Cathedral of the Sea

  “What profits do the merchants we are contracting make?” Arnau wanted to know.

  “That depends on the commission. On normal ones, they take a quarter of the profits. If the transaction is in gold or silver money, it does not amount to that much. We state the exchange rate we want, and the merchants make their profits from whatever they can get above that.”

  “How do they manage in such distant lands?” Arnau asked, trying to imagine what these places were like. “They are foreign countries, where people speak other tongues... everything must be different.”

  “Yes, but don’t forget that in all those cities,” Guillem replied, “Catalonia has consulates. They’re like the Consulate of the Sea here in Barcelona. There is a consul appointed by the city of Barcelona in every port. He tries to see that everything in commerce is carried out fairly, and mediates in any disputes that might arise between Catalan traders and local merchants or authorities. Each consulate has his own warehouse. Warehouses are walled premises where Catalan merchants can stay and where their goods can be stored until they are sold or loaded on board ship. Every warehouse is like a part of Catalonia on foreign soil. The person with authority over them is the consul, not the authorities of the country they are in.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Every country is interested in trade. They can levy taxes and fill their coffers from it. Trade is a different world, Arnau. We may be at war with the Saracens, but, for example, since the last century Catalonia has had consulates in Tunis or Bugia, and make no mistake, no Arab leader would ever attack one.”

  ARNAU ESTANYOL’S MONEY-CHANGING business was thriving. The plague had decimated Barcelona’s money changers, the presence of Guillem was a guarantee for investors, and as the plague receded, more and more people wanted to put the money they had hidden at home to good use. And yet Guillem could not sleep. “Sell them in Mallorca,” Hasdai had recommended, referring to slaves, so that Arnau would not find out about it. Guillem had followed the advice: would that he hadn’t! he told himself, tossing and turning on his bed. He had used one of the last ships to leave Barcelona, at the start of October. Byzantium, Palestine, Rhodes, and Cyprus—those were the destinations of the four merchants who set sail in the name of Arnau Estanyol, supplied with bills of exchange that Guillem had handed to Arnau for signature. The former bastaix had scarcely even glanced at them. Now the merchants were to buy slaves and transport them to Mallorca. Guillem shifted once more in bed.

  The political situation was conspiring against him. Despite the holy pontiff’s efforts to mediate, King Pedro had conquered the Cerdagne and Roussillon a year after his first attempt, when the truce he had agreed to had run out. On the fifteenth of July 1344, after most of his villages and towns had capitulated, King Jaime the Third knelt bareheaded before his brother-in-law. He begged for mercy and handed over his lands to the count of Barcelona. King Pedro left him as lord of Montpellier and viscount of Omelades and Carladés, but recovered the Catalan territory his ancestors had once possessed: Mallorca, Roussillon, and the Cerdagne.

  However, after surrendering in this way, Jaime of Mallorca gathered a small army of sixty knights and three hundred foot soldiers and made for the Cerdagne to fight his brother-in-law again. King Pedro did not even deign to go and do battle against him, but instead sent his lieutenants. Weary, unhappy, and defeated yet again, King Jaime sought refuge from Pope Clement the Sixth, who still supported him. While he was under the Church’s safe protection, he thought up the last of his schemes: he sold Henri the Sixth of France the title of lord of Montpellier for twelve thousand golden crowns, then used that money, together with loans from the Church, to equip a fleet conceded him by Queen Juana of Naples. In 1349, he and his fleet disembarked in Mallorca.

  Guillem had planned for the slaves to arrive with the first ships of the year 1349. A great deal of money was at stake. If anything went wrong, Arnau’s name—however strongly he was backed by Hasdai Crescas—would suffer among the agents he would need to work with in the future. He was the one who had signed the bills of exchange, and even though they were guaranteed by Hasdai, they would have to be paid. Relations with agents in far-off countries depended on trust, absolute trust. How could a money changer succeed if his first operation was a failure?

  “Even he told me to avoid having anything to do with Mallorca,” Guillem confessed one day to Hasdai, the only person he could admit his fears to, as they walked in the Jewish man’s garden.

