Ildefonso Falcones - Cathedral of the Sea

“Have you gone mad?” he asked.

“They’ve set him free ... Free!” answered Genis, staring all the while at the banners that by now were advancing down Calle del Bisbe. Jaume de Bellera forced him to look at him.

“What are you trying to do?”

Genis Puig stared after the banners again and tried to break out of his companion’s grasp.

“To have revenge!” he shouted.

“This isn’t the way,” the lord of Bellera warned him. “This isn’t the way.” He shook Genis Puig until he was forced to respond. “We’ll find a better one.”

Genis stared at him; his lips were trembling.

“Do you swear it?”

“On my honor.”

As THE HOST moved out of Plaza Nova, silence returned to the tribunal chamber. The shouts of victory from the last citizens disappeared down Calle del Bisbe, and the grand inquisitor’s labored breathing became evident. Nobody in the room had moved. The soldiers were still standing to attention, keeping as still as possible. Nicolau’s gaze settled on everyone in turn; he had little need to say anything. “Traitor!” he spat at Berenguer d’Eril. “Cowards!” he shouted at the others. When he looked over toward the soldiers, he discovered Guillem standing among them.

“What is that infidel doing in here?” he cried. “Do they have to mock us in this way?”

The captain of the guard did not know what to say. He had been concentrating so intently on the inquisitor that he had not seen Guillem come in with the councillors. Guillem was on the point of telling him that he was in fact baptized a Christian, but thought better of it: despite the grand inquisitor’s efforts, the Holy Office did not have any jurisdiction over Jews and Moors. Nicolau could not threaten or arrest him.

“My name is Sahat de Pisa,” Guillem said out loud, “and I should like to speak to you.”

“I have nothing to say to an infidel. Throw him out...”

“I think you will be interested in what I have to say.”

“I don’t care what you think.” Nicolau gestured to the captain, who drew his sword.

“Perhaps you will be interested to learn that Arnau Estanyol is abatut,” said Guillem, backing away from the soldier’s sword. “You will not be able to use a single penny of his fortune.”

Nicolau gave a deep sigh and stared up at the chamber roof. Although the captain received no fresh order, he put down his weapon and stopped threatening Guillem.

“What do you mean, infidel?” the inquisitor asked.

“You have Arnau Estanyol’s books; look at them closely.”

“Do you think we haven’t?”

“Did you know that the king’s debts have been pardoned?”

It was Guillem himself who had signed the receipt and given it to Francesc de Perellós. As the Moor had discovered, Arnau had never withdrawn his authority over his affairs.

Nicolau did not move a muscle. Everyone in the tribunal had the same thought: that was why the magistrate had refused to intervene.

Several seconds went by, with Guillem and Nicolau staring at each other. Guillem knew precisely what was going through the grand inquisitor’s mind: “What are you going to tell the pope? How are you going to pay the money you promised him? You’ve already dispatched the letter; he is bound to receive it. What will you say to him? And you need his support against a king whom you have always confronted.”

“And what has all this got to do with you?” Nicolau eventually asked.

“I could explain ... in private,” said Guillem, when Nicolau gestured impatiently at him.

“Barcelona has risen against the Inquisition, and now an infidel dares demand a private audience with me!” Nicolau complained in a loud voice. “Who do you think you are?”

“What will you say to your pope?” Guillem’s eyes questioned him. “Do you really want the whole of Barcelona to hear about your machinations?”

“Search him,” he commanded the captain. “Make sure he is not carrying any weapons, and take him to the antechamber to my office. Wait for me there.”

Flanked by the captain and two soldiers, Guillem stood and waited in the antechamber. He had never dared tell Arnau where his fortune had come from: the slave trade. Now that the king’s debts had been pardoned, if the Inquisition seized Arnau’s possessions, it also took on his debts. Only he, Guillem, knew that the entries in favor of Abraham Levi were false; if he did not show anyone the receipt that the Jewish merchant had signed all those years ago, Arnau’s wealth did not exist.

56

AS SOON AS she emerged from the bishop’s palace, Francecsa moved away from the doors and stood pressed against the wall. From there she could see how the crowd launched itself at Arnau, and watched as the councillors struggled unsuccessfully to keep them away. “Look at your son!” Nicolau’s words drowned out the shouts of the host in her memory. “Didn’t you want me to look at him, Inquisitor? Well, there he is, and he’s won.” When she saw Arnau falter and stumble, she stiffened, but then he disappeared in a waving sea of heads, weapons, and banners, with the small statue of the Virgin bobbing up and down in the midst of them.

Little by little, still shouting and waving weapons in the air, the host made its way down Calle del Bisbe. Francesca did not move. Her legs were giving way beneath her, and she needed to hold herself up against the wall. It was as the square gradually emptied that she saw her: Aledis had refused to follow Mar and Joan, suspecting that the old woman had been left behind. There she was! Aledis was overcome with emotion when she saw her clinging to the only support she could find: she looked so old, frail, and helpless ...

Aledis ran toward her at the very moment the Inquisition guards finally dared poke their noses outside the bishop’s palace, as the shouts of the crowd died away in the distance. Francesca was standing only a few steps away.

“Witch!” the first soldier spat at her.

Aledis came to an abrupt halt a few steps from them.

“Let her be,” shouted Aledis. Several more soldiers had come running out of the palace. “Leave her alone or I’ll call the host,” she threatened them, pointing toward the last backs disappearing down Calle del Bisbe.

Some of the soldiers followed her gaze, but another one drew his sword.

“The inquisitor will be pleased with the death of a witch,” he said.

Francesca did not even look at them. She was staring intently at the woman running toward her. How many years had they spent together? How much suffering had they seen?

“Leave her, you dogs!” shouted Aledis, stepping back and pointing toward the host once more. She wanted to run and fetch them, but the soldier had already lifted his sword high over Francesca’s head. The blade seemed bigger than she did. “Leave her!” Aledis shrieked.

Francesca saw Aledis cover her face in her hands and sink to her knees. She had taken her in all those years ago in Figueres, and ever since ... Was she going to die without one last embrace?

The soldier had drawn back his arm to strike when Francesca’s cold eyes stopped him in his tracks.

“Swords can’t kill witches,” she warned him in an even voice. The blade wavered in his hand. What was she saying? “Only fire can purify a witch at death.” Could it be true? The soldier turned to his companions for support, but they were already backing away. “If you kill me with your sword, I’ll pursue you for the rest of your life—all of you!” None of them could have imagined that the threat they had just heard could come from such a shriveled old body. Aledis looked up. “I’ll pursue you,” hissed Francesca. “I’ll pursue your wives, your children, and your children’s children, and their wives too! A curse on all of you!” For the first time since she had left the palace, Francesca felt strong enough to move away from the wall. By now, the other soldiers had retreated back into the palace, leaving the one with his raised sword all on his own. “I curse you,” Francesca said, pointing her finger at him. “If you kill me, your corpse will never find rest. I’ll turn into a thousand worms and devour you. I’ll make your eyes mine for all eternity.”