‘Of course you haven’t. Beautiful, isn’t it? And of course it was far more so before the fitnah. By which I mean the turbulence, the fall of the caliphate. I am determined to restore what I can, before the memory of it is lost.

‘This is not like your architecture, boy, that you inherited from the Romans, or that your ancestors brought with them from the German bogs. My ancestors were people of the east, of the sun, of the desert. They came to Spain only a century after the death of the Prophet. They had been nomads; they lived in tents! And their architecture reflects that. Think of this room as a fine tent of stone. To do business we sit on the floor, or lean on the walls - which is why they are tiled to your shoulders. The arches let the light and warmth of the world seep in. And in the patios water played, cherished, for in the desert water is the most precious substance of all.’ He sighed. ‘Some day it will be restored as it was, but perhaps not in my lifetime.’

Orm said mildly, ‘But the Christians are strong now.’

Ibn Tufayl was dismissive. ‘Let me tell you the truth about Christians in al-Andalus. Have you heard of the Martyrs of Cordoba? Christians have always been tolerated here, as you are dhimmis, People of the Book, like the Jews. But these “martyrs”, fifty or so, began to challenge the authorities, and to insult Islam. In the end they got what they wanted: a glorious public death. Such self-sacrificing idealists are trained in the Christian monasteries, which we continue to tolerate in our territory. Hotbeds of violence and rogue clerics and the extreme preaching of hate. Thus it goes when an inferior civilisation, yours, meets a higher one, ours. Your only weapon is your own petty lives. But these attacks are pinpricks. Nothing.’

Orm said, ‘I don’t think I would call the loss of Toledo a pinprick.’

Ibn Tufayl smiled. ‘It is a setback. Nothing more. There is talk of summoning help from across the strait. In the Maghrib there is a new movement called the Almoravids. Fierce, strong Muslim warriors. It won’t be long before the old city is in the hands of an emir, and the muezzin rings out across the rooftops once more.’

‘We’ll see,’ Robert said, and he glared at the vizier, who laughed at him.

After more talk of this sort, with Ibn Tufayl pressing Orm over details of what he called Viking ways of living and of making war, the little meeting broke up. They were all dismissed, save for Sihtric, who said he had business to discuss with the vizier.

‘I’d like to know what kind of “business”,’ Orm muttered to Robert.

‘I don’t think I’d trust that vizier,’ Robert said. ‘He had wine on his breath. Muslims don’t drink.’