The Lions of Catalunya

by Jeremy D. Rowe

“What has happened to Chief Minister Casanova?” demanded Perez, in Catalan.

  “What did he say?” the soldier asked his companion.

  “No idea,” replied the other. “He doesn’t speak Spanish. Perhaps a little more water would help him.”

  The gag was pushed back in, and more water poured into the funnel. Perez’s eyes opened wide as the water filled his lungs, and with a great coughing and shuddering, he died.

  “Fool,” spat one of the Botfliers. “You’ve killed him before he said a word,” and he struck the gaoler hard enough to make him fall forward over Perez’s body. “They will not be pleased with you upstairs.” Turning to the Mossos, he instructed them to kill the gaoler for his carelessness and the bullet which despatched the unfortunate man, passed clean through Perez’s body as well. The gaoler’s body was slumped over Perez. The Botflier picked up the remains of the mangled and bloody senyera, and threw it over the bodies. “Pity,” he said. “He was a brave man.” Thus, in filth and squalor, did end the life of Perez Blanxart.

  His son, Rafael, lost in the midst of the shanty town in the dunes, knew nothing of what was happening in the cellars of the Generalitat, and lay behind the shrine, waiting for something to happen. There was no sign of life in the immediate area and after a while he became bored with the inaction and cautiously stood up. Beyond the shrine he could see life stirring in the dunes. Here and there small fires produced wisps of smoke, and small figures in the distance scurried to and fro starting their day of scrounging and begging. He lay back against the slope of the dune, the coarse cloth securing the sword digging into him. He held the sword, the steel warm from his body, hard beneath his clothes. Somehow, grasping it this way gave him security and courage.

  The sound of approaching horses sent him diving for cover, and he watched as a small troop of Mossos came by, nodding and crossing themselves as they passed the shrine, and failing completely to notice the hidden fugitive. He spent the day watching the life of the shanty town, and cowering behind the shrine whenever anyone came near. He munched the dried meat and bread he found in the bundle his grandmother had given him, and waited.

  He was becoming increasingly anxious as night started to fall, the lack of information gnawing at him. So long without news of the family, and especially of his father, left him imagining all kinds of horrors. With the twilight it was harder to see who was coming, and he was startled when two small people in black cloaks suddenly appeared at the side of the shrine. Throwing off their hoods, two of his younger sisters laughed quietly at his alarm. “Mother said you would be here,” they giggled, “hiding behind Sant Miquel.”

  “What news?” demanded Rafael.

  “None yet,” replied the older of the two, suddenly serious. “No word from the Generalitat about father, and the rest of us are barricaded into the house. Mother and grandmother will go to the city in the morning to try to find where father is. They say that you must stay here.”

  “How did you find me so easily?” asked Rafael.

  “We used to play in these dunes when you were working with father in the shop. If ever we got lost, we would come back to Sant Miquel, and then we would know where we are.”

  “How will you get home? Is the curfew in place? You’ll be shot, even if you are children.”

  “Rafael,” said his sister severely, “we will be safe. We know the ways round here far better than the soldiers from Madrid, probably much better than you, and we know all the alleys and lanes of our slum. They will not catch us. Mother knows we can be relied on to find you. We will keep you safe whilst you hide here. Now, you must change your clothes. That’s what mother said. Here is a bundle of rags to put on. She says don’t wash, and turn yourself into a beggar. That way you’ll be able to wander the dunes and learn your way about. Just come back to the shrine at nightfall and we’ll come to find you.”

  “You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?” replied Rafael.

  “Mother has,” said his sister, “and grandmother. Now get out of those nice clothes, and put on these stinking rags.”

  Rafael smiled grimly. “I’ll stink like the rags if I wear these.”

  “That’s part of the disguise. And mother says, keep the sword tied tightly.”

  “It makes me walk like a cripple.”

  “I suppose that’s another part of the disguise,” said his sister as she helped him out of his own clothes and into the rags. Soon he was transformed, and stood half leaning on the hidden sword.

  Producing another bag, the younger sister said, “Here’s your supper. Now we must get back, or they will worry. You can wander about a bit tomorrow, and start to learn how to find your way round the dunes, but be here at nightfall.”