  They did not look each other in the eye, and yet they both knew they were thinking the same. Four slave ships! If they failed, it could even be the ruin of Hasdai.

  “If King Jaime will not keep the word he gave the day he surrendered,” said Guillem, finally looking at Hasdai, “what will become of Catalan trade and goods?”

  Hasdai said nothing: what was there to say?

  “Perhaps your merchants will choose another port,” he said at length.

  “Barcelona?” mused Guillem, shaking his head.

  “Nobody could have foreseen this,” said the Jew, trying to reassure him. Arnau had saved his children from certain death. What was this in comparison?

  In May 1349 King Pedro sent the Catalan fleet to Mallorca, right in the middle of the seagoing season, right in the middle of the trading season.

  “What good fortune we did not send any ships to Mallorca,” Arnau commented one day.

  Guillem had to sit down.

  “What would happen,” asked Arnau, “if we had sent any?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We take money from people and invest it in commissions. If we had sent ships to Mallorca and King Jaime had requisitioned them, we would lose both the money and the goods on board; we wouldn’t be able to return the deposits. The commissions are at our own risk. What happens in cases like that?”

  “Abatut,” the Moor replied tersely.

  “Abatut?”

  “If a money changer cannot repay the deposits, the magistrate gives him six months to settle the debts. If by the end of that time he has been unable to pay them off, he is declared abatut or bankrupt. He is imprisoned on bread and water, and all his possessions are sold to pay his debtors ...”

  “I don’t have any possessions.”

  “If those possessions are insufficient,” Guillem continued reciting from memory, “he is beheaded outside his countinghouse as a warning to all the others.”

  Arnau said nothing.

  Guillem did not dare look at him. How was he to blame for any of this?

  “Don’t worry,” he told him. “It will never happen.”

  35

  THE WAR CONTINUED in Mallorca, but Arnau was happy. Whenever there was no work to do, he stood at the door of his countinghouse and looked out. Now that the plague had gone, Santa Maria was coming back to life. The tiny Romanesque church he and Joanet had known no longer existed; work on the new church was steadily advancing toward the main doorway. He could spend hours watching the masons placing the blocks of stone; he had a vivid memory of all those he had carried. Santa Maria meant everything to Arnau: his mother, his acceptance into the guild ... and of course, a place of refuge for the Jewish children. Occasionally a letter from his brother made him even happier. Joan’s letters were always short, and told him only about his health and the fact that he was studying hard.

  As he looked out, a bastaix appeared carrying a stone. Few of the guild members had survived the plague. His own father-in-law, Ramon, and many others had died. Arnau had wept for them on the beach with his former companions.

  “Sebastiá,” he muttered when he recognized the man.

  “What did you say?” he heard Guillem ask behind him.

  Arnau did not turn round.

  “Sebastiá,” he repeated. “That man carrying the stone over there is called Sebastiá.”

  As he passed by, the bastaix called a greeting, without turning his head or pausing. His lips were drawn in a tight line from the effort.

  “For many years, that
could have been me,” Arnau went on, his voice choked with emotion. Guillem made no comment. “I was only fourteen when I took my first stone to the Virgin.” At that moment, another bastaix walked past the door. Arnau greeted him. “I thought I was going to snap in two, that my spine was going to break, but you can’t imagine the satisfaction I felt when I finally got there ... my God!”

  “There must be something good about your Virgin for people to sacrifice themselves for her like that,” he heard the Moor say.

  At that they both fell silent, watching the line of bastaixos passing by on their way to the church.

  THE BASTAIXOS WERE the first to turn to Arnau.

  “We need money,” Sebastiá, who by now was one of the guild aldermen, told him straight-out one day. “Our coffers are empty, our needs are great, and at the moment there is little work, and what there is of it is badly paid. After the plague, our members are finding it hard to survive, so I cannot force them to contribute to our funds until they have recovered from the disaster.”

