The Informer: A Novel of 12Th Century Catalonia

By Geoffrey Preger

The setting is Catalonia, Spain. The year: 1159. There is ongoing tension between the Christian population and the economically powerful Jewish community in its midst, the former scorning the latter as infidelesnonbelieversand resentful of its financial success, which, through its aptitude for trade, far-reaching connections, and tax-farming, keeps the States treasury solvent. On the other hand, the Jews, while legally owned by (that is, under the protection of) their ruler, live in constant fear that even his authority, though empowered by law, would be unable to contain a rioting mob when incited against them.

The main protagonists are Juana, illegitimate daughter of Count Berenguer IV, ruler of Catalonia, whose contrariness and free spirit make her defy the proprieties of life at court, and Vidalon, scion of one of the wealthiest Jewish families in Barcelona, who is addicted to gambling and rebels against the strictures of religious conformity. They are no Romeo and Juliet from rival houses, however. Their affair is born of lust and a shared impulse to flout convention, spiced by the inherent danger to them both.

Their adventures are set against and interwoven with the royal politickings and social life of the day and the internal life of the Jewish community.

The characters are a mix of real-life persons (Benjamin of Tudela, Count Berenguer, Queen Petronilla, Rabi Abad, and Queen Melisende of Jerusalem) and fictional creations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing Singapore
• Release date: Jan 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781482855012

Book preview

Prologue

"Man’s wisdom is at the tip of his pen,

His intelligence is in his writing;

His pen can raise him to the rank

That a scepter bestows on a king."

Samuel Ha-Nagid (b. Cordova 993 – d. Granada 1056)

With the help of the Almighty.

Tudela, Province of Navarre in the country of S’pharad.

The ninth day of the month of Tammuz in the year 4933 of our calendar—being the year 1173 of the Common Era according to the usage of the Christians and eleven hundred and three years since the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem: may it be rebuilt speedily in our days, Amen!

I, Benjamin ben Jonah, give humble thanks to the Creator of all life – may His name be sanctified, Amen! – for having restored me to the safety of my home after arduous travels to distant lands.

H e leaned back in his chair and chewed the end of his quill. Well, he thought, that part was easy . At least the sheet was not as blank as before. How to continue: that was the problem. He stared at the half-empty page, but it just lay there patiently and offered no help.

He pondered. Of one thing he was sure—indeed, it was what had impelled him to confront his desk in the first place: that the journal he had kept while on the road was hopelessly inadequate. It would do, no doubt, as a daily log hastily jotted down every evening to remind him of all the places he had visited and the most notable personages he had met, but a mere catalogue of different communities and their scholars, however colorful the former or eminent the latter, could not even hint at some of his adventures nor begin to describe some of the extraordinary sights he had seen. There were so many memories, so many impressions, so many observations jostling for space in his mind, demanding to be set down in an orderly manner, that a far more considered, more detailed and, yes, even more intimate version was called for if his experiences were not to evaporate like the morning dew.

There was a rasping sound like an exhausted cough followed by a dull thud. He glanced at the half-burnt log that had collapsed in the hearth. The fire was dying and there was now more smoke than flame. He shivered, not from cold but at the thought that he was dying, too, as every mortal must, and that it could not be long before his own flame finally guttered out. May the Almighty grant him the strength and time to complete the task he had set himself, and may those who might read his tale be granted the perception to accept as true the events it would relate.

Benjamin reached to the shelf behind his chair and took down a bundle of sheets loosely bound with waxed string. The package was stained and creased, but he laid it gently on the table as if it was the rarest treasure. It was the journal he had dictated to his secretary, Gascoigne d’Atour, every evening after they had dined and rested. He never tired of leafing through it and reliving, albeit with much assistance from his memory, what he had witnessed during the past fourteen years. It may be short, but it would be indispensable to the greater work he was now undertaking.

He smoothed the top sheet and once again read the familiar words that never failed to transport him back to the start of his voyage …

I journeyed first from my native town to the city of Sarakosta, otherwise known as Saragossa; thence by way of the river Ebro to Tortosa. From there I went a journey of two days to the ancient city of Tarragona, with its Cyclopean and Greek buildings – imposing ruins of pre-historic walls rough-hewn from enormous blocks of stone – as well as the remains of Roman aqueducts, tombs, amphitheaters, &c., the like whereof is not to be found among any of the buildings in S’pharad. It is by the sea and two days’ journey from the city of Barcelona, where there is a holy congregation, including sages, wise and illustrious men, such as Rabbi Sheshet, Rabbi Shealtiel, Rabbi Ephraim and Rabbi Abraham ben Hisdai. Barcelona is a small city and beautiful, lying on the seashore. Merchants come there from all quarters with their wares: from Pisa, Greece, Genoa and Sicily; from Alexandria in Egypt; and from Africa and all its coasts.

Every word is true, mused Benjamin, yet they say so little. Was he to let these few sentences stand as the only testimony of what had really happened? Truth and justice, even history, however unpalatable, dictated otherwise.

