“They’ve poisoned the wells,” one of the men said. “They killed Jesus. They kill Christian children for their heretical rites. Yes, they tear their hearts out ... they steal the sacred host.” Arnau was not listening. He could still smell the blood of the Jewry ... of Castell-Rosselló. He seized the man closest to him by the arm, punched him in the face, and took his knife. Then he confronted the others.
“Nobody is to harm any children!”
The attackers watched Arnau wielding the knife, drawing circles with it in the air. They saw the look of determination in his eyes.
“Nobody is going to harm any children,” he repeated. “Go and fight in the Jewry, against the soldiers, against grown men.”
“They will kill you,” warned the Moor, who now was behind him.
“Heretic!” the attackers cried.
“Jew!”
Arnau had been taught to attack first, to catch his enemy unawares, not to let him gain confidence, to frighten him. Shouting, “Sant Jordi!” Arnau launched himself at the nearest men. He plunged his dagger into the first one’s stomach, then whirled round, forcing the others to back off. His dagger sliced the chests of several more. From the ground, one of the wounded men stabbed him in the calf. Arnau looked down, seized him by the hair, pulled his head back, and slashed his throat. Blood came spurting out. Three men were lying on the ground; the others began to draw back. “Withdraw when you are outnumbered,” was another piece of advice Arnau remembered. He made as if to charge again, and the assailants fell over one another trying to get away. Without looking behind him, Arnau gestured to the Moor to gather the children to him, and when he could feel them around his legs, he backed away down toward the beach, still glaring at the armed group.
“They’re waiting for you in the Jewry,” he shouted at them, still shepherding the children away.
When he and the children reached the old gate of Castell de Regomir, they broke into a run. Without giving any explanation, he prevented them from heading back to the Jewry.
Where could he hide children? Arnau led them down to Santa Maria. He came to a halt outside the main entrance. From where they stood, they could see inside the unfinished church.
“You’re not planning to take the children into a Christian church, are you?” the slave asked, panting for breath.
“No,” replied Arnau. “But very close to it.”
“Why didn’t you let us return home?” asked the young girl, who was obviously the eldest of the three and had recovered more quickly than the others from their escape.
Arnau felt his calf. The blood was pouring out.
“Because your homes are being attacked,” he told them. “They blame you for the plague. They say you poisoned the wells.” None of them said anything. “I’m sorry,” he added.
The Moorish slave was the first to react: “We can’t stay here,” he said, forcing Arnau to look up from his wound. “Do as you think best, but hide the children.”
“What about you?” asked Arnau.
“I have to find out what has happened to their families. How will I meet you again?”
“You won’t,” said Arnau, realizing he would not have the chance to show him how to get to the Roman cemetery. “I’ll come and find you. Go down to the beach at midnight, by the new fish stall.” The slave nodded. As they were about to separate, Arnau added: “If in three nights you haven’t appeared, I’ll presume you are dead.”
The Moor nodded again, and gazed at Arnau with his big black eyes.
“Thank you,” he said, before running off toward the Jewry.
The smallest child tried to follow him, but Arnau held him back by the shoulders.
THAT FIRST NIGHT, the Moor did not appear at the meeting point. Arnau waited more than an hour for him after midnight, listening to the distant sounds of disturbances in the Jewry and staring at the red glow that filled the sky. While he was waiting, he had time to think about everything that had happened on this insane day. He had three Jewish children hidden under the high altar of Santa Maria, beneath his own Virgin. The entrance to the cemetery that he and Joanet had discovered long ago was still the same as the last time they had been there. The stairs to Plaza del Born had not yet been completed, so that it was easy to get in under the wooden platform at the entrance, although they had to wait crouching outside for almost an hour, until the guards who were patrolling around the church had left.
The children followed him along the dark tunnel without a word of protest until Arnau told them where they were and warned them not to touch anything if they did not want an unpleasant surprise. At that, the three of them burst into tears, and Arnau had no idea how to respond. Maria would have known how to calm them.