  Arnau looked across at Guillem. He sat next to him behind the table with its glittering scarlet silk rug without showing the slightest emotion.

  “Is the situation really that bad?” asked Arnau. “Worse than you could imagine. Food has become so expensive we bastaixos cannot even provide for our families. On top of that, there are the widows and orphans of those who died. We have to help them. We need money, Arnau. We’ll pay you back every last penny you lend us.”

  “I know.”

  Arnau looked across again at Guillem to seek his approval. What did he know about lending money? Until now he had only taken in money, never lent it out.

  Guillem covered his face in his hands. He sighed.

  “If it’s not possible... ,” Sebastiá started to say.

  “It is possible,” said Guillem. The war had been going on for two months now, and there was no news of his slaves. What did a few extra losses matter? Hasdai would be the one facing ruin. Arnau could allow himself to make the loan. “If your word is enough for my master...”

  “It is,” Arnau said emphatically.

  Arnau counted out the money the guild of bastaixos was asking him for, and solemnly handed it over to Sebastiá. Guillem saw them shake hands across the table, both of them standing there trying clumsily to hide their emotions as their handshake went on and on.

  Just as Guillem was losing all hope during the third month of the war, the four merchant ships arrived together in Barcelona. When the first of them had called in at Sicily and heard about the war in Mallorca, the captain had chosen to wait for more Catalan ships to arrive, including Guillem’s three other galleys. Together, they all decided to avoid Mallorca, and instead sold their cargoes in Perpignan, the second city of Catalonia. On their return to Barcelona, they met the Moor as agreed not in Arnau’s countinghouse but in the city warehouse in Calle Carders. There, once they had deducted their quarter of the profits, they gave him bills of exchange for the rest, plus everything that was due to Arnau. A fortune! Catalonia needed people to work, and the slaves had been sold at exorbitant prices.

  When the merchants had left the warehouse and no one could see him, Guillem kissed the bills of exchange once, twice, a thousand times. He set off back to Arnau’s countinghouse, but when he reached Plaza del Blat, he changed his mind and went into the Jewry instead. After giving Hasdai the good news, he headed for Santa Maria, beaming at the sky and everyone he saw.

  When he entered the countinghouse, he saw that Arnau was with Sebastiá and a priest.

  “Guillem,” said Arnau, “this is Father Juli Andreu. He has replaced Father Albert.”

  Guillem nodded awkwardly to the priest. “More loans,” he thought.

  “It’s not what you might imagine,” Arnau told him. Guillem felt the bills of exchange in his pocket and smiled. What did he care? Arnau was a rich man. He smiled again, but Arnau misinterpreted his smile. “It’s even worse,” he said seriously.

  “What could be worse than lending to the Church?” the Moor almost asked, but thought better of it, and greeted the guild alderman instead.

  “We have a problem,” Arnau concluded.

  The three men sat gazing at the Moor for a few moments. “Only if Guillem accepts,” Arnau had insisted, ignoring the reference the priest had made to his being only a slave.

  “Have I ever told you about Ramon?” Guillem shook his head. “He was a very important person in my life. He helped ... he helped me a lot.” Guillem was still standing next to them, as befitted a slave. “He and his wife died of the plague, and the guild cannot continue to look after his daughter. We’ve been talking ... They’ve asked me ...”

  “Why do you want my opinion, Master?”

  When he heard this, Father Juli Andreu turned and looked triumphantly at Arnau.

  “The Pia Almoina and the Casa de la Caritat can’t cope anymore,” Arnau went on. “They can’t even hand out bread, wine, and stew to beggars every day as they used to. The plague has hit them badly too.”

  “What is it that you want, Master?”

  “They are suggesting I adopt her.”

  Guillem felt for the bills of exchange once more. “You could adopt twenty children if you wished,” he thought.

  “If that is your desire,” was all he said.

  “I don’t know anything about children,” Arnau objected.

  “All you have to do is give them affection and a home,” said Sebastiá. “You have the home ... and it seems to me you have more than enough affection.”

