'This isn't so bad,' Michael said, grunting as he worked.
XXV
Each day, in the middle of the afternoon, Subh visited Ibrahim at the palace. They were in a city under siege; Ibrahim wanted to be sure his mother was safe, and insisted on seeing her daily. As he was too busy to go to her, she came to him.
Today he found her with Peter, sitting in a well-appointed room that opened onto a broad patio. It was cool in the oven heat of the city. Save only for the loss of the fountain's trickling sound – the fountains had all been dry for months – the room was as it had been for centuries, and the light reflected from the carved stonework washed over Subh's cream-softened skin. She didn't look as if she had been affected by the long months of the siege at all. 'Such a beautiful place,' she said. 'What do you think will happen if the Christians do take the city, Ibrahim? Will they smash up this place? Will all this be lost?'
'I don't think so,' Ibrahim said. 'They're Christians, but not utter barbarians. I hear Fernando is already employing mudejar artisans. Perhaps they will continue to use the palace. They may renovate it, even extend it. Where else in Seville is fit for a king?'
Peter nodded. 'It's more beautiful than anything Christians could build.'
Ibrahim was faintly revolted by the way he disparaged his own culture. In the six years since he had met her Peter had truly become a creature of Subh, subsumed by her more powerful personality.
'But the Christians may disapprove of our decadence,' Subh said. 'They can be stern, these Christians. And we like our luxuries! Speaking of which, you should treat yourself a little more, Ibrahim. You look like a ghost. I told you, you should ignore your own silly rules and eat what you need.'
'I can't break the rationing I myself administer.'
She snorted. 'The common herd can die off and nobody will miss them. You are important, and deserve keeping alive.'
'As you are important, I suppose, Mother,' he said. 'And this Christian whelp of yours.'
Peter was indignant. 'I resent that. I don't have to be here. I could just walk out and surrender to Fernando's forces. I only need take my turban off to look like a Christian again.'
'Then why are you here?'
Peter smiled. 'How could I leave when the project is so close to fruition?'
'Ah. Your mysterious engines.'
'We have some news about that, Ibrahim,' Subh said. 'Something to distract you from your grubbing around in this city of the dead and dying.'
Ibrahim glared. 'I'm too busy for riddles. Just tell me what you mean.'
'The thunder-mouth,' the scholar said, 'is ready. My men are hauling it up onto the walls even now. You need to come and see it, Ibrahim.'
Ibrahim was unimpressed, and no doubt it showed in his face.
Subh snapped, 'You disapprove. How typical of you. What if we are saved through my vision, Ibrahim, you toiler, you ant? How will that make you feel?' She turned away from him.
'Just come and see it,' Peter urged gently.
XXVI
Saladin was astonished when plump old Thomas Busshe came riding down from Cordoba to see him in the camp.
'You want to be careful, brother,' Michael said to Thomas, laughing. 'Fernando's soldiers will eat that mule for you if you don't keep an eye on it. And if the Saracens get hold of you they'll eat you.'
Thomas glanced at him, gasping with exertion. 'My son, in Seville they are Moors, not Saracens.'
'Same thing.' Michael went back to stirring the thick broth of root vegetables, rice and unidentifiable meat that bubbled slowly in the pot on the fire.
Thomas sat on the ground beside Saladin with a thump that sent dust flying up from his mule-blanket. His habit, heavy wool that was completely unsuitable for the climate, was caked with dust and mud and sweat.
'You made a hazardous journey, brother,' Saladin said, offering him his water cup. 'The country is not yet subdued. And this, after all, is a siege.'
'So I was advised. But your mother in Cordoba insisted I come to see you.' He accepted a sip of water gratefully.
'Why? What's so important?'
'Joan has had a letter,' the monk said. 'From Roger Bacon.' And he produced a parchment.
It was more than a year since Bacon had successfully decoded the Incendium Dei scrap. Since then he had thrown himself into a vast and secretive project of experimental research, spending his time and energy and all the money he could get hold of on books and instruments and tables, hiring assistants and instructing savants.
'He has been puffed up by his own success in cracking the code.'
'That doesn't surprise me,' Saladin said.
'And now he's looking for engines that can deliver God's fire.'
'But the Codex is buried under the mosque.'
'True. But he's scoured Christendom and beyond for ideas on what might be possible. Look at what he speaks of – wagons that move without horses by means of a miraculous force, like the reaping chariots of the ancients, and machines for flight, and so on. He even says there is no doubt that such instruments were built in ancient times and are still being built today. He says he knows of a scholar who tried to build the flying machine…'
'He speaks of this Aethelmaer of the legend.'
'Perhaps. Or he may mean Ibn Firnas of Cordoba, who also built a flying machine some centuries ago.'
Saladin smiled thinly. 'In Jerusalem I knew a man who sold flying carpets making much the same sort of promises. Well, Bacon is undoubtedly eager to keep our money flowing. Is it possible the ancients really did have such machines, Thomas? In a way it makes the Sihtric designs more plausible, if they are memories of the past, rather than dreams of the future.'
'Well, Aristotle proposes that time is like a great wheel, going around and around endlessly, so that the past is the future, and there's no difference. But such speculations don't help us in any practical way. What we need is to get our hands on the Codex, and get it to Bacon, and then see what he can do with it-'
There was a spark of light. It came from one of the towers that bristled on the walls of the city, there and gone in a flash, like the sun reflecting from a bit of armour. Saladin stood up to see better. A tiny cloud of white smoke rose from the tower.
All around the camp, men were standing, pointing. In the flat light they looked skinny, skeletal, dead men besieging a city of the dead.
Long heartbeats after the flash of light, a muffled crump reached Saladin's ears, like thunder from a distant storm.
'What,' Thomas asked, 'was that?'
'I think we'd better go and find out,' Saladin said.
'I'll get your mule for you, friar,' Michael said. 'If it isn't in somebody's pot by now.'
XXVII
The thunder-mouth had been set up on a look-out platform on top of a tower set in the city walls. Peter and Subh had led Ibrahim up there to see.
