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The falcon abandoned the cliff and took flight at great speed, taking advantage of the Pyrenean wind. Propelled by icy gusts foretelling autumn, its nervous eyes captured images of what was going on down below, on the earth. First the mountains, then the valley, the fields, and finally the wall. As it approached the town, it beat its wings forcefully, accelerated and gained height.

It hovered near the clouds and watched the traffic of people in the streets. It was market day. The red awnings of the itinerant stalls swelled with air, sometimes becoming loose and momentarily revealing the products on offer: baskets with spices, Flemish cloths, pork chops, barrels of Navarrese and Aquitanian wine… The sun came out, and the falcon climbed even higher, startled by the glint of weapons and helmets being sold by veterans of the crusades. It understood the danger of that gleam, but it was hungry and needed to run the risk of approaching that large human gathering.

A cloud of dust attracted its pupils’ attention, and it changed trajectory. At one of the openings in the wall, several knights of the Order of Saint Christina were escorting a sizeable group of pilgrims on their way to Santiago. The falcon dropped down and headed south, where, in the midst of the anthill, three wagons stood out. Their roofs were covered in blue and yellow cloths. The bright colours on top of the wagons aroused the falcon’s curiosity. The vehicles moved with the fluency of those who are not crossing the town for the first time. But, as was inevitable, there came a time when they had to halt their advance. The three wagons looked stuck. The falcon’s eyes noticed something. Some prey? It beat its wings and with the inertia it had acquired started descending slowly, in large circles, opening and closing its talons to get them moving… and attack.