Cathedral of the Sea by Ildefonso Falcones

over the bowl and walked back to the workshop. The fact that they had been listed on the citizens’ roll meant that Llorenç de Bellera had not denounced them to the authorities, and there was no warrant for his arrest. “Could the lad in the forge have survived?” he wondered. Even so ... “You can keep our lands, Lord de Bellera. We’ll keep our freedom,” Bernat muttered defiantly.
    When they saw Bernat arrive wreathed in smiles, all Grau’s slaves and even Jaume interrupted their tasks. There were still traces of Habiba’s blood on the ground. Grau had ordered that they should not be cleaned up. Bernat’s face fell as he tried to avoid them.

    “ARNAU,” HE WHISPERED to his son that night as they lay on the pallet they shared.
    “What is it, Father?”
    “We are free citizens of Barcelona.”
    Arnau did not reply. Bernat felt for his son’s head and stroked it. He knew how little this meant to a boy who had been robbed of his happiness. Bernat listened to the slaves’ breathing and went on stroking his son’s curls, but a sudden doubt assailed him: would the boy agree to work for Grau one day? That night it took Bernat a long time to get to sleep.
    At first light each day when the men began their tasks, Arnau would leave Grau’s workshop. And every morning, Bernat tried to talk to him and encourage him. You ought to make some friends, he tried to tell him once, but before he could do so, Arnau turned his back on him and walked wearily out into the street. “Enjoy your freedom, my son,” he wanted to tell him another time, but the boy just stood there looking at him, and when he opened his mouth to speak he noticed a tear rolling down Arnau’s cheek. Bernat knelt down. All he could do was hug the boy. Then he watched as he crossed the yard, dragging his feet. As he tried to avoid Habiba’s bloodstains, the sound of Grau’s whip echoed in Bernat’s mind. Bernat promised himself he would never back down when threatened by the whip in the future: once was enough.
    Bernat ran after his son, who looked round when he heard him. When he reached him, his father began to scrape the beaten earth with his foot where the traces of the Moorish slave girl’s blood still showed. Arnau’s face brightened. Bernat scraped even more determinedly.
    “What are you doing?” Jaume shouted from the far end of the yard.
    Bernat froze. The sound of the whip echoed even more loudly in his mind.
    “Father.”
    Arnau used his rope sandal to push away the small pile of earth Bernat had raised.
    “What are you doing, Bernat?” Jaume repeated.
    Bernat said nothing. Several seconds went by. Jaume turned and saw all the slaves standing there, staring at him.
    “Bring some water, son,” said Bernat, seeing Jaume hesitate.
    Arnau hurried off. This was the first time in months his father had seen him run. Jaume nodded.
    On their knees, father and son silently scraped at the earth until all traces of injustice were removed.
    “Go and play now,” Bernat told him once they had finished.
    Arnau looked down. He would have liked to ask his father who he was meant to play with. Bernat ruffled his hair before pushing him toward the gate. As he did every day, once he was out in the street Arnau walked round the house and climbed a leafy tree that grew above the garden wall. Hidden among the branches, he waited for his cousins and Guiamona to come out.
    “Why don’t you love me anymore?” he muttered to himself. “It wasn’t my fault.”
    His cousins looked happy. Over time, Guiamon’s death had faded in their memory; it was only on their mother’s face that the pain was still visible. Josep and Genis were pretending to fight. Margarida watched them, sitting to one side with her mother, who had her arms round her. Concealed in his tree, Arnau felt a stab of nostalgia as he remembered how that felt.
    Morning after morning, Arnau would climb the same tree.
    “Don’t they love you anymore?” he heard someone ask one day.
    Arnau