‘All of western Europe is the same. All of us dwelling in the vast ruins of the empire, four centuries after some German brute pushed aside the last boy-emperor from his throne. Did you know that the philosopher Seneca came from this very town? And the Emperor Hadrian himself, who made his mark on Britain as you know very well, Orm, came from the Spanish city the Roman called Italica, which is now the capital of our local taifa, Ishbiliya, or Seville . . .’

As he droned on, Moraima, without warning, grabbed Robert’s hand, held her finger to her lips and hauled him out of the room. ‘Come on. By the time they notice we’ve gone we’ll be far away.’

Robert was thrilled to be off on an illicit adventure with Moraima - to be alone with her at last, with no fathers or lusty camel-drivers in the way. But a lingering sense of duty prompted him to say, ‘We have to see this vizier—’

‘I’ll get you to the palace in time. I thought you were a warrior - you’re very timid. Come on.’

So they set off, holding hands, giggling and half-running like children.

She led him to a market, crowded and noisy, where stalls were piled high with tiles and bowls, with fine velvets and felts and silks. Moraima said that Cordoban shoes and carpets and paper were famous throughout the Muslim world. There were exotic imports to be found too: the fur of walrus and polar bears from Scandinavia, carved ivory and gold trinkets from Africa, silk, spices and jewellery from the east, even fine wool from England. One stall had a pile of fruit that Moraima had to name for him, save for the oranges: lemons, limes, bananas, pomegranates, watermelons, artichokes. Not even the Norman kings, Robert imagined, ate such exotic stuff as this.

Moraima said, ‘They say Cordoba is more like Africa than Europe. That Paris is not like this, or London.’

‘Africa starts at the Pyrenees,’ Robert said, echoing his father.

‘I’ve never travelled beyond the Pyrenees. I’d love to see London. Or York.’

‘I’ve seen those places, and more.’

‘You’re lucky.’

He shrugged. ‘My mother died when I was small. I go where my father goes. He’s a soldier. Somebody’s always rebelling, and he goes to sort it out.’

‘And London—’

‘Big. Dirty. Crowded. A cathedral like a big black pile. The Normans are building an immense fort in the corner of the old Roman walls. And York is a midden. It never recovered from the Normans’ harrying twenty years ago.’

‘“Harrying”? What does that mean?’

‘Ask my father. He was there.’

But that wounded country seemed far from this light-filled city, very far and somehow unreal. ‘You know, you aren’t much like your father,’ he said.

‘How so?’

‘You seem full of . . .’ He sought the right word. ‘Joy. Your father doesn’t seem joyful at all.’