“Peace be with you,” he said.

The man’s eyes lit up. Arnau continued on his way up toward the main altar. That was all he had, he told the Virgin: humble people who appreciated him because he helped them. Joan was tracking down sin, and he did not know what had become of Guillem. As for Mar, what could he say?

Eleonor kicked his ankle. When Arnau glanced across at her, she flapped her hand for him to get up. “Have you ever seen a noble who stays on his knees as long as you do?” she had already chided him on several occasions. Arnau paid no attention, but Eleonor continued flicking her foot at his ankles.

“I have this too, Mother. A wife who is more concerned with appearances than anything else, except for wanting me to make her a mother too. Should I? She only wants an heir, a son who can guarantee her future.” Eleonor was still kicking his ankles. When Arnau turned to her, she lifted her chin toward the other nobles in Santa Maria. Some were standing; the rest were seated on their pews. Arnau was the only one still down on his knees.

“Sacrilege!”

The cry resounded through the church. The priests fell silent. Arnau got to his feet, and everyone turned to look at the main doorway.

“Sacrilege!” came the cry again.

Several men pushed their way to the altar, still shouting, “Sacrilege! Heresy! The Devil’s work! ... Jews!” They wanted to talk to the priests, but one of them came to a halt and addressed the congregation:

“The Jews have profaned a sacred host!”

A murmur rose from the ranks of the faithful.

“As if they hadn’t done enough by killing Jesus Christ!” the first man cried out again from the altar. “Now they want to profane his body!”

The murmur grew to an uproar. Arnau turned to face the congregation, but Eleonor’s scornful countenance was all he saw.

She scoffed. “Your Jewish friends.”

Arnau knew what his wife meant. Ever since Mar had married, he had found it almost impossible to be at home, and so on most evenings he went to see his old friend Hasdai Crescas, and stayed talking to him until late into the night. Before he could say anything to Eleonor, the nobles and other leading citizens began to discuss what they had heard:

“They want Christ to suffer even after his death,” said one of them.

“By law they are obliged to stay at home with doors and windows shut during Holy Week. How could they have done such a thing?”

“They must have escaped,” another man asserted.

“What about our children?” said a woman. “What if they have taken a Christian child to crucify him and then eat his heart ... ?”

“And drink his blood,” another voice chimed in.

Arnau could not take his eyes off this group of enraged nobles. How could they... ? He caught Eleonor’s eye again. She was smiling.

“Your friends,” she said sarcastically.

Then the entire congregation started to shout, demanding vengeance. “To the Jewish quarter!” they cried, driving one another on with more shouts of “Heresy!” and “Sacrilege!” Arnau watched them all rushing out of the church, with the nobles bringing up the rear.

“If you don’t hurry,” he heard Eleonor hiss, “you won’t get into the Jewry.”

Arnau turned to look at her again, and then glanced up at the Virgin. The noise from the crowd of people was dying away down Calle de la Mar.

“Why so much hatred, Eleonor? Don’t you have everything you want?”

“No, Arnau. You know I don’t have what I want, and perhaps that’s exactly what you give your Jewish friends.”

“What are you talking about, woman?”

“About you, Arnau, about you. You know you have never fulfilled your conjugal duties.”

For a few brief seconds, Arnau recalled all the occasions he had rejected Eleonor’s advances, at first gently, trying not to hurt her feelings, but gradually more roughly and impatiently.

“The king forced me to marry you. He said nothing about satisfying your needs.”

“The king may not have done so,” she replied, “but the Church does.”

“God cannot force me to lie with you!”

Eleonor withstood his rebuff, staring straight at him, then turned her face toward the main altar. They were alone in Santa Maria ... apart from the three priests standing there, openly listening to the couple arguing. Arnau also looked at the three priests. When he confronted Eleonor once more, her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. He turned his back on her and headed for the doorway out of the church.

“Go to your Jewish lover!” he heard his wife shout behind him.

A shudder ran the length of his backbone.

That year, Arnau was once again consul of the sea. Dressed in his robes of office, he made his way to the Jewish quarter. The din of the crowd grew still louder as it advanced along Calle de la Mar, Plaza del Blat, then down Calle de la Presó to San Jaume church. The people were baying for vengeance, and rushed toward the gates of the Jewry, which was defended by a troop of the king’s soldiers. Despite the crush, Arnau had little difficulty pushing his way to the front.