“They’re only dead people,” he shouted. “And they didn’t die of the plague. What do you prefer: to be here, alive among the dead, or outside so that you can be killed?” The sobbing stopped. “I’m going out again now to fetch a candle, water, and some food. All right? Is that all right?” he repeated when they said nothing.
“All right,” he heard the girl reply.
“Let’s see. I’ve risked my life for you, and I’m going to risk it again if anybody discovers I am hiding three Jewish children under Santa Maria church. I’m not prepared to do so if when I get back here you’ve all run off. What do you say? Will you wait for me here, or do you want to go out into the streets again?”
“We’ll wait,” the girl said resolutely.
Arnau returned to an empty house. He washed and tried to tend his wound. He bound it up, filled his old wineskin with water, took a lantern and oil to fill it with, a loaf of dry bread and salt meat, and then limped back to Santa Maria.
The children had not moved from the end of the tunnel where he had left them. Arnau lit the lantern and found himself facing three fearful young deer too frightened to respond to his attempt to reassure them with a smile. The girl had her arms round the other two. All three were dark-skinned, with long, clean hair. They looked healthy and attractive, with gleaming white teeth, especially the girl.
“Are they your brothers?” Arnau asked her.
“We’re brother and sister,” she said eventually, pointing to the smaller of the other two. “He is a neighbor.”
“Well, I think that after all that’s happened and what’s still to come, we had better introduce ourselves. My name is Arnau.”
The girl did the honors: she was called Raquel, her brother was Jucef, and their neighbor’s name was Saul. Arnau asked them more questions by the light of the lantern, while every so often the children cast anxious glances toward the cemetery behind them. They were thirteen, six, and eleven years old. They had been born in Barcelona and lived with their parents in the Jewry. They had been going back there when the mob had attacked them. The slave, whom they had always called Sahat, belonged to Raquel and Jucef’s parents. If he had said he would go to the beach, he would do so; he had never failed them.
“Well,” said Arnau after listening to them, “I think it might be useful to have a look at where we are. It’s been a long time, more or less since I was your age, since I’ve been here—although I don’t think anybody has moved.” He was the only one to laugh. He held the lantern up and crawled to the center of the necropolis. The children remained rooted to the spot, terrified at the sight of the open tombs and skeletons. “This is the best I could think of,” he apologized when he saw their looks of terror. “I’m sure nobody will find you here while we wait for things to calm down outside—”
“What will happen if they kill our parents?” Raquel interrupted him.
“Don’t think of that. I’m sure nothing will happen to them. Look, come here to me. There’s a space with no tombs that’s big enough for all of us. Come on!” He gestured energetically for them to approach him.
In the end he succeeded, and the four of them gathered in a small space that allowed them to sit on the floor without having to touch any tombs. The Roman cemetery was exactly the same as the first time Arnau h
ad seen it, with its strange pyramidal tiles and big amphoras with skeletons inside. Arnau placed the lantern on one of them, and offered the children the water, bread, and salt meat. They all drank avidly, but would only eat the bread.
“It’s not kosher,” explained Raquel, pointing to the meat.
“Kosher?”
Raquel explained what kosher meant, and the rituals that had to be performed before members of the Jewish community were allowed to eat meat. They went on talking until the two boys had fallen fast asleep on the girl’s lap. Then, whispering so as not to wake them, Raquel asked Arnau: “Don’t you believe what they say?”
“What about?”
“That we poisoned wells.”
Arnau did not reply for some time.
“Have any Jews died of the plague?” he asked.
“Lors.”
“In that case, no,” Arnau asserted. “I don’t believe it.”
When Raquel also fell asleep, Arnau crawled back out of the tunnel and headed for the beach.
THE ATTACK ON the Jewry lasted two days. All that time, the outnumbered royal forces, together with members of the Jewish community, tried their best to defend the district from the constant assault of an enraged, zealous mob who in the name of Christianity dedicated themselves to pillaging and murder. In the end, the king sent enough soldiers to quell the riot, and things slowly returned to normal.
