“Come down from there!” came the cry.
The five city councillors and the bastaix alderman, who was wearing the key to the Sacred Urn round his neck, all shouted at the locked palace door.
“Open in the name of the Barcelona host!”
“OPEN UP!” THE Inquisition’s envoy banged on the doors of the Jewry, which had been shut as the host approached. “Open up for the Inquisition!”
He had tried to reach the bishop’s palace, but all the streets leading to it were thronged with people. There was only one way to get there: by crossing the Jewish quarter, which ran alongside the palace. If he could do that, he might be able to send his master the message: the magistrate was not going to intervene.
NICOLAU AND BERENGUER were still in the tribunal chamber when they heard the news: the king’s soldiers would not come to their defense, and the Barcelona host was threatening to assault the palace if they did not let them in.
“What do they want?”
The guard looked toward Arnau.
“They want the consul of the sea set free.”
Nicolau went up to Arnau until their faces were almost touching.
“How dare they!” he spat. Then he turned on his heel and sat down again behind the tribunal bench. Bishop Berenguer went with him. “Let them in,” ordered Nicolau.
To set the consul of the sea free; Arnau straightened up as much as his enfeebled condition would allow. Ever since her son had asked her his question, Francesca had been staring blindly in front of her. “‘Consul of the sea.’ I’m that person,” Arnau’s steady gaze told Nicolau.
The five city councillors and the bastaix alderman burst into the tribunal. Behind them, trying to go unnoticed, came Guillem, who had asked the bastaixos for permission to enter with them. He remained at the door while the other six, weapons drawn, faced Nicolau. One of the councillors stepped forward.
“What—” Nicolau started to say.
“The Barcelona host,” cut in the councillor, raising his voice above the inquisitor’s, “orders you to hand over Arnau Estanyol, consul of the sea.”
“You presume to give orders to the Inquisition?” asked Nicolau.
The councillor did not flinch. “For a second time,” he warned, “the host orders you to hand over the consul of the sea of Barcelona.”
Nicolau blustered, and turned to the bishop for support.
“They’ll attack the palace,” Berenguer said.
“They would not dare,” Nicolau whispered. “He’s a heretic!” he shouted.
“Should you not try him before you decide that?” one of the councillors said.
Nicolau’s eyes narrowed. “He is a heretic,” he insisted.
“For the third and last time, hand over the consul of the sea to us.”
“What do you mean, ‘for the last time’?” asked Berenguer d’Eril.
“Look outside if you really wish to know.”
“Arrest them!” shouted the grand inquisitor, waving his arms at the soldiers guarding the door.
Guillem took a few steps away from them. None of the councillors moved. Some of the soldiers put their hands to their swords, but the captain in charge signaled them to do nothing.
“Arrest them!” shrieked Nicolau.
“They’ve come to negotiate,” argued the captain.
“How dare you—” Nicolau shouted, rising to his feet.
The captain interrupted him: “Tell me how you expect me to defend this palace, and then I will arrest them; the king is not going to come to our aid.” The captain gestured toward the square outside, from where the sounds of the crowd were growing louder every minute. He turned to the bishop for help.
“You can take your consul of the sea,” said the bishop. “He’s free to go.”
Nicolau’s face flushed. “What are you saying ... ?” he cried, grasping the bishop by the arm.
Berenguer d’Eril shook himself free.
“You don’t have the authority to hand over Arnau Estanyol,” the councillor told the bishop. “Nicolau Eimerich,” he went on, “the Barcelona host has given you three chances: now hand over the consul of the sea to us or face the consequences.”
As he was saying this, a stone flew into the chamber and smashed against the front of the long table where the members of the tribunal were placed; even the Dominican friars jumped in their seats. The shouts from Plaza Nova were even louder and more insistent. Another stone came flying in; the clerk gathered up his papers and sought refuge at the far end of the chamber. The black friars who were closest to the window tried to do the same, but the inquisitor gestured for them to remain where they were.