“You cannot enter the Jewry, Honorable Consul,” the captain of the guard told him. “We’re awaiting orders from the king’s lieutenant, the infante Don Juan, son of Pedro the Third.”

The orders duly arrived. The next morning, Don Juan ordered all the Jews to be shut in the main synagogue of Barcelona, without food or water, until those guilty of the profanation of the host came forward.

“Five thousand people,” Arnau growled in his office at the exchange when he heard the news. “Five thousand people shut up in the synagogue without food and water! What will happen to the children, the newborn babies? What does the infante want? What fool could expect any Jew to admit to profaning the host and condemn themselves to death?”

Arnau thumped his table and stood up. The bailiff who had brought him the news looked startled.

“Tell the guard,” Arnau ordered him.

The honorable consul of the sea made his way hastily through the streets of the city, accompanied by half a dozen armed missatges. Still guarded by soldiers, the gates to the Jewry stood wide open. Outside, the angry mob had disappeared, but there were at least a hundred curious onlookers trying to get a glimpse inside, despite being pushed and jostled by the soldiers.

“Who is in charge here?” Arnau asked the captain.

“The magistrate is inside,” the officer told him.

“Tell him I’m here.”

The magistrate soon appeared.

“What do you want, Arnau?” he asked, holding out his hand.

“I want to talk to the Jews.”

“The infante has given the order—”

“I know,” Arnau interrupted him. “That’s exactly why I need to talk to them. I’ve got a lot of outstanding business with Jews. I need to talk to them.”

“But the infante ...,” the magistrate began to protest.

“The infante lives from the Jewish quarters in Catalonia! The king has ordered that they pay him twelve thousand in yearly wages.” The magistrate nodded. “The infante would like those responsible for the profanation to be found, but you know very well that he also wants Jewish commerce to continue, because if it doesn’t... Remember, the Jews of Barcelona contribute most of those twelve thousand wages.”

The magistrate was convinced, and allowed Arnau and his men through.

“They are in the main synagogue,” he said as they passed by.

“I know, I know.”

Even though all the Jews were shut in, the streets of the quarter were thronged with people. As he walked toward the synagogue, Arnau could see a swarm of black-robed monks searching each and every house for the bleeding host.

At the synagogue entrance, Arnau came up against more guards.

“I’ve come to talk to Hasdai Crescas.”

The captain tried to stand in his way, but the other guard, who had accompanied Arnau, explained he had permission.

While they were waiting for Hasdai to come out, Arnau looked back toward the Jewish quarter. The houses stood wide open and had obviously been ransacked. The friars came and went, carrying out objects and showing them to one another. They shook their heads, then threw them onto the growing pile of Jewish possessions. “Who are the profaners?” thought Arnau.

“Your Worship,” he heard behind him.

Arnau wheeled round and found Hasdai standing there. For a few seconds he stared into the Jew’s eyes, full of tears at the violation of his intimate world. Arnau ordered all the soldiers to withdraw. His missatges obeyed at once, but the king’s soldiers stayed where they were.

“Since when did the consul of the sea’s affairs interest you?” Arnau asked them. “Stand back with my men. The consul’s concerns are secret.”

The soldiers obeyed reluctantly. Arnau and Hasdai studied each other.

“I’d like to embrace you,” Arnau said when nobody could hear them.

“Better not.”

“How are you?”

“Not good, Arnau. We old people are unimportant, the young can cope, but the children have had nothing to eat or drink for hours. There are several infants; when their mothers have no more milk to give them ... We’ve been here only a few hours, but bodies have their needs ...”

“Can I help?”

“We’ve tried to negotiate, but the magistrate will not listen. You know there is only one way out: we have to buy our freedom.”

“How much should I ... ?”

Hasdai’s stare prevented him from finishing. How much was the life of five thousand Jews worth?

“I trust you, Arnau. My community is in danger.”

Arnau stretched out his hand.

“We all trust you,” said Hasdai again, taking it in his.

