‘But that part of the palace,’ Orm told Robert, ‘was an ambassador’s court. It is a warren of tunnels and spy-holes. Moraima knew all about it. And this priest never thought to inquire.’

Sihtric snapped, ‘But the vizier learned nothing damaging before you showed up in al-Andalus, Orm, with your addled prophecy, your doves and serpents, your doubts. Nobody before you ever encouraged me to express dreams I had kept safely lodged in the silence of my soul all these decades. You upset everything, Orm, all my delicate arrangements. Now he knows it all . . .’

Robert looked at the two squabbling old men. They didn’t matter to him now. Their babbling of history and prophecy was irrelevant - and so, he thought for the first time in his life, was his father. All that mattered to Robert was the cold steel of the piety he had discovered in himself during his solitude.

‘What a touching scene.’ The vizier walked into the room.

They all got to their feet.

Ibn Tufayl looked magnificent in his djellaba of the finest silk and spun wool and with his skin shining with oils, yet he swayed, subtly. ‘Three shabby Christians. How low you are. How animal-like. And the stink of you.’

‘If you’re going to kill us,’ grated Orm, ‘get it over with.’

‘Oh, I fully intend to do that. But there’s no rush, Viking. After all this time we still have much to say to each other. Sit down, all of you.’

He crossed the chamber, alone save for a single servant who bore a tray of sweetmeats and drinks. He walked stiffly, his posture erect. But Robert saw the cautious pacing of a man concentrating on control.

‘The man is as drunk as a Breton,’ Orm murmured.

‘Then God help us all,’ whispered Sihtric.

XXIII

XXIII

The vizier sat on a heap of cushions. The servant next to him knelt with head bowed, holding up her silver tray. Robert thought absently that she would tire very quickly in a posture like that; she must be hardened by a lifetime of servitude. Ibn Tufayl was of course aware of their hunger, and he ate his titbits slowly, with evident relish, chewing openly. But his face was flushed.

He indicated the arched doorways, where the guards waited, eyes white in desert-dark faces. ‘We are effectively alone here. The guards are all Berbers. Almoravids, a fanatical bunch, but fierce warriors. And not a one of them understands a word of Arabic, let alone Latin. Not even this little one.’ He stroked the head of the girl kneeling at his side. ‘So you see, what we say in here will stay with us alone - or rather, with me.’

Sihtric waved an uncertain hand at the heaps of books in the corner. ‘You have taken my books.’