His hand hovered between the bell that would bring his supper and the waiting quill. The latter won him over—for a few moments more.

Barcelona! Capital of Catalonia, busy seaport and commercial gateway to the entire northeast of Iberia. I had not even left the borders of S’pharad and already I was bedazzled by the promise it held of distant, foreign lands. How innocuous was my pleasure at safely reaching my first important destination and how unforeseen were the tragic events in which I was to be embroiled. The details of my sojourn there are not to be found in my journal, for it would take much longer in the telling than a simple diary could encompass. Yet it is an account worthy of record; a tale of how one misguided individual almost caused the destruction of an entire community and, when apprehended, condemned himself to an irrevocable fate.

It all began several weeks before my arrival in the city.

TEVET 4919

(January 1159)

"With the ink of its showers and rain,

With the quill of its lightning, with the hand of its clouds,

Winter wrote a letter on the garden in blue and purple…"

Solomon ibn-Gabirol (b. Malaga 1021/2 – d. Valencia? c.1053-58)

Chapter 1

J uana was bored. The day had hardly begun and she was already fretting at the dullness of it. Perched on the embrasure, she stared out of the narrow window, but her room was too high up for her to see anything but the tops of the pines in the garden. A blustery wind was lashing them like an angry slave-driver and their thin branches swayed under the onslaught. The sky was a solid grey and there was a smell of imminent rain in the air. It was not a day for going out; nor, for that matter, was it much of one for staying in, for the cold had crept into the palace and taken up its winter’s residence in every crevice in the stone walls. She could not even call for a charcoal brazier, because that miserly bitch Petronilla had decreed that no fuel was to be used before midday on anything but the needs of the kitchens and any guests there might be—certainly not, as she would constantly grumble, on cosseting her husband’s unruly bastard.

Juana hugged herself for warmth, but it didn’t do any good, so she hopped down from the ledge and threw herself onto her curtained bed where it was not so drafty. What she really needed, she reflected, was a strapping young man to smother her like a warm living blanket. That would be better than a dozen braziers. More distracting, too. But then it was probably too early for that, and anyway the idea of a gallant suddenly bursting through the door or flying through the window like some painted Oberon in the mummery was so unlikely that even she had difficulty imagining it.

What, then, to do? She was not the type to sit hunched over some needlework and it was too cold to keep trying on different clothes, which was how she would often wile away the time. Pancho was off somewhere, no doubt scavenging in the kitchen yard or getting up to some doggy mischief behind the woodshed, and the room was even more cheerless without his drooling snores. There had to be something …

Her eye fell on the small casket of ebony wood inlaid with nacre that lay on the side table. Why not, she asked herself, it’s about time for another try.

She ran to the door, threw it open and yelled, Maria!

Maria, her personal maid, jumped up from her stool at the end of the passage.

Coming, m’lady, came the reply, followed by the slap of slippered footsteps.

Please help me dress. I’m going to see my father.

Certainly, m’lady. Which gown will you require?

The blue wool, I think. I must look presentable, you know … just in case.

Maria didn’t know and thought it a bit early in the day even to speculate ‘in case’ of what. All she knew was that her mistress was as unpredictable as a goaded bull and that it was really none of a maid’s business … well, it wasn’t supposed to be.

She bobbed an acknowledgement and went off to fetch the gown. Juana had so many clothes they had to be kept in a small, separate room and it was Maria’s job to see they were always clean, properly folded and neatly laid in one of the great chests that took up most of the space there. By the time she got back, Juana had discarded her crumpled linen nightdress and was all set to slither into the garment with its under-petticoat. While Maria fussed about lacing on the sleeves and draping the skirt, Juana cinched a gold chain at her waist and fastened a large brooch of Byzantine design set with lapis-lazuli stones on her bosom. When her hair had been combed and brushed, she nodded approval to the disc of polished silver Maria held up as a mirror. A dab of French poudre-rouge on her lips and a hint of Castilian perfume behind the ears and Juana was ready.

Seizing the casket, she ran down the steep narrow steps that wound round the rear of the palace—to her father’s study, where she knew he would be at this hour.

Her father, Raymond Berenguer IV, Count of Barcelona and Catalonia, was not deterred by the weather, nor much else when it came to the conduct of business, whether it concerned his own private affairs or those of his extensive realm. Besides, he was exempt from his wife’s mean edicts and a small brazier crackled cheerfully in the middle of his chamber, warming his back as he sat studying the documents on his desk. His Bailiff, Perfecto the Jew, was due shortly, and today’s audience with him was probably going to be a difficult one.