Arnau went back among the black friars. Could they have found the bleeding host already? The contents of the houses, including pieces of furniture, were being heaped ever higher in the streets. As he left the Jewry, Arnau thanked the magistrate. He would ask for an official audience with him that afternoon; but how much should he offer for a man’s life? Or for an entire community’s? Arnau had bargained with all kinds of goods: fabrics, spices, grain, animals, ships, gold, and silver; he knew the price of slaves, but—how much was a friend worth?

“Since when were you so interested in my salvation?” Arnau asked.

Despite her husband’s gruff rejection, she did not give up. Eventually she decided to talk about it to Father Juli Andreu, one of the priests at Santa Maria. He was interested in the salvation of the faithful, among whom Arnau was one of the most highly regarded. With him, Arnau could not find excuses as he did with Eleonor.

“I can’t do it, Father,” he told the priest when he confronted him one day in the church.

It was true. Immediately after handing Mar to the lord of Ponts, Arnau had tried to forget her. Why not have a family of his own? He was all alone. All the people he loved had gone from his life. He could have children, play with them, devote himself to them, and perhaps find what was missing. But he could do this only with Eleonor, and whenever she sidled up to him, or pursued him through the palace chambers, or he heard her false, forced voice, so different from the way she usually spoke to him, all his resolve came to nothing.

“What do you mean, my son?” asked the priest.

“The king forced me to marry Eleonor, Father, but he never asked what my feelings were for his ward.”

“The baroness ...”

“The baroness does not attract me, Father. My body refuses.”

“I could recommend a good doctor ...”

Arnau smiled. “No, Father, no. It’s not that. Physically I’m fine; it’s simply...”

“Well, then, you should make an effort to fulfill your matrimonial obligations. Our Lord expects ...”

Arnau listened to the priest’s harangue, imagining the stories Eleonor must have told him. Who did they think they were?

“Listen, Father,” he said, interrupting him. “I cannot oblige my body to desire a woman if it doesn’t.” The priest raised his hand as though to intervene, but Arnau stopped him. “I swore to be faithful to my wife, and I am; nobody can accuse me of being otherwise. I come often to Santa Maria to pray. I donate large sums of money to the church. It seems to me that my contributions to building this church should compensate for the shortcomings of my body.”

The priest stopped rubbing his hands. “My son ...”

“What do you think, Father?”

The priest searched among his scant theological knowledge for ways of refuting Arnau’s arguments. He was defeated, and soon hastened away among the men still working on Santa Maria. Left alone, Arnau went to find the Virgin in her chapel. He knelt before her statue.

“I think only of her, Mother. Why did you allow me to give her to Lord de Ponts?”

He had not seen Mar since her marriage to Felip de Ponts. When her husband died a few months later, he tried to approach the widow, but Mar refused to see him. “Perhaps it’s for the best,” Arnau told himself. The oath he had sworn to the Virgin bound him even more than ever now: he was condemned to be faithful to a woman who did not love him and whom he could not love. And to give up the only person with whom he might have been happy ...

“No,” said the magistrate.

“I’ve been talking to the city councillors,” Arnau told him, “and they agree with me. Imprisoning the entire Jewish community could seriously affect Barcelona’s commercial interests. The seagoing season has just begun. If you went down to the port, you would see there are several ships ready to depart. They have Jewish goods on board; they will either have to be unloaded or will need to wait for the traders. The problem is that not all the cargoes belong to Jews; part of them are owned by Christians.”

“Why not unload them then?”

“The cost of transporting the Christians’ merchandise would go up.”

The magistrate spread his hands in a gesture of frustration. “Then put all the Jews’ merchandise on some ships, and the Christians’ goods on others,” he suggested finally.

Arnau shook his head.

“That’s impossible. Not all the ships are headed for the same destination. You know the sailing season is short. If the ships cannot leave, all our trade will be held up. They will not be back in time, and so will miss some journeys. That will push the price of everything up again. We will all lose money.” “You included,” thought Arnau. “On top of which, it’s dangerous for ships to wait too long in Barcelona: if a storm blows up ...”

“So what do you suggest?”

“That you set them all free. That you order the friars to stop searching their homes. That you give them back their belongings, that... ,” thought Arnau. “Impose a fine on the whole Jewish community,” was what he said.

