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arms as they walked down the empty street. 'There's nothing to buck you up quite so much as a right good sacking on Christmas Day. But still this isn't bad work, not bad at all.'

'Shut up,' said Saladin. 'Oh, shut up.'

'All right. I'm just saying-'

'I know what you're saying-'

'Saladin. Here you are.'

Saladin swung round at the woman's voice. It was his mother.

Michael bowed. 'Lady Joan.' He looked up and leered at her.

'Happy Christmas, Michael,' she said drily. She looked tense, anxious.

'What are you doing here, mother?'

'Looking for you. It took me the devil's own time to find you. That sergeant of yours barely knows where his own backside is, let alone his soldiers. Well, let's get moving. We don't have much time.' She set off down the street, without looking back.

She gave Saladin no choice. He trotted after her. Michael, grinning, followed.

'Mother – where are we going?'

'The mosque, of course. Where else? Thomas Busshe will meet us there. Time is short. The bishops are going to reconsecrate the building this morning. Then the King will hear mass in it this evening. We've only got an hour before the clerics will be swarming all over it.'

Michael asked, 'An hour to do what?'

Joan said, 'To dig up the Codex.'

Saladin had told Michael nothing about his family's strange secret from the past. But Michael picked up those words 'dig up'. 'Buried treasure, he said, his grin widening. 'Now that's what I'm talking about.'

When they reached the mosque's outer wall, they met Thomas at a gateway that led through to a broad patio where dried-up fountains stood like dead flowers. Thomas was out of breath, and looked anxious. 'This way,' he said, and he hustled them across the patio and through an arched doorway that took them into the mosque itself. 'But,' he panted, 'it isn't good news…'

The mosque was immense. Like its great sister in Cordoba, it was a complex of pillars and arches that extended off to infinity in every direction. Just days ago, this place would have been crowded with the Muslim faithful, Saladin supposed, perhaps still praying that Allah would save their city for them. Now there were only soldiers, all of them blazoned with the cross of Christ. In one comer he saw soldiers sleeping, leaning up against the wall. In another, more of them gambled with dice on the polished floor. And in the very heart of the mosque a fire had been built, right in the middle of the floor, and the soldiers were roasting a pig they had robbed from somewhere, no doubt brought here as a deliberate act of disrespect to the vanished Muslims. The smoke licked up and was blackening the fine plasterwork above.

Thomas had brought a few workers with him, off-duty soldiers standing idle with picks and shovels. 'The difficulty is,' he said, 'where are we supposed to dig?'

'I hadn't thought this far ahead,' Joan said. She strode about, looking around at the mosque. 'I think I imagined it would be obvious. That those who buried the designs would leave some clue.'

'None that is apparent,' Thomas said. 'We haven't the time to dig the whole place up, and nor would the King spare us even if we did.'

'Then what are we to do?'

'Ask me.' The woman walked towards them, out of the deeper shadows of the mosque. She wore a veil and a djellaba. She was obviously a Muslim, and had obviously been hiding. The woman removed her veil. She looked about fifty; her face was stern, determined – and familiar.

Michael made a deep growling noise. 'Now that's more like it. Old bones, but well worth jumping on, Saladin my friend, you mark my words-'

'Shut up.'

Joan said, 'I know you. You were in the meeting at the palace with the vizier's staff.'

'In the turayya, yes.' She spoke a clear but accented English.

'What do you want here?'

'To meet you. You are here because of me.' The woman smiled, but it was a stern, chilling expression. 'I wrote to you, many years ago. I told you of the existence of the Codex of the Engines of God. I told you where the designs were buried. I hoped for cooperation. We are cousins.'

'You are Subh of Cordoba.'

'And you are Joan of the Outremer.'

The women faced each other. Saladin had rarely sensed such tension between two human beings, even in combat.

'You should have fled with the others,' Saladin said to Subh. 'You must know you have put your life at stake by staying here.'

Joan introduced him. 'This is my son, Saladin.'

'Another relative.' Subh smiled at Saladin, and turned back to Joan. 'I would not leave without what is mine,' she said. 'No – ours.'

Joan said, 'If the Codex exists at all, it is lost under this ocean of flooring.'

'Not lost,' said Subh. 'I know where it is. Precisely.' And she told them of a memoir left by Ibn Hafsun, the muwallad who, more than a century ago, had been the man actually to bury the Codex at this site. 'I had a scholar, Peter, who analysed his record and calculated precisely where under the mosque the cache must be. I had hoped we could work together,' she said. 'That is why I wrote to you. In trust. With the two scraps of knowledge that have come down to us, the engine designs and the enigma of the Incendium Dei-'

'Tell me where the Codex is.'

'Not until we discuss terms.'

Joan laughed in her face. She turned to Michael. 'Hold her.'

Michael drew his sword. He stepped forward and took Subh's arm. Thomas flinched, upset by the bit of violence.

Subh's face was coldly furious. 'I came here for a civil negotiation.'

Joan said, 'I will not bargain with a defeated Moor.'

'You will not find the designs without me.'

'Oh, I will. Perhaps not today. Perhaps not for a year. But with time, there will be a way. Do you doubt that? The only question is, will you cooperate? For, you see, the only chance you have to gain anything from this situation is if you tell me what I wish to know.'

Saladin put a hand on her arm. 'Mother-'

But Joan shook him off.

Subh was beaten, but she was unafraid. 'Very well.' She glared at Michael until he let her go. Then she turned and pointed to the bonfire blazing in the middle of the mosque. 'There. About six paces beyond that bit of arson by your brutish soldiers.'

'Good,' said Joan. 'Let's get on with it.'

Subh stood before her. 'And what of me?'

'What of you? You are Muslim, I am Christian. All over the world, we are at war. And the engine designs are the spoils of war. I told you whatever was necessary to take those spoils.'

Subh stared back at her. 'So you betray me.' She wasn't begging, Saladin saw with grudging admiration. Unarmed, alone, surrounded, she was thinking, trying to find a way into Joan's soul. 'Cousin. We have different faiths. But we are family, you and I – and Saladin. I have a son too, called Ibrahim.'

'I am not like you,' Joan said coldly.

Subh insisted, 'We are the same blood. With roots in this very country, where once a foolish boy called Robert met a girl called Moraima. Is that not a deeper unity than anything else, even than differences in faith? Must it go on and on, Joan, Christian against Muslim, century after century as it has already for half a millennium in Spain, until none of us are left alive?' And she reached out a hand.

Joan pulled back, her face twisted with fury. 'Don't touch me, you witch. You talk to me of blood? Your kind forced me from my home, from Jerusalem. Do you imagine I will forgive that? Do you imagine I will rest until I see the land of Christ restored to Christian hands? Take her out of here,' Joan said to Michael. 'Hand her over to your