Across Europe the conflict between Christianity and Islam was already four centuries old. Now the Seljuk Turks, ferociously warlike, had taken the Holy Land itself, all but extinguishing Christianity in the country that had given it birth. And they pressed on the East Roman Empire, long the bulwark between west and east, taking the rich province of Asia Minor. Alexius, emperor in Constantinople, had appealed to the west for help. But after centuries of invasions and war, the post-Roman states of west Europe were like armed camps, fractious and suspicious, bristling with petty armies any of which would have been dwarfed by the legionary forces of old. The Pope, spiritual leader of all these domains, longed to unify them in a great cause.

‘And what better ambition for a pope than a war against Islam?’ Ibn Hafsun murmured.

Moraima eyed Robert again. ‘I ask you once more: Must it be so?’

Robert said, ‘I hope not.’

‘You do?’

‘I would rather you and I were friends, than enemies.’

‘Then we will have to see how this little adventure of ours unfolds, won’t we?’ And she trotted back to her father’s side.

The older men exchanged bawdy glances, but Robert ignored them.

IV

IV

In the days that followed, as they pushed steadily south, the country became rougher. The olive groves and vineyards grew wild, the scrub encroached on the roads, and many of the towns looked abandoned. There were some inhabited communities, but all were heavily defended: fortified hilltops, towns with complicated systems of walls and towers. Ibn Hafsun and Orm kept their swords exposed.

Ibn Hafsun said, ‘This is the boundary, Robert. This is what you get when great civilisations rub against each other. The Arabs have a word. They call this the tugur. The front teeth.’

At last they approached Toledo. The party drew to a halt, all of them subdued.

It was mid-afternoon, and the sun was in the south, so that, approaching from the north, Robert saw the city in silhouette. The heart of Toledo was a fortress that sat on a promontory, with a river glistening at its feet. And on the plain outside the town, across a stout stone bridge, an army had gathered, pennants glittering in a cloud of dust, tents fluttering in the soft breeze. It was a Christian army, gathered under the cross of Jesus.

Ibn Hafsun came to Robert. ‘What do you make of it, soldier?’

Robert glanced around. ‘A naturally defensible site, on that rock. The river guards it on three sides. The walls are Moorish?’

‘Roman, then Gothic, then Moorish.’

‘And yet the town fell to Alfonso.’