“Are you mad?” whispered the bishop.
Nicolau gazed at everyone in the tribunal one by one, until finally he looked at Arnau. He was smiling.
“Heretic!” he bellowed.
“That is enough,” said the councillor, turning on his heel.
“Take him with you!” pleaded the bishop.
“We only came here to negotiate,” said the councillor, halting as he raised his voice above the noise from outside. “If the Inquisition does not accept the city’s demands and free the prisoner, the host will do so. That is the law.”
Nicolau stood facing them all. He was shaking with rage; his bloodshot eyes bulged. Two more stones crashed into the chamber.
“They will attack the palace,” said the bishop, not caring whether he was heard or not. “What do you care? You have his declaration and his possessions. Declare him a heretic anyway; he will be an outlaw forever.”
By now, the councillors and the bastaix alderman had reached the doors of the chamber. The soldiers, all of whom looked terrified, stepped to one side. Guillem was more interested in the conversation between the bishop and the grand inquisitor. All this time, Arnau still stood in the center of the room with Francesca, defying Nicolau, who could not look at him.
“Take him with you!” The inquisitor finally yielded.
As SOON AS Arnau appeared with the councillors in the palace doorway, the roars of jubilation spread from the square to the crowded streets nearby. Francesca limped behind them; nobody had noticed when Arnau took her by the arm and led her out of the chamber. As they left the building, though, he had to let go of her, and she stayed in the background. Inside the tribunal chamber, Nicolau stood behind the bench watching them leave, oblivious to the hail of stones coming in through the window. One of them hit him full on his left arm, but the inquisitor did not even move. All the other members of the tribunal had sought refuge on the far side of the room, as far away as possible from the host’s anger.
Arnau had come to a halt behind the soldiers, although the councillors were urging him to go on out into the square.
“Guillem ...”
The Moor came over to him, put his arms round his shoulders, and kissed him on the mouth.
“Go with them, Arnau,” he told him. “Mar and your brother are waiting outside. I still have things to do here. I’ll come and see you later.”
In spite of the councillors’ efforts to protect him, the crowd rushed toward Arnau as soon as he was out in the square. They embraced him, patted him on the back, congratulated him. Row upon row of beaming faces confronted him. None of them wanted to move away to allow the councillors through; all the faces seemed to be calling to him.
The commotion was so great that the group of five councillors and the bastaix alderman were jostled from one side to another. The uproar and the endless sea of faces shook Arnau to the core. His legs began to weaken. He raised his eyes above the crowd, but all he could see was a forest of crossbows, swords, and fists waving to the shouts of the host, over and over again ... He leaned back on the councillors for support, but just as he was about to collapse, he saw a tiny stone figure appear among the weapons, bobbing along with them.
Guillem was back, and his Virgin was smiling at him. Arnau closed his eyes and allowed himself to be carried shoulder-high by the councillors.
HOWEVER HARD T
HEY tried to push their way through the crowd, neither Mar and Aledis nor Joan could get anywhere near Arnau. They caught sight of him being carried along as the Virgin of the Sea and the banners began to make their way back to Plaza del Blat. Two others who saw him from amid the crowd were Jaume de Bellera and Genis Puig. Until that moment, they had added their swords to the thousands of other weapons raised at the bishop’s palace. They had even been forced to join in the shouting against the inquisitor, even though deep inside they both urged Nicolau to resist and for the king to change his attitude and come to the defense of the Holy Office. How was it possible that the king they had so often risked their lives for ...
When he saw Arnau, Genis Puig began to whirl his sword in the air and to howl like a man possessed. The lord of Navarcles recognized that cry—he had heard it many times when the knight galloped to the attack, flailing his weapon round his head. Genis’s blade clattered against the crossbows and swords of all those around him. As people started to move away from him, he made straight for the small group carrying the consul of the sea, which by now was about to leave Plaza Nova and head down Calle del Bisbe. How did he imagine he could take on the entire Barcelona host? They would kill him, and then ...
