‘That’s because Iriarte’s mother is from Arizkun, as is my grandmother, and anyone who comes from there takes what happened in the church very seriously …’
‘Yes, I heard what Sarasola said about parishioners understanding the significance and being disturbed, but what did he mean?’
‘You’re from the valley, you must have heard of the agotes.’
‘The agotes? You mean the people who lived in Bozate?’
‘They lived all over the Baztán Valley and in Roncal, but mostly they were concentrated in a ghetto in Arizkun, which is now part of the Bozate neighbourhood. What else do you know about them?’
‘Not much, to be honest. They were artisans and they were never really assimilated.’
‘Pull over,’ Jonan ordered.
Amaia looked at him in surprise, but said nothing. She found a space by the roadside, stopped the car and turned round in her seat to study Deputy Inspector Etxaide, who gave a loud sigh before beginning:
‘Historians disagree about where the agotes came from originally. They were thought to have crossed the Pyrenees into Navarre during the Middle Ages, fleeing war, famine, plague and religious persecution. The most widely accepted theory is that they were Cathars, members of a religious sect persecuted by the Inquisition. Another theory suggests they were deserters from the Visigoth armies who sought refuge in the leprosy colonies of southern France and became infected with the disease themselves – one of the reasons why they were so feared. A third explanation is that they were bandits and social outcasts, forced into serfdom by the feudal lord of the area, who at that time was Pedro de Ursua. The remains of one of his fortresses still exist to this day in Arizkun. And that would explain why most of the agotes lived in Bozate.’
‘Yes, that’s more or less what I thought: a group of social outcasts, lepers or fleeing Cathars who settled in the valley in medieval times. But what does this have to do with the desecration of the church in Arizkun?’
‘A great deal. The agotes lived in Bozate for centuries and were never allowed to integrate into society. Treated as second-class citizens, they were prohibited from settling outside Bozate, running businesses or marrying outside their group. As artisans they worked with wood and hides, because those trades were seen as dirty and dangerous. They were obliged to wear identifying markings sewn into their clothes, even to ring a bell, like lepers, to warn passers-by of their presence. And, in common with many periods throughout history, the Church, far from encouraging their integration, did the exact opposite. We know they were Christians and observed and respected Catholic rites, yet the Church treated them like pariahs. They had a separate baptismal font, and the holy water they used was thrown away. They were forbidden from approaching the altar, often forced to remain at the back of the nave and to enter the church through a different, smaller door. In Arizkun, they were kept apart from the other parishioners by a grille, which was later removed in recognition of the deep shame the recollection of this treatment arouses in the people of Arizkun even to this day.’
‘Let’s see if I’ve got this right. You’re telling me that the exclusion of a racial group in the Middle Ages is the historical misunderstanding Father Sarasola referred to in his attempt to explain the current desecration of the church in Arizkun?’
‘Yes.’ Jonan nodded.
‘The same exclusion suffered by Jews, Moors, Gypsies, women, witch doctors, the poor, etc. If as you say, on top of everything else, they were suspected of spreading leprosy, then it’s hardly surprising they were excluded. The mere mention of that dread disease must have been enough to strike terror into the hearts of the entire population. I know that dozens of women in the Baztán Valley were accused of witchcraft and burnt at the stake, many of them denounced by their neighbours – and those were women who’d been born and bred in the valley. Anything that deviated from the norm was thought to be the work of the devil, for which countless minorities and ethnic groups throughout Europe suffered as a consequence. No country’s history is free of such episodes. I’m no historian, Jonan, but I know that during the Middle Ages the whole of Europe reeked of human flesh, burnt at the stake.’
‘That’s right, but the agotes were excluded for centuries. Generation after generation were deprived of the most basic rights; in fact, they suffered such ill treatment for so long that a papal decree was issued in Rome granting them equal rights and demanding the cessation of all discrimination. But the evil had already been done; tradition and belief are stubbornly resistant to logic and reason, thus the agotes continued to be subjected to discrimination for many years.’
‘Yes, things take a long time to change in the Baztán Valley. It feels like a privilege to live there now, but life must have been tough back then. Even so …’
‘Chief, the desecrated objects are clear references to the exclusion of the agotes: the baptismal font they couldn’t be baptised in; a pew at the front of the church, reserved for nobles and off limits to the agotes. The cloth on the altar they were forbidden to approach—’
‘What about the bones? The mairu-beso?’
‘That’s an old piece of witchcraft, also associated with the agotes.’
‘Yes, of course, witchcraft … In any case, it sounds far-fetched to me. I won’t deny that this matter of the bones sets the latest incident apart, but the previous acts were sheer vandalism. You’ll see, in a few days’ time, we’ll arrest a couple of stoned teenagers who broke into the church as a prank, and things got out of hand. What intrigues me is that even the Archbishop is taking an interest in this.’
‘That’s the point. If anyone can and should recognise a crime with a historical motive, it’s the Church. You saw the look on the parish priest’s face: he was beside himself.’
Amaia sighed, irritably.
‘You could be right, but you know how much I hate all this stuff about the valley’s dark past. There always seems to be somebody eager to exploit it,’ she said, glancing at her watch.
‘We’ve got plenty of time,’ Jonan reassured her.
‘Not really – I have to stop off at my place first, Ibai needs his feed,’ she said with a smile.
Amaia spotted Lieutenant Padua as soon as she entered Bar Iruña in Plaza del Castillo, a stone’s throw from her house. He was the only man sitting alone, and although he had his back turned, she recognised the tell-tale dampness of his raincoat.
‘Raining in Baztán, is it, Lieutenant?’ she said by way of greeting.
‘As always, Inspector, as always.’
Taking a seat opposite him, she ordered a decaf and a small bottle of water. She waited for the barman to put her drinks down on the table.
‘So, tell me what you wanted to talk to me about.’
‘About the Johana Márquez case,’ said Lieutenant Padua, without preamble. ‘Or rather, the Jasón Medina case, because we all agree that he alone was responsible for the girl’s murder. It’s been nearly four months since Jasón Medina took his own life in the courthouse toilets the day his trial was due to start.’ Amaia nodded. ‘As is customary with these incidents, we carried out a routine inquiry, which would have ended there, had I not received a visit a few days later from the prison guard who’d accompanied Medina from the jail. Perhaps you remember him? He was downstairs in the toilets, white as a sheet.’
‘Yes, I remember a prison guard as well as a policeman.’
‘That’s the guy, Luis Rodríguez. He came to see me, visibly upset, implored me to make it clear in my conclusions that he was absolved of any responsibility, especially over the box cutter Medina used to kill himself, which a third party must have brought into the