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VIII

So they were brought into the presence of the vizier Ahmed Ibn Tufayl. This was the best room of all, Robert thought. Hangings of Damascus silk covered the upper walls, lamps of silver and crystal gave out a pure light, and an ornate ceiling sparkled with what looked like stars, studs of coloured glass embedded in polished wood.

The vizier himself lay on a couch. 'Sihtric, my friend and colleague. Welcome.' He was a thin, elegant man of perhaps fifty, with a pale colouring, though his nose and cheeks were blotched red. Servants, or guards, stood to either side, scimitars showing at their waists.

Led by Sihtric, the party approached the vizier one by one. Sihtric bowed before him and kissed his hand. Ibn Hafsun followed suit, and then Orm. Robert saw, though, that his father treated the two guards to a challenging stare. Orm was here as an equal, not a supplicant.

The vizier greeted Moraima more tenderly, patting her hair and cupping her cheek. Moraima submitted passively. Robert felt a stab of jealousy, but the vizier's attention was more affectionate than lustful – like a relative, not a lover.

At last it was Robert's turn. Ibn Tufayl's eyes were watchful but bloodshot. When Robert bowed to kiss his hand, on the vizier's fingers he smelled spices and perfumes, but an underlying stink of piss. And Robert was faintly shocked to smell wine on the vizier's breath.

Ibn Tufayl waved a hand. 'Sit, please.'

There were no seats, only couches, and a scattering of cushions on the floor. Sihtric and Moraima and Ibn Hafsun sat cross-legged with the ease of long practice. Orm and Robert followed their example, Orm stiffly. Servants circulated with drinks and sweetmeats, the juices of crushed fruit, and dried figs and grapes.

When Ibn Tufayl spoke, in clear Latin, Robert was surprised it was to him. 'So you're the Christian soldier I've heard so much of from Sihtric. Mother a mystic, father a Viking warrior – yes? A potent mix in young blood.'

'Now, you mustn't tease him, Ibn Tufayl,' Sihtric said. 'His faith is strong. He's probably the purest Christian here – purer even than me.'

Ibn Tufayl arched an eyebrow. 'Well, that isn't hard, Sihtric old friend, as you and I both know. But you don't know much about us infidels, do you, boy? I can tell from your round eyes.'

'I've never seen a place like this before,' Robert blurted.

'Of course you haven't. Beautiful, isn't it? And of course it was far more so before the fitnah. By which I mean the turbulence, the fall of the caliphate. I am determined to restore what I can, before the memory of it is lost.

'This is not like your architecture, boy, that you inherited from the Romans, or that your ancestors brought with them from the German bogs. My ancestors were people of the east, of the sun, of the desert. They came to Spain only a century after the death of the Prophet. They had been nomads; they lived in tents! And their architecture reflects that. Think of this room as a fine tent of stone. To do business we sit on the floor, or lean on the walls – which is why they are tiled to your shoulders. The arches let the light and warmth of the world seep in. And in the patios water played, cherished, for in the desert water is the most precious substance of all.' He sighed. 'Some day it will be restored as it was, but perhaps not in my lifetime.'

Orm said mildly, 'But the Christians are strong now.'

Ibn Tufayl was dismissive. 'Let me tell you the truth about Christians in al-Andalus. Have you heard of the Martyrs of Cordoba? Christians have always been tolerated here, as you are dhimmis, People of the Book, like the Jews. But these "martyrs", fifty or so, began to challenge the authorities, and to insult Islam. In the end they got what they wanted: a glorious public death. Such self-sacrificing idealists are trained in the Christian monasteries, which we continue to tolerate in our territory. Hotbeds of violence and rogue clerics and the extreme preaching of hate. Thus it goes when an inferior civilisation, yours, meets a higher one, ours. Your only weapon is your own petty lives. But these attacks are pinpricks. Nothing.'

Orm said, 'I don't think I would call the loss of Toledo a pinprick.'

Ibn Tufayl smiled. 'It is a setback. Nothing more. There is talk of summoning help from across the strait. In the Maghrib there is a new movement called the Almoravids. Fierce, strong Muslim warriors. It won't be long before the old city is in the hands of an emir, and the muezzin rings out across the rooftops once more.'

'We'll see,' Robert said, and he glared at the vizier, who laughed at him.

After more talk of this sort, with Ibn Tufayl pressing Orm over details of what he called Viking ways of life and of making war, the little meeting broke up. They were all dismissed, save for Sihtric, who said he had business to discuss with the vizier.

'I'd like to know what kind of "business",' Orm muttered to Robert.

'I don't think I'd trust that vizier,' Robert said. 'He had wine on his breath. Muslims don't drink.'

'No, they don't. Or aren't supposed to. There's more to the vizier than meets the eye. And I'd like to know more about the relationship he has with Sihtric. What hold does Sihtric have over him?' Orm sighed. 'I suppose it was foolish to think there would be anything simple about all this. Sihtric is a complicated man, and this is a complicated place.'

'But you're going to try to resolve your business with Sihtric even so?'

'I think I have to. I'm going to wait here for Sihtric. What will you do?'

Robert grinned. 'Go back to the city with Moraima.'

Orm nodded. 'I thought so. Just be careful.'

'My arm is strong.'

'But your heart isn't, no stronger than mine ever was. Be wary, son.'