'But there remains the central mystery of the Incendium Dei, which will give the punch to these weapons. Look, here is the scrap of cipher Aethelmaer left.' He pointed to a line of spidery lettering, headed simply Incendium Dei:
BMQVK XESEF EBZKM BMHSM BGNSD DYEED OSMEM HPTVZ
'I saw this before, at Westminster,' Orm said. 'It meant nothing to me then, nor does it now.'
'Nor me, and that's the problem. Well, nobody said it would be easy.'
'And you've devoted your life to this stuff ever since Hastings?'
Sihtric shrugged. 'After Harold fell, after my Menologium lost its value, I had no purpose. I needed a new goal.'
'You could,' Orm pointed out, 'have found some parish to serve. There has been plenty of suffering among the English these last twenty years.'
Sihtric smiled, almost sadly. 'Me, a humble parish priest? After I was nearly a king-maker? I don't think so. I wanted power – that's the truth and I don't deny it. I had no other purpose in mind. And I saw Aethelmaer's designs as a way to achieving that power.'
'So you found a way to live here.'
'It took time. You may remember I had a contact in Ibn Sharaf of Toledo, the noted astronomer, who corresponded with me in London. He gave me a start. After that I found a place in a monastery. I quickly learned Arabic, which is the language of government here. I made some money translating the Bible into Arabic, for other Mozarabs. There are Christians here who have grown up reading only Arabic. Imagine that!'
'And you too are a Mozarab,' Orm said. 'A "nearly Arab". You are defined by what you are not. Tolerated or not, I don't think I would like to live with such a label.'
'Few do,' conceded Sihtric. 'And there are boundaries to that tolerance. The Moors are clannish, Orm. You can't just find the local lord and offer him your services, as in England. With the Moors it's all family and patronage and who you know – devilish hard to break into. And under Islamic law there are limits to the tax you can impose on a Muslim, but you can tax Christians as much as you like. And then, Mozarabs are excluded from the higher levels of government, from power. It's actually a good career move to do as Ibn Hafsun's family once did, and convert. But then I am a priest; that course is excluded to me.' The bitterness in his voice was obvious. 'We survive, we Mozarabs. But we are a cowed people.'
'And yet you prospered.'
'Well, I formed a relationship with the vizier, Ibn Tufayl. I told him my goals; I showed him Aethelmaer's designs. He sponsored my work. This is an age of war. I think he regards my work as a worthwhile investment: a relatively small outlay for a possibly handsome return.'
Orm frowned. 'What sort of relationship?' This seemed to him the central mystery of Sihtric's life here.
But Sihtric would only say, 'There are some things it's better an innocent like you never learns, Orm.'
Orm, irritated and patronised, tried another approach. 'Ibn Tufayl works for the emir in Seville. If he turns your arbalest on other Moors, that's one thing. But what if he turns it on the armies of the Christian kings? Have you thought about that? You're building these machines with Moorish money. But who are they for?'
Sihtric glanced around, as if they might be overheard. 'That particular truth is murky. I came here seeking power and influence for myself, that's all, ignoble as it is. But while here I have discovered a higher purpose.'
Orm laughed. 'You always did have ideas above your station, priest.'
'Yes, well, I'll have to show you, in good time, and then we'll see what you have to say about it. And in the meantime, we have another murky truth to explore. Don't we, Orm?'
'You mean Eadgyth's Testament.' He felt uncomfortable, even though he had come all this way to discuss this.
Sihtric scoffed. 'What do you think about that, Orm? That you, a Viking whose father worshipped trees, married a woman who was given a vision of God?'
Orm's discomfort deepened. 'Isn't that possible?'
'You know the truth already, Orm. You have seen it. You know all about the Menologium, and indeed the Codex of Aethelmaer. You know they were authored by an agent, or agents, intent on deflecting destiny. And now you have felt the cold hands of another history-meddler on your shoulder. Yes, another, Orm, I'm convinced of that. For your Witness seems opposed to the intervention made by the author of my Codex, doesn't she? We're caught in a war of meddlers, it seems.'
Orm stared at him. '"Meddlers"? That's a very human word.'
'I use it intentionally. There's nothing divine about the Weaver, Orm. He fiddles with history as a poor painter adds one brushstroke after another, never satisfied, for he has no true vision. And not only that, the Weaver fails to achieve his goals. William won at Hastings despite the Weaver's tinkering. No, Orm. The Weaver may not be human; he may be more – or less – than that. But I am convinced he is not God – and nor is your Witness.'
Orm's shock deepened. 'But how can he send words through time, into the head of another, save through a miracle? I have seen it myself, in Eadgyth. When she spoke her prophecy, they were not her words.'
'Trickery!' Sihtric said. 'Machinery! Working on my machines with the Moors has shaped my thinking, Orm. Think of it. You can build a machine that can throw a bolt miles. Waterwheels and canals that can turn a desert green! If you can do all that-'
'It's one thing to throw a bolt,' Orm protested. 'Another to throw words across centuries.'
'I can't imagine how it's done. But I also can't imagine what our machines will be capable of in five hundred years, or a thousand. I can put no limits on them, any more than I put limits on God.' His tone was edgy, uneasy.
'Is that heresy, priest?'
'Ah, that's a good question, and I'm a long way from any bishop who might be able to answer it for me.'
Orm stared at him, trying to pick his way through this morass of theology and speculation. 'You know, I used to talk about you with your sister, before Hastings. Even then we thought your ambition, that whole business of the Menologium, was destroying you. Turning you away from God. That was twenty years ago.'
'Well, perhaps you were right.' Sihtric laughed darkly. 'Nothing changes, does it?'
They were disturbed by a horseman, who came galloping in a cloud of dust. He was hot, bedraggled. 'Father! They said I would find you here.'
'Robert? What's wrong?'
'There has been an accident. A boy, Ghalib-'
Sihtric frowned. 'I know him – the son of a court favourite. Is he dead?'
'Not yet. But he is so badly injured he soon will be, that's for sure.' Robert told them what had happened. 'I got him out of the water – I tied off the damaged arm. I tried to save him, Father.'
Orm stood. 'We must sort this out,' he said to Sihtric.
'Of course,' Sihtric said. 'But, Robert, nobody will blame you if you tried to save this boy. And besides, the doctors here are better than you can imagine. Don't despair – leave that to me.' He winked at Orm. 'Let's go!'
They ran to their horses, and the three of them galloped away, leaving the scholars to clear away the drinks, to wipe the horse-raised dust from their plans and models and tables, and to return to their patient work on the tremendous arbalest.
XV
Ibn Tufayl had ordered a hospital to be set up for his court in the ruined palace at Madinat az-Zahra. It was just a collection of tents, erected in the shelter of the walls of roofless rooms. Here Robert had to wait with Orm while Sihtric made inquiries about Ghalib.
After the hasty ride back from the arbalest, Robert was hot, dirty, his clothes still stinking of river-bottom mire and soaked through by Ghalib's blood. He tried to think.