10
HOWEVER, THERE WAS more to Arnau’s life
than Santa Maria and giving water to the bastaixos. In
exchange for bed and board, he had, among other duties, to help the
Grau family cook whenever she went into the city to buy food.
So every two or three days Arnau left the workshop
at dawn and went with Estranya, the mulatto slave, into the city
streets. She walked with splayed legs, her huge body swaying
dangerously as she waddled along. As soon as Arnau appeared in the
kitchen doorway, she would give him the first things to carry: two
baskets of dough they were to take to the ovens in the Calle Ollers
Blancs for baking. One basket contained the loaves for Grau and his
family: these were made of wheat flour, and became the finest white
bread. The other held the loaves for the rest of the household,
made from rye, millet, or even beans and chickpeas. When baked,
this bread was dark, heavy, and hard.
Once they had handed over the loaves, Estranya and
Arnau would leave the potters’ neighborhood and cross the wall into
the center of Barcelona. In this first part of their journey, Arnau
had no problem following the slave, and even found time to laugh at
her swaying body and rippling dark flesh.
“What are you laughing at?” the mulatto had asked
him more than once.
At that, Arnau would look into her round, flat face
and stifle his smile.
“You want to laugh? Laugh at this then,” she said
in Plaza del Blat as she gave him a sack of wheat to carry.
“Where’s your smile now?” she would say on the way down La Llet as
she loaded him with the milk his cousins were to drink. She would
repeat the taunt in the narrow Plaza del Cols, where she bought
cabbages, pulses, or other vegetables, and in Plaza de l’Oli,
weighing him down with oil, game, or fowl.
After that, struggling under her purchases, Arnau
followed the slave all over Barcelona. On the 160 days of
abstinence, the mulatto plodded and swayed down to the shore, near
Santa Maria. There she fought with the other customers at one of
the city’s two official fishmongers (the old and the new) to buy
the best dolphin, tuna, sturgeon, or palomides, neros,
reigs, and corballs.
“Now we’ll get your fish,” she said. It was her
turn to smile as she went round the back of the stalls to buy the
leftovers. There were as many people here as at the front, but
Estranya did not fight to get the best.
Even so, Arnau preferred these days of abstinence
to those when Estranya had to go and buy meat, because whereas to
purchase the leftovers of fish she simply had to walk round the
stall, when she bought meat Arnau had to carry all his packages
across half the city.
She bought the meat for Grau and his family from
one of the butchers situated outside the slaughterhouses. Like
everything else sold in the city, this was fresh, first-class meat:
no dead animals were allowed inside Barcelona. Everything that was
sold was slaughtered on the spot.
That was why, to get the cheap cuts to feed to the
servants and slaves in the household, they had to leave the city by
Portaferrisa until they reached the market where carcasses were
piled alongside meat of unknown origin. Again it was Estranya’s
turn to smile as she bought, and loaded the boy with her new
purchases. Then it was back to the baker’s to pick up the bread
from the oven, and then to Grau’s house, Estranya still swaying and
waddling her way along, Arnau dragging his feet.
ONE MORNING, WHEN Estranya and Arnau were
buying meat at the main slaughterhouse by Plaza del Blat, they
heard the bells of San Jaume church begin to peal. It was not
Sunday or a feast day. Estranya came to a halt, legs spread wide.
Someone in the square let out a shout. Arnau could not understand
what he was saying, but lots of others soon joined in, and people
started running about in all directions. He turned toward Estranya,
a question on his lips. He dropped the load. The wheat merchants
were all scrambling to dismantle their stalls. People were still
rushing to and fro, and the bells of San Jaume were still ringing
out over the square. Arnau thought of running there, but... weren’t
those the bells of Santa Clara he could hear too? He strained to
capture the sound, but at that very moment the bells of San Pere,
Framenors, and San Just all started up. All the churches in the
city were ringing their bells! Arnau stood stock-still, openmouthed
and deafened, watching everyone running all round him.
All of a sudden, he saw Joanet’s face in front of
him. His friend was hopping about nervously.
“Via fora! Via fora!” he was shouting.
“What’s that?” Arnau asked.
“Via fora!” Joaner bawled in his ear.
“What does that mean?”
Joanet motioned to him to be quiet, and pointed
toward the ancient Mayor gate, beneath the magistrate’s
palace.
