Cathedral of the Sea

  “Fifteen culprits? You want to execute fifteen people because of the ravings of four madmen?”

  The magistrate thumped the table. “Those madmen belong to the holy Catholic Church.”

  “You know it’s an impossible demand,” said Arnau.

  The two men stared at each other.

  “No culprits,” Arnau insisted.

  “That’s not possible. The infante—”

  “No culprits! Twenty-five thousand shillings is a fortune.”

  Arnau left the magistrate’s palace not knowing where to go. What could he say to Hasdai? That fifteen Jews had to die? Yet he could not get out of his mind the image of those five thousand people packed into the synagogue with no water or food ...

  “When will I have my answer?” he had asked the magistrate.

  “The infante is out hunting.”

  Hunting! Five thousand people were shut up on his orders, and he had gone hunting. It could not have been more than three hours by horse from Barcelona to Gerona, where the infante, duke of Gerona and Cervera, had his lands, but Arnau had to wait until late the following afternoon to be summoned again by the magistrate.

  “Thirty-five thousand shillings and five culprits.”

  Ten Jews for ten thousand shillings. “Perhaps that’s the price of a man,” thought Arnau.

  “Forty thousand, and no culprits.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll appeal to the king.”

  “You know that the king has enough problems with the war against Castille without looking for more with his son. That was why he named him his lieutenant.”

  “Forty-five thousand, but no one guilty.”

  “No, Arnau, no ...”

  “Ask him!” Arnau exploded. “I beg you,” he added apologetically.

  WHEN HE WAS still several yards from it, Arnau was hit by the stench from the synagogue. The streets of the Jewry looked still more wretched than before: furniture and possessions were strewn everywhere. From inside the houses came the sounds of the friars demolishing walls and floors in their search for the body of Christ. When Arnau saw Hasdai, he had to struggle to keep his composure. Hasdai was accompanied by two rabbis and two leaders of the community. Arnau’s eyes were stinging. Could it be from the acid fumes of urine coming from inside the synagogue, or simply because of the news he had to give them?

  For a few moments, to a background noise of groans and wails, Arnau watched as the others tried to get fresh air into their lungs: what could it be like inside? All of them cast anxious glances at the streets around them; for a while they seemed to hold their breath.

  “They want culprits,” Arnau told him when the five men had recovered. “We started with fifteen. Now it’s down to five, and I hope that—”

  “We can’t wait, Arnau Estanyol,” one of the rabbis interrupted him. “One old man has died today; he was sick, and our doctors could do nothing for him, not even moisten his lips. And we are not allowed to bury him. Do you know what that means?” Arnau nodded. “Tomorrow, the stink of his decomposing body will be added to—”

  “Inside the synagogue,” Hasdai said, “we have no room to move. No one ... no one can even get up to relieve themselves. The nursing mothers have no more milk: they have suckled their own babies and tried to feed the other infants. If we have to wait many more days, five culprits will be nothing.”

  “Plus forty-five thousand shillings,” Arnau pointed out.

  “What do we care about money when we could all die?” the other rabbi added.

  “Well?” asked Arnau.

  “You have to try, Arnau,” Hasdai begged him.

  Ten thousand more shillings speeded up the infante’s reply ... or perhaps he never even got the message. Arnau was summoned the next morning. Three culprits.

  “They are men!” Arnau said accusingly to the magistrate.

  “They are Jews, Arnau. Only Jews. Heretics who belong to the crown. Without the king’s favor they would already be dead, and the king has decided that three of them have to pay for the profanation of the host. The people demand it.”

  “Since when has the king been so concerned about his people?” thought Arnau.

  “Besides,” the magistrate insisted, “it will mean that our seafarers’ problems are solved.”

  The old man’s body, the mothers’ dried-up breasts, the weeping children, the wailing and the stench: Arnau nodded in agreement. The magistrate leaned back in his chair.

  “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.

  47

  THIS 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.

  “Aren’t you going to continue, Brother Joan?” said the officer. “These sinners are waiting.”

  Joan turned to him. “Let’s go to Barcelona,” he said.

  On their way back to the city, Joan passed close by the baron of Granollers’s lands. If he had turned aside a little from his route, he would have seen how the thane of Montbui and other knights who owed allegiance to Arnau were already riding through their lands to threaten the peasants that they would soon see the return of practices Arnau had abolished. “They say it was the baroness herself who accused Arnau,” someone said.

  But Joan did not pass through Arnau’s lands. Ever since they had begun their journey, he had not said another word to the captain or anyone else in their small party, not even the scribe. There was no way he could not hear what they were saying, however.

  “It seems they’ve arrested him for heresy,” said one of the soldiers, loud enough for Joan to hear.

  “The brother of an inquisitor?” another soldier shouted.

  “Nicolau Eimerich will make him confess everything he is trying to hide,” the captain replied.

  Joan remembered Nicolau Eimerich well. How often had he congratulated him on his work as an inquisitor?

  “We have to fight heresy, Brother Joan ... We have to seek out sin beneath people’s virtuous exteriors: in their bedrooms, their children, their spouses.”

  And Joan had done the same. “You should not hesitate to use torture to obtain a confession.” He had done the same, tirelessly. What torture could they have used on Arnau for him to confess to heresy?

  Joan quickened his pace. His filthy, shabby black habit hung stiffly down
his legs.

  “IT’S HIS FAULT I am in this situation,” Genis Puig said, pacing up and down the chamber. “I, who once had—”

  “Money, women, and power,” the baron interrupted him.

  But Genis paid no attention.

  “My parents and brother died as starving peasants. They died from illnesses that thrive only among the poor, and I—”

  “A mere knight who has no soldiers to offer the king,” the baron said, wearily finishing the phrase he had heard a thousand times.

  Genis Puig came to a halt in front of Jaume, Llorenç de Bellera’s son.

  “Do you think it’s amusing?”

  The lord of Bellera did not move from the seat from which he had been watching Genis roving round the chamber in the keep of Navarcles castle.

  “Yes,” he replied after a while. “Extremely amusing. Your reasons for hating Arnau Estanyol are grotesque compared to mine.”

  Jaume de Bellera looked up toward the roof of the keep. “Will you please stop walking up and down?”

  “How long will your man be?” Genis asked, still on the move.

  Both of them were waiting for confirmation of the news Margarida Puig had hinted at in a previous letter. From Navarcles, Genis had convinced his sister stealthily to win the confidence of the baroness in the long hours Eleonor spent alone in the Puig family house. It was not difficult: Eleonor was desperate for a confidante who hated her husband as much as she did. It was Margarida who insinuated to Eleonor where the baron had come from that day. It was Margarida who had invented the adultery between Arnau and Raquel. And now that Arnau Estanyol had been arrested for having congress with a Jewess, Jaume de Bellera and Genis Puig were ready to take the next step as planned.

  “The Inquisition has arrested Arnau Estanyol,” the captain confirmed as soon as he came into the keep.

  “So Margarida was—” Genis exclaimed.

  “Be quiet,” the lord of Bellera warned him from his seat. “Go on.”