Armed with the legacy of antiquity, the Moors were able to make the northern lands flourish as they had al-Andalus. Populations rose steadily, and gained in wealth and health - and, just as steadily, converted to Islam. There was an intellectual revolution, and marvellous medicines and machines transformed the lives of the people.
‘The greatest mosque in Europe was built in Seville, but the second grandest was in Paris,’ Sihtric said. ‘The greatest library in the world was in London. Think of that!
‘And it was in a Moorish London that a young man called al-Hafredi was to be born. In a few words he sketches his London for us, a London where minarets and marble-columned palaces rise within the old Roman walls, and the cries of the imams drift across the Thames.
‘Al-Hafredi claimed he had come from a far future, a thousand years beyond the Muslim conquest. And he sketches that millennium - a future that was already history to him. There will be invaders,’ Sihtric said. ‘From the east. A wave of savage horsemen, bursting out of Asia. The Muslim rulers, fractious as ever, will be unable to stand before them. Al-Hafredi details their progress. But the nomads’ world empire will be brief, gone in a few generations, leaving only memories of distant lands.
‘In the next age, plague. Many will fall. It would have been far worse, says al-Hafredi, if not for Muslim medicine.
‘And in the age after that there will be a terrible war, a war of the Silk Road, as empires of east and west fall on each other. The war will engulf the whole world, and will last another century. And it will be won by machines. I imagine engines like mine, like Aethelmaer’s, or even more destructive, born in the fecund minds of warriors and those who serve them.
‘The war, long and bloody, will be won by the Muslims. In the end Islam will hold sway across all the world as it is known, from Scandinavia to Africa, from Ireland to India and the lands beyond. And ships bearing the crescent banner will sail far beyond the horizon in search of new lands to conquer, new peoples to convert.’
‘And somewhere in this future Islamic world,’ Orm said, ‘your friend al-Hafredi broods, unforgiving.’
‘Yes. And here is the strangest part of the story. Just as in al-Andalus, Christianity will be tolerated - even a thousand years after Abd al-Rahman. But the bitter monks of Lindisfarne and elsewhere will be pinpricks of Christianity in a Muslim map. Christ will live on through them, for al-Hafredi quotes Matthew, chapter eighteen: “For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there I am in the midst of them.” But Islam will be everywhere else. The situation will be intolerable, the whole world lost - and in the end, al-Hafredi feared, Christianity would be extinguished altogether. Something must be done.
‘So the devious monks will steal one of the Moors’ own marvellous engines, and hatch a plot to use against its inventors. Don’t ask me how it is done - I barely understand the what, let alone the how. But they will find a way to hurl one man across history, just as my crossbow will hurl a bolt across the sky, just as your Witness sent her words across the firmament to Eadgyth - they will hurl him, naked and alone, into another time and place.’
Orm saw it. ‘They sent al-Hafredi from Lindisfarne, in this future century, to Poitiers, in the deep past.’
‘That is what al-Hafredi tells us happened to him,’ Sihtric said firmly. ‘And, following the mission that had been devised for him, he made his way to Odo, and turned that weak man’s mind around.’
Orm tried to take all this in. ‘If that was his mission, he succeeded. This other Europe is now extinguished altogether. The mosque of Paris, the great library in London—’
‘They never existed - and never will.’
Orm thought of the beauties he had seen here in al-Andalus, and he remembered the Normans’ harrying of the English north. ‘Do you think this world, our world, is a better one, Sihtric?’
Sihtric sniffed. ‘That other wasn’t a Christian world; it deserved to vanish.’
Orm studied the vellum again, and stroked it gingerly with a fingertip. ‘What is this stuff - goat, lamb? Why didn’t your long-dead scribe use a better quality bit of leather? These wounds are odd. This one looks like an arrow puncture. Was this animal hunted down?’
Sihtric eyed him. ‘Can’t you guess what this is, Viking? A pity; I thought you were showing imagination for once. Think about it. Al-Hafredi brought back an account of his own lost future in written form; perhaps he feared that his crossbow-shot across time would leave him dead, but that his message might do some good even so ... And yet he travelled naked.’
Orm saw it. He drew his hand back. ‘He bore his message on his body.’
Sihtric traced the letters on the bit of vellum with his finger. ‘Tattooed across his back, compressed Bible quotations and all. This evidence of a stitched-up arrow wound is a detail that adds veracity to the whole saga, doesn’t it? And when he died, stranded centuries out of his own time, the monks who tended him cut the skin off his back, and treated it as they would any bit of calfskin to be used for scribing.’
