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XIMENES IS SITTING AT his desk thinking.

My skin is perhaps too dark, my eyes are not blue but dark brown, my nose is hooked and long, and yet I am sure, yes sure, that my blood is without taint. My forefathers were here when the Romans came and my family is much older than the Visigoth ancestors of the noble Count, our brave Captain-General. Why do they whisper I have Jewish blood in me? Is it a cruel joke? Or are some disaffected Dominicans spreading this poison to discredit me inside the Church so that they can once again stray into the land of deceit and confuse the distinctions between ourselves and the followers of Moses and the false prophet Mahomet? Whatever their reasoning, it is not true. Do you hear me? It is not true. My blood is pure! Pure as we shall make this kingdom one day. I shall neither weep nor complain at these endless insults, but carry on God’s work. The wolves call me a beast, but they dare not attack me for they know the price they will have to pay for my blood. The worship of Mary and the pain felt by Him who was crucified awakens mysterious emotions inside me. In my dreams I often see myself as a Crusader below the ramparts of Jerusalem or catching sight of Constantinople. My memory is rooted in the time of Christianity, but why am I always alone, even in my dreams? No family. No friends. No pity for the inferior races. There is no Jewish blood in me. Not even one tiny drop. No. On this I have no doubts.

A spy had informed Ximenes a few hours ago that at the conclusion of a banquet the previous night, after a great deal of wine had been imbibed and the assembled party of Muslim and Christian noblemen, together with Jewish merchants, were being entertained by dancing-girls, a courtier had remarked that it was a great pity that the Archbishop of Toledo could not be present to enjoy such pleasant company, upon which the Captain-General, Don Inigo, had been heard to remark that the reason for the prelate’s absence might well be that in the candle-light it was impossible to tell him apart from a Jew. He had not stopped there, but insisted loudly, amidst general laughter that this could be one reason why His Grace shunned the company of Jews even more than of Moors. For whereas Moorish features were indistinguishable from those of Christians, the Jews had preserved their own special traits with much greater care, as a close inspection of Ximenes clearly revealed.

At this point a Moorish nobleman, stroking his luxuriant red beard and with a twinkle in his shiny blue eyes, had asked Don Inigo whether it was true that the reason the Archbishop was determined to destroy the followers of the one God had much more to do with proving his own racial purity than with defending the Trinity. Don Inigo had assumed a mock-serious expression and shouted that the suggestion was preposterous, then winked at his guests.

Ximenes dismissed the spy with an angry wave of the hand, to imply that he was not interested in these trivial pieces of malicious gossip. In reality he was livid with rage. That he was cursed and reviled by deceitful Moorish tongues was a well-known fact. Not a single day passed without reports of how he was being abused, by whom and in which streets of the city. The list was long, but he would deal with every single offender when the time was ripe. With such thoughts stirring in his head and increasing the flow of bile in his system, it is hardly surprising that the Archbishop’s disposition that particular morning was not generous.

It was at this exact moment that there was a knock on the door.

‘Enter!’ he said in that deceptively weak voice.

Barrionuevo, a royal bailiff, entered the room and kissed the ring. ‘With your permission. Your Grace, the two renegades have fled to the old quarter and taken refuge in the house of their mother.’

‘I do not seem to be familiar with this case. Remind me.’

Barrionuevo cleared his throat. He was not used to declamations or explanations. He was given his orders and he carried them out. He was at a loss for words. He did not know the details of these two men. ‘All I know is their names, Your Grace. Abengarcia and Abenfernando. I am told they convened to our faith…’

‘I recall them now,’ came the icy response. ‘They pretended to convert, but inside they remained followers of Mahomet’s sect. They were seen committing an act of sacrilege in our church. They urinated on a crucifix, man! Bring them back to me. I want them questioned today. You may go.’

‘Should I take an escort, Your Grace? There might be resistance without it.’

‘Yes, but make sure that there are no more than six armed men with you. Otherwise there will be trouble.’

Ximenes rose from his desk and walked to the arched window from where he could see the streets below him. For the first time that day he smiled, confident in the knowledge that some of the more hot-headed Moors would be provoked by the bailiff and the soldiers to take up arms. That would be the end for them. Instead of taking his usual walk to inspect the construction of the new cathedral, he decided to stay at the al-Hamra and await the return of Barrionuevo. The unpleasantness occasioned by the report from last night’s banquet had receded. In its place there was a feeling of burning excitement. Ximenes fell on his knees before the giant crucifix which disfigured the intricate geometric patterns on the three-colour tiles that comprised the wall.

‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, I pray that our enemies will not fail me today.’

When he rose to his feet he discovered that the fire burning in his head had spread to just below his waist. That portion of his anatomy which had been placed out of bounds for all those who took the holy orders, was in a state of rebellion. Ximenes poured some water into a goblet and gulped it down without pause. His thirst was quenched.

From the heart of the old city, Zuhayr and his comrades were walking towards the site of the new cathedral in an exaggeratedly casual fashion. They were in groups of two, tense and nervous, behaving as though they had no connection with each other, but united in the belief that they were drawing close to a dual triumph. The hated enemy, the torturer of their fellow-believers, would soon be dead and they, his killers, would be assured of martyrdom and an easy passage to paradise.

They had met for an early breakfast to perfect their plans. Each one of the eight men had risen solemnly in turn and had bidden a formal farewell to the others: ‘Till we meet again in heaven.’

Early that morning Zuhayr had begun to write a letter to Umar, detailing his adventures on the road to Gharnata, describing the painful dilemma which had confronted him and explaining his final decision to participate in the action which was favoured by everyone except himself:

We will set a trap for Cisneros, but even if we succeed in dispatching him, I know full well that we will all, each and every one of us, fall into it ourselves. Everything is very different from what I imagined. The situation for the Gharnatinos has become much worse since your last visit. There is both outrage and demoralization. They are determined to convert us and Cisneros has authorized the use of torture to aid this process. Of course many people submit to the pain, but it drives them mad. After converting they become desperate, walk into churches and excrete on the altar, urinate in the holy font, smear the crucifixes with impure substances and rush out laughing in the fashion of people who have lost their mind. Cisneros reacts with fury and so the whole cycle is repeated. The feeling here is that while Cisneros lives nothing will change except for the worse. I do not believe that his death will improve matters, but it will, without any doubt, ease the mental agony suffered by so many of our people.

I may not survive this day and I kiss all of you in turn, especially Yazid, who must never be allowed to repeat his brother’s mistakes…

Zuhayr and Ibn Basit were about to cross the road when they saw Barrionuevo the bailiff and six soldiers heading in their direction. Fortunately nobody panicked, but as Barrionuevo halted in front of Zuhayr, the other three groups abandoned the march to their destination and turning leftwards, disappeared back into a warren of narrow side-streets as had been previously agreed.