On the third night Sahat, who had fought alongside his masters, was able to get away and meet Arnau on the beach opposite the fish stall, as agreed.
“Sahat!” came a voice in the darkness.
“What are you doing here?” asked the slave when Raquel threw herself on him.
“The Christian is very ill.”
“Is it ... ?”
“No,” the girl interrupted him, “it isn’t the plague. He doesn’t have any swellings. It’s his leg. The wound has become infected and he has a high fever. He can’t walk.”
“What about the other two?” asked the slave.
“They’re fine ... and my family?”
“They’re waiting for you.”
Raquel took the slave to the platform by the Plaza del Born doorway at Santa Maria.
“Here?” asked the Moor in a puzzled way when the girl slipped in underneath the wooden planks.
“Quiet,” she said. “Follow me.”
They made their way along the tunnel to the Roman cemetery. They all had to help get Arnau out; Sahat crawled backward pulling him by the hands while the children pushed him by the feet. Arnau had lost consciousness. The five of them, with Arnau draped over Sahat’s shoulders and the children dressed in Christian clothes the slave had brought them, headed for the Jewry, making sure they stayed in the darkest corners as much as possible. When they arrived at the Jewry gates, which were guarded by a large contingent of the king’s men, Sahat explained to the captain who the children really were and why they were not wearing their yellow badges. Arnau, he said, was a Christian, but had a fever and needed to see a doctor, as the captain could see for himself. The captain took a quick look at the wound, but soon moved away in case Arnau was a plague victim. But what in fact opened the gates to the Jewry for them was the generous purse of money that the slave slipped into the captain’s hands while he was talking to him.
32
“NOBODY IS GOING to harm those children. Father, where are you? Why, Father? There’s grain in the palace. I love you, Maria ...”
Whenever Arnau was delirious, Sahat made the children leave the room. He called for Raquel and Jucef’s father, Hasdai, to come and help keep Arnau still when he started fighting the soldiers of Roussillon and threatened to reopen the wound on his leg. Master and slave kept watch at the foot of the bed, while a female servant put cold compresses on his forehead. This had already been going on for a week, during which time Arnau received the best care from Jewish doctors as well as constant attention from the Crescas family and their slaves, most of all Sahat, who watched over him day and night.
“The wound is not that serious,” said the doctors, “but the infection has spread to the whole body.”
“Will he live?” asked Hasdai.
“He’s a strong man” was all the doctors would say as they left.
“There’s grain in the palace!” Arnau shouted again a few minutes later. He was sweating and writhing on his bed.
“If it hadn’t been for him,” said Sahat, “we’d all be dead.”
“I know,” said Hasdai, who was standing next to him.
“Why did he do it? He’s a Christian.”
“He’s a good person.”
At night, when Arnau was resting and the house was quiet, Sahat would turn to the east to kneel and pray for the Christian. During the day, he patiently made him drink as much water as possible, and take the potions the doctors had prepared. Raquel and Jucef often came into the room, and if Arnau was not delirious, Sahat let them stay.
“He’s a warrior,” Jucef said on one occasion, his eyes wide open in amazement.
“I’m sure he has been,” agreed Sahat.
“He said he was a bastaix,” Raquel objected.
“In the cemetery, he told us he was a warrior. Perhaps he’s a warrior bastaix.”
“He only said it to keep you quiet.”
“I would wager he is a bastaix,” said Hasdai. “From what he says now, at least.”
“He’s a warrior,” the young boy insisted.
“I don’t know, Jucef.” The slave ruffled his black locks. “Why don’t we wait until he’s better and can tell us himself?”
“Will he get better?”
“Of course. When have you heard of a warrior dying from a leg wound?”
