautiful pastoral ring, made from a single, huge ruby, for us to kiss.

“Pax vobiscum.” he murmured routinely.

“Et cum spiritu tuo,” replied frey Robert and I, as if one man.

“Rise, Hospital knights. Take a seat.” The cubicularius presented us with chalices of hot wine which we avidly held between our hands and prepared ourselves to listen to what the Holy Father had to say.

“You must be Galceran of Born,” began the Holy Father, “the one they call the Perquisitore.”

“Yes, Your Holiness.”

“You must feel proud of yourself, Knight Born.” His voice was sharp and high-pitched and he drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair while he spoke. “Your seneschal in Rhodes speaks very highly of you. When We requested help, he told Us that he had the perfect man for the delicate mission that We are going to entrust you with. Just so that you know, he said that as well as a devout monk, you are a man of many means and with many tricks up his sleeve, with a renowned ability for discovering the truth, and that not only do you have a great reputation as a wise, responsible and competent doctor but you also know how to investigate and solve the problems which no one else is able to solve. Is that true, sire Galceran?”

“I wouldn’t go that far, Your Holiness,” I muttered, overwhelmed, “although it is true that I have helped to successfully solve various mysteries. You know that when it comes down to it, men are men, even though the Spirit safeguards the salvation of their souls.”

The pope waved his hand in boredom and gathered the folds of his cloak. I thought that I had said too much and told myself not to open my mouth until I was specifically requested to do so.

“Very well, sire Galceran, I trust your abilities to make an important decision that could change the course of my reign. Of course, nothing said here can leave these four walls …. I appeal to your vow of obedience.”

“Freire Galceran of Born will say nothing, Your Holiness,” confirmed frey Robert.

The Pope nodded his head several times.

“So be it. I suppose,” he began, “that you have heard of the unpleasant events that led to my predecessor, Clement, eradicating the dangerous Order of the Temple, have you not?” he inquired, looking into my eyes.

For a split second, a look of incredulous surprise and distaste crossed my face but as soon as I noticed what I was doing, I quickly took control of the contractions that had begun in my face muscles. “By any chance, does the mission that His Holiness is thinking of entrusting me with have anything to do with the Templars?” By God, if it did, he had just thrown me into the lion’s den.

I had heard the story so many times and knew the details so terribly well that the accumulation of circumstances hit me as I remained under the cold and inquisitive watch of John XXII.

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