“He’s a warrior,” Jucef said on one occasion, his eyes wide open in amazement.
“I’m sure he has been,” agreed Sahat.
“He said he was a
“In the cemetery, he told us he was a warrior. Perhaps he’s a warrior bastaix.”
“He only said it to keep you quiet.”
“I would wager he is a
“He’s a warrior,” the young boy insisted.
“I don’t know, Jucef.” The slave ruffled his black locks. “Why don’t we wait until he’s better and can tell us himself?”
“Will he get better?”
“Of course. When have you heard of a warrior dying from a leg wound?”
After the children left, Sahat would go up to Arnau and touch his burning brow. “It’s not only the children who are alive thanks to you, Christian. Why did you do it? What drove you to risk your life for a slave and three Jewish children? Live! You must live! I want to be able to talk to you, to thank you. Besides, Hasdai is very rich; I’m sure he will want to reward you.”
A few days later, Arnau began to recover. One morning, Sahat found that his fever was noticeably lower.
“Allah, whose name be praised, has heard my prayers.”
Hasdai smiled when he was able to confirm the improvement.
“He will live,” he went so far as to tell his children.
“Will he tell me about his battles?”
“Son, I’m not sure ...”
But Jucef started to imitate Arnau, whirling the dagger about to take on an imaginary group of attackers. Just as he was about to slash the wounded man’s throat, his sister grasped him by the arm.
“Jucef!” she said to him sternly.
They turned to look at Arnau, and saw him staring at them from the bed. Jucef was terrified.
“How do you feel?” Hasdai asked him.
Arnau tried to answer, but his mouth was too dry. Sahat gave him a glass of water.
“Good,” he managed to say after a few sips. “What about the children?”
Pushed forward by their father, Jucef and Raquel came to his bedside. Arnau tried to smile.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello,” they replied.
“What about Saul?”
“He’s well,” Hasdai reassured him. “But now you must rest. Come on, children.”
“When you’re better, will you tell me all about your battles?” Jucef asked before his father and sister dragged him out of the room.
Arnau nodded, and smiled again.
Over the next week, the fever completely disappeared, and the wound began to heal. Arnau and Sahat talked whenever the bastaix felt strong enough.
“Thank you,” were his first words to the Moorish slave.
“You’ve already thanked me, remember? Why ... why did you rescue us?”
“The boy’s eyes ... My wife would never have allowed me to ...”
“Maria?” asked Sahat, remembering how Arnau had said the name during his delirium.
“Yes,” said Arnau.
“Would you like us to tell her you are here?” Arnau’s mouth tightened and he shook his head. “Is there anyone you’d like us to tell?” When he saw Arnau’s sorrowful expression, the slave did not insist.
“How did the siege of the Jewry end?” Arnau asked him on another occasion.
“Two hundred men and women murdered. Lots of houses looted or burned.”
“That’s terrible!”
“It’s not as bad as it might have been,” Sabat insisted. Arnau cast him a surprised glance. “We were lucky in the Barcelona Jewry. From the Orient to Castille, Jews have been slaughtered without mercy. More than three hundred communities have been completely destroyed. In Germany, Emperor Charles the Fourth promised a personal pardon to any criminal who killed a Jew or helped destroy a Jewry. Can you imagine what would have happened in Barcelona if instead of protecting us, your king had granted a pardon to everyone who killed a Jew?” Arnau closed his eyes and shook his head. “In Mainz, they burned six thousand Jews at the stake. In Strasbourg, they burned two thousand in a huge funeral pyre in the Jewish cemetery, including women and children. Two thousand at once...”
THE CHILDREN WERE allowed in Arnau’s room only when Hasdai was visiting him and could see they did not disturb
