a freeman, my son.”
Bernat was certain they could hide in the city. He would look for his sister. But first he had to get in through a city gate. What if the lord of Navarcles had sent out a description of him? That birthmark of his ... But during the three nights of his walk down from the hills, he had been devising a plan. He sat on the ground and picked up a hare he had shot with his crossbow. He slit its throat and let the blood drip onto the small pile of sand he had cupped in his hand. He stirred blood and sand together and, as the mixture dried, spread it around his right eye. Then he put the hare back in his sack.
As soon as he could feel that the mixture had dried, and he could no longer see out of his eye, he set off down the hill toward the Santa Anna gateway, on the northernmost side of the western wall. Lots of people were lined up to get into the city. Arnau was awake by now, and Bernat carried on stroking his head as he slipped in among the crowd, dragging his feet as he did so. A barefoot peasant bent double under an enormous sack of turnips turned toward him. Bernat smiled at him.
“A leper!” shouted the peasant, dropping his sack and jumping out of his way.
To his astonishment, Bernat saw the whole line of people in front of the gate rushing to one side or the other, leaving the track littered with sacks, food, a couple of carts, and several mules. Even the blind men clustered around the Santa Anna gateway began to stir.
Arnau started to cry, and Bernat saw some of the soldiers at the gate draw their swords, while others made to close the heavy wooden doors.
“Go to the lazaretto!” someone shouted at him.
“But it’s not leprosy!” Bernat protested. “I simply got a branch in my eye! Look!” He lifted his arms and waved them about. Then, carefully placing Arnau on the ground, he started to take off his clothes. “Look!” he repeated, showing everybody his strong, healthy body, with no signs of disease or wounds. “Look! I’m a peasant farmer, but I need a doctor to cure my eye, or otherwise I won’t be able to work.”
An official pushed one of the soldiers toward him. He came to a halt a few paces from Bernat and surveyed him.
“Turn round,” he said, gesturing with his finger.
Bernat did as he was told. The soldier looked him up and down, then shook his head to the official. Another man at the gateway pointed with his sword toward the bundle at Bernat’s feet.
“What about the boy?”
Bernat bent down to pick Arnau up. He stripped off his clothes with his right side pressed against him, then held him up horizontally, holding him by the side of his head so that no one would spot the birthmark.
Looking back at the gate, the soldier shook his head once more.
“Cover that wound,” he said. “If you don’t, you won’t get anywhere in the city.”
The line re-formed outside the gate, which swung open. The peasant with the turnips picked up his sack again, avoiding looking at Bernat.
Bernat passed through the gateway with one of Arnau’s shirts covering his right eye. The soldiers gazed after him, but made no move to follow him. Leaving Santa Anna church on his left, he followed the rush of people into the city. He turned right into the Plaza Santa Anna, looking down at the ground the whole time. As the peasants spread out through the streets, gradually Bernat saw fewer and fewer bare feet, or rope and leather sandals, until all at once he found himself staring at a pair of legs covered in flame red stockings, with tight-fitting shoes, made entirely of some fine material, that ended in such long points that at the end of each of them was a tiny golden chain that led back to the ankles.
Bernat raised his eyes, and found himself staring at a man wearing an elaborate hat. He was dressed in a black robe shot through with gold and silver threads, a belt also decorated with gold, and leather straps sparkling with pearls and other precious stones. Bernat stood there openmouthed, but the man looked past him as if he did not even exist.
Bernat hesitated, lowered his eyes once more, then gave a sigh of relief. The man had not given him so much as a second look, so he continued on his way down toward the cathedral, which was still under construction. Bit by bit, he plucked up the courage to look around. Nobody seemed to pay him any attention. He stood watching the workmen swarming round the cathedral: some were hewing stone, others were climbing the tall scaffolding that covered the building, still more were hauling on ropes to lift blocks of stone ... Arnau began to whimper, demanding his attention.
“Tell me,” he said to a passing workman, “how can I find the potters’ quarter?” He knew his sister Guiamona was married to one.
“Carry on down this street,” the man said hastily, “until you reach the next square, the Plaza Sant Jaume. There’s a fountain in the middle. There you turn right and continue until you come to the new wall, at the Boqueria gate. Don’t go out into the Raval neighborhood. Instead, walk alongside the wall until you reach the next gateway, Trentaclaus. That’s where you’ll find the potters.”
Bernat struggled to remember all these different names, but just as he was about to ask the man to repeat them, he discovered he had already disappeared.
“Carry on down this street to the Plaza San Jaume,” he whispered to Arnau. “That much I remember. And once we’re in the square, we have to turn right again ... That’s it, isn’t it, son?”
Arnau always stopped crying when he heard his father’s voice. “Now what do we do?” Bernat said out loud. They were in a different square, the Plaza Sant Miquel. “That man only mentioned one square, but we can’t have made a mistake.” Bernat tried to ask a couple of passersby, but none of them stopped. “Everyone is in such a hurry,” he complained to his son. At that moment, he caught sight of a man standing by the entrance to ... a castle? “Ah, there’s someone who doesn’t seem to be rushing anywhere ... Begging your pardon,” he said, touching the man’s black cloak from behind.
Even Arnau, strapped tightly to his father’s chest, seemed to give a start when Bernat jumped back as the man turned round.
The old Jewish man shook his head wearily. He knew that Bernat’s reaction was the result of the Christian priests’ fiery sermons.
“What is it?” he asked.
