Abu Yusuf Yunus said, ‘I had to amputate the crushed lower arm, of course. Such was the damage, the main challenge was to leave flaps of skin intact enough for the later closure. It took some work, then, to find the severed blood vessels and arteries and stitch them closed. Those arteries have a way of drawing back from a cut, and you have to rummage around in there.’ Gruesomely, he wiggled his pink fingers. ‘With that done, it was a case of clean out, cauterise and stitch closed. The danger now is infection - that immersion in river water won’t have helped - but we do have treatments for gangrene, should it develop.’

‘You’ve done a remarkable job,’ Sihtric said effusively.

The surgeon nodded, his eyes half-closed, accepting his due.

Orm growled to Robert, ‘Doctors, they’re all the same. Never trusted them. Look at this oaf. Cares more about preening and posturing and taking the credit than about his patient.’

‘Is that what you think?’ The voice was low, silky, but faintly slurred. ‘Perhaps you really are a barbarian, Orm the Viking.’

They turned, and Robert found himself facing the vizier.

Ibn Tufayl’s eyes were bloodshot and staring. His face was deep red, his hair mussed, his black robe subtly disarrayed. He looked as if he had been woken in a hurry and dressed too quickly. And once again his breath stank of stale wine.

The surgeon and his attendants shrank away, bowing.

‘I have just heard of the accident to the eldest son of my friend Ibn Bajjah. How did this happen?’ He turned on the surgeon. ‘Whose fault was this?’

Abu Yusuf Yunus showed the vizier the repaired wound. ‘The boy is in no danger. I, Abu Yusuf Yunus, have saved him.’

The vizier grabbed the surgeon’s jaw with his cupped hand, gripping so hard that his fingers made white indentations in the surgeon’s flabby cheeks. ‘Of course you saved him, doctor,’ Ibn Tufayl said harshly. ‘That’s your job. If you had let him die, you would soon have followed him to paradise, believe me. I didn’t ask you how you did your job, Abu Yusuf Yunus. I asked you whose fault it was.’

The surgeon’s hands flapped like a bird’s wings. ‘Lord - I can’t say - I wasn’t there.’

‘It was him.’ Ghalib had spoken. In his chair, his face pale, his eyes glazed, he pointed straight at Robert. ‘He caused this. He is to blame.’

The vizier pushed the surgeon away, and Abu Yusuf Yunus stumbled back, shaking.

Robert, unable to imagine the consequences of this moment, prepared to defend himself.

Orm stepped between the vizier and his son, with his cloak thrown back so that the hilt of his sword was revealed. ‘This is a false accusation. My son saved this foolish boy. He did not harm him. Quite the opposite. Perhaps Ghalib is addled by the pain and the drugs.’