“Who else could tell your son of the battles I’ve seen?”
Hasdai smiled and held out his hand. Arnau took it.
“CASTELL-ROSSELLÓ WAS A mighty fortress ...” Little Jucef sat opposite Arnau in the garden behind the Crescases’ house, legs crossed and eyes wide open. He loved to hear the bastaix’s stories—alert when he was listening to details of the sieges, anxious during the fighting, smiling once victory had been won.
“The defenders fought valiantly,” Arnau told him, “but we soldiers of King Pedro were too strong for them ...”
When he had finished, Jucef was desperate to hear another tale. Arnau told him both true and invented ones. “I attacked only two castles,” he almost confessed. “The rest of the time we plundered the land and tore up the crops ... except for the fig trees.”
“Do you like figs, Jucef?” he asked him instead, remembering the twisted branches rising out of a devastated landscape.
“That’s enough, Jucef,” his father told him, coming into the garden and hearing his son insist on being told yet another story. “Go to bed now.” Jucef obediently left his father and Arnau. “Why did you ask the boy if he liked figs?”
“It’s a long story.”
Without a word, Hasdai sat opposite him in a seat. “Tell me,” his eyes said.
“We destroyed everything,” Arnau said, after briefly describing what had happened, “except for the fig trees. It’s absurd, isn’t it? We laid waste to the land, but in the midst of all that destruction, a solitary fig tree still stood, as though it were looking at us and asking what we were doing.”
Arnau was lost in the maze of his memories, and Hasdai could not bring himself to interrupt him.
“It was a meaningless war,” concluded the bastaix.
“But the following year,” said Hasdai, “the king regained Roussillon. Jaime of Mallorca knelt bareheaded before him and surrendered his armies. Perhaps that first war you were involved in helped to—”
“To kill peasants, children, and poor people of hunger,” Arnau cut in. “It may have meant that Jaime’s army had no provisions, but a lot of innocent people had to die for that. We’re nothing more than playthings in the hands of our nobles. They settle their affairs without caring how much death or misery they bring to other people.”
Hasdai sighed. “Don’t I know it? We’re royal property. We belong to him...”
“I went to war to fight, and in the end all I did was burn poor people’s houses.”
The two men sat for a while lost in thought.
“Well,” said Arnau at length, “now you know the story of the fig trees.”
Hasdai got up and patted Arnau on the shoulder. Then he suggested they go inside. “It’s grown cooler,” he said, glancing up at the sky.
WHEN JUCEF LEFT them on their own, Arnau also talked to Raquel in the small back garden. Instead of talking about the war, Arnau liked to describe his life as a bastaix, and to tell her about Santa Maria.
“We don’t believe Jesus Christ was the Messiah. He still hasn’t come: the Jewish people are still waiting for him,” Raquel explained on one occasion.
“They say you killed him.”
“That’s not true!” she replied, upset. “It’s us who have always been killed and driven out, wherever we tried to settle!”
“They say,” insisted Arnau, “that at Easter you sacrifice a Christian child. You eat his heart and limbs as part of your rituals.”
Raquel shook her head vigorously. “That’s nonsense! You yourself have seen we don’t eat any meat that isn’t kosher, and that our religion doesn’t allow us to drink any blood: what would we do with a child’s heart, let alone his arms or legs? You know my father and Saul’s; can you imagine them eating a child?”
Arnau thought about Hasdai’s face and his wise words; he recalled his patience and the way his eyes shone whenever he looked at his children. How could such a man ever eat the heart of a child?
“What about the host?” he asked Raquel. “They also say you steal them to torture them and make Christ suffer again.”
Raquel waved her hands in denial. “We Jews don’t believe in transubs ...” She snapped her fingers in frustration. She always stumbled over that word whenever she talked about it with her father! “Transubstantiation,” she said quickly.
“In what?”
“In transubs ... stantiation. To you it means that your Jesus Christ is present in the host, that it really is his body. We don’t believe that. To Jews, your host is nothing more than a piece of bread. So it would be stupid of us to torture a bit of bread, wouldn’t it?”
“So nothing you are accused of is true?”
“Nothing.”
Arnau wanted to believe Raquel, especially when she stared at him wide-eyed, begging him to reject the prejudices the Christians held about her community and its beliefs.
“But you are usurers. That’s something you can’t deny.”
Raquel was about to respond, when they both heard her father’s voice.
“No, we are not usurers,” said Hasdai, interrupting them and sitting down next to his daughter. “At least not in the way it is usually meant.” Arnau waited for him to go on. “Look, until a little more than a century ago, in the year 1230, Christians also lent money and charged interest. Both Jews and Christians did so, until a decree from your Pope Gregory the Ninth forbade Christians to make money in this way. Since then, only Jews and a few other groups such as the Lombards have been able to do so. But for twelve hundred years, you Christians lent money with interest. It’s only been a little more than a hundred years that you haven’t been permitted to officially,” said Hasdai, stressing the word, “and yet you condemn us as usurers.”
“Officially?”