After the children left, Sahat would go up to Arnau and touch his burning brow. “It’s not only the children who are alive thanks to you, Christian. Why did you do it? What drove you to risk your life for a slave and three Jewish children? Live! You must live! I want to be able to talk to you, to thank you. Besides, Hasdai is very rich; I’m sure he will want to reward you.”
A few days later, Arnau began to recover. One morning, Sahat found that his fever was noticeably lower.
“Allah, whose name be praised, has heard my prayers.”
Hasdai smiled when he was able to confirm the improvement.
“He will live,” he went so far as to tell his children.
“Will he tell me about his battles?”
“Son, I’m not sure ...”
But Jucef started to imitate Arnau, whirling the dagger about to take on an imaginary group of attackers. Just as he was about to slash the wounded man’s throat, his sister grasped him by the arm.
“Jucef!” she said to him sternly.
They turned to look at Arnau, and saw him staring at them from the bed. Jucef was terrified.
“How do you feel?” Hasdai asked him.
Arnau tried to answer, but his mouth was too dry. Sahat gave him a glass of water.
“Good,” he managed to say after a few sips. “What about the children?”
Pushed forward by their father, Jucef and Raquel came to his bedside. Arnau tried to smile.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello,” they replied.
“What about Saul?”
“He’s well,” Hasdai reassured him. “But now you must rest. Come on, children.”
“When you’re better, will you tell me all about your battles?” Jucef asked before his father and sister dragged him out of the room.
Arnau nodded, and smiled again.
Over the next week, the fever completely disappeared, and the wound began to heal. Arnau and Sahat talked whenever the bastaix felt strong enough.
“Thank you,” were his first words to the Moorish slave.
“You’ve already thanked me, remember? Why ... why did you rescue us?”
“The boy’s eyes ... My wife would never have allowed me to ...”
“Maria?” asked Sahat, remembering how Arnau had said the name during
his delirium.
“Yes,” said Arnau.
“Would you like us to tell her you are here?” Arnau’s mouth tightened and he shook his head. “Is there anyone you’d like us to tell?” When he saw Arnau’s sorrowful expression, the slave did not insist.
“How did the siege of the Jewry end?” Arnau asked him on another occasion.
“Two hundred men and women murdered. Lots of houses looted or burned.”
“That’s terrible!”
“It’s not as bad as it might have been,” Sabat insisted. Arnau cast him a surprised glance. “We were lucky in the Barcelona Jewry. From the Orient to Castille, Jews have been slaughtered without mercy. More than three hundred communities have been completely destroyed. In Germany, Emperor Charles the Fourth promised a personal pardon to any criminal who killed a Jew or helped destroy a Jewry. Can you imagine what would have happened in Barcelona if instead of protecting us, your king had granted a pardon to everyone who killed a Jew?” Arnau closed his eyes and shook his head. “In Mainz, they burned six thousand Jews at the stake. In Strasbourg, they burned two thousand in a huge funeral pyre in the Jewish cemetery, including women and children. Two thousand at once...”
THE CHILDREN WERE allowed in Arnau’s room only when Hasdai was visiting him and could see they did not disturb him. One day, when Arnau was beginning to be able to get out of bed and take his first steps, Hasdai appeared on his own. Tall and thin, with long black hair, a piercing gaze, and a hook nose, the Jewish man sat opposite him.
“You ought to know ... ,” he said gravely. “Well, I suppose you do know,” he said, correcting himself, “that your priests forbid Christians and Jews to live together.”
“Don’t worry, Hasdai; as soon as I can walk—”
“No,” the Jew interrupted him, “I’m not saying you have to leave my house. You saved my children from certain death, putting your own life at risk. All I own is yours, and I will be eternally grateful to you. You can stay here as long as you wish. My family and I would be very honored if you would do so. All I wanted to do was warn you, especially if you do decide to stay, to be very discreet about it. Nobody will hear about it from us—and by that I mean all our community; you can be sure of that. It’s your decision, but I repeat that we would be very honored and happy if you did decide to do so. What do you say?”