“The people are demanding the guilty be punished, and the infante has promised to find them. The profanation of a host—”

“The profanation of a host,” Arnau interrupted him, “whether or not the bleeding host appeared, will of course be more expensive than any other kind of crime.” Why bother to argue? The Jews had been judged and condemned. The magistrate wrinkled his brow. “Why not make the attempt? If we succeed, it will be the Jews and only them who pay. If not, it’s going to be a bad year for trade, and all of us will lose.”

Twenty-five thousand shillings and fifteen guilty men! That was the answer the magistrate gave Arnau the next day after he had consulted with the infante Don Juan’s court.

“Fifteen culprits? You want to execute fifteen people because of the ravings of four madmen?”

The magistrate thumped the table. “Those madmen belong to the holy Catholic Church.”

“You know it’s an impossible demand,” said Arnau.

The two men stared at each other.

“No culprits,” Arnau insisted.

“That’s not possible. The infante—”

“No culprits! Twenty-five thousand shillings is a fortune.”

Arnau left the magistrate’s palace not knowing where to go. What could he say to Hasdai? That fifteen Jews had to die? Yet he could not get out of his mind the image of those five thousand people packed into the synagogue with no water or food ...

“When will I have my answer?” he had asked the magistrate.

“The infante is out hunting.”

Hunting! Five thousand people were shut up on his orders, and he had gone hunting. It could not have been more than three hours by horse from Barcelona to Gerona, where the infante, duke of Gerona and Cervera, had his lands, but Arnau had to wait until late the following afternoon to be summoned again by the magistrate.

“Thirty-five thousand shillings and five culprits.”

Ten Jews for ten thousand shillings. “Perhaps that’s the price of a man,” thought Arnau.

“Forty thousand, and no culprits.”

“No.”

“I’ll appeal to the king.”

“You know that the king has enough problems with the war against Castille without looking for more with his son. That was why he named him his lieutenant.”

“Forty-five thousand, but no one guilty.”

“No, Arnau, no ...”

“Ask him!” Arnau exploded. “I beg you,” he added apologetically.

For a few moments, to a background noise of groans and wails, Arnau watched as the others tried to get fresh air into their lungs: what could it be like inside? All of them cast anxious glances at the streets around them; for a while they seemed to hold their breath.

“They want culprits,” Arnau told him when the five men had recovered. “We started with fifteen. Now it’s down to five, and I hope that—”

“We can’t wait, Arnau Estanyol,” one of the rabbis interrupted him. “One old man has died today; he was sick, and our doctors could do nothing for him, not even moisten his lips. And we are not allowed to bury him. Do you know what that means?” Arnau nodded. “Tomorrow, the stink of his decomposing body will be added to—”

“Inside the synagogue,” Hasdai said, “we have no room to move. No one ... no one can even get up to relieve themselves. The nursing mothers have no more milk: they have suckled their own babies and tried to feed the other infants. If we have to wait many more days, five culprits will be nothing.”

“Plus forty-five thousand shillings,” Arnau pointed out.

“What do we care about money when we could all die?” the other rabbi added.

“Well?” asked Arnau.

“You have to try, Arnau,” Hasdai begged him.

Ten thousand more shillings speeded up the infante’s reply ... or perhaps he never even got the message. Arnau was summoned the next morning. Three culprits.

“They are men!” Arnau said accusingly to the magistrate.

“They are Jews, Arnau. Only Jews. Heretics who belong to the crown. Without the king’s favor they would already be dead, and the king has decided that three of them have to pay for the profanation of the host. The people demand it.”

“Since when has the king been so concerned about his people?” thought Arnau.

“Besides,” the magistrate insisted, “it will mean that our seafarers’ problems are solved.”

The old man’s body, the mothers’ dried-up breasts, the weeping children, the wailing and the stench: Arnau nodded in agreement. The magistrate leaned back in his chair.

“On two conditions,” said Arnau, forcing him to listen closely once more. “First, the Jews themselves must choose the guilty men.” The magistrate nodded. “And secondly, the agreement has to be ratified by the bishop, who must promise to calm the faithful.”

“I’ve already done that, Arnau. Do you think I want to see another massacre of Jews?”