  “Will you help me?” Arnau asked Guillem, ignoring Sebastiá.

  “I’ll obey you in whatever way you wish.”

  “I don’t want obedience. I want... I’m asking for your help.”

  “Your words do me honor. I will willingly help you,” Guillem promised. “In whatever you need.”

  THE GIRL WAS eight years old and was called Mar, like Arnau’s Virgin. In little more than three months, she recovered from the shock of losing her parents to the plague. From then on, it was not the clinking of coins or the scratching of pens on vellum that could be heard in the house: it was laughter and the sound of running feet. At their places behind the table, Arnau and Guillem would scold her whenever she managed to escape from the slave Guillem had bought to look after her and run into the countinghouse, but as soon as she had gone, both men always smiled at each other.

  Arnau had been angry when Donaha the slave first appeared.

  “I don’t want any more slaves!” he shouted, cutting across Guillem’s arguments.

  At that the thin, filthy girl dressed only in rags had burst into tears.

  “Where would she be better off than here?” Guillem asked Arnau. “If you’re really so against it, set her free, but she will only sell herself to someone else. She has to eat... and we need a woman to look after the child.”

  The girl clung to Arnau’s knees. He tried to struggle free.

  “Do you know how much she must have suffered?” Guillem said, his eyes narrowing. “If you reject her ...”

  In spite of himself, Arnau agreed to take her on.

  As well as employing the girl, Guillem found the answer to the problem of the fortune they had gained from the sale of the other slaves. After he had paid Hasdai as the sellers’ agent in Barcelona, he gave all the remaining profits to a Jew whom Hasdai trusted who happened to be in Barcelona at the time.

  Abraham Levi arrived one morning at the countinghouse. He was a tall, gaunt man with a scrawny white beard, wearing a black coat and the yellow badge. He greeted Guillem, who presented him to Arnau. Then he sat opposite Arnau and gave him a bill of exchange for the total of the profits.

  “I want to deposit this amount with you, Messire Arnau,” he said.

  Arnau’s eyes opened wide when he saw how much was involved, and he quickly passed the document to Guillem for him to read.

  “But... ,” he started to say, while Guillem feigned surprise at what he was reading, “this is a lot of money. Why d
o you want to deposit it with me, and not someone of your own...”

  “... faith?” said the Jew. “I’ve always trusted Sahat. I don’t think his change of name,” he went on, glancing at the Moor, “will have affected his judgment. I’m going on a journey, a very long one, and I want you and Sahat to put my money to work.”

  “For depositing a sum this large, we will immediately owe you a quarter, isn’t that right, Guillem?” The Moor nodded. “But how can we pay you your profit if you’re about to leave on such a long journey? How can we keep in touch with you... ?”

  “Why all this fuss?” Guillem wondered. He had not given the Jew precise instructions, but Levi was more than capable of coping.

  “Reinvest it all,” he told Arnau. “Don’t worry about me. I don’t have any children or family, and I won’t need the money where I’m going. Someday, perhaps far off in the future, I will claim it back, or send someone to claim it. Until then, you are not to worry. I’ll be the one who gets in touch with you. Is that a problem?”

  “Of course not,” replied Arnau. Guillem breathed a sigh of relief. “If that is what you want, so be it.”

  They completed the transaction and Abraham Levi stood up.

  “I have to say good-bye to some friends in the Jewry,” he said as he bade the two of them farewell.

  “I’ll go with you,” said Guillem, making sure Arnau had no objection.

  From the countinghouse the two men went to a scribe, in whose presence Abraham Levi signed away his rights to the money he had just deposited with Arnau Estanyol, and ceded him any profits that might accrue from this capital. Guillem returned to the countinghouse with the document hidden in his clothing. It was only a matter of time, he thought as he walked through the city. Formally, the money belonged to the Jew; that was what Arnau’s account books showed. But nobody could ever claim it from him, as Abraham Levi had signed away all his rights to it. And the three-quarters of the profits made on this capital that corresponded directly to Arnau would be more than enough for him to multiply his fortune.