The door opened, flooding the cell with light. Two burly guards dragged him out of the dark. He was dazzled by the brilliance of a low sun. But he thought the guards flinched from the new holy light that burned from his own eyes.

XXII

XXII

Robert was shoved inside a reception room. Released, he staggered, and stood upright.

He glanced around. Books, bound volumes and scrolls, were piled roughly in one corner. Four arched doorways were all blocked by the burly bodies of guards - dark, stocky, powerful men, Berbers perhaps. The room was beautiful. But he had no time for beauty now; this was just as much a prison as his own shit-filled cell.

But Moraima, sweet Moraima was here too.

Moraima came to him, her hands folded into an anxious knot. A delicate scent of jasmine hung around her. He longed to take her in his arms, to let out the warmth that surged inside him. But he knew he must not.

She stood before him, uncertain how to read him. ‘Robert. It has been so long. I thought they might have killed you. The vizier is like the weather; he comes and goes in his moods. He got angry with Sihtric, and he just locked everybody away.’ She said hastily, ‘I don’t know what’s happening here, Robert. But we must talk.’ And she placed a hand on her belly.

Now Orm and Sihtric were brought in. Robert saw that they, too, had been imprisoned. Orm’s beard was ragged, his hair untrimmed, the dirt ground deep into his pores, and there was a sewer stink of the cell about him. The priest, too, was shabby, and he scratched himself under a grimy habit.

Orm ran to his son and took his shoulders. ‘Robert. What did they do?’

‘I was stuck in a hole. They kept me in the dark.’

‘In the dark, and alone? And we thought we had it bad, priest.’

‘I am not harmed.’

Orm looked deep into his eyes, troubled. ‘Are you sure? You look different.’

‘Harder, I’d say,’ said Sihtric. ‘Not necessarily a bad thing, a bit of toughening up.’

‘Shut up,’ Orm said. ‘Come sit over here.’ They settled on floor cushions. ‘Robert, I’m sorry.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s my fault.’

Robert felt impatient that his father and this flawed priest were drawing the crisis about themselves like a cloak. ‘How is it your fault? You were imprisoned too.’

Orm scratched his stubble. ‘But I fear all this came about because of my foolishness - ours.’

He told Robert about the conversation he had had with Sihtric in another corner of the palace, about the Engines of God, and the Testament of al-Hafredi, and Sihtric’s real intentions.

‘Evidently we were overheard,’ Orm said.

Sihtric said glumly, ‘I’ve used that room for years.’