  His hair matted, his face filfthy and unshaven, and in soiled and ragged clothing, Rafael no longer resembled the young lion of La Ribera. His mother had done well with creating a disguise. He stood stiffly and watched his sisters disappear into the darkness, and then lay down to the food they had brought him. The coarse cotton securing the sword cut into him as he lay, and all the misery and loss of the last few days washed over him. Tears filled his eyes. “Oh father, father, will I ever see you again?” He nibbled the cheese, and pulled the stopper from the wine his sisters had brought. Gradually the tears dried as he sipped at the wine. “Father always taught us to pray to Santa Maria del Mar,” he whispered to himself, “but now I think I need to thank Sant Miquel as well.” Looking up at the crucifix above him, he crossed himself and prayed for his father, his family, and all of Catalonya. Finally, burrowing half into the sand at the foot of the cross, he fell asleep.

  The following morning, Carla and Anna walked into the city. Stopping at Santa Maria del Mar, they went in and lit candles for Rafael and Perez, and then continued up the lane towards the cathedral. Finally arriving at the Placa Sant Jaime, they hesitated. Troops of Mossos, and squads of Madrid soldiers were coming and going, bringing wretched prisoners into the cobbled square, and delivering them to the Generalitat, before leaving, presumably to arrest others.

  “What has become of Barcelona?” whispered Carla to her mother-in-law. “Everywhere there are Spanish boots marching, stamping on the heart of the city.”

  “I’m frightened,” admitted Anna. “God knows what we shall find here.”

  They watched as other women went timidly to the great doors of the Generalitat, and were turned away. At last they plucked up the courage themselves, and hesitantly went up to the guard.

  “We have come to enquire about Perez Blanxart,” said Carla, suddenly bold as she spoke through the tiny grill in the door. “He is my husband.”

  “Wait,” replied the guard. He turned and spoke to someone unseen. Turning back to the women he said roughly, “You can enter.”

  To their surprise, one of the great doors opened, and they were able to slip inside. As the great door closed behind them, they found themselves in the darkness of the gatehouse, with the great staircase before them. “You’ve come to see your husband?” sneered another guard. “No problem, he’s through there. Carry on. Take your time.” And he indicated the arch beside the great stair, leading to the inner courtyard.

  Leaving the darkness of the gate house into the bright light of the courtyard, it took a moment for the women to understand the dreadful sight which confronted them. There, laid on the cobbles, were several bodies, mostly naked, and partly covered in dirty sheets. One body, however, could not be missed, as it was the only one covered by a soiled and ripped senyera. Carla clutched at Anna, and they cautiously negotiated between the other bodies towards Perez. Pulling back the flag, they saw his battered and bloodied face, and the mass of bruises covering his body. In his nakedness, he looked small and vulnerable, frozen into a child-like position.

  For a moment, Carla thought she would swoon, and she knelt at her husband’s head. Washing his face with her tears, she tried to wipe away some of the encrusted blood with the sleeve of her blouse. Anna put her hand on Carla’s shoulder, unable to speak.


  At last Carla looked up. “We must take him home,” she said.

  “Stay with him,” replied Anna. “I’ll get help.”

  She walked back towards the gatehouse, and turning, saw Carla lean forward to kiss her husband. “I’m going to get some help so that we can take him home,” she said to the guard. It wasn’t a question, it didn’t even occur to her to ask if she could have the body of her son, she simply assumed she could have him.

  Once outside the doors of the Generalitat, she realised she had no idea what she was going to do, and she stumbled numbly towards the cathedral. Groups of Mossos barged past her, bringing yet more unfortunates to the rough justice of the Botfliers. She walked across the cathedral square and headed blindly towards Santa Catherina market. At the notorious market cross where once witches had been hanged, she stopped. A barrow boy, who she vaguely recognised from deliveries of wine, was sitting cross-legged beside his cart.

  “Will you help me,” she began, “with a dreadful task.”

  The barrow boy stood up. “You make it worth my while, senora, and I’ll do anything you want.”

  “Of course I’ll pay you,” replied Anna abruptly. “Just follow me. Bring your barrow.”