Orm stared at the bit of human skin, flayed off the body of a man from a vanished future. He felt obscurely angry. What strange world was he living in that such things could be possible? ‘Tell me what you intend to do about all this.’
‘I intend,’ Sihtric said coldly, ‘to follow al-Hafredi’s example.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I have seen an Islamic future, through al-Hafredi’s words. The Moors may have been turned back at Poitiers, but Islam is still strong-rampant. I will not allow such a victory to come about.’ He smiled coldly. ‘Like al-Hafredi, I will use the Moors’ own wealth and learning against them.’
Orm said slowly, ‘So you intend to develop your engines with Moorish money. Then you will hand over the weapons to the Christian kings. And with those engines, all of Islam will be destroyed.’
‘That’s the plan. Simple, isn’t it? It may be that I won’t live to see the project completed, of course. But that’s of no relevance. The march of Christendom transcends a mere human life.’
‘But to betray your sponsor—’
‘It won’t be hard. You’ve met him. The vizier’s no fool, but he is a drunk. He’s not hard to manipulate.’
Orm wasn’t so sure about that. ‘And what of your conscience, Sihtric? What of the helpless millions whose destinies you plan to deflect? What of their souls? Does that not trouble you?’
‘No, Orm, I am not troubled. There is another line from Revelation here. Chapter three: “I will not blot out his name out of the book of life.” But al-Hafredi did, and I will. You came here with your head full of vague plans to oppose me, didn’t you? Your wife’s nonsense about the Dove. But you’re full of doubt. Lesser men always are. But I, I am doing God’s work - I am sure of that - that is all that matters.’
A shadow crossed the room; a candle flickered. The vizier stood in the doorway, an armed guard at his side. ‘And all that matters to me, priest, is that at last I have proof of your treachery.’
XXI
Alone in the dark, Robert measured space and time.
The floor was square, thirty by thirty of his foot-lengths paced out toe against heel. He could not see the ceiling, but he knew that many of the palace’s rooms were rough cubes, so he imagined the room was as tall as it was wide. He explored the walls with his fingers. The room had arched doorways, but they were bricked up, save one closed by the heavy wooden door that had slammed shut after he had been thrown in here by the vizier’s guards.
And he measured time. There was no passage of day or night; the bright Spanish sunlight was banished from his life. But he counted the meals that were shoved through a hatch in the door - bread, rice, a bit of water, delivered with a precious splinter of light. He counted his own pissing, his stools. He counted the times he slept, but his sleeping was poor.
In the dark he became confused in his counting, which distressed him.
It took him some of that passing time to work out that he was, in fact, imprisoned. There
were few gaols in England, no cells save for a few dismal dungeons beneath the Normans’ keeps, where athelings or other valuable captives might be held. If you committed a crime you might be executed, or mutilated, or fined; if you lived you went back to work. There wasn’t the spare food to feed a population of prisoners. In al-Andalus, it seemed, things were different.
And as the days wore away and it dawned on Robert that he could see no end to this captivity, a deep horror settled on him.
He prayed every day, of course. Prayed every hour. Prayed constantly. He tried to mark Sunday, when he thought that day came. He recited the words of the holy Mass, as best he remembered them. Praying was better than thinking. Better than wondering what had become of his father, or Moraima, better than endlessly speculating why he had been thrown into this hole. Better than wondering what might become of him when he was finally released. Or, worse, how it would be if he were never released at all.
After the first few days he decided that he should treat his captivity as a trial. He thought of heroic monks like Saint Cuthbert, who deliberately sought out purposeful solitude in order better to understand their own souls, and God. If he were to become a soldier of God, fighting in the Pope’s armies, he would face far worse torments than this.
He longed to be with Moraima. And he longed for his father to come and save him. But these were the weak thoughts of a child and he put them aside. He would use these hours in the hot, foetid, alien dark to cleanse his soul of weakness.
By the time his captors came for him, he thought only of God.
The door opened, flooding the cell with light. Two burly guards dragged him out of the dark. He was dazzled by the brilliance of a low sun. But he thought the guards flinched from the new holy light that burned from his own eyes.
XXII
Robert was shoved inside a reception room. Released, he staggered, and stood upright.
He glanced around. Books, bound volumes and scrolls, were piled roughly in one corner. Four arched doorways were all blocked by the burly bodies of guards - dark, stocky, powerful men, Berbers perhaps. The room was beautiful. But he had no time for beauty now; this was just as much a prison as his own shit-filled cell.
But Moraima, sweet Moraima was here too.
