Cathedral of the Sea (78 page)

“On two conditions,” said Arnau, forcing him to listen closely once more. “First, the Jews themselves must choose the guilty men.” The magistrate nodded. “And secondly, the agreement has to be ratified by the bishop, who must promise to calm the faithful.”

“I’ve already done that, Arnau. Do you think I want to see another massacre of Jews?”

THE PROCESSION LEFT the Jewry. All the doors and windows were shut, and apart from the piles of furniture, the streets seemed deserted. The silence inside the Jewry was in stark contrast to the hubbub outside, where a crowd had gathered around the bishop, standing there with his gold vestments gleaming in the Mediterranean sunlight, and with the countless priests and black friars lining Calle de la Boqueria, separated from the people by two lines of the king’s soldiers.

When three figures appeared at the gates of the Jewish quarter, a loud shout rent the air. The crowd raised their fists, and their insults mingled with the sound of swords being drawn as the soldiers prepared to defend the members of the procession. Shackled hand and foot, the three men were brought in between the two lines of black friars. Then, with the bishop of Barcelona at its head, the group set off down the street. The presence of the soldiers and the friars was not enough to prevent the mob from throwing stones and spitting at the three men being slowly dragged past them.

Arnau was in Santa Maria, praying. It was he who had taken the infante’s final decision to the synagogue, where he had been met by Hasdai, the rabbis, and the community leaders.

“Three culprits,” he said, trying to meet their gazes, “and you can ... you can choose them yourselves.”

None of them said a word. They merely stared at the streets of the Jewish quarter and let the cries and laments from inside the synagogue guide their thoughts. Arnau did not have the heart to negotiate any further, but told the magistrate as he left the Jewry: “Three innocent men ... because you and I know that this idea of the profanation of Christ’s body is false.”

Arnau began to hear the uproar from the crowd as he approached Calle de la Mar. The hubbub filled Santa Maria; it filtered in through the gaps in the unfinished doors, it climbed the wooden scaffolding surrounding the unfinished structures as rapidly as any workman, and filled the vaults of the new church. Three innocent men! How did they choose them? Did the rabbis make the choice, or did they come forward voluntarily? Arnau remembered Hasdai’s expression as he looked out at the devastated streets of the Jewry. What had been in his eyes? Resignation? Or had it been the look of someone ... saying good-bye? Arnau trembled; his legs almost gave way, and he had to cling to the prayer stool. The procession was drawing near to Santa Maria. The noise was getting louder and louder. Arnau stood up and looked toward the door that gave onto Plaza Santa Maria. The procession would soon be there. He stayed inside the church, staring out at the square, until the shouts and insults became a reality.

He ran to the church door. Nobody heard his cry. Nobody saw him in tears. Nobody saw him fall to his knees when he caught sight of Hasdai being dragged along in chains with curses, stones, and spit raining down on him. As Hasdai went past Santa Maria, he looked straight at the man who was on his knees beating the ground in despair. Arnau did not see him, and continued flailing at the beaten earth until the sad procession had disappeared and the earth was turning red from his bleeding fists. Someone knelt in front of him and gently took his hands.

“My father wouldn’t want you to harm yourself for him,” said Raquel. Arnau glanced up at her.

“They’re going ... they’re going to kill him.”

“Yes.”

Arnau searched the face of this girl who had grown into a woman. Many years ago, he had hidden her underneath this very church. Raquel was not crying, and although it was very dangerous, she was wearing her Jewish costume and the yellow badge.

“We have to be strong,” said the girl he remembered.

“Why, Raquel? Why him?”

“For me. For Jucef. For my children and Jucef’s children, and for our grandchildren. For all the Jews of Barcelona. He said he was already old, that he had lived enough.”

With Raquel’s help, Arnau got to his feet. They followed the noise of the crowd.

The three men were burned alive. They were tied to stakes on the top of bonfires of twigs and branches, which were set alight while the Christians were still baying for revenge. As the flames enveloped his body, Hasdai looked up to the heavens. Now it was Raquel’s turn to burst into tears; she hugged Arnau and buried her face in his chest.

His arms round Hasdai’s daughter, Arnau could not take his eyes off his friend’s burning body. At first he thought he saw him bleeding, but the flames quickly took hold. All of a sudden, he could no longer hear the crowd shouting; all he saw was them raising their fists menacingly ... and then something made him look to his right. Fifty paces or so from the crowd, he saw the bishop and the grand inquisitor standing next to Eleonor. She was talking to them and pointing directly at him. Beside her was another elegantly dressed woman, whom he did not at first recognize. Arnau met the inquisitor’s gaze as Eleonor continued to point at him and shout.