When three figures appeared at the gates of the Jewish quarter, a loud shout rent the air. The crowd raised their fists, and their insults mingled with the sound of swords being drawn as the soldiers prepared to defend the members of the procession. Shackled hand and foot, the three men were brought in between the two lines of black friars. Then, with the bishop of Barcelona at its head, the group set off down the street. The presence of the soldiers and the friars was not enough to prevent the mob from throwing stones and spitting at the three men being slowly dragged past them.

Arnau was in Santa Maria, praying. It was he who had taken the infante’s final decision to the synagogue, where he had been met by Hasdai, the rabbis, and the community leaders.

“Three culprits,” he said, trying to meet their gazes, “and you can ... you can choose them yourselves.”

None of them said a word. They merely stared at the streets of the Jewish quarter and let the cries and laments from inside the synagogue guide their thoughts. Arnau did not have the heart to negotiate any further, but told the magistrate as he left the Jewry: “Three innocent men ... because you and I know that this idea of the profanation of Christ’s body is false.”

Arnau began to hear the uproar from the crowd as he approached Calle de la Mar. The hubbub filled Santa Maria; it filtered in through the gaps in the unfinished doors, it climbed the wooden scaffolding surrounding the unfinished structures as rapidly as any workman, and filled the vaults of the new church. Three innocent men! How did they choose them? Did the rabbis make the choice, or did they come forward voluntarily? Arnau remembered Hasdai’s expression as he looked out at the devastated streets of the Jewry. What had been in his eyes? Resignation? Or had it been the look of someone ... saying good-bye? Arnau trembled; his legs almost gave way, and he had to cling to the prayer stool. The procession was drawing near to Santa Maria. The noise was getting louder and louder. Arnau stood up and looked toward the door that gave onto Plaza Santa Maria. The procession would soon be there. He stayed inside the church, staring out at the square, until the shouts and insults became a reality.

He ran to the church door. Nobody heard his cry. Nobody saw him in tears. Nobody saw him fall to his knees when he caught sight of Hasdai being dragged along in chains with curses, stones, and spit raining down on him. As Hasdai went past Santa Maria, he looked straight at the man who was on his knees beating the ground in despair. Arnau did not see him, and continued flailing at the beaten earth until the sad procession had disappeared and the earth was turning red from his bleeding fists. Someone knelt in front of him and gently took his hands.

“My father wouldn’t want you to harm yourself for him,” said Raquel. Arnau glanced up at her.

“They’re going ... they’re going to kill him.”

“Yes.”

Arnau searched the face of this girl who had grown into a woman. Many years ago, he had hidden her underneath this very church. Raquel was not crying, and although it was very dangerous, she was wearing her Jewish costume and the yellow badge.

“We have to be strong,” said the girl he remembered.

“Why, Raquel? Why him?”

“For me. For Jucef. For my children and Jucef’s children, and for our grandchildren. For all the Jews of Barcelona. He said he was already old, that he had lived enough.”

With Raquel’s help, Arnau got to his feet. They followed the noise of the crowd.

The three men were burned alive. They were tied to stakes on the top of bonfires of twigs and branches, which were set alight while the Christians were still baying for revenge. As the flames enveloped his body, Hasdai looked up to the heavens. Now it was Raquel’s turn to burst into tears; she hugged Arnau and buried her face in his chest.

His arms round Hasdai’s daughter, Arnau could not take his eyes off his friend’s burning body. At first he thought he saw him bleeding, but the flames quickly took hold. All of a sudden, he could no longer hear the crowd shouting; all he saw was them raising their fists menacingly ... and then something made him look to his right. Fifty paces or so from the crowd, he saw the bishop and the grand inquisitor standing next to Eleonor. She was talking to them and pointing directly at him. Beside her was another elegantly dressed woman, whom he did not at first recognize. Arnau met the inquisitor’s gaze as Eleonor continued to point at him and shout.

“That Jewish girl is his lover. Just look at them. Look at the way he is embracing her.”

Arnau had his arms tightly round Raquel, who was sobbing desperately on his chest as the flames rose skyward, accompanied by the cheers of the mob. Turning his eyes away from this horror, Arnau found himself looking at Eleonor. When he saw the mixture of deep-rooted hatred and joyous revenge on her face, he shuddered. It was then that he heard the woman standing next to his wife laugh, the same scornful, unforgettable laugh that had been engraved on his memory since childhood: the laugh of Margarida Puig.