winter when the supplies of grain ran out. What war? The one that bishops and cardinals had fought, acting as go-betweens for sly, scheming kings? The priest went on with his homily, but Arnau was not listening. Why had he been made to kill? What use were all those dead?
The mass ended. The soldiers split into small groups.
“What about the booty we were promised?”
“Perpignan is rich, very rich,” Arnau heard someone say.
“How is the king going to pay his soldiers now, when he did not have enough before?”
Arnau strolled among the different groups. What did he care about booty? What was important to him was the way the children had looked at him, like the one who, clutching his sister’s hand, had watched fearfully as Arnau and other soldiers trampled their vegetables and scattered the grain that was meant to feed them that winter. “Why?” his innocent eyes seemed to implore. “What harm have we done you?” The children had probably been left in charge of the vegetable patch: they stood rooted to the spot, tears rolling down their cheeks, until the great Catalan army had finished destroying their meager possessions. As they left, Arnau did not have the heart to cast them a backward glance.
The army was going home. The columns of soldiers filtered along the roads of Catalonia, still followed by all the hangers-on, prostitutes, and traders who had also seen their dreams of riches dashed.
BARCELONA DREW NEARER. The different hosts dispersed to return to the towns they had come from. Others were to cross the city. Arnau noticed that, like his companions, he had a new spring in his step. Some of the soldiers were smiling openly: they were going home. Maria’s face flashed into his mind. “All arranged,” he had been told. “Aledis will not trouble you anymore.” That was all he wanted, that was what had driven him to war.
Maria’s face smiled at him.
31
The end of March 1348
Barcelona
DAY WAS DAWNING. Arnau and the other bastaixos were waiting AY the water’s edge to unload a Mallorcan galley that had arrived during the night. The guild aldermen were organizing their men. The sea was calm, with the waves gently lapping the shore, calling the inhabitants of Barcelona to start their day. The sun’s rays were beginning to pick out colors on the rippling waters, and while the bastaixos waited for the boatmen to arrive with the ship’s cargo, they allowed themselves to be carried away by the magic of the moment, gazing at the distant horizon or mentally following the dancing waves.
“That’s odd,” said one of them. “They’re not unloading the ship.”
They all stared out at the galley. The boatmen had drawn alongside, but some of them were already heading back to the shore with empty vessels. Others were shouting to the sailors on board, some of whom dived into the sea and clambered aboard their craft. But no one was unloading any of the merchandise from the galley.
“The plague!” the first boatmen’s cries could be heard on the beach long before they landed. “The plague has reached Mallorca!”
Arnau shuddered. How could such a beautiful sea be bringing such dreadful news? If it had been a gray, stormy day ... but everything about this morning had seemed bathed in magic. For months there had been talk of the plague in Barcelona: it was ravaging the Orient and now was spreading west; whole communities had been wiped out.
“Perhaps it won’t reach Barcelona,” some said. “To do that, it would have to cross all the Mediterranean.”
“The sea will protect us,” said others.
For several months, everyone had wanted to believe that the plague would not reach Barcelona.
Mallorca, thought Arnau. The plague had reached Mallorca: it had crossed league upon league of the Mediterranean.
“The plague!” the boatmen repeated when they reached the shore.
The bastaixos crowded round them to hear the news. The galley captain was in one of the boats.
“Take me to the magistrate and the city councillors,” he said, leaping ashore. “Quick about it!”
The aldermen did as he asked; the other bastaixos pressed round to hear what the newcomers had to say. “Hundreds are dying,” they were told. “It’s terrible. No one can do anything. Children, women, men, rich and poor, nobles and common people ... even animals are victims. The bodies are piling up in the streets and rotting. The authorities are at their wits’ end. People die within two days, howling with pain.” Some of the bastaixos ran off toward the city, shouting and waving their arms in the air. Arnau stayed to listen, horrified by what he heard. They said that those who caught the plague developed huge purulent ganglions on their necks, armpits, or groins, which grew until they burst.
The news spread quickly through the city. Many people ran down to the beach to hear it from the new arrivals, then swiftly ran back to their homes.
The whole of Barcelona became a hive of rumors: “When the ganglions burst, a host of devils come pouring out. The plague sufferers go mad and start biting others; that’s how the illness is spread. The eyes and genitals burst. If anyone looks at the ganglions, they catch it too. The victims have to be burned before they die; otherwise the disease attacks someone else. I’ve seen the plague!” Anyone who claimed this immediately became the center of attention: a crowd would gather round to hear that person’s story; after that, imagination magnified the horror as the details were repeated from mouth to mouth. The only precaution the city authorities could think of was to recommend strict measures of hygiene. In consequence, the inhabitants crowded into the public baths... and the churches. Masses, prayers, processions—nothing was enough to ward off the evil creeping ever nearer to the city. After a fearful month’s wait, the plague reached Barcelona.
The first case was a caulker who worked in the royal shipyard. When the doctors came to see him, all they could do was confirm what they had read in books and medical treatises.
“They’re the size of small tangerines,” said one, pointing to the large swellings on the man’s neck.
“They’re black, hard, and hot to the touch,” added a second doctor.
“Cold cloths for his fever.”
