Cathedral of the Sea

“We were hungry!” he shouted. “Do you know what it feels like to be hungry?” He saw his father’s purple face with its tongue lolling out, superimposed on those of the people watching him now. Joan? Why hadn’t he been to see him again? “We were hungry!” he shouted. Arnau could hear his father’s words: “If I were you, I wouldn’t accept it ...” “Have you ever been hungry?”

Arnau tried to throw himself on Nicolau, who was still standing there arrogantly challenging him, but before he could reach the table, he was grabbed by the soldiers and dragged back to the center of the chamber.

“Did you burn your father as a devil?” Nicolau shouted again.

“My father was not a devil!” Arnau replied, shouting and struggling to free himself from the soldiers.

“But you did burn his body.”

“Why did you do it, Joan? You are my brother, and Bernat ... Bernat always loved you like a son.” Arnau lowered his head and went limp in the soldiers’ hands. “Why?”

“Did your mother tell you to do it?”

Arnau could barely lift his head.

“Your mother is a witch who transmits the Devil’s sickness,” said the bishop.

What were they talking about?

“Your father killed a boy in order to set you free. Do you confess it?” howled Nicolau.

“What—” Arnau started to say.

“You,” Nicolau interrupted him, “you also killed a Christian boy. What were you planning to do with him?”

“Did your parents tell you to kill him?”

“Did you want his heart?” said Nicolau.

“How many other boys have you killed?”

“What are your relations with heretics?”

The inquisitor and the bishop assailed him with questions. Your father, your mother, boys, murders, hearts, heretics, Jews ... Joan! Arnau’s head fell onto his chest again. His whole body was quivering.

“Do you confess?” Nicolau rounded on him.

Arnau did not move. His interrogators were silent, as he hung in the arms of the soldiers. Eventually, Nicolau signaled to them to take him out of the chamber. Arnau could feel them dragging him away.

“Wait!” came the order from the inquisitor just as they were opening the doors. The guards turned back to him. “Arnau Estanyol!” he shouted. And again: “Arnau Estanyol!”

Arnau slowly raised his head and peered at Nicolau.

“You can take him out,” said the inquisitor once he had met Arnau’s gaze. “Take this down,” Arnau heard him instructing the clerk as he was bundled out of the room. “The prisoner did not deny any of the accusations made by this tribunal, and has avoided confessing by pretending to have fainted, the falseness of which has been discovered when, no longer under oath in the tribunal, the prisoner responded to calls for him to answer his name.”

The sound of the scratching quill followed Arnau all the way to the dungeons.

DESPITE THE INNKEEPER’S protests, Guillem gave instructions to his slaves to organize his move to the corn exchange, which was close to the Estanyer Inn. He left Mar behind, but he could not risk being recognized by Genis Puig. The slaves only shook their head when the innkeeper tried desperately to get them and their rich master to stay on. “What use to me are nobles who won’t pay?” he growled as he counted out the money the slaves had given him.

Guillem went straight from the Jewry to his new lodgings. None of the merchants staying in Barcelona knew of his former connections with Arnau.

“I have a business in Pisa,” he told a Sicilian trader who sat down to eat at the same table and showed an interest in him.

“What brings you to Barcelona?” he asked.

He almost said, “A friend who is in trouble,” then thought better of it. The Sicilian was a short, bald man with rough-hewn features. He said his name was Jacopo Lercado. Guillem had discussed the situation in Barcelona thoroughly with Jucef, but it was always a good idea to get another opinion.

“Years ago I had good contacts in Catalonia, so I thought I would take advantage of a trip to Valencia to see how things are here now.”

“There’s not much to see,” said the Sicilian, continuing to eat.

Guillem waited for him to go on, but the other man seemed more interested in his stew. It was obvious he would not say anything more unless he thought he was talking to someone who knew as much about business as he did.

“I’ve noticed the situation has changed a lot since I was last here. There don’t seem to be many peasants in the markets: their stalls are empty. I can remember when, years ago, the inspector had to struggle to keep order among all the traders and peasants selling produce.”

“The inspector has no work to do these days,” said the Sicilian with a smile. “The peasants don’t produce, and don’t bring anything to sell. Epidemics have decimated the countryside, the land is poor, and even the landowners no longer plant crops. Many peasant farmers have been heading to where you came from: Valencia.”