“Come with me, Arnau,” said the priest, who had joined him again.
Arnau shook his head. Father Albert was about to say something, but a sudden shout silenced him. The families of the other victims were arriving in the square. Mothers, wives, children, and brothers flocked round the hanged men. They were silent except for the occasional howl of grief. The soldier went on his way again, trying to remember the war cries of the heathen foe. Joan, who had to pass through the square on his way home, saw the terrible spectacle and fainted. He did not even have time to notice Arnau, who still sat in the same spot, rocking himself back and forth. Joan’s schoolmates picked him up and took him into the bishop’s palace. Arnau did not see his brother either.
The hours went by. Arnau was oblivious to the comings and goings of townspeople visiting the square out of a sense of pity or morbid curiosity. Only the sound of the soldier’s boots pacing up and down seemed to bring him out of himself.
“Arnau, I gave up everything I had for you to be free. Although they had belonged to the Estanyol family for centuries, I left our lands so that nobody could do to you what they had done to me, to my father and my father’s father ... and now we’re back in the same situation, at the mercy of people who call themselves noble. But there’s a big difference: we can say no. My son, learn to use the freedom it’s cost us so much to win. You and only you can decide.”
“Is it true we can refuse, Father?” The soldier’s boots passed in front of his eyes once more. “Where there is hunger there is no freedom. You aren’t hungry anymore, Father. What about our freedom?”
“Take a good look at them, children.”
That voice ...
“They are criminals. Take a good look.” For the first time, Arnau lifted his head and looked at the people who had come to see the hanged men. The baroness and her three stepchildren were peering at Bernat Estanyol’s contorted features. Arnau stared first at Margarida’s feet, then at her face. His cousins had gone pale, but the baroness was smiling and looking directly at him. Arnau got shakily to his feet. “They didn’t deserve to be citizens of Barcelona,” he heard Isabel say. He dug his fingers into the palms of his hands; he flushed and felt his bottom lip start to tremble. The baroness was still smiling: “What else could one expect from a runaway serf?”
Arnau was about to throw himself at the baroness. But the soldier moved to intercept him.
“Is something wrong, my lad?” The soldier followed Arnau’s gaze. “I wouldn’t do it, if I were you,” he warned. Arnau tried to get round him, but the soldier grabbed his elbow. Isabel was no longer smiling, but stood there stiffly arrogant, challenging him to attack her. “I wouldn’t do it, if I were you. That would be the end of you,” Arnau heard the man say. He looked up at him. “Your father is dead,” the soldier insisted. “You aren’t. Sit down again.” The soldier could feel Arnau stop straining against him. “Sit down,” he repeated.
Arnau gave way, and the soldier stood beside him.
“Take a good look at them, children,” said the baroness again, the smile back on her face. “We’ll come here again tomorrow. The hanged men will be here until they rot, just like all runaway criminals should be left to rot.”
Arnau could feel his lower lip tremble uncontrollably. He stared at the Puig family until the baroness decided to turn her back on him.
“Someday ... someday I’ll see you dead... I’ll see you all dead,” he promised himself. Arnau’s hatred pursued the baroness and her stepchildren across Plaza del Blat. She had said she would be back the next day. Arnau looked up at his father’s body.
“I swear to God they will never rejoice again at the sight of you, but what can I do?” He saw the soldier’s boots pass in front of his face once more. “Father, I won’t allow your body to rot here on the end of a rope.”
Arnau spent several hours trying to think how he could remove his father’s corpse, but all his plans came up against the boots marching past him. He could not even get Bernat down without being seen: at night they were bound to have torches lit ... torches lit ... torches lit? At that precise moment he saw Joan come into the square. White as a sheet, with bloodshot eyes swollen from tears, his brother wearily came across to him. Arnau stood up, and Joan flung himself into his arms.
“Arnau ... I... ,” he stuttered.
“Listen to me,” Arnau said, still clinging to him, “Keep on crying ...”
“I couldn’t stop if I wanted to,” thought Joan, surprised at the tone of his brother’s voice.
“Tonight at ten o’clock I want you to hide on the corner of Calle de la Mar and the square. Make sure nobody sees you. Bring ... bring a blanket. The biggest one you can find at Pere’s house. Now go home.”
“But ...”
“Go home, Joan. I don’t want the soldiers to get a good look at you.”
Arnau had to push his brother away from him. Joan stared first at his brother’s face, then up at their father’s body. He started shaking with sobs.
“Go home, Joan.”
That night, when the only people left in the square were the relatives grouped underneath the swinging corpses, there was a change of guard. The new soldiers stopped patrolling round the bodies, and instead sat by a fire they had lit at one end of the line of carts. Everything was quiet in the cool of the night. Arnau stood up and walked past the soldiers, trying to conceal his features.
“I’m going to get a blanket,” he told them.
One of them glanced across at him.
He crossed Plaza del Blat to the corner of Calle de la Mar. He stood there a few moments, wondering what had happened to Joan. It was ten o’clock: where had he got to? Arnau called out softly. Silence.
“Joan?” he whispered.
A shadow emerged from a doorway opposite.
“Arnau?” he heard in the darkness.
