‘Leon,’ he said, ‘show my guest the way out. He will come and talk with me again, for I have yet to persuade him.’

Leon, a tall man with broad shoulders answered: ‘So shall it be, Your Excellency.’ He led the way, and Zegri followed. They went through chambers which he did not remember seeing before, down some stairs to more apartments.

This was not the way he had come in, Zegri was thinking as Leon opened a door and stood aside for him to enter.

Unthinking, Zegri stepped forward. Then he stopped. But he was too late. Leon gave him a little push from behind and he stumbled down a few dark steps. He heard the door shut behind him and a key turned in the lock.

He was not outside the Archbishop’s Palace. He was in a dark dungeon.

Zegri lay on the floor of his dungeon. He was weak, for it must have been long since food had passed his lips. When the door had been locked on him he had beaten on it until his hands had bled; he had shouted to be let out, but no one answered him.

The floor was damp and cold and his limbs were numb.

‘They have tricked me,’ he said aloud, ‘as they have tricked my friends.’

He thought that they would leave him here until he died, but this was not their intention.

Exhausted, he was lying on the floor, when he was aware of a blinding light flashed into his face. It was only a man with a lantern, but Zegri had been so long in the dark that it seemed as brilliant as the sun at noon.

This man was Leon, and with him was another. He pulled Zegri to his feet and slipped an iron ring about his neck; to this was attached a chain which he fixed to a staple in the wall.

‘What do you plan to do with me?’ demanded Zegri. ‘What right have you to make me your prisoner? I have done no wrong. I must have a fair trial. In Granada all men must have fair trials.’

But Leon only laughed. And after a while the Archbishop of Toledo came into the dungeon.

Zegri cried out: ‘What is this you would do to me?’

‘Make a good Christian of you,’ Ximenes told him.

‘You cannot make me a Christian by torturing me.’

A gleam came into Ximenes’s eyes, but he said: ‘You have nothing to fear if you accept baptism.’

‘And if I will not?’

‘I do not despair easily. You will stay here in the darkness until you see the light of truth. You shall be without food for the body until you are prepared to accept food for the soul. Will you accept baptism?’

‘Baptism is for Christians,’ answered Zegri. ‘I am a Mussulman.’

Ximenes inclined his head and walked from the dungeon. Leon followed him, and Zegri was in the cold darkness again.

He waited for these visits. There were several of them. Always he hoped that they would bring him food and drink. It was long since he had eaten and his body was growing weak. There were gnawing pains in his stomach and it cried out for nourishment. Always the words were the same. He would stay here in cold and hunger until he accepted baptism.

At the end of a few days and nights Zegri’s discomfort was intense. He knew that if he continued thus he could not live very long. Zegri had spent all his life in the prosperous city of Granada. He had never known hardship before.

What good can I do by remaining here? he asked himself. I should only die.

He thought of his fellow Moors who had been deceived by the bales of silk and the red hats. They had been lured to baptism by bribes; he was being forced to it by this torture.

He knew there was only one way out of his dungeon.

The blinding light was flashed into his face. There was the big man with the cruel eyes – Leon, the servant of the even more terrifying one with the face of a dead man and the eyes of a fiend.

‘Bring him a chair, Leon,’ said Ximenes. ‘He is too weak to stand.’

The chair was brought and Zegri sat in it.

‘Have you anything to say to me?’ asked Ximenes.

‘Yes, my lord Archbishop, I have something to say. Last night Allah came to my prison.’

Ximenes’s face in the light from the lantern looked very stern.

‘And he told me,’ went on Zegri, ‘that I must accept Christian baptism without delay.’

‘Ah!’ It was a long drawn out cry of triumph from the Archbishop of Toledo. For a second his lips were drawn back from his teeth in what was meant to be a smile. ‘I see your stay with us has been fruitful, very fruitful. Leon, release him from his fetters. We will feed him and clothe him in silk. We will put a red hat on his head and we will baptise him in the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ. I thank God this victory is won.’

It was a great relief to have the heavy iron removed from his neck, but even so Zegri was too weak to walk.

Ximenes signed to the big man, Leon, who slung Zegri over his shoulder and carried him out of the damp dark dungeon.

He was put on a couch; his limbs were rubbed; savoury broth was put into his mouth. Ximenes was impatient for the baptism. He had rarely been as excited as when he scattered the consecrated drops from a hyssop over the head of this difficult convert.

So Zegri had now received Christian baptism.

‘You should give thanks for your good fortune,’ Ximenes told him. ‘Now I trust many of your countrymen will follow your example.’

‘If you and your servant do to my countrymen as you have done to me,’ said Zegri, ‘you will make so many Christians that there will not be a Mussulman left within the walls of Granada.’

Ximenes kept Zegri in his Palace until he had recovered from the effects of his incarceration, but he let the news be carried through the city: ‘Zegri has become a Christian.’

The result satisfied even Ximenes. Hundreds of Moors were now arriving at the Archbishop’s Palace to receive baptism and what went with it – bales of silk and scarlet hats.

Ximenes was not satisfied for long. The more learned of the Moorish population held back and exhorted their friends to do the same. They stressed what had happened to Jews who had received baptism and had been accused of returning to the faith of their fathers; they talked of the dreary autos de fe which were becoming regular spectacles in many of the towns of Spain. This must not be so in Granada. And those foolish people whose desire for silk and red hats had overcome their good sense were making trouble for themselves.

The people of Granada could not believe in any such trouble. This was Granada, where living had been easy for years; and even after their defeat at the hands of the Christians and the end of the reign of Boabdil, they had gone on as before. They would always go on in that way. Many of them remembered the day when the great Sovereigns, Ferdinand and Isabella, had come to take possession of the Alhambra. Then they had been promised freedom of thought, freedom of action, freedom to follow their own faith.

Ximenes knew that those who were preventing his work from succeeding as he wished it to, were the scholars, and he decided to strike a blow at them. They had declared that they had no need of this Christian culture because they had a greater culture of their own.

‘Culture!’ cried Ximenes. ‘What is this culture? Their books, is it?’

It was true that they produced manuscripts of such beauty that they were spoken of throughout the world. Their binding and illuminations were exquisite and unequalled.

‘I will have an auto de fe in Granada,’ he told Talavera. ‘It shall be the first. They shall see the flames rising to their beautiful blue sky.’

‘But the agreement with the Sovereigns …’ began Talavera.

‘This auto de fe shall be one in which not bodies burn but manuscripts. This shall be a foretaste of what shall come if they forget their baptismal oaths. Let them see the flames rising to the sky. Let them see their evil words writhing in the heat. It would be wise to say nothing of this to Tendilla as yet. There is a man who doubtless would wish to preserve these manuscripts because the bindings are good. I fear our friend Tendilla is a man given to outward show.’