Berenguer knew he would never be as smart as his Bailiff—at least he was smart enough to acknowledge that—so he tried to keep pace with the Jew’s astuteness by paying careful attention to detail. He trusted Perfecto’s financial advice, for it was generally sound, but he also knew the Bailiff never missed an opportunity to fill his own purse on the back of schemes which were meant to enrich the state or the Count’s personal coffers. As long as neither suffered the man might be allowed to get away with it, but he had to be watched and Berenguer did so by making sure he fully understood all the details of any budget before approving it. He might be a plodder compared to the quick-witted Jew, but he usually managed to hold his own by dint of perseverance … and concentration.

His concentration was shattered by the rattle of the door opening behind him and a gust of cold air. The swarm of facts and figures flew out of his head and resettled on his papers. He scowled at them. He knew without turning that only one person would dare interrupt him without knocking first. If confirmation were needed, the scent of her perfume wafted in like a tune before a piper. He kept his temper — just.

What is it, Juana? he growled without turning. Can’t you see I’m busy?

I’m sorry to disturb you, father, she said to the back of his head, but won’t you please make a decision. The man wants to get to Valencia in time for the Epiphany fair and is pressing for an answer.

Berenguer grunted and forced himself to turn round. He saw the black casket being thrust towards him. He grunted again, for he knew what it held.

For the past few days Juana had been trying to cajole him into buying some new pieces of jewelry that a visiting Venetian merchant had submitted. One in particular she had set her heart on: a gold cruciform pendant set with sapphires that would, at one and the same time, set off the blue of her eyes, echo the Berenguer heraldic colors of blue and gold and proclaim her piety to those who were fooled by such devices. She was confident he would agree to its purchase eventually, but she knew he liked to feel that it was his decision. So her badgering had to be subtle, yet persistent.

But any hope she might have had that she had finally cornered him was immediately dashed by their major-domo rapping on the door with his wand of office to announce that the Bailiff had arrived and was ready to attend upon his Lordship.

Very good, I’ll be right along, replied the Count, thankful that at least one decision could be postponed for a while. Then to Juana still clutching the little box: There you are, my dear, I told you I was busy. But don’t be vexed; I promise to think about it. Now you must leave me to get on. I have a very full agenda this morning and Perfecto is inclined to be a bit longwinded. Let the Venetian wait another day. It will only induce him to lower his price.

Juana swallowed her disappointment. Her first reaction was to do what she was told and meekly go away. But then her natural contrariness asserted itself and, for want of anything else to do, she had a sudden whim to stay. Keeping herself in her father’s sight would keep her demands in his mind. It might even be mildly diverting to listen to talk on state affairs, though she knew it was most unconventional for women to attend such meetings unless they held high office in their own right. Best of all, it would enable her to stay clear of her stepmother’s incessant nagging.

Of course, father she said dutifully and then, putting on the little-girl pout she knew he found so enchanting, But may I perhaps be allowed to attend your audience just this once. I do so love watching you work and I promise to keep very quiet. Honestly, you won’t even know I’m there.

The Count gazed at his daughter with the love only a father knows. She had grown so much like her mother that for a brief instant the Count imagined he saw again the nubile girl he had come across that spring day sixteen years ago as she struggled to lift a heavy churn onto a dray …

The girl’s hair had been the color of wheat ripening in the fields of Normandy, her birthplace, which was such a novelty among the swarthy peasant class of Catalonia as to be an attraction in itself. Yet it was not just her hair that had stirred Berenguer’s lust. Despite being barefoot and unkempt, wearing nothing but a coarse, stained smock and smelling of cheese from the dairy where she worked, she had exuded such sensuality as to be quite irresistible. Not one to resist whatever he fancied, Berenguer had procured her compliance with a bonus to her father equal to a month’s wages—and Juana had been the result. Such a by-product of aristocratic dalliance was common enough and would normally have been handed over to the holy sisters for adoption. But the midwife had dared to apply to him, as the baby’s father, for her fee and proved she had earned it by showing him the tiny bundle before it was consigned to seclusion. Rashly, he let the pink morsel grip his finger with a hand no bigger than a walnut—and he was done for. A surge of love swamped all sober judgment and he had determined, then and there, to acknowledge the child as his own.

Predictably, the Court had been scandalized. Not by the Count’s extramarital foray into the menial class—most of the nobility did the same when they were not galloping in pursuit of other, four-footed creatures, which were less submissive but more edible—but by his public assumption of responsibility for what was supposed to be as disposable as the left-overs from dinner. The Church was disappointed, too, for the rearing of the illegitimate progeny of the highborn was a profitable sideline: the cost being defrayed by donations that, given the sparse amenities of a clerical crèche, far exceeded the actual expense involved. Of course, the Church would never do anything so crass as to deplete the Lord’s treasury by refunding the surplus. Just as predictably, however, both were placated with undeserved promotion for the most outspoken of the former and generous offerings to the latter, until everyone had been bribed one way or another into accepting Juana as his child.