“That Jewish girl is his lover. Just look at them. Look at the way he is embracing her.”

Arnau had his arms tightly round Raquel, who was sobbing desperately on his chest as the flames rose skyward, accompanied by the cheers of the mob. Turning his eyes away from this horror, Arnau found himself looking at Eleonor. When he saw the mixture of deep-rooted hatred and joyous revenge on her face, he shuddered. It was then that he heard the woman standing next to his wife laugh, the same scornful, unforgettable laugh that had been engraved on his memory since childhood: the laugh of Margarida Puig.

T
HIS WAS A revenge that had been a long time coming, and involved many more than Eleonor. A revenge for which the accu-JL sation against Arnau and Raquel was only the start.

The decisions Arnau Estanyol had made as baron of Granollers, San Vicenc dels Horts, and Caldes de Montbui had ruffled the feathers of the other Catalan nobles. They were afraid of the winds of rebellion stirring their own serfs ... Several of them had been obliged to use more force than ever needed before to stifle a revolt among the nobles that was demanding the abolition of privileges which Arnau—that baron who had been born a serf—had reneged on. Among them were Jaume de Bellera, son of the lord of Navarcles, whom Francesca had suckled as a boy, and someone from whom Arnau had taken his house, his fortune, and his way of life: Genis Puig. After losing, Genis had been forced to live in the old Navarcles house that belonged to his grandfather, Grau’s father. The house was a world away from the palace on Calle Montcada where he had spent most of his life. Both these men spent hours lamenting their ill fortune and plotting revenge. Revenge which, if his sister Margarida’s letters were true, was about to come to fruition...

ARNAU ASKED THE sailor giving evidence to wait. He turned to the court usher of the Consulate of the Sea, who had burst into the chamber.

“A captain and soldiers sent by the Holy Inquisition wish to see you,” the usher whispered in Arnau’s ear.

“What do they want?” asked Arnau. The usher shrugged. “Tell them to wait until the hearing is over,” Arnau told him, before urging the sailor to continue his testimony.

Another sailor had died during a journey, and the owner of the ship was refusing to pay his heirs more than two months’ wages. The widow claimed that the contract had not been in terms of months, and that since her husband had died at sea, she ought to be paid half his total wage.

“Go on,” said Arnau, looking over at the widow and her three children.

“No sailor is ever paid by the month ...”

Suddenly the courtroom doors crashed open. A captain and six soldiers of the Inquisition came in wielding their swords. They pushed the usher aside and stood in the middle of the room.

“Arnau Estanyol?” the captain asked, looking directly at him.

“What is the meaning of this?” Arnau protested. “How dare you interrupt—”

The captain stepped forward until he was directly in front of Arnau. “Are you Arnau Estanyol, consul of the sea, baron of Granollers?”

“You know very well I am, Captain,” Arnau interrupted him, “but—”

“By order of the tribunal of the Holy Inquisition, you are under arrest. Come with me.”

The court
missatges
made to defend the consul, but Arnau motioned to them to be still.

“Be so kind as to stand aside,” Arnau asked the captain.

The soldier hesitated a moment. Arnau calmly motioned with his hand for the intruders to move closer to the door. Still glaring at his prisoner, the captain stepped aside just enough for Arnau to be able to see the dead sailor’s relatives.

“I find in favor of the widow and her children,” Arnau ruled imperturbably. “They are to receive half of the total wage for the journey, and not the two months, as the ship owner is claiming. That is the resolution of this court.”

Arnau thumped the table, stood up, and faced the captain.

“Now we can go,” he said.

THE NEWS OF Arnau Estanyol’s arrest spread throughout Barcelona, and from there, nobles, merchants, and even peasants took it to the rest of Catalonia.

A few days later, in a small village to the north of the principality, an inquisitor who was busy putting the fear of God into a group of inhabitants suddenly heard it from an officer of the Inquisition.

Joan stared at him.

“It seems it is true,” the officer insisted.

The inquisitor turned toward the group of people. What had he been saying to them? What was this about Arnau being arrested?

He glanced at the captain, who nodded.

Arnau?

The small crowd began to shift uneasily. Joan wanted to go on, but could not find the words. He turned to the captain again; the man was smiling.