“What is the price of freedom?” he asked Joan one day as they were both praying to the Virgin.
“Saint Gregory says that at the beginning all men were born equal and were therefore free.” Joan spoke in a quiet, steady voice, as though repeating a lesson. “But it was those men who had been born free who for their own good chose to submit to a lord who would take care of them. They lost part of their freedom, but gained a lord who would take care of them.”
Arnau listened to him, staring intently at the Virgin’s statue. “Why don’t you smile for me? Saint Gregory... Whenever did Saint Gregory have an empty purse like my father’s?”
“Joan.”
“What is it?”
“What do you think I should do?”
“It’s your decision.”
“But what do you think?”
“I’ve already told you. It was the freemen who decided they wanted a lord to take care of them.”
That same day, without telling his father, Arnau presented himself at Grau Puig’s mansion. In order not to be seen from the stables, he slipped in through the kitchen. There he found Estranya, as huge as ever, as if hunger had made no mark on her. She was busy with a pot over the fire.
“Tell your masters I’ve come to see them,” he told her when the cook became aware of him.
A blank smile spread across the slave’s face. She went to tell Grau’s steward, who informed his master. Arnau was kept waiting for hours, standing in the kitchen. Everyone in Grau’s service filed past to get a look at him. Most of them smiled, although a few looked sad at his capitulation. Arnau met all their gazes, responding defiantly to those who mocked him, but he was unable to wipe the smiles from their faces.
The only person who did not appear was Bernat, although Tomás the groom had made sure he knew his son had come to apologize. “I’m sorry, Arnau, so sorry,” Bernat muttered over and over to himself as he brushed down one of the horses.
After waiting for hours, with aching legs—Arnau had tried to sit down, but Estranya had prevented him from doing so—he was led into the main room of Grau’s house. He did not even notice how richly it was appointed: his eyes immediately went to the five members of the family waiting for him at the far end of the room. The baron and his wife were seated; his three cousins stood beside them. The men wore brightly colored silk stockings with jerkins and gold belts; the women’s robes were adorned with pearls and precious stones.
The steward led Arnau to the center of the room, a few feet from the family. Then he returned to the doorway, where Grau had told him to wait.
“What brings you here?” Grau asked, stiff and distant as ever.
“I’ve come to ask your forgiveness.”
“Well, do so then,” Grau ordered him.
Arnau was about to speak, but the baroness interrupted him.
“Is that how you propose to ask for forgiveness? Standing up?”
Arnau hesitated for a moment, but finally sank down on one knee. Margarida’s silly giggle echoed, round the room.
“I beg forgiveness from you all,” Arnau intoned, his eyes fixed on the baroness.
She looked straight through him.
“I’m only doing this for my father,” Arnau said, and stared back at her defiantly. “Trollop.”
“Our feet!” the baroness shrieked. “Kiss our feet!” Arnau tried to stand again, but she stopped him. “On your knees!” she crowed.
Arnau obeyed, and shuffled over to them. “Only for my father. Only for my father. Only for my father...” The baroness put forward her silk slippers, and Arnau kissed them, first the left one and then the right. Without looking up, he moved on to Grau. When he saw the boy kneeling at his feet, Grau hesitated, but when he saw his wife staring furiously at him, he raised his feet in turn up to the boy’s mouth. Arnau’s boy cousins did the same as their father. When Arnau tried to kiss Margarida’s silk slipper, she jerked it away and started giggling once more. Arnau tried again, and she did the same. Finally, he waited for her to lift the slippers to his mouth ... first one ... then the other.
15
15 April 1334
Barcelona
BERNAT COUNTED THE money Grau had paid him. He growled as he dropped it into his purse. It ought to be enough, but... those cursed Genoese! When would they end their siege against the principality? Barcelona was going hungry.
Bernat tied the bag to his belt and went to find Arnau. The boy was undernourished. Bernat looked at him anxiously. A hard winter. At least they had got through the winter. How many others could say the same? Bernat drew his mouth into a tight line, stroked his son’s hair, then let his hand fall on his shoulder. How many in Barcelona had died from the cold, hunger, or disease? How many fathers could still rest their hands on their sons’ shoulders? “At least you’re alive,” he thought.
That day a grain ship, one of the few that had succeeded in evading the Genoese blockade, arrived in the port of Barcelona. The cereals were bought by the city itself at exorbitant prices, to be resold to the inhabitants for more accessible sums. That Friday there was wheat in the Plaza del Blat, and people had started congregating there since first light. They were already fighting to see how the official measurers were going to divide the stocks.
For a few months now, despite the best efforts of the councillors to silence him, a Carmelite friar had been preaching against the rich and powerful. He blamed them for the food shortages, and accused them of keeping wheat hidden away. The friar’s diatribes had struck a chord among the faithful. The rumors about the hidden wheat spread throughout the city. That was why this particular Friday people were crowding noisily into the Plaza del Blat, arguing and pushing their way forward to the tables where city officials were weighing the grain.