To his regret, however, Bereguer knew that neither preferment nor philanthropy could ever make Juana his lawful heir; nor, being bastard, could she succeed him to office. The law of succession was clear and he was subject to the law no less than the lowliest serf on his farms. He was also mindful of how that same law had made him what he was …

Originally established in 817, by the beginning of the present century the County of Barcelona had acquired enough territory in Provence and Tarragona to make it one of the most powerful domains in Christian Spain. Twenty-five years previously, in 1134, Alfonso the Warrior, king of Aragon and Navarre, had died without a direct male heir, leaving his kingdom to an order of knights. That chivalrous band, however, were not inclined to squabble among themselves for the throne, so they rejected his will and chose by way of compromise the late Alfonso’s brother, Ramiro, to be king. Ramiro, a reclusive monk, would have preferred to carry on dedicating his life to serving the Almighty rather than a bunch of haughty knights, but he was persuaded to divert his energies for the sake of his nation and grudgingly emerged from the confines of his Order long enough to marry and sire a daughter, named Petronilla. While still a child, but with the kingdom of Aragon as her dowry, Petronilla was then married off to Ramon Berenguer—to be known as the fourth of that name on his succession to the County of Barcelona.

By all accounts Ramiro was a good man and decreed several acts of worthy legislation (one being the abolition of the discriminatory law whereby Jews had been obliged to grind their corn ‘only at the mill of their territorial lord’). But after three years he had had enough of worldly affairs. He abdicated the throne and returned to his beloved monastery, leaving his infant daughter Petronilla, now Queen of Aragon, under the guardianship of her husband—and thus the succession had settled. Yet Ramiro’s reluctant, short-lived return to a world he had abandoned and his seemingly diffident contribution to its continuance were to prove a decisive event for Spain. The resulting union of Catalonia and Aragon created a powerful alliance in the north-east, and its capital, the coastal city of Barcelona, endowed with the skills of its native ship-builders and mariners, as well as enriched by its affluent (largely Jewish) entrepreneurs, became one of the busiest and most prosperous of all the Mediterranean ports of its time.

In due course Ramon and Petronilla produced a male child, whom they named Ramon after his father, though he was generally called Alfonso after his great-uncle. But the pain and bloody mess, as well as the humiliating procedure that had been the natural process of his birth, had so exhausted and disgusted Petronilla that she refused to have anything more to do with the process of reproduction. Berenguer had no objection to this. He now had a legal heir and that was all that mattered. So he gladly left her to her own promiscuous pleasures. Not that his own behavior was beyond reproach. It was no secret that both before and after his marriage he had merrily fornicated with whomsoever he fancied and, thanks to his position and the capacity of his purse, he suffered no lack of willing partners. He had, of course, fathered other children—he never knew how many—but their mothers were always compensated and the child given into the care of a religious order, which was also blessed with a gift sufficiently munificent to ensure the little bastard’s physical and spiritual welfare.

Juana had been the exception. Like any doting father, he had showered her with every luxury and privilege that his wealth and status allowed until her true origins had been virtually forgotten. Now, as he stared at the image of her mother, he found himself having to make a conscious effort to stay in present time and keep his hands to himself—which he had failed to do back then …

With the innate instinct of her sex, Juana sensed that her father found her so adorable as to render him incapable of refusing any request. Intuitively, she knew he was wondering for the thousandth time if she was really as unsullied as she seemed or was she as amenable as her mother had been. So be it, she thought, let him think what he likes. She met his gaze with a soft look that held the merest hint of forbidden suggestiveness. Promises, even those never to be fulfilled, were coins that could buy the world. Jésu, I could even seduce my own father, she realized shockingly.

They stared at each other for that extra fraction of a moment: a split-second in which an imperceptible awareness flashed between them. The Count blinked first. He strove to keep his voice steady.

All right, you may stay, he agreed indulgently, but you must remain in the far corner of the hall and keep as quiet as the servants. Then he added with a touch of paternal pride, which was somewhat marred by a lascivious leer: After all, I cannot have my visitors distracted from our business.

Juana clapped her hands with exaggerated delight and leaned forward to plant a kiss on her father’s cheek, as any daughter might. That was better. It dispelled the mood and turned her into his little girl again. With a smile of thanks she withdrew and entered the audience chamber to take an unobtrusive seat next to one of the servants stationed along the walls.

The little black box lay, as if forgotten, on the Count’s desk. But it hadn’t been forgotten: it lay where Juana meant it to lay—under her father’s nose.

Chapter 2

B erenguer followed the major-domo through a side door that led to the large stone-flagged hall, mounted a low dais and took his seat in a high-backed leather chair behind a massive oaken table. The table, its thick legs carved in the form of rampant lions, had been a gift from king Henry of England, and it was politically judicious that it be prominently displayed. For the moment it was completely bare, except for the huge sword of state in the center, its gold scabbard glittering with inlaid jewels. The walls were draped with the standards of the various provinces of the realm and stacked in each corner were clusters of broadswords, lances, pikes and maces. The overall effect, deliberately staged, was one of fearsome power and authority.