  With renewed strength she marched back up through the lanes to Placa Sant Jaime, and continued straight across the square to the doors of the Generalitat. “Hey, senora, I’m not going in there!” shouted the boy who had struggled to keep up with Anna.

  “Then wait here,” she snapped. “I’m paying you for this.” Suddenly the tears welled up, her mood changed as the enormity of the situation gripped her, and she sobbed to the boy. “I’ll pay you well. Just wait here.”

  Tipping his handcart on its end, the boy sat on the cobbles. “I’ll wait, senora, I’ll wait.”

  Anna went to the great door, and the guard let her in without a word. As before, she hesitated in the darkness at the foot of the stair. A hand placed on her shoulder made her jump, and she turned to find a more sympathetic guard looking down at her. “You’ve come for Perez Blanxart, haven’t you? I’ll give you a hand.”

  With a half smile and a nod, Anna went unsteadily and fearfully out into the sunlit courtyard. Carla had not moved, and was still kneeling beside Perez, sobbing quietly, and caressing his matted hair, as if smoothing it would bring life back into it.

  As they stepped carefully between the bodies, the guard spoke quietly to Anna. “I remember your son,” he said. “A good man. But on the wrong side. You Catalonians never learn. You should have known that Madrid would win in the end. Senor Blanxart has been a marked man for a very long time. He has paid a terrible price.”

  Carla did not look up when Anna and the guard reached her, but continued to stroke her husband’s hair. “Let’s take him home,” said Anna, and she helped Carla to her feet. The guard lifted Perez and put the bloodied and naked body over his shoulder. Carla and Anna followed with the ruined senyera, and Carla supported the weight of Perez’s head. At the gate, the guard stopped. “I can’t go any further,” he declared. “You’ll have to manage from here on.”

  Carla tried to carry her husband over her shoulder, just as the guard had done, and she staggered out of the door, stumbled and fell. This collapse unleashed a fresh wave of howling as the two bodies, one alive, one dead, rolled on the cobbles. “Quick boy,” called Anna, “help us here!”

  The barrow boy brought his cart beside Carla, and they clumsily dragged Perez onto it. “By Christ and all the saints, it’s Senor Blanxart,” exclaimed the boy, as Anna hastily draped the flag over the naked body.

  The boy pushed the cart, with its precious cargo, down the hill, past the cathedral, and down the lane towards Santa Maria del Mar, retracing the route taken by the Mossos with Perez when he had been arrested. Anna and Carla walked one each side of the cart, each with a hand on Perez, horrified by the coldness of his bruised skin, but reluctant to let go of him. At Santa Maria, the sad procession paused, and the women knelt at the door in a brief prayer for the soul of Perez, before moving on to the wine shop in the Ribera slum.

  When they reached the shop, Anna indicated that Carla should remain with the body on the handcart whilst she went ahead to prepare the rest of the family. Neighbours, sensing the solemnity of the moment, gathered in silence around the cart, and waited with Carla for Anna to open the door. As Anna appeared, four of the men from the group of silent neighbours, stepped forward without a word, and carried Perez into the shop. The men lowered the body onto the table, bowed their heads briefly, and left. Anna produced a clean sheet, and covered Perez’s body, and then laid what was left of the senyera over it. Once more, the old table in the shop became the resting place for the master of the house, another Catalonian martyr.

  The younger children were led into the room and candles were placed around their father’s body; Carla, however, would not let any of them lift the sheet to see him; she spared them the agony of witnessing how he had died.

  The family settled into a restless vigil. With the shutters up, and the candles burning, it was hard to imagine the warmth and sunshine of the day outside the shop. It was as if the family was somehow cut off from the real world, trapped in a cave of sorrow. “So much death,” mused Anna, looking around at her grandchildren. “Oh, my Lady of the Sea, do you really have to call them all to you? Can you not give us respite from all this dying, and let us live out our lives in peace?”

  Carla remained close to her husband’s head, and the children surrounded the body, some clinging to the winding sheet, others clinging to one another. Anna looked from one to another, and then noticed, in a shadowy corner of the room, the barrow boy was still with them. Moving quietly to him, she whispered, “You did my family a great service today. Wait while I find your reward.”

