Navigator by Stephen Baxter Read Free Book Online

nodded. ‘I thought so. Just be careful.’
    ‘My arm is strong.’
    ‘But your heart isn’t, no stronger than mine ever was. Be wary, son.’

IX
    ‘Take your boots off,’ Moraima whispered.
    They stood in the walled courtyard of Cordoba’s great mosque - the Court of the Orange Trees, Moraima called it. It was crowded with the faithful, who washed in the fountains before entering the mosque.
    Robert peered nervously through a narrow door into an interior of shadows and columns. ‘Are you sure about this? This is a mosque - I’m a Christian—’
    ‘But Jesus is revered in our theology. He was a great prophet. Of course a Christian may enter a mosque. ’
    ‘Besides, the mosque is the greatest religious glory of all al-Andalus,’ said a boy, approaching them. ‘You must see it before you come to conquer us, Christian.’
    And a second boy said, ‘Just don’t go shouting out “Jesus Christ the King” in the Mihrab and you’ll be fine.’
    These two were about Moraima’s age, perhaps a year or two older than Robert. They were slim, dark, dressed in brightly coloured clothes. Healthy, loose-limbed, they were not especially handsome, but they seemed intelligent, good-humoured, confident. Even their Latin was fluent. And they had the air of wealth, of easy riches. Before them Robert felt dull, cloddish, like a lump of earth.
    ‘These are my friends,’ Moraima said. ‘Ghalib. Hisham.’ Robert wouldn’t have remembered which was which, save that Ghalib wore a bright red turban. They were sons of courtiers who served Ibn Tufayl, she said.
    ‘I didn’t know we’d have company,’ Robert said, and he struggled to keep the disappointment out of his voice.
    The boys noticed, and they grinned. But what had he expected? Of course Moraima had friends here; of course she had a life of her own, that had nothing to do with him.
    Moraima said, ‘Oh, come on, Robert. I thought you’d like to meet new people. And they’ve been eager to meet you. Hisham is studying philosophy, and Ghalib’s training to be an astronomer, like his father.’
    Ghalib said the word slowly and heavily. ‘Astronomer. I don’t suppose you have many of those in England, do you?’
    ‘You’d better write it down for him,’ said Hisham. ‘Oh, I forgot. You don’t read in England either, do you? So what do you do, English Robert?’
    Ghalib said, ‘There are only two jobs in England. Farmers and whores.’
    Robert said tightly, ‘Watch your mouth, pretty boy. My mother was English.’
    ‘So what kind of plough did she drive?’
    Moraima stood between them hastily. ‘That’s enough. You’re like children - like all men! Come on. Let’s go into the mosque, and be respectful with it.’
    So Robert entered the great mosque, with Moraima at his side, the stone floor cold under his bare feet, and the two boys sniggering at his back.
    But in the mosque’s calm spaces, he soon forgot all about the boys.
    It was like walking into a forest of slim pillars, linked by arches as delicate as the fronds of palm trees. Moraima said there were more than a thousand pillars in this one building. There were people walking everywhere, respectful, barefoot. Not a priest, or rather an imam, to be seen. The building was full of light, coming from windows and arched doorways, a light turned golden by reflection from the stone. Every way he looked the lines of pillars led his gaze away, deeper and deeper, until he saw walls adorned with inscriptions in beautiful Kufic script, words he could not read but which exhorted the faithful to raise their hearts to Allah.
    He was grateful when Moraima’s hand slipped into his, for he felt he would soon be lost.
    ‘What are you thinking?’ Moraima asked softly.
    ‘That it’s beautiful,’ he said. ‘And that I don’t understand it. Of course I could say the same about you.’
    She ignored the clumsy compliment. ‘It isn’t so hard. There is a central axis leading to the Mihrab. That points the way to Mecca;