The freemen of Barcelona began gathering beneath the banner of their trade. As required by law, they each came armed with a crossbow, a quiver with a hundred bolts, and a sword or spear. Within two hours, the sagramental of the city of Barcelona was ready to move off in defense of the city’s privileges.
By then, Arnau had understood from Joanet what this was all about.
“Barcelona not only defends itself when necessary,” Joanet told him. “It also goes on the attack if anyone threatens it.” He spoke excitedly, pointing to the soldiers and their banners, proud of the way the city had responded. “It’s fantastic! You’ll see. With any luck, we’ll be out of Barcelona for a few days. If anybody mistreats an inhabitant of the city or attacks its rights, they are denounced ... well, I’m not sure who they are denounced to, whether it’s the magistrate or the Council of a Hundred, but if the authorities decide the charge is justified, they call the host together beneath the banner of Sant Jordi—can you see it over there in the center of the square, flying higher than all the others? The bells are rung, and people pour out into the streets shouting, ‘Via fora!’ so that all the inhabitants know what is going on. The leaders of each guild bring out their banners, and their members gather under them to set off for battle.”
Wide-eyed, Arnau tried to take in everything that was going on around him. He followed Joanet through the different groups congregated in the square.
“What do we have to do? Is it dangerous?” Arnau asked, impressed by the vast array of arms on display.
“No, usually it’s not dangerous,” Joanet replied, smiling. “Remember that if the magistrate has called the citizens to arms, he has done it not only in the name of the city but of the king as well. That means we never have to fight the royal troops. Of course, it depends on who the aggressor is, but generally when a feudal lord sees the Barcelona host approaching, he usually gives in to their demands.”
“So there is no battle?”
“That depends on what the authorities decide, and the feudal lord’s attitude. The last time, a castle was destroyed, and then there was a battle, with deaths, attacks, and ... Look! Your uncle must be over there,” said Joanet, pointing to the potters’ banner. “Let’s go and see!”
Beneath the banner, Grau Puig stood in his armor with the three other guild aldermen: he was wearing boots, a leather jacket that protected him down to midcalf, and a sword. The city’s potters crowded around their four leaders. As soon as Grau saw the young boys, he signaled to Jaume, who stepped in front of them, blocking their way.
“Where are you two going?” he asked them.
Arnau looked at Joanet for support.
“We’re going to offer to help the master,” said Joanet. “We could carry his food ... or whatever else he wants.”
“I’m sorry,” was all Jaume replied.
As he turned away, Arnau asked his friend: “Now what do we do?”
“It doesn’t matter!” said Joanet. “Don’t worry. There are plenty of people here who would be pleased to have our help. Anyway, I’m sure he won’t notice if we join in.”
The two boys started to mingle with the crowd, studying the swords, crossbows, and lances, and admiring the men dressed in armor. They tried to follow their lively conversation.
“What’s happened to the water?” they heard someone shout behind them.
Arnau and Joanet looked round. Their faces lit up when they saw it was Ramon smiling at them. All around him, a group of twenty or more bastaixos, armed and powerful-looking, were staring in their direction.
Arnau felt for the waterskin on his back. He must have looked so crestfallen when he could not find it that several of the men laughed and came to offer theirs.
“You always have to be ready when the city calls,” they said jokingly.
The army of citizens left Barcelona behind the banner bearing the red cross of Sant Jordi. They were heading for the village of Creixell, close to Tarragona, where the villagers had seized a flock of sheep that was the property of the city butchers.
“Is that so bad?” Arnau asked Ramon, whom they had decided to accompany.
“Of course it is. Any animals that belong to Barcelona’s butchers have the right to travel and graze anywhere in Catalonia. Nobody, not even the king, can stop any flock or herd that is on its way to the city. Our children have to eat the best meat in the land,” said Ramon, ruffling their hair. “The lord of Creixell has seized a flock and is demanding that the shepherd pay him for grazing and for the right to pass through his lands. Can you imagine what would happen if all the lords and barons between Tarragona and Barcelona did the same? We would never eat.”
“If only you knew what sort of meat Estranya gives us ... ,” thought Arnau. Joanet guessed what was going through his mind and pulled a face. He was the only one whom Arnau had told. He had been tempted to warn his father where the scraps of meat floating in the pot had come from, but when he saw not only how eagerly his father devoured them but the way that all the slaves and workmen in Grau’s pottery threw themselves on the food, he thought better of it, said nothing, and ate along with the rest of them.
“Are there any other reasons for the sagramental to be called?” asked Arnau, still with the foul taste in his mouth.
“Of course. Any threat to Barcelona’s privileges or against a citizen can mean we are called on. For example, if a citizen is held against his will, then the sagramental will go and free him.”
As Arnau and Joanet talked, the army moved up the coast, from San Boi to Castelldefels and then Garraf. As the men passed by, everyone stared silently at them, making sure they kept well out of their way. Even the sea seemed to respect the Barcelona host, the sound of the waves dying away as the hundreds of armed men marched behind the banner of Sant Jordi. The sun shone on them all day, and as the sea was turning to silver in the evening light, they came to a halt in Sitges. The lord of Fonollar welcomed their leaders into his castle, while the rest of the men made camp outside the town gates.
“Is there going to be a war?” asked Arnau.
All the bastaixos stared at him. The only sound was the crackling of their bonfire. Joanet lay fast asleep, his head on Ramon’s lap. Some of the men looked at one another, asking themselves the same question: would there be a war?
“No,” said Ramon, “the lord of Creixell cannot stand against us.”
Arnau looked disappointed.
“He might, though,” one of the guild leaders on the far side of the fire said to encourage him. “Many years ago, when I was about as young as you are now”—Arnau almost burned himself as he leaned forward to catch his words—“the sagramental was called out to march on Castellbisbal, where the lord had seized a flock of cattle, just like the lord of Creixell has done now. But at Castellbisbal, he did not back down, and decided to face our army. He probably thought that the citizens of Barcelona—merchants, artisans, or bastaixos like us—could not fight. But the men of Barcelona stormed the castle, took the lord and his soldiers prisoner, and razed it to the ground.”
Arnau imagined himself wielding a sword, swarming up a ladder, shouting victoriously on the battlements of Creixell castle: “Who dares stand against the Barcelona sagramental?” All the men around the fire could see how excited he was: he was staring intently into the flames, his hands clasping a stick he had previously used to poke the fire with. “I, Arnau Estanyol ...” The sound of their laughter brought him back to Sitges.