Excerpt:
In the middle of the square there was a cot, and a long-limbed man was lying on it, propped up on cushions. The moment I saw him, I grew quite breathless, because he looked like Jesus come back to earth. His white skullcap and straggly black hair; the huge dark pools of his eyes. His skin was sallow – sallow but pearly gray.

Three women with floating hair and flowing dresses were looking after him, adjusting his cushions, shading his eyes, gently talking to him, and Lord Stephen and I dismounted and he talked to one of them.

“She says the man is dying,” Lord Stephen said. “They’ve brought him out to die. Into the market place. That’s what he wants.”

Lord Stephen and I both crossed ourselves.

“Who is he?” I asked.

“Salman,” said Lord Stephen. “She says his name is Salman. A Saracen.”

“A Saracen!” I yelped.

The woman put her fingers to her lips, then smiled forgivingly.

I could hear Oliver’s voice in my ear: “You can be sure hell’s mouth is wide and waiting. They worship a false prophet. Saracens are infidels.”

Then I realized the Saracen was looking straight at me. He smiled and said something.
“He says he hopes Allah always goes with us,” Lord Stephen said. “He says he has a son much your age.” The Saracen coughed into a scrap of cloth, and I saw that he was spitting blood.

“A son of your age,” Lord Stephen repeated.