As Arnau watched, one of the magistrate’s stewards
came out. He was dressed for battle, in a silver breastplate and
with a broadsword at his side. In his right hand he was carrying
the banner of Sant Jordi on a gilded pole: a red cross on a white
background. Behind him, another steward who was also in battle
dress held aloft the city banner. The two men ran to the center of
the square and the stone dividing Barcelona into four quarters.
When they reached it, waving their banners, the two men cried out
as one:
“Via fora! Via fora!”
All the bells were still ringing, and the cry of
Via fora was taken up along all the streets around the
square. Joanet, who until then had witnessed the spectacle without
a word, suddenly began to shout like a madman.
Finally, Estranya reacted. She swatted a hand at
Arnau to make him move, but he was still entranced by the sight of
the two stewards standing in the center of the square, with their
shining armor and swords, waving their colorful banners, and ducked
under her fist.
“Come with me, Arnau,” Estranya ordered him.
“No,” he said, egged on by Joanet.
Estranya grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him.
“Come on. This is no business of ours.”
“What are you saying, slave?” The words came from a
woman who, like them, was caught up in the excitement of what was
going on in front of them and had heard the argument between Arnau
and the mulatto. “Is the boy a slave?” Estranya shook her head. “Is
he a free citizen?” Arnau nodded. “How dare you say then that the
‘Via fora’ is none of the boy’s business?” Estranya
hesitated, her feet slipping under her like a duck’s on ice.
“Who are you, slave,” another woman said, “to deny
the boy the honor of defending Barcelona’s rights?”
Estranya lowered her head. What would her master
say if he heard? After all, he was the first to defend the city’s
honor. The bells were still ringing. Joanet had joined the group of
women and was signaling to Arnau to come with him.
“Women don’t go with the city host,” the first
woman reminded Estranya.
“And slaves still less,” another woman added.
“Who do you think will look after our husbands if
not boys like them?”
Estranya did not dare raise her eyes from the
ground.
“Who do you think will cook for them or run their
errands? Who will take off their boots and clean their
crossbows?”
“Go where you need to go,” the women told her.
“This is no place for a slave.”
Estranya picked up all the sacks that Arnau had
been carrying, and started to waddle off. Smiling contentedly,
Joanet looked admiringly at the group of women. Arnau had not
moved.
“Come on, boys,” the women encouraged them. “Come
and look after our menfolk.”
“Make sure you tell my father!” Arnau shouted to
Estranya, who had managed to walk only three or four yards.
Joanet saw that Arnau could not take his eyes off
the slave, and understood his doubts.
“Didn’t you hear the women?” he said. “It’s up to
us to look after Barcelona’s soldiers. Your father will
understand.”
Arnau agreed, hesitantly at first, but then with
more conviction. Of course Bernat would understand! Hadn’t he
himself fought so that they could become free citizens of the
city?
When they looked back at the center of the square,
they saw that a third man had joined the two stewards: the standard
bearer from the merchants’ guild. He did not wear armor, but had a
crossbow strapped across his back and wore a sword at his belt. A
short while later, the standard of the silversmiths was fluttering
alongside the others; slowly the square filled up with banners
displaying all kinds of symbols and figures: the furriers’ banner,
the surgeons and barbers’, the ones for the guilds of carpenters,
coppersmiths, potters ...
The freemen of Barcelona began gathering beneath
the banner of their trade. As required by law, they each came armed
with a crossbow, a quiver with a hundred bolts, and a sword or
spear. Within two hours, the sagramental of the city of
Barcelona was ready to move off in defense of the city’s
privileges.
By then, Arnau had understood from Joanet what this
was all about.
“Barcelona not only defends itself when necessary,”
Joanet told him. “It also goes on the attack if anyone threatens
it.” He spoke excitedly, pointing to the soldiers and their
banners, proud of the way the city had responded. “It’s fantastic!
You’ll see. With any luck, we’ll be out of Barcelona for a few
days. If anybody mistreats an inhabitant of the city or attacks its
rights, they are denounced ... well, I’m not sure who they are
denounced to, whether it’s the magistrate or the Council of a
Hundred, but if the authorities decide the charge is justified,
they call the host together beneath the banner of Sant Jordi—can
you see it over there in the center of the square, flying higher
than all the others? The bells are rung, and people pour out into
the streets shouting, ‘Via fora!’ so that all the
inhabitants know what is going on. The leaders of each guild bring
out their banners, and their members gather under them to set off
for battle.”
