But there had been no serious fighting for months, not since the spring when the siege had been set. There had been deaths among Fernando's forces, a steady stream of fatalities from drought, accident, and especially the plagues that coursed through the polyglot army. It didn't matter much to the generals, Michael said. There were always more volunteers willing to come and join an army on the brink of victory, trickling here from across Spain, indeed across Christendom. And a smart general always factored in the likelihood of losing a proportion of his army to disease. You planned for it, said Michael.

It wasn't really a surprise that Hanse was the first of the three of them to succumb, for he had fried in the Spanish sun. Michael, though, had darkened, his face turning leathery. Saladin wondered if he had a bit of Trojan blood in him, for it was said that it had been Trojans who were the first to colonise England.

'He had been talking of joining King Louis,' Michael said now. 'Hanse, I mean.' King Louis of France was generally believed to be the most pious and accomplished crusader king since Richard the Lionheart. 'Louis is sailing about now, for Cyprus, then on to Egypt.'

'He should have gone,' Saladin said. 'Better than this, sitting around in your own filth for month after month.'

'Maybe. Well, the poor bastard has missed out.'

'On what?'

'The city, when we get into it. They know some tricks, these Saracen women.'

'They are Moors, not Saracens.'

'The emir's whores are the best, if you can get hold of one the other lads haven't been up first. They'll know some tricks.' He laughed lazily. 'If the emir hasn't eaten his women by now. Try to find a whore without a bite taken out of her tits, ha ha!'

'I thought you said Moors eat babies.'

'Everybody knows that. But they'll have scoffed them all down by now, mate.'

Michael had never, in fact, met a Muslim in his life, save for a few mudejar farmers who had fled at the advance of the Christian army south from Cordoba. He knew nothing of Islam save the name. And yet here he was participating in a world-wide war against it.

Saladin had learned not to express such thoughts. He had had a difficult enough time being accepted by these western Christians without coming across as a Moorish sympathiser.

Their sergeant came by. He was a blunt-spoken Englishman called George, whose father had once fought with Richard the Lionheart, or so he claimed. He carried a big water flask, and an armed soldier watched his back to make sure none was stolen. 'Daily ration for you two arseholes,' he said, pouring the water out into their own flask. He glanced around. 'Where's the other arsehole? Pulling his cock?'

'He's dead,' Saladin said. 'He's a dead arsehole.'

'What, the sickness?'

'I think so.'

'Fair enough. Take him over there.' He pointed to a site near the base of the city walls where units of the army were gathering.

'Why?' Saladin asked.

'New orders. Captain says we're to catapult any dead arseholes over the wall. Let the Moors get the benefit of it.'

Michael laughed. 'They'll probably eat him. Poor old Hanse. He came a long way to be eaten by a starving Saracen whore.'

'Just do it,' the sergeant said, and he moved on.

It took the two of them to shift Hanse out of the tent, Michael at his shoulders, Saladin at his feet. Hanse's guts had emptied before he died. His tunic was crusted with vomit, and pale shit dribbled out of his trousers when they lifted him. What a waste of water, Saladin thought. He tried not to touch Hanse's flesh, or the shit.

'This isn't so bad,' Michael said, grunting as he worked.

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.

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.