When they were gone, in the city by night you could see only a scattered flickering of lights across a landscape of gleaming domes and minarets, and the only sounds were the smash of glass, drunken laughter, the occasional scream, and the muezzin’s faithful calls. Ibrahim had the oppressive sense of being present at the end of a great phase of history.

Then it was the last week, and then the last day.

And on the morning of the twenty-first of December, the last morning of Moorish Seville, Ibrahim, with Ibn Shaprut at his side, walked the deserted streets one last time. Abandoned bundles littered the cobbles. They saw a scrawny dog nose through one package, looking for food.

‘Amazing,’ Ibn Shaprut said. ‘I thought the dogs had all been eaten.’

‘Evidently they’re better at hiding than we are. Let’s hope they are good at playing the Christian.’ Ibrahim reached out to the dog, but it thought he wanted its food and it fled.

Ibn Shaprut held up a hand. ‘Listen. Can you hear that?’

There was a weeping, so soft they would never have heard it if not for the utter silence of the city. They followed the noise, passing along a street and through an archway, into a small, overgrown patio.

Surrounded by greenery, a girl sat on a stone bench, cradling a baby in a filthy blanket.

Ibn Shaprut approached the girl. When he touched her shoulder she flinched, but the doctor had a soothing manner. ‘It’s all right. No Christians here yet. Let me see your baby. I’m a doctor. I might be able to help.’

Gradually she relaxed. Her face was tear-streaked. She wouldn’t let go of the child, but held it out so that Ibn Shaprut could examine it. Ibrahim knew nothing of the health of babies, but it was awake, its eyes alert, and it seemed to smile at Ibn Shaprut; there couldn’t be much wrong with it.

Ibrahim thought he recognised the girl. ‘I know you. That chiseller Ali Gurdu accused you of thieving.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Yes. You’re the vizier’s vizier. That was what they called you.’

He smiled. ‘Well, the vizier is long gone. You can call me Ibrahim. And you are Obona.’

‘You helped me. You sent me for food from some people, after I got away from Ali Gurdu.’

‘Did they help you?’

‘Yes. They took me in as a servant. They were decent. But they found a way to flee, and passed me on to another family. They looked after me too.’ Tears leaked from her eyes. ‘I woke up this morning, the baby woke me crying, and they had gone. I suppose I’m just a burden to people.’

‘Don’t think that.’

‘Is it true, sir, about the Christians?’

‘Is what true?’

She whispered it, eyes wide. ‘That they eat babies? I’m so afraid - the things people say—’