Wide-eyed, Arnau tried to take in everything that
was going on around him. He followed Joanet through the different
groups congregated in the square.
“What do we have to do? Is it dangerous?” Arnau
asked, impressed by the vast array of arms on display.
“No, usually it’s not dangerous,” Joanet replied,
smiling. “Remember that if the magistrate has called the citizens
to arms, he has done it not only in the name of the city but of the
king as well. That means we never have to fight the royal troops.
Of course, it depends on who the aggressor is, but generally when a
feudal lord sees the Barcelona host approaching, he usually
gives in to their demands.”
“So there is no battle?”
“That depends on what the authorities decide, and
the feudal lord’s attitude. The last time, a castle was destroyed,
and then there was a battle, with deaths, attacks, and ... Look!
Your uncle must be over there,” said Joanet, pointing to the
potters’ banner. “Let’s go and see!”
Beneath the banner, Grau Puig stood in his armor
with the three other guild aldermen: he was wearing boots, a
leather jacket that protected him down to midcalf, and a sword. The
city’s potters crowded around their four leaders. As soon as Grau
saw the young boys, he signaled to Jaume, who stepped in front of
them, blocking their way.
“Where are you two going?” he asked them.
Arnau looked at Joanet for support.
“We’re going to offer to help the master,” said
Joanet. “We could carry his food ... or whatever else he
wants.”
“I’m sorry,” was all Jaume replied.
As he turned away, Arnau asked his friend: “Now
what do we do?”
“It doesn’t matter!” said Joanet. “Don’t worry.
There are plenty of people here who would be pleased to have our
help. Anyway, I’m sure he won’t notice if we join in.”
The two boys started to mingle with the crowd,
studying the swords, crossbows, and lances, and admiring the men
dressed in armor. They tried to follow their lively
conversation.
“What’s happened to the water?” they heard someone
shout behind them.
Arnau and Joanet looked round. Their faces lit up
when they saw it was Ramon smiling at them. All around him, a group
of twenty or more bastaixos, armed and powerful-looking,
were staring in their direction.
Arnau felt for the waterskin on his back. He must
have looked so crestfallen when he could not find it that several
of the men laughed and came to offer theirs.
“You always have to be ready when the city calls,”
they said jokingly.
The army of citizens left Barcelona behind the
banner bearing the red cross of Sant Jordi. They were heading for
the village of Creixell, close to Tarragona, where the villagers
had seized a flock of sheep that was the property of the city
butchers.
“Is that so bad?” Arnau asked Ramon, whom they had
decided to accompany.
“Of course it is. Any animals that belong to
Barcelona’s butchers have the right to travel and graze anywhere in
Catalonia. Nobody, not even the king, can stop any flock or herd
that is on its way to the city. Our children have to eat the best
meat in the land,” said Ramon, ruffling their hair. “The lord of
Creixell has seized a flock and is demanding that the shepherd pay
him for grazing and for the right to pass through his lands. Can
you imagine what would happen if all the lords and barons between
Tarragona and Barcelona did the same? We would never eat.”
“If only you knew what sort of meat Estranya gives
us ... ,” thought Arnau. Joanet guessed what was going through his
mind and pulled a face. He was the only one whom Arnau had told. He
had been tempted to warn his father where the scraps of meat
floating in the pot had come from, but when he saw not only how
eagerly his father devoured them but the way that all the slaves
and workmen in Grau’s pottery threw themselves on the food, he
thought better of it, said nothing, and ate along with the rest of
them.
“Are there any other reasons for the
sagramental to be called?” asked Arnau, still with the foul
taste in his mouth.
“Of course. Any threat to Barcelona’s privileges or
against a citizen can mean we are called on. For example, if a
citizen is held against his will, then the sagramental will
go and free him.”
As Arnau and Joanet talked, the army moved up the
coast, from San Boi to Castelldefels and then Garraf. As the men
passed by, everyone stared silently at them, making sure they kept
well out of their way. Even the sea seemed to respect the Barcelona
host, the sound of the waves dying away as the hundreds of
armed men marched behind the banner of Sant Jordi. The sun shone on
them all day, and as the sea was turning to silver in the evening
light, they came to a halt in Sitges. The lord of Fonollar welcomed
their leaders into his castle, while the rest of the men made camp
outside the town gates.
“Is there going to be a war?” asked Arnau.
