He walked on into the turayya itself, where he found that the discussions had already started. The Christian party had lined up against one wall, and glared at the emir’s representatives, led by the vizier, who clustered opposite. Hapless servants, trembling with fear, scurried between the parties with trays of sweetmeats and wine. The Christian leaders were warriors and clerics, knights and princes, envoys of the Pope. Some were both military and pious; Ibrahim saw a man in a tonsure with a chain-mail vest over his monk’s habit. And they all wore the shoulder-cross of crusade.

There was only one woman in the Christian party. She was still young, in her thirties perhaps, and quite pretty, with a face like an almond. A fat elderly monk accompanied her. Pretty or not she glared at her Muslim opponents as severely as any of the men.

As for the Moorish party, Ibrahim spotted Ibn Shaprut at its heart - and, he was shocked to see, his own mother stood close by.

He walked up. ‘Mother. What are you doing here? It’s hardly safe.’

Dressed in a robe as white and clean as mountain snow, her face shining with expensive oils and her hair drawn back under her veil, Subh looked magnificent. Magnificent, but furious. ‘Safe? Where is safe? None of us is safe, Ibrahim. Well, none of us save for him.’ She pointed.

Ibrahim glanced across the room. There was the almond-faced woman, and beside her, talking animatedly to her and her monk companion, was a flabby, sleek, sweating Moor.

‘Ali Gurdu,’ Ibrahim said with disgust. ‘That grafter. I should have cut off his hands and feet while I had the chance.’

‘What’s done is done,’ Ibn Shaprut said. ‘You can’t blame him for trying to save himself. And he might even help, though he doesn’t mean to, if he makes the Christian passage into the city a little easier.’

‘“Makes the Christian passage easier”,’ Subh snapped. ‘What are you talking about, you quack? Do you understand nothing of what’s happening?’

Ibrahim frowned. ‘What do you mean? Fernando has the city. What else can he want?’

‘Expulsion,’ said Subh.

‘What?’

‘We must leave. Every Moor - all of us who can walk, and even if we can’t. That is the condition Fernando is going to impose. Fernando doesn’t want a living city. He doesn’t want us. He only wants the stones, to house a new population of Christians.’

Ibrahim was stunned. The room spun around him, and the rich colours faded to yellow-grey. He felt Ibn Shaprut’s strong hands on his shoulders, and he was helped down, to sit on a heap of floor cushions.

Ibn Shaprut offered him a cup of watered wine. ‘Drink this.’