The authorities had calculated how much wheat there was for each inhabitant and put the cloth merchant Pere Juyol, the official inspector for the Plaza del Blat, in charge of supervising its sale.
“Mestre doesn’t have a family,” came the cry a few minutes later as a ragged-looking man with an even more ragged child stepped up to the table. “They all died over the winter.”
The weighers took back the grain from Mestre, but this was just the start: one man had sent his son to another table; another had already had his share; a third had no family; that is not his son, he’s only brought him to get more ...
The square became a hive buzzing with rumors. People abandoned the queues, started to argue, and were soon swapping insults. Someone shouted that the authorities should put the wheat they were hiding on public sale; the crowd backed him. The officials found they could no longer control the swarm of people pushing and shoving round the tables. The king’s stewards began to confront the hungry mob, and it was only a quick decision by Pere Juyol that saved the situation. He ordered that the grain be taken to the magistrate’s palace at the eastern side of the square and suspended all sales that morning.
Frustrated in their attempts to buy the precious grain, Bernat and Arnau went back to work at Grau’s mansion. In the yard outside the stables they told the head stableman and anyone else who cared to listen what had happened in Plaza del Blat. Neither of them was slow to accuse the authorities, or to complain how hungry they were.
The noise brought the baroness to one of the windows overlooking the yard. She was delighted at the sufferings of the runaway serf and his shameless son. As she looked down on them, a smile spread across her face: she recalled the instructions Grau had given her before he left on a journey. Hadn’t he told her his prisoners must eat?
The baroness picked up the bag of money reserved for the food of those prisoners who were in jail for debts they owed Grau. She called the steward and ordered him to entrust the task to Bernat Estanyol. His son, Arnau, was to go with him in case of trouble.
“Don’t forget to tell them,” she said, “that this money is to buy food for my husband’s prisoners.”
The steward carried out his mistress’s orders. He too enjoyed the look of disbelief on t
heir faces, which grew greater still when Bernat felt the weight of coins in his hand.
“This is for the prisoners?” Arnau asked his father as they set off to carry out the order.
“Yes.”
“Why for the prisoners?”
“They’re in jail because they owe Grau money, but he is obliged to pay for their food.”
“What if he didn’t?”
They went on walking down toward the beach.
“Then they would be set free. That’s the last thing Grau wants. He pays the royal taxes and for the prison governor, and he pays for his prisoners’ food. That’s the law.”
“But...”
“Don’t insist, my lad.”
They walked on in silence back to their house.
That evening, Arnau and Bernat went to the jail to fulfill their strange task. They had heard from Joan, who had to cross the square on his way back from the cathedral school, that feelings were still running high. Even in Calle de la Mar, which ran from Santa Maria up to the square, they could hear the crowd shouting. People were thronging round the magistrate’s palace, where the grain that had been withdrawn from sale that morning was being stored. It was also here that Grau’s prisoners were kept.
The crowd wanted wheat, and the city authorities did not have enough people to distribute it in an orderly way. The five councillors met the magistrate to try to find a solution.
“Everyone should take a solemn oath,” said one of them. “If they don’t swear, they won’t get any grain. Every person who buys must swear that they need the amount they are asking for to feed their family, and nothing more.”
“Do you think that will work?” another councillor said doubtfully.
“The oath is sacred!” the first one retorted. “Don’t people swear oaths for contracts, to claim their innocence, or to fulfill their duties? Don’t they go to Saint Felix’s altar to swear on the holy sacraments?”
They announced their decision from a balcony in the magistrate’s palace. Word spread to those who had not heard the proclamation, and the devout Christians clamored to swear their oath ... yet again, as they had done so often in their lives.
The wheat was brought out into the square again. The hunger was palpable. Some people took the oath, but soon arguments, shouting, and scuffles broke out again. The crowd grew angry and started to demand the wheat that the Carmelite friar had told them the authorities were hiding.
Arnau and Bernat were still at the end of Calle de la Mar, at the opposite side of the square to the magistrate’s palace, where the wheat was being sold. All round them, the crowd was shouting and protesting.
“Father,” asked Arnau, “will there be any wheat left for us?”
“I believe so,” said Bernat, trying not to look at his son. How could there be any left for them? There was not enough wheat for a quarter of the citizens demanding it.
“Father,” Arnau insisted, “why are the prisoners guaranteed food when we’re not?”
Bernat pretended he had not heard his son’s question above all the uproar, but he could not help glancing down at him. He was starving: his legs and arms were like sticks, and his eyes, which had once been so carefree and joyous, now stood out from his gaunt face.
“Father, did you hear me?”
“Yes,” thought Bernat, “but what can I tell you? That we poor are united by hunger? That only the rich can eat? That only the rich can allow themselves the luxury of keeping their debtors? That we poor mean nothing to them? That the children of the poor are worth less than even one of the prisoners being held in the magistrate’s palace?” Bernat said nothing.
