‘The fish! Everybody knows that’s a Christian sign. I’ve seen it daubed all over the walls of the mosque in Cordoba, a desecration. I’ve seen it for myself! Doesn’t that prove he’s a Christian?’

‘Oh, for the love of Allah.’

But the mob began to growl again. Ludicrous the root cause might be, but the situation was dangerous.

Ibrahim nodded to Abdul. ‘Captain. Take this man.’

Abdul muttered orders. Two of the troops went onto the bridge to seize the ‘spy’, who did not resist when they took his arms. The rest lined up briskly alongside Ibrahim, forming a barrier between the mob and their prey. They kept their swords in their scabbards, however.

Ibrahim raised his arms again. ‘You can see we have taken this man. If he is a spy, we will soon discover the truth and will do something about it. So you don’t need to pursue him any further. Go to your homes - go to your prayers. But you with the torches,’ he said with a note of command, ‘douse them in the river first. The city is too crowded to risk a fire.’

He turned away without waiting to see if they complied. But he murmured to Abdul, ‘Make sure they obey.’ He turned to the captive. ‘And you,’ he said, ‘are in my charge.’ He handed him back his bit of parchment with the fish-ship designs.

The man took it. ‘Thank you.’

Although his voice was gruff, Ibrahim thought he recognised his accent. He stepped forward and, carefully, not wishing to exacerbate any injuries, he lifted back the man’s hood. His hair was bright blond.

‘Peter.’

‘Hello, Ibrahim.’ The English scholar grinned, then winced as he cracked his bruised lips.

XVII

XVII

The palace was as crowded as the rest of the city; anybody who could find shelter with the emir did so. But Ibrahim found an empty room where he arranged for Peter’s wounds to be treated by a doctor, and ordered a girl to take him to the baths, and he called for a new set of clothes to replace those ruined by the mob.

By the time Ibrahim came to find him, late that afternoon, Peter was transformed. Sitting on a heap of floor cushions, he gazed out of the arched doorway into the light. His hair had been cut, his stubble shaved, and his skin cleansed of blood. He showed no trace of the beating he had received, save for the sheen of salve applied to his bruises and broken lips, and a little neat stitching in the wound on his forehead. But he had aged since Ibrahim had last seen him; now in his late twenties, he was a little thicker around the neck, his skin of his face less fresh, a little peppering of grey in that golden hair.

The battered bit of parchment, with its images of ships, rested on a low table.