The Count had declared today’s audience to be a private one between him and his Bailiff, so none of the usual courtiers were present. The servants and the scribes who would record the proceedings—the latter now busily sharpening their quills and stretching their sheets of vellum—were regarded as part of the furniture and didn’t count. There was one exception, however—there always was—in the fleshy form of lord Paul of Lérida.

Although he was one of the most senior of the courtiers, Paul, the Count’s Spymaster-General, had not been invited either, but he had persuaded the Count to allow him to be present. It wasn’t too difficult. Berenguer knew better than to refuse, assuming the man must have his reasons. Anyway, having Paul in full view was preferable to him out of sight plotting some villainous scheme.

Paul had settled himself as close as possible to the dais to emphasize his rank. Beside him stood his personal page: a velvet-skinned blackamoor child with enormous eyes and full red lips, who could not have been more than twelve years old. It was clear to everyone how the boy was required to serve his master and Juana found the combination of the gross degenerate and his pretty catamite totally repellent. She marked with disgust how, quite oblivious to the decency of basic good manners, Paul was already stuffing raisins into his mouth from a bowl held by the slim young faun, swilling them down with noisy slurps from the goblet in his other hand, while his ferrety eyes roved the chamber unceasingly, missing nothing.

Berenguer also found the debauchee’s behavior deplorable, but it would not do to reproach him in front of the servants, so he merely acknowledged his presence with a contemptuous sniff and gestured to the major-domo to usher in the Bailiff.

By virtue of his office, Eleazar Perfecto of Saragossa, Bailiff and Repositarius, Steward of the Royal Treasury and financial adviser to the Count, was a frequent visitor to the palace and Juana knew him well—by sight that is, for they were hardly on social terms. She had no wish for it to be otherwise, for she found Perfecto’s pretentious airs quite insufferable.

Insufferable perhaps, but Juana knew, as did the whole Court, that the Bailiff’s smug self-assurance was fully justified by his competence—a competence honed to a sharp sense of financial acumen. That, combined with his excellent connections with other Jewish communities throughout both Christian and Muslim Spain, as well as elsewhere in Europe, made him the ideal man to advise the Count on both state affairs and his own private fortunes. It was through the shrewd application of these attributes that Perfecto had risen to his present position as one of Berenguer’s most valued advisers: a position which, he had long chosen to forget, was originally an inherited one.

His father, Sheshet Perfecto, had been conferred with the rare title ‘Nasi’—the Hebrew equivalent of Prince—and had served as treasurer to the Count’s father, Ramon Berenguer III of Aragon, one of the creators of the territorial greatness of Catalonia. In 1135, as a reward for services rendered, the old Count had granted Sheshet and his descendants in perpetuity the status of franco—free, meaning they were exempt from the payment of all taxes. Such a privilege was, to say the least, not popular—neither with the Jewish community, which was one of the most heavily taxed in all Spain, nor with the noble Christian families surrounding the Court. It certainly did not endear the Perfecto family to the Church, which never ceased to deplore the concentration of so much wealth in the hands of ‘infideles.’ Yet it enabled the family to amass enormous riches and Eleazar Perfecto was reckoned to be one of the wealthiest men in the province. He not only owned vast estates throughout Catalonia, but also had interests in many businesses, including the lucrative shipbuilding, weaving and dyeing industries. In addition, thanks to the purchase of a monopoly granted by Berenguer to a group of Barcelona Jews, whose political loyalty the Count had thereby hoped to secure, Perfecto also held the exclusive right to transport Saracen captives to Muslim Spain for ransom – which ransom, though payable to the royal treasury, was subject to a sizeable commission and a self-audited expense account.

More than anything, Berenguer had come to rely on his Bailiff for both his talent for raising taxes, when everyone thought the people had been wrung dry, but also his capability at managing the funds thus accumulated: overseeing every detail of expenditure and investing any idle funds in all sorts of profitable ventures. Naturally, the Bailiff did not shrink from taking full advantage of the trust vested in him by the Count and no goods or services were supplied to the province or to the Berenguer family nor any business scheme endowed with public or Berenguer funds ever failed to include a commission for Eleazar Perfecto.

Not the least of his attributes was that the Bailiff held a number of substantial promissory notes from Berenguer himself, securing funds that he, Perfecto, had personally advanced to further the Count’s political aggrandizement or for the indulgence of his personal excesses.

And such excesses were expensive. Berenguer was a robust, heavily-built man with a passion for sport (of both the outdoor and boudoir variety) exceeded only by his appetite for rich food and wine. In recent years the latter could be seen prevailing over the former in the paunch he had developed and the mesh of fine purple veins that webbed his florid face. But his mind was still clear—his survival as ruler of Catalonia and Aragon depended on it as much as it depended on his Bailiff’s counsel, which was why this morning’s audience was so important.

Perfecto, sleek and corpulent, garbed in brocaded silk trimmed with fur of sable and a black velour cap studded with pearls on his large head, waddled forward with ponderous hauteur and the aid of a silver-topped cane to bow as low as his vast girth permitted. A few paces behind him came two other men: one a bent, skeletal figure with his arms full of scrolls and ledgers; the other a tall youth with dusky features and black curly hair, who doffed his cap and made his obeisance with fine grace.

A dashing young man whom she didn’t recognize! Juana was intrigued. The day was beginning to brighten up. She strained to hear how he would be introduced.

Good morrow, En Perfecto, boomed the Count in his usual bluff manner. "I know your secretary—Todros isn’t it?—but who’s this young fellow with you? Come with a petition, has he? Wants our reference for a new job or a passer-porte for a journey? I don’t think we have time for any of that today, do you?"

I humbly greet my lord, Perfecto puffed unctuously, and crave the honor to present my nephew, Vidalon, son of my brother, Solomon. He seeks no favor nor license, but he is of an age to start learning our ways, and I have promised my brother to instruct him in the art of financial management. May it please you to permit him to attend our discussions? I assure your lordship that he will observe absolute silence and he is, of course, under a sworn oath of confidentiality.

The Count glanced at the youth and nodded approvingly …

Apart from wine, food, women and hunting—not necessarily in that order—there were two other virtues Berenguer appreciated. One was honesty. He considered himself an honest man, and when he bothered to think about the nobles of his Court and the princes of the Church who surrounded him, he felt very much alone. There was no one he really trusted. Especially Paul of Lérida, who was not just an appalling pederast, but a conniving trickster no more to be trusted than a fox in a chicken run. Berenguer worried about him and his intrigues. Most of all he worried about Paul’s loyalty—not just to him, but to the state. The only positive aspect was that at least he, Berenguer, knew the spymaster for what he was, and that might one day be of crucial importance.

Perfecto was all right, he supposed. At least the Bailiff was meant to be on his side—as long as it was the profit side of any balance sheet. To the Bailiff money was like oats to a horse and provided he got plenty he would keep the wheels of state rolling. His loyalty was not in question either. Like all Jews, he legally belonged to his ruler and was thus dependent on the Count for protection.

Berenguer’s pet aversions were the cardinals and bishops, all extravagantly robed and bejeweled, whose presence was meant to demonstrate the Church’s concern as to how the state’s secular affairs might affect its spiritual welfare. Hogwash, thought the Count. The only reason they attended any secular affair was to protect the Church’s own privileges. And, by heavens, they were worth protecting. It paid no taxes; it skimmed off hefty amounts from the people by way of tithes; it confiscated the property of condemned heretics; and inherited all unclaimed estates. As Berenguer was the supreme arbiter of the law, he often had to hear judicial appeals involving such matters and it was the possibility of one coming up that made sure the Church was represented at every Court audience—except this one, praise the Lord.

The rest of his Court were born of noble stock or married to it, but either way they were a bunch of ninnies. They knew little about finance, less about diplomacy and least of all how a province like Catalonia should be governed. All they knew was how to dress expensively; how to impress each other with feats of chivalry they never actually performed; and how to break their marriage vows with impunity. Fortunately for the Count, the concept of democracy had died out with the Greeks, so they contributed nothing but their obsequious support whenever it was asked for, which was not very often, and he kept them in their place by letting them think they had a say in affairs of state when they really had none.

The other elusive talent that Berenguer missed was a sense of humor. The Church, whose power depended on keeping the credulous believing in the incredible, took itself very, very seriously. It had to if it expected the people to do the same. As for the others, it would be quicker to rebuild the Cathedral than get them to see the funny side of anything.

The Jews, now: they were different. Even the pompous Perfecto knew when to smile benevolently at some witticism from Berenguer. Let’s hope this nephew of his has the same trait, especially as it’s housed in a more attractive body. Maybe the morning would not be so tedious after all …

Very well, let him take a seat and learn what he may. Then the Count added with a wicked grin: If he’s sharp enough, who knows if one day he might come to be a worthy successor to yourself.

Perfecto bowed again as if he had just been paid the greatest compliment. Let His Lordship tease him as he will, the Berenguer notes were safe and would provide him, when the time came, with all the security he needed. He took the seat that had been drawn up by one of the servants and lowered himself onto it as cautiously as a bear on a clutch of eggs. Todros was given a plain wooden fald-stool to his right, while the nephew was shown to another at his left, both a couple of paces behind. From her place by the wall Juana kept her face carefully composed so as not to reveal her delight that this arrangement gave her a clear view of the unexpected stranger.

She studied the young man called Vidalon. He seemed to be about her own age, maybe a year or so older, and though she now knew he was a scion of one of the wealthiest Jewish families in the province, she could see that he was far from being the pampered, flabby type one usually associated with those people. She noted his manly body in its tight-fitting tunic and his long, shapely legs in their hose of burgundy wool. Though he sat quietly and respectfully, she thought she could detect a certain indefinable tension, as if he were not totally at ease. This one certainly warranted further investigation, she decided.

When everyone had settled in his place, with wine, fruit and nuts set before them, and Todros had finally stopped shuffling his papers with a plaintive bleat of apology, Berenguer spoke again.

Now then, he began, the first item on the agenda is Holy Week. Once again it will soon be upon us and we need more taxes to pay for it. We expect the Jews to play their part.

The Bailiff gazed blandly at the Count and made no comment. He did not have to be reminded of the cost of Holy Week. Every year it was the same story. First there were the lavish processions which the Count was obliged to produce. It would mean fitting out the soldiers with new uniforms and armor and the horses with new trappings. It would also mean hiring strong men to carry the heavy, ornate statue of the Virgin and the gold and jewel-encrusted reliquaries that were taken from their place in the Cathedral on this one occasion in the year to be ceremoniously displayed to the people. Then there were the auxiliary guards to control the crowds and bonuses for all the public servants. Add to all that was the Easter Day bullfight that the people expected, which also meant a considerable outlay. All to be paid, housed and fed by the state.

There was no point in asking the Church to contribute, even though it would be playing a central role in the proceedings. The Cardinal-Bishop of Catalonia considered it demeaning enough that his prelates were expected to parade through the streets like vagrant actors drumming up an audience, to be oohed and aahed at by the stinking mob. He could hardly be expected to draw on God’s own resources to actually pay for such indignities. On the contrary, he was wont to tell the Count with a tight smile, the Church would expect an appropriate offering just to cover our expenses, you understand, and perhaps a little extra to compensate for the inconvenience. Naturally, I shall personally conduct a Mass of Thanksgiving and pray that divine blessings be bestowed upon the generous benefactors. The fact that those ‘benefactors’ would primarily be tax-paying Jews, who had no interest in a Mass nor anything else His Eminence had to offer, never occurred to him.

So Perfecto was fully aware that new taxes were required.

As I’ve told you before, Berenguer went on, smacking his hand on the table. I’ll be damned if I’m going to dip into the state’s coffers or our own just to please the rabble. You’ll have to find another source of funds and a rich one. You know how expensive Holy Week is.

Not a flicker betrayed the Bailiff’s thoughts. He had heard it all before and knew that Berenguer had to get his usual grudges off his chest before they could get down to the practicalities. He waited with the patience of long experience.

Holy Week is of Christian significance, the Count expounded, as if he had just thought of the idea. The Jews don’t take any part in it, nor do they contribute anything towards its organization, but it does bring good business to the city, and the Jewish merchants are better than most at soaking every drop of profit out of it. So the very least we expect is that they pay a goodly amount towards the costs. We therefore command you to impose new taxes on our Jews to be allocated for Holy Week.

Perfecto noted the ‘our’ with inner approval. For all Berenguer’s apparent antagonism, the Bailiff knew the Count could not afford to appear openly hostile to the Jews of whom he was legal protector, and the ‘our’ was the Count’s subtle way of acknowledging that he and the Jews of Catalonia were mutually dependent on each other. It was a frosty relationship, but the needs of each kept it stable.

What I’d like to know, Berenguer went on, a little less belligerently, is how you’re going to do it?

He picked up his goblet and took a deep draught, frowning over the brim at his Bailiff. While the money had to be found somehow, he had had serious doubts if even the ingenious Jew could squeeze any more out of his people. He had expected Perfecto to protest and argue that it was impossible; that the aljama was already taxed to the limit. Indeed, he had half expected the Jew to offer to advance the money himself against the security of more Berenguer notes, which he, in turn, would argue was equally impossible. But Perfecto seemed unperturbed. What did the wily Jew have hidden under that ridiculous cap of his?

Perfecto, to his credit, was even more resourceful than Berenguer imagined. He had anticipated this meeting and already devised a viable scheme. One of the reasons for both his unpopularity in the Judería and his success with the Count was his knowledge that, however severely the Jews of Catalonia may be taxed, there were still plenty of funds that somehow eluded the state’s revenue collectors.

May it please my lord, he replied, I believe there is a way that will be of satisfaction to your lordship. It is connected with the extensive slave trade that passes through your realm.

The slave trade? Berenguer pursed his lips. What do you have in mind?

As your lordship is aware, Perfecto went on glibly, the Jews who owe you allegiance do not themselves engage in slaving, though it be highly profitable for their brethren in the Muslim lands. But they are nevertheless involved in the trade indirectly, for it is they who advance the capital to the slavers to finance the purchase of their human merchandise. Instead of interest, however, they take a percentage of the price every slave fetches in the local markets.

Berenguer listened quietly and imagined how much of that capital flowed from his Bailiff’s own pocket and how much of that percentage flowed back in again, tax-free thanks to his franco dispensation. By any reckoning, the sums must be staggering as slaving was a lucrative business.

Since my lord has been so wise, Perfecto continued, as to enact that the slavers must register with your agents the sale of each slave and his or her price, it will be a simple matter to assess the commissions earned by the Jewish financiers and a fair proportion of those commissions might be levied for the Holy Week budget.

