“Be careful if you use it,” the captain of one of his ships had told him once as he offered him the gift. “One lash can take all the skin off a person’s back.” Ever since, Grau had kept the whip hidden away. It was a fine Oriental whip made of plaited leather, thick but lightweight and easy to handle. It ended in several thongs, each of them tipped with jagged pieces of metal.
As the priest fell silent and the altar boys waved the censers round the coffin, Guiamona coughed, but Grau took a deep breath of satisfaction.
The slave girl was waiting, hands tied round a beam, her feet just touching the ground.
“I don’t want my son to see this,” Bernat told Jaume.
“This isn’t the moment, Bernat,” Jaume warned him. “Don’t go looking for trouble ...”
Bernat shook his head again.
“You’ve worked hard, Bernat; don’t cause trouble for your boy.”
In strict mourning clothes, Grau joined the circle of slaves, apprentices, and craftsmen surrounding Habiba.
“Take off her clothes,” he ordered Jaume.
When she saw Jaume tearing off her tunic, Habiba tried to raise her legs to cover herself. But her dark, naked body, gleaming with sweat, was soon exposed to the onlookers’ expectant gaze ... and to the whip that Grau had already laid out on the floor. Bernat grasped Arnau’s shoulders tight. The young boy began to cry.
Grau drew his arm back and cracked the whip against her naked upper half: the leather snaked across her back and the metal thongs wrapped themselves round her, digging into her breasts. A thin trickle of blood started to run down her dark skin. Her breasts were open wounds. Habiba lifted her face to the sky and howled as the pain racked her body. Arnau started to tremble uncontrollably, begging Grau to stop.
But he merely drew back his arm again.
“It was your job to look after my children!”
The whip resounded once more, forcing Bernat to turn his son round and press his face against him. The slave girl howled a second time, while Arnau’s shrieks of protest were stifled in his father’s body. Grau went on flogging the Moorish girl until not only her back and shoulders but her breasts, buttocks, and legs were one bleeding mass.
“TELL YOUR MASTER I am leaving.”
Jaume’s mouth drew into a narrow line. For a second, he was tempted to embrace Bernat, but he could see some of the apprentices staring at them.
Bernat watched the official walk toward the big house. He had tried to talk to his sister, but Guiamona had not responded. For several days, Arnau had not moved from the straw pallet he now shared with his father. He sat there without moving, and when his father came up to see him, he always found him staring at the spot where they had tried to cure Habiba’s wounds.
They had cut her down as soon as Grau left the workshop, but did not know where they could safely get hold of her body. Estranya ran in with oil and ointments, but as soon as she saw the bloody mass of flesh, she simply shook her head sadly. Arnau watched all this quietly from the back of the room, tears in his eyes; when Bernat tried to push him outside, he refused to go. Habiba died that same night. The only sign that she had breathed her last was when the low wail, like that of a newborn baby, that she had been making all day suddenly stopped.
Grau heard of his brother-in-law’s decision from Jaume. It was the last thing he needed: the two Estanyols, both of them with the birthmark by their right eye, roaming the streets of Barcelona in search of work, talking about him with everyone who cared to listen ... and a lot of people would be interested, now that he had reached the summit. He felt his stomach churn, and his mouth was dry: Grau Puig, a Barcelona alderman, master of the guild of potters, member of the Council of a Hundred, giving shelter to runaway serfs. The nobles were already against him. The more Barcelona helped King Alfonso, the less the king depended on the feudal lords, and the fewer the rewards they could hope to wring from the monarch. Who had been the chief promoter of this support for the king? He had. And whose interests were harmed when serfs deserted the countryside? The landowning nobility. Grau shook his head and sighed. He cursed the day he had allowed this peasant to stay under his roof!
“Bring him here,” he told Jaume.
When his brother-in-law appeared, Grau said: “Jaume tells me that you want to leave us.”
Bernat nodded.
“What do you intend to do?”
“I’ll look for work to support my son.”
“You have no trade. Barcelona is full of people like you: peasants who could not earn a living from their lands. They never find work, and end up dying of hunger. Besides,” Grau added, “you aren’t even on the citizens’ roll, even though you have lived long enough in the city now.”
“What do you mean by the citizens’ roll?” asked Bernat.
“It’s the document that proves you have lived a year and a day in Barcelona. It means you are a free citizen, not someone’s vassal.”
“Where can I get mine?”
“The city aldermen authorize them.”
“I’ll ask for one.”
Grau looked hard at Bernat. He was dirty, dressed in a shabby tunic and wearing a pair of rope sandals. In his mind’s eye, Grau saw him in front of the city aldermen after having already told his story to dozens of clerks: Grau Puig’s brother-in-law and nephew, hidden in his workshop for years. The news would spread like wildfire. He himself had used similar gossip against his enemies in the past.
“Sit down,” he said. “When Jaume told me what you planned to do, I talked to your sister, Guiamona,” he lied to conceal his change of attitude, “and she begged me to take pity on you.”
“I don’t need pity,” Bernat objected, thinking of Arnau sitting on the pallet, staring into space. “I’ve been working hard for years in return for—”
“That was the offer,” Grau stopped him. “You accepted it. At that moment it suited you.”
“That may well be,” Bernat admitted. “But I did not sell myself as a slave, and it doesn’t interest me now.”
“Let’s leave pity out of it then. I don’t think you will find work anywhere in the city, still less if you can’t prove you are a free citizen. Without your papers, people will only take advantage of you. Have you any idea how many landless serfs there are here, with children to feed, forced to work for nothing just so that they can live for that precious year and a day in Barcelona? You cannot compete with them, and you will die of hunger before you are listed on the citizens’ roll: you ... or your son, and despite what has happened, we cannot allow little Arnau to suffer the same fate as our Guiamon. One death is enough. Your sister wouldn’t be able to bear it.” Bernat remained silent, waiting for his brother-in-law to continue. “If you are interested,” Grau said, stressing the word, “you can go on working here, on the same terms... and receiving the wage of an ordinary workman, less payment for bed and board for you and your son.”
“And Arnau?”
“What about him?”
“You promised to take him on as an apprentice.”
“And I will ... when he is old enough.”
“I want your written promise.”
“You shall have it,” Grau conceded.
“What about the citizens’ roll?”
Grau nodded. It would not be hard for him to get Bernat put on it ... discreetly.
7
“WE DECLARE BERNAT Estanyol and his son, Arnau, to be free citizens of Barcelona ...” At last! Bernat could not prevent a shudder as he heard these hesitant words from the man reading the documents. He had asked where he could find someone who knew how to read, and had met up with him in the shipyard, offering him a small bowl in return for the favor. With the sounds of shipbuilding in the background, the smell of tar, and the sea breeze caressing his face, Bernat listened as the man read out the second document: Grau agreed to take on Arnau as an apprentice when he was ten years old, and promised to teach him the potter’s trade. So his son was free, and one day could earn a living that would help him surviv
e in the city.
Smiling broadly, Bernat handed over the bowl and walked back to the workshop. The fact that they had been listed on the citizens’ roll meant that Llorenç de Bellera had not denounced them to the authorities, and there was no warrant for his arrest. “Could the lad in the forge have survived?” he wondered. Even so ... “You can keep our lands, Lord de Bellera. We’ll keep our freedom,” Bernat muttered defiantly.
When they saw Bernat arrive wreathed in smiles, all Grau’s slaves and even Jaume interrupted their tasks. There were still traces of Habiba’s blood on the ground. Grau had ordered that they should not be cleaned up. Bernat’s face fell as he tried to avoid them.
“ARNAU,” HE WHISPERED to his son that night as they lay on the pallet they shared.
“What is it, Father?”
“We are free citizens of Barcelona.”
Arnau did not reply. Bernat felt for his son’s head and stroked it. He knew how little this meant to a boy who had been robbed of his happiness. Bernat listened to the slaves’ breathing and went on stroking his son’s curls, but a sudden doubt assailed him: would the boy agree to work for Grau one day? That night it took Bernat a long time to get to sleep.
At first light each day when the men began their tasks, Arnau would leave Grau’s workshop. And every morning, Bernat tried to talk to him and encourage him. You ought to make some friends, he tried to tell him once, but before he could do so, Arnau turned his back on him and walked wearily out into the street. “Enjoy your freedom, my son,” he wanted to tell him another time, but the boy just stood there looking at him, and when he opened his mouth to speak he noticed a tear rolling down Arnau’s cheek. Bernat knelt down. All he could do was hug the boy. Then he watched as he crossed the yard, dragging his feet. As he tried to avoid Habiba’s bloodstains, the sound of Grau’s whip echoed in Bernat’s mind. Bernat promised himself he would never back down when threatened by the whip in the future: once was enough.
Bernat ran after his son, who looked round when he heard him. When he reached him, his father began to scrape the beaten earth with his foot where the traces of the Moorish slave girl’s blood still showed. Arnau’s face brightened. Bernat scraped even more determinedly.
“What are you doing?” Jaume shouted from the far end of the yard.
Bernat froze. The sound of the whip echoed even more loudly in his mind.
“Father.”
Arnau used his rope sandal to push away the small pile of earth Bernat had raised.
“What are you doing, Bernat?” Jaume repeated.
Bernat said nothing. Several seconds went by. Jaume turned and saw all the slaves standing there, staring at him.
“Bring some water, son,” said Bernat, seeing Jaume hesitate.
Arnau hurried off. This was the first time in months his father had seen him run. Jaume nodded.
On their knees, father and son silently scraped at the earth until all traces of injustice were removed.
“Go and play now,” Bernat told him once they had finished.
Arnau looked down. He would have liked to ask his father who he was meant to play with. Bernat ruffled his hair before pushing him toward the gate. As he did every day, once he was out in the street Arnau walked round the house and climbed a leafy tree that grew above the garden wall. Hidden among the branches, he waited for his cousins and Guiamona to come out.
“Why don’t you love me anymore?” he muttered to himself. “It wasn’t my fault.”
His cousins looked happy. Over time, Guiamon’s death had faded in their memory; it was only on their mother’s face that the pain was still visible. Josep and Genis were pretending to fight. Margarida watched them, sitting to one side with her mother, who had her arms round her. Concealed in his tree, Arnau felt a stab of nostalgia as he remembered how that felt.
Morning after morning, Arnau would climb the same tree.
“Don’t they love you anymore?” he heard someone ask one day.
Arnau was so startled he lost his balance and nearly fell from his perch. He looked all around to discover who had spoken, but could not see a soul.
“Over here,” he heard.
The voice had come from somewhere inside the tree, but he still saw nothing. Eventually he caught sight of some branches moving, and in among them he could make out the face of a boy waving at him. He was sitting astride one of the forks of the tree, peering at him with a serious look on his face.
“What are you doing here, sitting in my tree?” Arnau asked him sharply.
The filthy-looking boy was unimpressed.
“The same as you,” he said. “Watching.”
“You’re not allowed to,” Arnau asserted.
“Why not? I’ve been doing it a long time now. I used to see you down there before too.” The boy fell silent. “Don’t they love you anymore? Why do you cry so much?”
Arnau realized that a tear was rolling down his cheek, and felt annoyed: he had been caught.
“Get down from there,” he ordered the other boy, climbing down himself.
The stranger jumped lightly to the ground and stood facing him. Arnau was a head taller than him, but the boy did not seem afraid.
“You’ve been spying on me!” Arnau accused him.
“You were spying as well,” the boy retorted.
“Yes, but they’re my cousins, so I’m entitled to.”
“Why don’t you play with them then, like you used to?”
Arnau could not prevent a sob from escaping, and his voice trembled as he tried to find an answer.
“Don’t worry,” the other boy said, trying to reassure him. “I also cry a lot.”
“Why do you cry?” Arnau asked with difficulty.
“I don’t know ... Sometimes I cry when I think of my mother.”
“You have a mother?”
“Yes, but ...”
“What are you doing here if you have a mother? Why aren’t you playing with her?”
“I can’t be with her.”
“Why? Isn’t she at your house?”
“No,” the boy said reluctantly. “Or yes, she is there.”
“So why aren’t you with her?”
The grimy-looking boy did not reply.
“Is she ill?” Arnau asked.
The boy shook his head.
“No, she’s well enough,” he said.
“What then?” Arnau insisted.
The boy looked at him disconsolately. He bit his lower lip several times, then finally made up his mind.
“Come with me,” he said, tugging at Arnau’s sleeve.
The strange little boy ran off at a speed that belied his small size. Arnau followed, trying hard not to let him out of sight. That was easy enough when they were crossing the open yards of the potters’ quarter, but became much more difficult when they reached the narrow alleyways of the city, crammed with people and stalls. It was almost impossible for them to make their way through the crowds, or for him to keep the boy in view.
Arnau had no idea where he was, but did not care: he was too busy trying to spot his companion’s quick, agile figure as he picked his way among all the people and stallholders, some of whom shouted in protest. He was less adept at avoiding the obstacles, and paid the consequences of the anger his fleet-footed companion’s passage aroused. One of the stallholders cuffed him round the ear; another tried to grab him by the shirt. Arnau managed to avoid them both, but by the time he had escaped, the other boy was nowhere to be seen. He found himself all alone, on the edge of a large square full of people.
He recognized the square. He had been there once before, with his father. “This is Plaza del Blat,” Bernat had told him. “It’s the center of Barcelona. Do you see that stone in the middle?” Arnau looked in the direction his father was pointing. “That stone divides the city into quarters: La Mar, Framenors, El Pi, and La Salada or Sant Pere.” Now Arnau reached the end of the silkmakers’ street and stood under the gateway of the Veguer castle. There was such a crowd in the square
it was impossible for him to make out the figure of the boy in the square. He looked round: on one side of the gateway was the city’s main slaughterhouse; on the other stood trestle tables full of bread for sale. Arnau looked again, searching for the boy near the stone benches that lined the square. “This is the wheat market,” his father had explained. “On these benches here you can see people who sell it in the city; on those over there are the peasants who have brought their crops for sale.” But Arnau could see no sign of the boy on either side of the market, only tradesmen haggling over prices, or the country people with their sacks of grain.
While he was still trying to make out where the boy might be, Arnau found himself being pushed into the square by the crush of people making their way in. He attempted to stand to one side near the breadmakers’ stalls, but his back brushed against a table, and someone cuffed him painfully round the ear.
“Get out of here, you brat!” shouted the baker.
Arnau was quickly submerged again in the rush of people and the noise of the market. He had no idea which way to turn, but was pushed hither and thither by adults much taller than him; some of them, bent under sacks of grain, did not even see him under their feet.
He was starting to feel giddy, when all of a sudden the cheeky, dirt-streaked face of the boy he had been chasing through half of Barcelona popped up in front of him.
“What are you doing standing there?” said the stranger, raising his voice to be heard over the noise of the crowd.
Arnau did not reply, but this time made sure he had a firm grip on the boy’s shirt as he was pulled across the square and down Calle Boria. At the far end they came into the coppersmiths’ neighborhood. The narrow streets here rang to the sound of hammers beating metal. By now they had stopped running; exhausted, Arnau was still clutching the other boy’s shirtsleeve, forcing his rash, impatient guide to slow to a walk.
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