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XXIV

Ibn Hafsun, Robert and Moraima slipped out of Cordoba. They rode down the Guadalquivir towards Seville, a bigger city where, Ibn Hafsun said, it would be easier for them to lose themselves, while the fuss died down.

Ibn Hafsun was vague about why he had saved them. 'I brought you across Spain, Robert, for a fee. I suppose I've always felt responsible for you. I didn't mean to lead you into such peril – and nor did I mean to play a part in the deaths of Sihtric and Orm.'

'It wasn't your fault,' Robert said.

'Perhaps not. But I'm a muwallad, Robert. A Muslim, but with a healthy dose of ancestral Christian guilt left in my bloodstream.'

As they journeyed along the course of the great river, Robert was distracted by the changing landscape. Al-Andalus might have declined since the end of the great days of the caliphate and the fitnah, but there was prosperity here. Huge ships sailed the length of the river, laden with goods. Near Seville the land was heavily farmed. Plantations of sugar cane sprawled amid ranches and stud farms where tremendous herds of horses flowed.

As they travelled, each morning Moraima was ill.

The two of them spoke little. Moraima was immersed in her loss and the churning of the new life inside her body. And Robert, brooding on Orm's death, his head full of the stern strength of his new faith, found he had nothing to say to her. In the evenings, in taverns or camped out in the open, Ibn Hafsun watched them sitting apart in silence, and sighed, and rolled over in his blanket to sleep.

Seville itself was bustling, prosperous under the Abbadids, the ruling family. Ibn Hafsun said that the river was navigable from the sea to this point, making Seville a natural port. There was a fortress here, built centuries ago by Cordoban governors. Now it was being extended by the Abbadids into a palace to be called al-Murawak – 'the Blessed'. If Cordoba's great days were over, it appeared that Seville's still lay ahead.

They came to a place a little way to the north and west of the fortress walls, where a small mosque stood. Ibn Hafsun said, 'You say Sihtric spoke of a great mosque to be built in Seville. If it is to be built anywhere, I judge it will be just here, for the position, close to the palace, is ideal.' He glanced around at the somewhat shabby mosque, the tangled streets. 'It's unprepossessing now. But it would be fascinating to come back in a century or two, and see what time has made of this place.'

Robert glanced at Moraima. 'We should make plans,' he said. 'Ibn Hafsun has brought us this far. Now it's up to us.'

'I have family in the city, on my mother's side,' Moraima said. 'The aunt who would have raised me. We could stay with her. She wouldn't betray us. She never liked grandfather much.'

'Or-'

'Yes?'

'Or we could take a ship for England.'

They eyed each other. Moraima's face was full of her loss, of her father and grandfather. A loss that, perhaps, she blamed him for, in some indirect way.

And Robert saw her from a distance, as if through a window of stained glass.

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.'

'Are you an honest man, Ibn Hafsun?' Robert asked. 'You won't take it and exploit it for yourself?'

'Not I,' said Ibn Hafsun. 'I don't have the imagination for such things – or the stomach. After all I am caught between two worlds; who would I attack, my Muslim brothers or my Christian cousins? You can trust me, Robert Egilsson. I hope you know that of me by now.'

Robert and Moraima eyed each other. 'Agreed,' said Robert.

She nodded.

'And for you two,' Ibn Hafsun said sadly. 'Is there no hope?'

'No hope,' Robert said.

Moraima asked coldly, 'What of the baby?'

Robert shrugged. 'Have it born. Have it scooped out of you by your clever Islamic doctors. I don't care. It is your responsibility, only my shame.' And he turned to walk away.

'A shame that will haunt you, Robert,' she called after him. 'Haunt you!'

He kept walking, faster through the narrow streets, until he could no longer hear her voice.

As he approached the river he dug into his pack, checking his money.

And he found al-Hafredi's bit of tattooed wrapping skin, and scraps of the fire-damaged Codex, torn off. These fragments had been left behind when he had pulled out the scroll. He picked out the largest bit of the Codex, held it up in the bright Spanish sun, and studied it curiously. The words Incendium Dei had been ripped through, leaving incomplete letters, D, I, V, M. And there was a string of garbled lettering: