Cathedral of the Sea (58 page)

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 do 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.

That night while Arnau slept, Guillem went down to the countinghouse. He had found a loose stone in the wall. He wrapped Abraham Levi’s document in a cloth and hid it behind the stone, which he replaced as best he could. One day he would ask one of the workmen at Santa Maria to seal it properly. That was where Arnau’s fortune could lie until he found a way to tell him where it had come from. It was all a matter of time.

A matter of a long time, Guillem had to admit to himself one day when he and Arnau were walking back along the beach after attending to some business at the Consulate of the Sea. Slaves were still arriving at Barcelona; human goods that the boatmen transported to the shore crowded into their small craft. Men and boys who could work, but also women and children whose wailing led both men to stop and look at what was going on.

“Listen to me, Guillem. No matter how bad a situation we may find ourselves in,” said Arnau, “we will never finance any trade in slaves. I would prefer to be beheaded by the city magistrate before I did that.”

They watched as the galley was rowed farther out to sea.

“Why is he leaving?” Arnau asked without thinking. “Why doesn’t he take on another cargo for the return journey?”

Guillem turned toward him, shaking his head gently.

“He’ll be back,” he assured Arnau. “He’s only going to open sea... to carry on unloading,” he ended, with a trembling voice.

Arnau watched the galley heading out to sea. For a few moments, he said nothing.

“How many of them die?” he asked at length.

“Too many,” said the Moor, remembering one such ship.

“Never, Guillem! Remember that: never!”

 

 

O
F COURSE IT would have to be outside Santa Maria, thought Arnau. He was standing at one of his windows watching as the whole of Barcelona crowded into the square, the adjoining streets, onto the scaffolding, and even inside the church, all of them staring at the dais the king had ordered erected in the square. King Pedro the Third had not chosen Plaza del Blat, the cathedral, the exchange building, or the magnificent shipyards he himself was building. He had chosen Santa Maria, the people’s church, the church being constructed thanks to the united efforts and sacrifices of all the citizens of Barcelona.

“There’s nowhere in all Catalonia that better represents the spirit of the people of Barcelona,” he had commented to Guillem that morning as they surveyed the work going on to erect the platform. “The king knows it, and that’s why he chose here.”