The authorities had calculated how much wheat there was for each inhabitant and put the cloth merchant Pere Juyol, the official inspector for the Plaza del Blat, in charge of supervising its sale.
“Mestre doesn’t have a family,” came the cry a few minutes later as a ragged-looking man with an even more ragged child stepped up to the table. “They all died over the winter.”
The weighers took back the grain from Mestre, but this was just the start: one man had sent his son to another table; another had already had his share; a third had no family; that is not his son, he’s only brought him to get more ...
The square became a hive buzzing with rumors. People abandoned the queues, started to argue, and were soon swapping insults. Someone shouted that the authorities should put the wheat they were hiding on public sale; the crowd backed him. The officials found they could no longer control the swarm of people pushing and shoving round the tables. The king’s stewards began to confront the hungry mob, and it was only a quick decision by Pere Juyol that saved the situation. He ordered that the grain be taken to the magistrate’s palace at the eastern side of the square and suspended all sales that morning.
Frustrated in their attempts to buy the precious grain, Bernat and Arnau went back to work at Grau’s mansion. In the yard outside the stables they told the head stableman and anyone else who cared to listen what had happened in Plaza del Blat. Neither of them was slow to accuse the authorities, or to complain how hungry they were.
The noise brought the baroness to one of the windows overlooking the yard. She was delighted at the sufferings of the runaway serf and his shameless son. As she looked down on them, a smile spread across her face: she recalled the instructions Grau had given her before he left on a journey. Hadn’t he told her his prisoners must eat?
The baroness picked up the bag of money reserved for the food of those prisoners who were in jail for debts they owed Grau. She called the steward and ordered him to entrust the task to Bernat Estanyol. His son, Arnau, was to go with him in case of trouble.
“Don’t forget to tell them,” she said, “that this money is to buy food for my husband’s prisoners.”
The steward carried out his mistress’s orders. He too enjoyed the look of disbelief on their faces, which grew greater still when Bernat felt the weight of coins in his hand.
“This is for the prisoners?” Arnau asked his father as they set off to carry out the order.
“Yes.”
“Why for the prisoners?”
“They’re in jail because they owe Grau money, but he is obliged to pay for their food.”
“What if he didn’t?”
They went on walking down toward the beach.
“Then they would be set free. That’s the last thing Grau wants. He pays the royal taxes and for the prison governor, and he pays for his prisoners’ food. That’s the law.”
“But...”
“Don’t insist, my lad.”
They walked on in silence back to their house.
That evening, Arnau and Bernat went to the jail to fulfill their strange task. They had heard from Joan, who had to cross the square on his way back from the cathedral school, that feelings were still running high. Even in Calle de la Mar, which ran from Santa Maria up to the square, they could hear the crowd shouting. People were thronging round the magistrate’s palace, where the grain that had been withdrawn from sale that morning was being stored. It was also here that Grau’s prisoners were kept.
The crowd wanted wheat, and the city authorities did not have enough people to distribute it in an orderly way. The five councillors met the magistrate to try to find a solution.
“Everyone should take a solemn oath,” said one of them. “If they don’t swear, they won’t get any grain. Every person who buys must swear that they need the amount they are asking for to feed their family, and nothing more.”
“Do you think that will work?” another councillor said doubtfully.
“The oath is sacred!” the first one retorted. “Don’t people swear oaths for contracts, to claim their innocence, or to fulfill their duties? Don’t they go to Saint Felix’s altar to swear on the holy sacraments?”
They announced their decision from a balcony in the magistrate’s palace. Word spread to those who had not heard the proclamation, and the devout Christians clamored to swear their oath ... yet again, as they had done so often in their lives.
The wheat was brought out into the square again. The hunger was palpable. Some people took the oath, but soon arguments, shouting, and scuffles broke out again. The crowd grew angry and started to demand the wheat that the Carmelite friar had told them the authorities were hiding.
Arnau and Bernat were still at the end of Calle de la Mar, at the opposite side of the square to the magistrate’s palace, where the wheat was being sold. All round them, the crowd was shouting and protesting.
“Father,” asked Arnau, “will there be any wheat left for us?”
“I believe so,” said Bernat, trying not to look at his son. How could there be any left for them? There was not enough wheat for a quarter of the citizens demanding it.
“Father,” Arnau insisted, “why are the prisoners guaranteed food when we’re not?”
Bernat pretended he had not heard his son’s question above all the uproar, but he could not help glancing down at him. He was starving: his legs and arms were like sticks, and his eyes, which had once been so carefree and joyous, now stood out from his gaunt face.
“Father, did you hear me?”
“Yes,” thought Bernat, “but what can I tell you? That we poor are united by hunger? That only the rich can eat? That only the rich can allow themselves the luxury of keeping their debtors? That we poor mean nothing to them? That the children of the poor are worth less than even one of the prisoners being held in the magistrate’s palace?” Bernat said nothing.
“There’s wheat in the palace!” he shouted, along with the rest of the crowd. “There’s wheat in the palace!” he shouted even louder when those around him fell silent and turned to stare at him. Soon lots of them had noticed this man who was insisting that there was grain in the magistrate’s palace. “If there wasn’t, how could they feed the prisoners?” he said, holding up Grau’s money bag. “The nobles and the rich pay for the prisoners’ food! Where do the prison governors get the wheat for his prisoners? Do they have to buy it like us?”
The crowd gave way to let Bernat through. He was beside himself. Arnau rushed after him, trying to catch his attention.
“What are you doing, Father?”
“Do the governors have to take an oath like we do?”
“What’s wrong with you, Father?”
“Where do the governors get the wheat for the prisoners from? Why isn’t there enough for our children, when the prisoners get plenty?”
Bernat’s words inflamed the crowd still further. This time the officials were unable to withdraw the supplies, as the mob engulfed them. Pere Juyol and the city magistrate were about to be lynched, and were saved only by some soldiers who ran to their defense and then escorted them back inside the palace.
Few managed to satisfy their needs. The wheat was spilled across the square, and trodden on and wasted by the mob. Those who tried to scoop it up risked being trodden on as well.
Somebody shouted that the city councillors were to blame. The crowd rushed off to drag them out of their houses.
Bernat joined in this collective madness, shouting as loud as anyone and allowing himself to be carried away on the tide of enraged citizens.
“Father, Father!”
Bernat looked down at his son.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, still striding along and shouting at the top of his voice.