Moraima came to him, her hands folded into an anxious knot. A delicate scent of jasmine hung around her. He longed to take her in his arms, to let out the warmth that surged inside him. But he knew he must not.
She stood before him, uncertain how to read him. ‘Robert. It has been so long. I thought they might have killed you. The vizier is like the weather; he comes and goes in his moods. He got angry with Sihtric, and he just locked everybody away.’ She said hastily, ‘I don’t know what’s happening here, Robert. But we must talk.’ And she placed a hand on her belly.
Now Orm and Sihtric were brought in. Robert saw that they, too, had been imprisoned. Orm’s beard was ragged, his hair untrimmed, the dirt ground deep into his pores, and there was a sewer stink of the cell about him. The priest, too, was shabby, and he scratched himself under a grimy habit.
Orm ran to his son and took his shoulders. ‘Robert. What did they do?’
‘I was stuck in a hole. They kept me in the dark.’
‘In the dark, and alone? And we thought we had it bad, priest.’
‘I am not harmed.’
Orm looked deep into his eyes, troubled. ‘Are you sure? You look different.’
‘Harder, I’d say,’ said Sihtric. ‘Not necessarily a bad thing, a bit of toughening up.’
‘Shut up,’ Orm said. ‘Come sit over here.’ They settled on floor cushions. ‘Robert, I’m sorry.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s my fault.’
Robert felt impatient that his father and this flawed priest were drawing the crisis about themselves like a cloak. ‘How is it your fault? You were imprisoned too.’
Orm scratched his stubble. ‘But I fear all this came about because of my foolishness - ours.’
He told Robert about the conversation he had had with Sihtric in another corner of the palace, about the Engines of God, and the Testament of al-Hafredi, and Sihtric’s real intentions.
‘Evidently we were overheard,’ Orm said.
Sihtric said glumly, ‘I’ve used that room for years.’
‘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
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.’
The vizier nodded. ‘Your Codex is here, the sketches you stole from Aethelmaer.’ He held up a scroll. ‘So are all your notes and commentaries, and the designs you have developed. All your work is here.’ Ibn Tufayl smiled, malicious. ‘And if I ordered it destroyed, perhaps on a mere whim, it would be gone for ever. The meaning of your life, priest, gone in a heartbeat.’
‘You would not,’ shouted Sihtric, his face reddening.
Orm said, ‘Oh, calm down, priest. He’s only goading you. It’s obvious he won’t destroy your work. It’s far too precious to him for that.’
The vizier nodded. ‘I’m glad one of you shows some wisdom.’
‘But you have your own purpose for them, no doubt,’ Robert said.
Ibn Tufayl half rose. ‘Do not speak to me, you wolfling, or I will have you eviscerated before your father’s eyes.’
Robert was shocked by the anger in his face, the crimson glower, the twisted lip, the bulging eyes. He flinched, unable to understand why he should be the focus of such rage.
Orm’s grip tightened on his arm, har
d enough to hurt. ‘Stay calm.’
Sihtric said, ‘He’s right, though, isn’t he, vizier? You have concocted your own scheme for the weapons.’
The vizier settled back. ‘Oh, yes. Far beyond your petty notions. It takes a man of vision to see the true path. But oddly, it was you who put the vision into my head, priest. You and your muscled friend here. All your talk of al-Hafredi of Poitiers, this bizarre fantasy of men flung across time, a history averted. Nonsense! Irrelevant! No wonder you Christians fail if your heads are addled with such maundering. And yet the scheme you unfold, Sihtric, of a Muslim expansion across Gaul and Germany - now that is magnificent! The bones of a strategy - a grand one - and in your engines there is the means to carry it out.’
The vizier stood and paced around the room, energetic, vigorous, red-faced. The servant cowered every time he came close.
‘I will continue the development of your engines, the crossbows, the armoured carts, the flying machines. And I will give them to the armies of Seville. Then, reinforced by our brothers the Almoravids from Africa, we will storm across the marches and scatter the barbarian hordes of the Christian kings. Perhaps our new conquest will be as rapid as that of Musa and Tariq - why not? And in five years, or ten, Seville will be established as the capital of a reclaimed al-Andalus, and the bells of the Christian churches will fall silent again.’ He continued to pace, pace.
‘And then?’ whispered Sihtric. ‘And then?’
‘And then we will cross the Pyrenees. We will reverse the disaster of Poitiers, three hundred years ago. This time there will be no stopping our advance.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ Orm said. ‘I’ve fought with the Normans, remember. Why, they conquered England, the best-organised state in Europe. They’ll put up a tough fight.’
‘But they won’t have Sihtric’s engines,’ the vizier said.
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