“Of course it’s me.” Joan’s sigh of relief was clearly audible.
“Who did you think it was? Why didn’t you answer me at first?”
“It’s very dark,” was Joan’s only reply.
“Have you brought the blanket?” The shadowy figure lifted a bundle. “Good. I’ve already told them I was going to fetch one. I want you to wrap it round you, and go and take my place. Walk on tiptoe so you look taller.”
“What are you planning to do?”
“I’m going to burn him,” Arnau said when Joan was beside him. “I want you to take my place. I want the soldiers to think you’re me. All you have to do is sit underneath ... sit where I was, and do nothing. Just keep your face concealed, and don’t move. Whatever you see, whatever happens, don’t move. Is that clear?” He did not wait for Joan to answer. “When it’s all over, you will be me. You’ll be Arnau Estanyol, your father’s only son. Do you understand that? If the soldiers ask ...”
“Arnau.”
“What is it?”
“I can’t do it.”
“Wh ... what?”
“I can’t do it. They’ll find me out. When I see our farher ...”
“Do you prefer to see him rot? Do you prefer to see him hanging at the city gate for the crows and worms to devour his body?” Arnau waited, giving his brother time to imagine the scene for himself. “Do you want the baroness to go on mocking him even after his death?”
“Isn’t this a sin?” Joan suddenly asked.
Arnau tried to catch his brother’s features in the darkness, but could see only a shadow.
“His only crime was to be hungry! I don’t know if this is a sin, but I will not let our father’s body rot, dangling from a rope. I’m going to do it. If you want to help, wrap yourself in that blanket and sit still. If you don’t ...”
At that, Arnau headed off down Calle de la Mar, while Joan walked across Plaza del Blat. He wrapped the blanket round himself and stared up at Bernat: one ghost among ten dangling from the carts, dimly lit by the glow from the bonfire the soldiers had made. Joan did not want to see his face. He did not want to have to look at his purple, lolling tongue, but despite himself he found he could not take his eyes off Bernat. The soldiers watched as he approached.
Arnau ran to Pere’s house. He found his waterskin and poured the contents out. Then he filled it with the oil from the lamps. Sitting by the hearth in their kitchen, Pere and his wife looked on.
“I don’t exist,” he told them in a faint voice. He took Mariona’s hand as she gazed affectionately at him. “Joan is to be me. My father had only one son ... Take care of him if anything happens.”
“But, Arnau—” Pere started to say.
“Shhh!” hissed Arnau.
“What are you going to do?” the old man insisted.
“What I have to,” said Arnau, getting up.
“I don’t exist. I am Arnau Estanyol.” The soldiers were still watching him. “Burning a body must be a sin,” thought Joan. Bernat was staring at him! Joan came to a halt a few paces from the hanged man. “Arnau’s given me that idea.”
“You there, is something wrong?” said one of the soldiers, making to stand up.
“No, nothing,” Joan replied, renewing his walk toward the dead eyes that seemed to follow him everywhere.
Arnau picked up the lamp and ran out of the house. He found some mud and smeared it on his face. How often his father had talked to him about this city that now had brought about his death. He went around Plaza del Blat by La Llet and La Corretgeria squares, until he was at the end of Calle Tapineria, right next to the line of carts with the hanged men. Joan was sitting beneath their father’s body, trying to stop shaking so as not to give himself away.
Arnau hid the lantern in the street, slung the waterskin across his back, and started to crawl toward the far side of the carts drawn up against the palace wall. Bernat was in the fourth one. The soldiers were still talking round their fire at the opposite end of the line. Arnau crawled behind the carts. As he reached the second one, a woman saw him; her eyes were puffy from crying. Arnau paused, but the woman looked away and went on weeping. He climbed up on the cart where his father was hanging. Joan heard him, and turned round.
“Don’t look!” His brother lowered his gaze. “And try not to shake so much!”
Arnau stretched up toward his father’s body, but a sudden noise made him crouch down again. He waited a few moments, and stood up once more; again he heard a noise, but this time he remained upright. The soldiers were still talking to one another. Arnau raised the waterskin and began to pour oil over his father’s body. Bernat’s head was too high for him to reach, so he stretched up as far as he could and squeezed the skin hard so that the oil shot out. A greasy patch of oil began to soak Bernat’s hair. When the skin was empty, Arnau headed back to Calle Tapineria.
He would have only one chance. Arnau hid the lamp behind his back to conceal its weak flame. “I have to get it right the first time.” He looked over at the soldiers. Now it was his turn to tremble. He took a deep breath and stepped into the square. Bernat and Joan were ten paces from him. He lifted the lamp, casting light over himself. As he entered the square the lamplight seemed to him as bright as a radiant dawn. The soldiers looked in his direction. Arnau was about to start running when he realized that none of them was stirring. “Why would they? How are they supposed to know I’m going to burn my father? Burn my father!” The lantern shook in his hand. With the soldiers looking on, he reached Joan. Nobody moved. Arnau came to a halt beneath Bernat’s dangling body and looked up at him one last time. Oil glistened on his face, hiding the terror and pain so evident there before.
Arnau threw the lamp at the body. Bernat started to burn. The soldiers leapt up, glancing at the flames as