The Count looked at his Bailiff in puzzlement.

Do you mean to tell me that slaving isn’t taxed already? he said, unable to believe that such an obvious source of revenue had been overlooked.

Of course it is, sire, the profits of the slavers are taxed, just like all commercial enterprises within your jurisdiction. But I am talking about a levy on the dividends taken by those financing the trade, which happens to be largely the business of your Jewish subjects.

And you, of course, know who they are. It was a statement, not a question.

Perfecto silently inclined his head. He knew it wouldn’t be easy and the entire Judería would curse him, but he also knew that it would quickly understand that such a tax on a few wealthy men was to be preferred to a flat impost of so many thousand gold maravedís to be contributed by everyone. This way it would fall on those best able to afford it.

Very well, concluded Berenguer, I leave the details to you. Just make sure the treasury is sufficiently in funds to pay for Holy Week.

He signaled an end to the subject by beckoning to one of the servants to refill his cup and went on to discuss other matters relating to the state and his household.

Todros fussily produced the right papers as they were called for. Accounts were submitted, budgets approved and future fiscal policy discussed. For all his earlier preparation, Berenguer was, yet again, amazed at his Bailiff’s command of the figures. His mind grew numb from the array of statistics and he longed for a change of subject to something not quite so relentlessly mathematical.

It came in the form of another of the Count’s advisers being ushered in: an older, intelligent-looking man, who was announced as el Alfaquin Abraham Gerondi. The title Alfaquin, derived from the Arabic for scholar, could refer to a variety of services—from royal interpreter and translator to ambassador to foreign courts. But it was more commonly applied to the Court physician, who was often Jewish, since even the Christians conceded that Jewish knowledge of medicine was superior to theirs. Berenguer had learned to appreciate this and his Alfaquin was among his most trusted counselors.

As the family’s doctor, Gerondi had tended Juana from birth, treating her for all the common ailments of childhood, and she had grown to admire his kindliness and wisdom. But today, as far as she knew, none of the family or staff was suffering from anything he could cure. If he had come to see Petronilla, which he did regularly to leech her chronic rheumatism, he would have been shown straight to her rooms, not allowed to interrupt a business meeting.

The reason for his presence was soon made clear, along with a novel idea that he had been invited to examine.

Having seen Gerondi seated and offered refreshment, Berenguer turned his attention to a matter he had been toying with for some time: a revolutionary new scheme for the construction of the first public baths in Barcelona. He had commissioned his Alfaquin to investigate the feasibility of the scheme and to make recommendations. The doctor’s report lay before him and Berenguer gestured to it.

Good work, Gerondi, he complimented. These baths are just what the city needs. I should like to see them open by the summer, for that’s when the city’s dirt and sweat will show a nice profit. Now it’s just a matter of ways and means.

Perfecto, prepared as usual, laid out his proposals. The Count would provide the site – a tract of land just outside the walls having already been allocated for this purpose – and would grant Gerondi a monopoly in perpetuity to operate the new baths. In return, he, the Count, would receive one half of the profits; the other half going to Gerondi. Perfecto would finance the construction – his loan and its interest to be recouped from the doctor’s share, without recourse to Berenguer. All of which suited the Count admirably, for now he could boast of a profitable investment with no commitment on his part and demonstrate that he, too, could prosper from the increasingly popular practice of forming business partnerships between monarch and Jew.

Paul of Lérida, on the other hand, was utterly indifferent to hygiene for the masses. Having heard what he had come to hear, he staggered to his feet and formally requested the Count’s permission to leave. That being granted with a curt nod, Paul placed a heavy hand on his page’s shoulder and withdrew. No one bade him farewell.

The discussion resumed until it grew thick with intricate detail. So did the atmosphere, for the blinds of oiled silk that covered the windows to keep out the cold also prevented any fresh air from getting in. The logs in the hearth-pit were beginning to smoke, adding to the stuffiness. Even the disciplined servants had started to fidget.

Juana was also getting tired, but she was too fascinated by Perfecto’s nephew to leave just yet. She studied his face intently. The aquiline nose might be typical of his race, but neither the high cheekbones nor the curved lips that drooped at the corners, whether from discontent or disapproval she could not tell, seemed particularly characteristic of any eastern tribe. She had a sudden urge to attract his attention.

She leaned forward out of the shadow of the servants, hoping that the slight movement would make him turn her way. It didn’t. She stood up, as if to relieve a cramp or adjust her dress. That did it. He raised his head and looked straight at her. His face remained composed, but his eyebrows arched perceptibly. She returned his stare with just the faintest hint of a smile. She was pleased to see he did not look away, but held her gaze with cool poise.

After a moment that lasted an age, Juana demurely lowered her head. She could sense that the unflustered youth had been taken with her. All that remained was how, when and where.

This turned out to be easier than she dared hope.