Jaume de Bellera threw himself on his friend and forced him to lower his sword. The men next to them looked on in a puzzled fashion, but the crush of the crowd swept them on toward Calle del Bisbe. As soon as Genis stopped shouting and waving his sword in the air, the gap around them closed up. The lord of Bellera took him to one side, away from anyone who might have seen him launch his charge.
“Have you gone mad?” he asked.
“They’ve set him free ... Free!” answered Genis, staring all the while at the banners that by now were advancing down Calle del Bisbe. Jaume de Bellera forced him to look at him.
“What are you trying to do?”
Genis Puig stared after the banners again and tried to break out of his companion’s grasp.
“To have revenge!” he shouted.
“This isn’t the way,” the lord of Bellera warned him. “This isn’t the way.” He shook Genis Puig until he was forced to respond. “We’ll find a better one.”
Genis stared at him; his lips were trembling.
“Do you swear it?”
“On my honor.”
As THE HOST moved out of Plaza Nova, silence returned to the tribunal chamber. The shouts of victory from the last citizens disappeared down Calle del Bisbe, and the grand inquisitor’s labored breathing became evident. Nobody in the room had moved. The soldiers were still standing to attention, keeping as still as possible. Nicolau’s gaze settled on everyone in turn; he had little need to say anything. “Traitor!” he spat at Berenguer d’Eril. “Cowards!” he shouted at the others. When he looked over toward the soldiers, he discovered Guillem standing among them.
“What is that infidel doing in here?” he cried. “Do they have to mock us in this way?”
The captain of the guard did not know what to say. He had been concentrating so intently on the inquisitor that he had not seen Guillem come in with the councillors. Guillem was on the point of telling him that he was in fact baptized a Christian, but thought better of it: despite the grand inquisitor’s efforts, the Holy Office did not have any jurisdiction over Jews and Moors. Nicolau could not threaten or arrest him.
“My name is Sahat de Pisa,” Guillem said out loud, “and I should like to speak to you.”
“I have nothing to say to an infidel. Throw him out...”
“I think you will be interested in what I have to say.”
“I don’t care what you think.” Nicolau gestured to the captain, who drew his sword.
“Perhaps you will be interested to learn that Arnau Estanyol is abatut,” said Guillem, backing away from the soldier’s sword. “You will not be able to use a single penny of his fortune.”
Nicolau gave a deep sigh and stared up at the chamber roof. Although the captain received no fresh order, he put down his weapon and stopped threatening Guillem.
“What do you mean, infidel?” the inquisitor asked.
“You have Arnau Estanyol’s books; look at them closely.”
“Do you think we haven’t?”
“Did you know that the king’s debts have been pardoned?”
It was Guillem himself who had signed the receipt and given it to Francesc de Perellós. As the Moor had discovered, Arnau had never withdrawn his authority over his affairs.
Nicolau did not move a muscle. Everyone in the tribunal had the same thought: that was why the magistrate had refused to intervene.
Several seconds went by, with Guillem and Nicolau staring at each other. Guillem knew precisely what was going through the grand inquisitor’s mind: “What are you going to tell the pope? How are you going to pay the money you promised him? You’ve already dispatched the letter; he is bound to receive it. What will you say to him? And you need his support against a king whom you have always confronted.”
“And what has all this got to do with you?” Nicolau eventually asked.
“I could explain ... in private,” said Guillem, when Nicolau gestured impatiently at him.
“Barcelona has risen against the Inquisition, and now an infidel dares demand a private audience with me!” Nicolau complained in a loud voice. “Who do you think you are?”
“What will you say to your pope?” Guillem’s eyes questioned him. “Do you really want the whole of Barcelona to hear about your machinations?”
