Subh drowned her out. ‘Your word against his! That’s all we have. Who are you protecting, Beatrice? Who? Somebody known to your father - one of his business associates?’ She spat that out with utter contempt. ‘And for that will you take the blood of a boy on your hands? Will you go to meet your Maker with that unforgiven sin on your conscience?’ She turned on the crowd. ‘Will you? And you?’

As Zawi pulled up his trousers, Alfonso made one last try. He cried, ‘You will not contradict me, woman! The facts of the case are clear! This girl has been violated. This girl, of a line tainted by no Moorish blood or Jewish, a Christian line that has survived since the days of the Gothic kings...’

But nobody was listening. One cobble was actually hurled, bouncing off the mosque wall harmlessly. But the mood for blood was gone, washed away by the sheer power of Subh’s personality. Even the priest walked away.

Subh approached Alfonso. ‘Gothic kings, eh? Well, I,’ she said, ‘am descended from Ahmed Ibn Tufayl, vizier to the emir of Seville, and that is no lie. I know the truth about you and your family, muhtasib. For centuries you called yourself al-Hafsun. My family worked with yours, in those days. You were muwallad. But when the Christian kings returned, you conveniently called yourselves Christian once more. Your blood is no more pure than your slut of a granddaughter.’

And she turned her back on a fuming Alfonso. ‘One of you,’ she called to her hapless relatives, ‘take Zawi home and clean him up. And tell him that if he gets up to this kind of mischief again, especially with a Christian, and especially with a granddaughter of that slug Alfonso, I’ll cut off his cock myself.’ She rubbed her hands as if to clean them of dust. ‘Well, that’s that sorted out. Now, what’s next?’ She smiled brightly at Peter. ‘What are you waiting for? Come with me.’

He dared do nothing else but follow.

IV

IV

In the patio of her home, Subh served Peter tea flavoured with the zest of an orange, and dried olives and apricots in thick cream.

It was May, and the garden was fresh, the leaves on the trees brilliant green, the roses flowering, the blossom on the pomegranates bright red. Somewhere a nightingale sang. This was a typically Moorish setting, Peter thought, an oasis-garden made by folk who cherished life where they found it.

But Ibrahim stalked about, restless. He seemed very angry that his mother had saved the life of his distant cousin. ‘You lied shamelessly,’ Ibrahim accused her. ‘You knew very well that Zawi slept with that wretched girl. It was written all over him.’

Peter said, ‘But the scars - the girl didn’t recognise them.’

‘He keeps the scars covered up with his sash,’ Ibrahim snapped. ‘Even while making love. Wouldn’t you?’