“Yes, officially. There are many Christians who lend money using us as intermediaries. But anyway, I wanted to explain to you why we do it. Throughout history, wherever we Jews have been, we’ve depended on the king. We’ve been expelled from many countries; first from our own lands, then from Egypt; later on, in 1183, from France, and some time afterward, in 1290, from England. Jewish communities were forced to emigrate from one country to another. They had to leave all their possessions behind, and to beg permission to settle from the rulers of the countries where they arrived. In response, the kings, as had happened here in Catalonia, took over the Jewish communities and demanded heavy contributions for their wars and other expenses. If we did not make any profits from our money, we wouldn’t be able to fulfill your kings’ exorbitant demands, and we would end up being thrown out yet again.”
“But it’s not only kings you lend money to,” Arnau insisted.
“No, that’s true. And do you know why?” Arnau shook his head. “Because the kings never repay our loans. On the contrary, they are always asking for more and more money for their wars and other extravagances. We have to make money somehow to lend them, or to make a generous contribution when it turns out not to be a loan.”
“You can’t refuse?”
“They would expel us ... or worse, they wouldn’t defend us from Christians attacking us as they did in this city. We would all die.” This time, Arnau nodded, bringing a smile of satisfaction to Raquel’s face when she saw that her father was succeeding in convincing him. Arnau himself had been a witness to how the enraged Barcelona mob had howled their anger against the Jews. “Anyway, remember that we don’t lend money to any Christians who aren’t either merchants or have permits to buy and sell. Almost a century ago, your King Jaime the Conqueror brought in a law that said that whatever commission or deposit made by a Jew to anyone who was not a merchant was to be considered false, invented by the Jews, which means we cannot make a claim against anyone who isn’t a merchant. We can’t place commissions or deposits with anyone but merchants—otherwise we would never see our money again.”
“What’s the difference?”
“It’s completely different, Arnau. You Christians are proud that you follow the dictates of your religio
n by not lending money for interest, and it’s true that you don’t do it; not openly, at least. Yet you do lend money, but call it something else. Before the Church forbade loans with interest between Christians, business went on much as it does now between Jews and merchants: there were Christians with a lot of money who lent it to other Christians, the merchants—and they repaid the capital with interest.”
“What happened when it was forbidden to lend with interest?”
“It’s simple. As ever, you Christians found a way round the Church’s prohibition. It was obvious that no Christian was going to lend money to another one without making money, as the Church intended. If that were the case, he might as well keep his money and not run any risk. That was when you Christians invented the idea of the commission. Have you heard about that?”
“Yes,” Arnau admitted. “In the port they talk a lot about commissions when a boat loaded with goods arrives, but the truth is, I’ve never really understood what it means.”
“It’s not hard. A commission is nothing more than a loan with interest ... but in another guise. Someone, usually a money changer, lends money to a merchant for him to buy or sell goods. Once the operation is complete, the merchant has to give back the same amount to the money changer, plus a part of the profits he has made. It’s exactly the same as a loan with interest, but called by another name. The Christian who lends the money is making a profit, which is what the Church wants to prohibit—that profit comes from money and not from work. You Christians carry on doing exactly as you did a hundred years ago, before gaining interest from money was forbidden. Only now you call it something different. And when we Jews lend money for a deal, we are usurers, whereas if a Christian makes money through a commission, that’s fine.”
“Is there really no difference?”
“Just one: in commissions, the person who lends the money runs the same risk over the deal: in other words, if the merchant does not come back or loses his goods—if, for example, his ship is attacked by pirates, then the person making the loan loses too. The same isn’t true of a loan as such, because in that case the merchant would still be obliged to return the money plus interest. In reality though, it’s exactly the same, because a merchant who has lost his goods cannot pay us anyway, and we Jews have to fit in with customary practice: merchants want commissions without risk, and we have to accept them because if we didn’t, we would not make enough money to pay what your kings demand. Do you understand now?”
“We Christians do not give loans with interest, but offer commissions, which comes down to the same thing,” Arnau said.
“Exactly. What your Church is trying to prevent is not interest in itself, but making a profit by using money, not by working for it. And they prohibit loans only to those who are not kings, the nobility, or knights: a Christian can lend any of them what is known as a soft loan, because the Church considers this must be for war, and that makes the interest gained right and proper.”
“But only Christian money changers do that,” Arnau argued. “You can’t judge all Christians by what a few—”
“Make no mistake, Arnau,” Hasdai warned him, smiling and raising a finger. “Those money changers get money from Christians, and use it to set up commissions. If they make money from them, they have to repay those Christians who gave them the money in the first place. The money changers are the public face of this business, but the money comes from Christians—from all those who put money into their exchanges. Arnau, there is something that never changes throughout history: whoever has money wants more; a person like that has never given it away, and never will. If your bishops don’t do so, why should their flocks? Call it a loan, a commission, or whatever you like, but people never give something for nothing. And yet we Jews are the usurers.”