“Search him,” he commanded the captain. “Make sure he is not carrying any weapons, and take him to the antechamber to my office. Wait for me there.”
Flanked by the captain and two soldiers, Guillem stood and waited in the antechamber. He had never dared tell Arnau where his fortune had come from: the slave trade. Now that the king’s debts had been pardoned, if the Inquisition seized Arnau’s possessions, it also took on his debts. Only he, Guillem, knew that the entries in favor of Abraham Levi were false; if he did not show anyone the receipt that the Jewish merchant had signed all those years ago, Arnau’s wealth did not exist.
56
AS SOON AS she emerged from the bishop’s palace, Francecsa moved away from the doors and stood pressed against the wall. From there she could see how the crowd launched itself at Arnau, and watched as the councillors struggled unsuccessfully to keep them away. “Look at your son!” Nicolau’s words drowned out the shouts of the host in her memory. “Didn’t you want me to look at him, Inquisitor? Well, there he is, and he’s won.” When she saw Arnau falter and stumble, she stiffened, but then he disappeared in a waving sea of heads, weapons, and banners, with the small statue of the Virgin bobbing up and down in the midst of them.
Little by little, still shouting and waving weapons in the air, the host made its way down Calle del Bisbe. Francesca did not move. Her legs were giving way beneath her, and she needed to hold herself up against the wall. It was as the square gradually emptied that she saw her: Aledis had refused to follow Mar and Joan, suspecting that the old woman had been left behind. There she was! Aledis was overcome with emotion when she saw her clinging to the only support she could find: she looked so old, frail, and helpless ...
Aledis ran toward her at the very moment the Inquisition guards finally dared poke their noses outside the bishop’s palace, as the shouts of the crowd died away in the distance. Francesca was standing only a few steps away.
“Witch!” the first soldier spat at her.
Aledis came to an abrupt halt a few steps from them.
“Let her be,” shouted Aledis. Several more soldiers had come running out of the palace. “Leave her alone or I’ll call the host,” she threatened them, pointing toward the last backs disappearing down Calle del Bisbe.
Some of the soldiers followed her gaze, but another one drew his sword.
“The inquisitor will be pleased with the death of a witch,” he said.
Francesca did not even look at them. She was staring intently at the woman r
unning toward her. How many years had they spent together? How much suffering had they seen?
“Leave her, you dogs!” shouted Aledis, stepping back and pointing toward the host once more. She wanted to run and fetch them, but the soldier had already lifted his sword high over Francesca’s head. The blade seemed bigger than she did. “Leave her!” Aledis shrieked.
Francesca saw Aledis cover her face in her hands and sink to her knees. She had taken her in all those years ago in Figueres, and ever since ... Was she going to die without one last embrace?
The soldier had drawn back his arm to strike when Francesca’s cold eyes stopped him in his tracks.
“Swords can’t kill witches,” she warned him in an even voice. The blade wavered in his hand. What was she saying? “Only fire can purify a witch at death.” Could it be true? The soldier turned to his companions for support, but they were already backing away. “If you kill me with your sword, I’ll pursue you for the rest of your life—all of you!” None of them could have imagined that the threat they had just heard could come from such a shriveled old body. Aledis looked up. “I’ll pursue you,” hissed Francesca. “I’ll pursue your wives, your children, and your children’s children, and their wives too! A curse on all of you!” For the first time since she had left the palace, Francesca felt strong enough to move away from the wall. By now, the other soldiers had retreated back into the palace, leaving the one with his raised sword all on his own. “I curse you,” Francesca said, pointing her finger at him. “If you kill me, your corpse will never find rest. I’ll turn into a thousand worms and devour you. I’ll make your eyes mine for all eternity.”
As Francesca continued with her curses, Aledis got up from her knees and went over to her. She put an arm round her shoulder and started to lead her away.
“Your children will be lepers ...” The two women passed beneath the sword blade. “Your wife will become the Devil’s whore ...”