dry. With much effort, he climbed onto one of the chairs and removed a jar from its hook. But no, it wasn’t the right one. He got down again, puffing, dragged the bench a bit closer and got back up. The second jar did contain what he was looking for, because he smiled happily and removed a greasy piece of paper with his fingers.
“Here it is!”
I got up and went over to take the paper from his hand. Even though he was standing on a bench, the innkeeper only reached my neck.
Written on the bit of paper, with the infamous writing of a merchant who had learned the essentials to run his business, was:
ADAB AL-ACSA
and
FAT AL-YEDOM
“Is that everything?” I asked. “Can I keep the paper?”
“That is everything,” said the fat and sweaty innkeeper. “And yes, you may keep it.”
“Good, well, let us pay for our food and my squire and I will be on our way, happy and appreciative for today.”
“Good God, sir! Have you not paid enough by saving my soul from Satan? You owe me nothing. If anything, it is I who owes you.”
“Fine. I will give the money for this meal to the priests at my church in Valencia, so they can pray for the soul of my cousin.”
“God will reward you greatly for your noble heart. Wait a moment and I will bring your horses to the door.”
I looked at Jonas, expecting to see deep reproach in his eyes but his cheeks were red from the excitement and his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.
“I have a thousand questions to ask you,” he whispered.
“As soon as we get out of here.”
Three hours after leaving Roquemaure, we stopped our horses along a sheltered side of the road, a perfect place on the banks of the Rhone, whose course we followed northwards to its source, to light a good fire, have dinner and sleep, as we wouldn’t reach Vienne until the next day. I had spent those three hours telling Jonas about the mission entrusted to me by Pope John as well as the details of the story which due to his age and lifestyle he couldn’t have known, and which were directly related to the problem. While we lit the fire, he said, “I think that the Pope is so afraid of dying, frere, that if you tell him that it was the Templars who killed his predecessor, he will approve the request of King Don Denis so as not to live in fear, and if you tell him otherwise, that it wasn’t them, he will refuse the request, so as to get rid of the Templars forever.”
“You may be right, boy. In any case, we are going to have to find out.”
“And you already know something, don’t you? All those lies and sins which go against the first of the Commandments were not in vain, were they?”
“The only thing we know for a fact is that two Arab doctors examined Clement V before he died. Nothing else.”
“And what can you tell me about the remedy, the emeralds?”
“It is very common for well-off people to consume precious stones to fight illnesses.”
“And is it true? Does it work?”
“I must admit that no, it doesn’t. But in time you will learn that it is not just real preparations that cure ailments. Didn’t you hear how the Pope improved as soon as he took the potion?”
“But what was wrong with him? I noticed that you were asking many questions to that effect.”
“From what I can work out, I believe that His Holiness did not have a very clear conscious. Imagine, Jonas, that you are Clement V. On the nineteenth day of March of the year of Our Lord 1314 you witness the horrible sight of seeing two men die on the fire, men who you have known for many years, important, powerful men, whose guilt has not been proven and furthermore, as monks, they are your subjects, exclusively yours and not of the French monarchy. As Pope, you weakly tried to protect them from the wrath and ambitions of the King, the ruler who gave you the papacy and who keeps you there but Philip has threatened to appoint you an antipope if you don’t agree to his claims. So there you are, knowing that the eyes of God are
“Here it is!”
I got up and went over to take the paper from his hand. Even though he was standing on a bench, the innkeeper only reached my neck.
Written on the bit of paper, with the infamous writing of a merchant who had learned the essentials to run his business, was:
ADAB AL-ACSA
and
FAT AL-YEDOM
“Is that everything?” I asked. “Can I keep the paper?”
“That is everything,” said the fat and sweaty innkeeper. “And yes, you may keep it.”
“Good, well, let us pay for our food and my squire and I will be on our way, happy and appreciative for today.”
“Good God, sir! Have you not paid enough by saving my soul from Satan? You owe me nothing. If anything, it is I who owes you.”
“Fine. I will give the money for this meal to the priests at my church in Valencia, so they can pray for the soul of my cousin.”
“God will reward you greatly for your noble heart. Wait a moment and I will bring your horses to the door.”
I looked at Jonas, expecting to see deep reproach in his eyes but his cheeks were red from the excitement and his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.
“I have a thousand questions to ask you,” he whispered.
“As soon as we get out of here.”
Three hours after leaving Roquemaure, we stopped our horses along a sheltered side of the road, a perfect place on the banks of the Rhone, whose course we followed northwards to its source, to light a good fire, have dinner and sleep, as we wouldn’t reach Vienne until the next day. I had spent those three hours telling Jonas about the mission entrusted to me by Pope John as well as the details of the story which due to his age and lifestyle he couldn’t have known, and which were directly related to the problem. While we lit the fire, he said, “I think that the Pope is so afraid of dying, frere, that if you tell him that it was the Templars who killed his predecessor, he will approve the request of King Don Denis so as not to live in fear, and if you tell him otherwise, that it wasn’t them, he will refuse the request, so as to get rid of the Templars forever.”
“You may be right, boy. In any case, we are going to have to find out.”
“And you already know something, don’t you? All those lies and sins which go against the first of the Commandments were not in vain, were they?”
“The only thing we know for a fact is that two Arab doctors examined Clement V before he died. Nothing else.”
“And what can you tell me about the remedy, the emeralds?”
“It is very common for well-off people to consume precious stones to fight illnesses.”
“And is it true? Does it work?”
“I must admit that no, it doesn’t. But in time you will learn that it is not just real preparations that cure ailments. Didn’t you hear how the Pope improved as soon as he took the potion?”
“But what was wrong with him? I noticed that you were asking many questions to that effect.”
“From what I can work out, I believe that His Holiness did not have a very clear conscious. Imagine, Jonas, that you are Clement V. On the nineteenth day of March of the year of Our Lord 1314 you witness the horrible sight of seeing two men die on the fire, men who you have known for many years, important, powerful men, whose guilt has not been proven and furthermore, as monks, they are your subjects, exclusively yours and not of the French monarchy. As Pope, you weakly tried to protect them from the wrath and ambitions of the King, the ruler who gave you the papacy and who keeps you there but Philip has threatened to appoint you an antipope if you don’t agree to his claims. So there you are, knowing that the eyes of God are
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