“There’s wheat in the palace!” he shouted, along with the rest of the crowd. “There’s wheat in the palace!” he shouted even louder when those around him fell silent and turned to stare at him. Soon lots of them had noticed this man who was insisting that there was grain in the magistrate’s palace. “If there wasn’t, how could they feed the prisoners?” he said, holding up Grau’s money bag. “The nobles and the rich pay for the prisoners’ food! Where do the prison governors get the wheat for his prisoners? Do they have to buy it like us?”
The crowd gave way to let Bernat through. He was beside himself. Arnau rushed after him, trying to catch his attention.
“What are you doing, Father?”
“Do the governors have to take an oath like we do?”
“What’s wrong with you, Father?”
“Where do the governors get the wheat for the prisoners from? Why isn’t there enough for our children, when the prisoners get plenty?”
Bernat’s words inflamed the crowd still further. This time the officials were unable to withdraw the supplies, as the mob engulfed them. Pere Juyol and the city magistrate were about to be lynched, and were saved only by some soldiers who ran to their defense and then escorted them back inside the palace.
Few managed to satisfy their needs. The wheat was spilled across the square, and trodden on and wasted by the mob. Those who tried to scoop it up risked being trodden on as well.
Somebody shouted that the city councillors were to blame. The crowd rushed off to drag them out of their houses.
Bernat joined in this collective madness, shouting as loud as anyone and allowing himself to be carried away on the tide of enraged citizens.
“Father, Father!”
Bernat looked down at his son.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, still striding along and shouting at the top of his voice.
“I ... What has happened to you, Father?”
“Get away from here. This is no place for children.”
“Where should I ... ?”
“Here, take this.” Bernat handed him two money bags: his own and the one for the prisoners.
“What am I to do with these?” asked Arnau.
“Go home, son, go home.”
Arnau saw his father disappear in the midst of the crowd. The last thing he saw of him was the glint of hatred in his eyes.
“Where are you going, Father?” he shouted after him.
“In search of freedom,” said a woman who was standing nearby, also watching the mob swarming through the streets of the city.
“But we’re already free,” ventured Arnau.
“There is no freedom where there is hunger, my lad,” the woman declared.
In tears, Arnau fought his way through the rushing crowd.
THE DISTURBANCES LASTED two entire days. The homes of the councillors and many other noble residences were sacked. The enraged crowd went round the city, at first in search of food ... and then in search of vengeance.
For two whole days the city of Barcelona was submerged in chaos. The authorities were powerless to stop it, until an envoy from King Alfonso arrived with sufficient soldiers to put an end to the violence. A hundred men were arrested, and many others fined. Of the hundred, ten were hanged after the briefest of trials. Among those called to testify, there were few who did not point to Bernat Estanyol, with the birthmark over his right eye, as one of the instigators of the citizens’ revolt in Plaza del Blat.
16
ARNAU RAN THE whole length of Calle de la Mar to Pere’s house without glancing at Santa Maria even once. His father’s eyes were engraved on his mind; his shouts echoed in his ears. He had never seen him like that before. “What’s happened to you, Father? Is it true as that woman said that we are not free?” He rushed into Pere’s house without paying heed to anyone or anything, and shut himself in his room. Joan found him there, sobbing.
“The city has gone mad... ,” Joan said, opening the door. “What’s wrong?”
Arnau did not answer. His brother looked round the room.
“Where’s Father?”
Arnau choked back his tears and pointed up into the city.
“Is he with them?”
“Yes,” Arnau managed to stutter.
Joan recalled the rioting he had been forced to avoid on his way back from the bishop’s palace. The soldiers had seale
d off the Jewry and were standing guard outside the gates to keep out the mob, who had turned their attention to looting the houses of rich Christians. How could Bernat be with them? Images of groups of enraged people battering down doors and emerging with armfuls of possessions filled Joan’s mind. There was no way that Bernat could be one of them.
“It can’t be,” he said out loud. Arnau looked up at him from the pallet. “Bernat is not like the others... How can it be possible?”
“I don’t know. There were lots of people. They were all shouting ...”
“But... Bernat? Bernat couldn’t do things like that... Perhaps he was just... trying to find someone?”
Arnau stared at Joan. “How can I tell you it was he who was shouting the loudest, who was leading the others on? How can I tell you I don’t believe it myself?”
“I don’t know, Joan. There were a lot of people.”
“They are stealing, Arnau! They’re attacking the city aldermen!”
Arnau’s look silenced him.
THE TWO BOYS waited in vain for their father to return that night. The next day, Joan got ready for school.
“You shouldn’t go,” Arnau advised him.
Now it was Joan’s turn to silence him with a look.
“KING ALFONSO’S SOLDIERS have put an end to the revolt,” was Joan’s only comment when he came back that evening.
But Bernat did not return that night either.
The next morning, Joan said good-bye to Arnau once more.
“You ought to get out,” he said.
“What if Bernat comes home?” said Arnau, his voice choking with emotion.
The two brothers hugged each other. “Where are you, Father?” they both thought.
It was Pere who went out in search of news. It was easier to find out what had happened than it was to make his way back home.
“I’m sorry, my lad,” he told Arnau. “Your father has been arrested.”