All the bastaixos stared at him. The only
sound was the crackling of their bonfire. Joanet lay fast asleep,
his head on Ramon’s lap. Some of the men looked at one another,
asking themselves the same question: would there be a war?
“No,” said Ramon, “the lord of Creixell cannot
stand against us.”
Arnau looked disappointed.
“He might, though,” one of the guild leaders on the
far side of the fire said to encourage him. “Many years ago, when I
was about as young as you are now”—Arnau almost burned himself as
he leaned forward to catch his words—“the sagramental was
called out to march on Castellbisbal, where the lord had seized a
flock of cattle, just like the lord of Creixell has done now. But
at Castellbisbal, he did not back down, and decided to face our
army. He probably thought that the citizens of Barcelona—merchants,
artisans, or bastaixos like us—could not fight. But the men
of Barcelona stormed the castle, took the lord and his soldiers
prisoner, and razed it to the ground.”
Arnau imagined himself wielding a sword, swarming
up a ladder, shouting victoriously on the battlements of Creixell
castle: “Who dares stand against the Barcelona sagramental?”
All the men around the fire could see how excited he was: he was
staring intently into the flames, his hands clasping a stick he had
previously used to poke the fire with. “I, Arnau Estanyol ...” The
sound of their laughter brought him back to Sitges.
“Go and sleep,” Ramon advised him, getting up with
Joanet in his arms. Arnau made a face. “You can dream of battles,”
the bastaix said to console him.
The night air was cool, but one of the men gave up
his blanket for the two boys.
At dawn the next day the army resumed its march on
Creixell. They passed through the villages and castles of Geltrú,
Vilanova, Cubelles, Segur, and Barà. From Barà, they turned inland
toward Creixell. About a mile from the sea, the lord of Creixell
had built his castle on rocks at the crest of a ridge. It boasted
several towers; the houses of the village were clustered round
them.
By now it was only a few hours before nightfall.
The leaders of the guilds were called together by the councillors
and the magistrate. Then the army of Barcelona lined up in battle
formation outside Creixell, with banners waving in front of it.
Arnau and Joanet roamed behind the lines, offering water to any
bastaix who wanted some. Most of them refused, their eyes
fixed on the castle. Nobody spoke, and the children did not dare
break the silence. The leaders returned and each took his place at
the head of a guild. Everyone in the ranks watched as three
ambassadors from Barcelona strode toward Creixell; the same number
came out of the castle, and the two groups met halfway down the
hill.
Like everyone else in the citizens’ army, Arnau and
Joanet watched the negotiations without a word.
In the end, there was no battle. The lord of
Creixell had managed to escape through a secret tunnel that led
from the castle to the beach, behind the army. When he saw
Barcelona’s army drawn up in the valley, the village mayor gave the
order to comply with all the city’s demands. The villagers released
the flock and the shepherd, agreed to pay a large sum of money in
compensation, promised to obey and respect Barcelona’s privileges
in the future, and handed over two men who they said were to blame
for the insult. They were taken prisoner at once.
“Creixell has surrendered,” the ambassadors
informed the army.
A murmur ran through the ranks. The occasional
soldiers sheathed their swords, put down their crossbows and
spears, and took off their armor. Soon, shouts of triumph, jokes,
and laughter could be heard on all sides.
“Where’s the wine, boys?” Ramon teased them.
“What’s the matter?” he said, seeing them rooted to the spot. “You
would have liked to have seen a battle, wouldn’t you?”
The expression on their faces spoke for
itself.
“But any one of us could have been wounded, or even
killed. Would you have liked that?” Arnau and Joanet quickly shook
their heads. “You should see it in another light: you belong to the
biggest and most powerful city in the principality. Everyone is
afraid of challenging us.” Arnau and Joanet listened,
wide-eyed.
“Go and fetch wine, boys. You’ll have the chance to
drink to our victory too.”
The flag of Sant Jordi returned with honor to
Barcelona. Alongside it strode the two boys, proud of their city,
its citizens, and of being part of everything. The Creixell
prisoners were paraded through the streets in chains. Women and
crowds of curious onlookers applauded the army and spat on the
captives. Stern-faced and proud, Arnau and Joanet marched with the
others all the way to the magistrate’s palace, where the prisoners
were handed over. Then they went to visit Bernat, who, relieved to
see his son back safe and sound, soon forgot the scolding he was
going to give him, and instead listened contentedly to the story of
his new adventures.