  “No, senora,” replied the boy quietly, “I have had my reward. It was an honour to carry the body of Senor Blanxart. He was the lion, wasn’t he? There are many who will be mourning his death this day, and I would like to stay for a while if I may.” Anna leaned forward and kissed to boy on his forehead. “You may stay,” she whispered.

  The day passed quietly. Even the usual street noise was hushed, as if the whole Ribera slum was mourning the death of the lion. As the sun started to set, the older girls went to their mother. “What about Rafael? He has no idea father is dead. We must go and tell him. Shall we bring him back here with us?”

  “No,” said Carla. “This is too hard for you to do. It’s my responsibility to find Rafael, and tell him he is now the head of our household. If he wishes to come and see his father, I will bring him here, but he will have to leave again before dawn. He carries the future of the family upon his shoulders, and until the city is safe, he must remain in hiding in the dunes.”

  Anna packed the little bag of food for Rafael, and Carla pulled the black cloak around her shoulders. “Stay quiet, and pray for your father,” she told the children. “Lock and bolt the door behind me, and do not open it for anyone except your brother and I.”

  “I’ll stay and guard the door,” said the barrow boy. “I’ll keep them safe, senora.”

  “Your reward will be in heaven,” smiled Carla, as she prepared to leave.

  “God speed you to Rafael,” said Anna.

  “God speed,” murmured the children.

  Turning to the family, Carla looked around the shop. Perez’s body was covered in a clean cloth, with the tattered and bloody senyera draped over it; and the family sat mournfully and silent. “Lock yourselves in, bolt and bar the door, and don’t answer it to anyone,” said Carla.

  She left the house, and paused to hear the bolts being drawn behind her. Creeping from shadow to shadow, she made her way through the silence of the curfew, out of the water gate, and into the dunes of Barceloneta. Occasionally dark figures slipped past her, intent on similar clandestine missions, but no-one spoke, nor did she venture any kind of greeting. She was aware that tears were still gently coursing down her cheek as she negotiated the maze of undulating san
d. Skirting carefully around the few guttering fires, she found her way to the shrine of Sant Miquel.

  “Rafael, my son,” she whispered.

  “Mother, is that you?” came the reply softly, as a dark figure rose unsteadily from behind the cross.

  “Oh my son, how can I find words to you?” said Carla.

  “Mother, you are crying. Is it father? What’s happened to him? Tell me!”

  “They’ve killed him,” she replied, breaking into further sobs, and leaning heavily against her son. “Killed him in the cellars of the Generalitat. Your grandmother and I brought his body home this morning. We’ve brought him back to the shop. He lies just as your grandfather was lying, on the table in the shop.”

  “Mother, I must see him,” replied Rafael.

  “Yes I know. Come with me now, and I’ll tell you what little we know as we walk. But you must return before dawn. The city, not even our own Ribera, is safe for you. I am sure the house is watched. Your grandmother and the children have locked themselves in the house, standing a vigil over your father. I have told them to open to no-one except us.”

  With the sword strapped to his leg, Rafael could move only with a heavy limping shuffle, and with the ragged clothing and matted hair, even his mother had had difficulty recognising him. Carla, beginning to feel the exhaustion of the day, was equally slow and clung to Rafael for support. Anyone watching their progress through the dunes would not have believed they were members of one of La Ribera’s most prominent families.

  Staggering to the top of the last dune, they could see the urban mass of La Ribera lying before them.

  “Fire!” cried Rafael. “There’s a fire!”

  “It’s in the slum,” gasped Carla, “near to the winery.”

  “God help us, I think it could be the winery,” cried Rafael, his heart beginning to beat faster.

  “By the Virgin and all the Saints, let it not be the winery.” said Carla, “For the love of Santa Maria, not the shop, not the house, not the family.”

  Stumbling and half-falling, mother and son staggered through the water gate, and into La Ribera. Neighbours, awakened by the commotion were hurrying towards the blaze, and a couple of soldiers, trying to enforce the curfew fired shots over their heads. Turning the last corner, their worst fears were confirmed. The winery was a raging inferno, the heat too great for anyone to get near. Pushing through the gathering crowd, Carla was crying out and moaning an almost animal-like howl, but the heat drove her back into the arms of Rafael.