As they talked, night fell: a calm, starry Mediterranean night. For a while longer, the three of them sat enjoying the peace and tranquillity of the small back garden behind the Crescas family home. Eventually they were called in for supper, and for the first time since he had been living there, Arnau considered this Jewish family as being the same as him: people with different beliefs, but good people, as good and charitable as the most saintly of Christians. That evening he sat at Hasdai’s table and enjoyed to the full all the flavors of Jewish cooking served by the women of the house.
33
TIME WAS PASSING, and the situation was becoming uncomfortable for all of them. The news reaching the Jewish quarter about the plague was encouraging: cases were becoming rarer and rarer. Arnau needed to get back to his own house. The night before he left, he and Hasdai met in the garden. They tried to talk about unimportant things in a friendly way, but there was an air of sadness to the meeting, and they both avoided looking at each other.
“Sahat is yours,” Hasdai unexpectedly announced, handing over the documents that sealed the matter.
“What do I need a slave for? I won’t even be able to feed myself until our ships put to sea again, so how could I feed a slave? The guild does not allow slaves to work. No, I don’t need Sahat.”
“But you will need him,” Hasdai replied with a smile. “He belongs to you. Ever since Raquel and Jucef were born, Sahat had looked after them as though they were his own children, and I can assure you he loves them as if they were. Neither he nor I can ever repay you for what you did for them. We think that the best way to settle our debt is by making life easier for you. To do that, you will need Sahat’s help, and he is ready to give it.”
“Make life easier for me?”
“We both hope to help make you rich.”
Arnau smiled back at the man who was still his host.
“I’m nothing more than a bastaix. Wealth is for nobles and merchants.”
“You can have wealth too. I’ll provide the means for you to do so. If you act wisely and follow Sahat’s advice, I have no doubt you will become rich.” Arnau looked at him to learn more. “As you know,” said Hasdai, “the plague is slackening. There are fewer and fewer cases, but it has had terrible consequences. No one knows exactly how many people have died in Barcelona, but we do know that four of the five city councillors have perished. That could have disastrous consequences. As regards our affairs, a good number of these who died were money changers who worked in the city. I know, because I used to deal with them and they are no longer there. I think that if you were interested, you could become a money changer ...”
“I know nothing about business or changing money,” Arnau protested. “Besides, every professional in a trade has to pass an examination. I know nothing about any of that kind of thing.”
“Money changers don’t have to pass any test,” Hasdai replied. “I know the king has been asked to establish some rules, but he has not yet done so. Anyone can be a money changer, as long as your countinghouse has got sufficient backing. Sahat has got enough knowledge for both of you. He knows all there is to know about the business. He has been part of my own dealings for many years now. I bought him in the first place because he was already an expert. If you allow him to, he can teach you and you will soon prosper. He may be a slave, but he is someone you can trust; besides which, he feels an extra loyalty toward you because of what you did for my children. They’re the only persons he has ever loved. They are his entire family.” Hasdai looked inquiringly at Arnau through narrowed eyes. “Well?”
“I’m not sure ... ,” Arnau said doubtfully.
“You’ll be backed not only by me, but by all the other Jews who are aware of what you did. We are a grateful people, Arnau. Sahat knows all my agents throughout the Mediterranean, Europe, and in the Orient—even in the distant lands of the sultan of Egypt. You will start with a lot of support for your business, and you can count on all of us to help you. It’s a good offer, Arnau. You won’t have any problems.”
Unsure if he was doing the right thing, Arnau accepted. This was enough to set all the machinery Hasdai had already prepared into motion. First rule: nobody, absolutely nobody was to know that Arnau was being
helped by the Jews of Barcelona; that could only be used against him. Hasdai gave him a document that purported to show that all his funds came from a Christian widow living in Perpignan; this was the formal cover he needed.
“Should anyone ask,” Hasdai told him, “don’t say anything, but if they insist, tell them you have inherited it. You will need a lot of money to begin with,” he went on. “First of all you will need to underwrite your countinghouse with the Barcelona magistrates. That is a thousand silver marks. Then you will have to buy a house or the lease on a house in the money changers’ district, that is, either in Calle Canvis Veils or Canvis Nous, and equip it as befits your station. Finally, you will need more money to be able to start trading.”
Money changing? Why not? What was left of his old life? All the people he loved had died from the plague. Hasdai seemed convinced that with Sahat’s aid he could succeed. He had not the slightest idea of what a money changer’s life might be like: Hasdai assured him he would be rich, but what was it like to be rich? All of a sudden he remembered Grau, the only rich man he had ever known. He felt his stomach wrench. No, he would never be like Grau.
He underwrote his countinghouse with the thousand silver marks Hasdai gave him. He swore to the magistrates he would denounce any counterfeit money he came across—wondering to himself how on earth he would recognize it if by chance Sahat were not with him—and would slice it in two with the special shears all money changers kept for that purpose. The magistrate signed the enormous ledgers where he was to write down all his transactions, and, at a time when Barcelona was still in chaos following the effects of the bubonic plague, he was given official approval to operate as a money changer. The days and times when he was to keep his business open were also established.
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