He was fourteen years old, and was battered by contradictory experiences. In a few days he had lost his father, but he had found a core of true Christian faith. When he had first travelled across al-Andalus his soul had opened up to its light and its beauty. But now he imagined a day when this country would be studded with solid churches and cathedrals, and the folk working these rich fields would all be good Christians. He imagined that future, and dreamed inchoately of playing a part in bringing it about.

And in the world as he saw it now, with a new clear vision and orderly head, he found little room for a Muslim girl and her half-Muslim baby.

She saw this in his face. She turned away.

He dug the scroll out of his pack. Badly scorched, it was crumbling. ‘We must decide what to do with this.’

Ibn Hafsun glanced at it, interested. ‘What is it?’

‘It was saved from the fire. I think Sihtric thrust it out to a serving girl, who passed it to me . . . I have told you of his visions, the engines. These are the original sketches, I think, taken from the English monk.’

Ibn Hafsun touched the battered scroll. ‘The Codex! And nearly complete. Marvellous, marvellous. And it is wrapped in this bit of skin - is it tattooed somehow?’

Robert took the bit of skin, fingering it curiously. It was damaged by an arrow wound.

‘But they are useless,’ Moraima said. ‘These designs. My father always said they needed the Incendium Dei, which his alchemists could never puzzle out.’

‘Useless?’ Ibn Hafsun laughed coldly. ‘I wouldn’t have said so. How many have already died as a result of this Codex?’

‘It is useless,’ Robert said. ‘And my mother’s vision even more so.’ In the end, as far as he knew, Sihtric and Orm had never even discussed properly the ‘Testament’ that had brought Orm all this way in the first place. It had all been folly - a dreadful waste of life.

‘Well,’ Ibn Hafsun said, ‘if you two aren’t to stay together, what will you do with the Codex?’

‘It’s a Christian relic,’ Robert said. ‘I won’t see it in Muslim hands. Perhaps we should destroy it.’

‘It belonged to my father,’ Moraima snapped. ‘I won’t see it destroyed.’

‘That would seem a crime,’ Ibn Hafsun said. ‘It is a unique artefact . . . Can I suggest a compromise? Let me take it. I will put it in safekeeping for you - or for your children, perhaps.’

‘Safekeeping?’ Moraima asked. ‘Where?’

Ibn Hafsun thought it over, and had an inspiration. ‘Right here. I’ll put it in a box, and have it interred, under our feet. One day a great mosque will rise up here on this very spot. Surely it will be undisturbed there. And if you or your descendants ever want to retrieve it - well, you know where to look.’