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  The Shaikh folded his arms and smiled.

  “You will understand why I took the gamble, when you see the prize. Bring the cargo of the caravan.”

  The men exchanged glances. Then one shrugged, and went off to fetch a saddlebag. Abu Wahb grinned as he took it, and emptied it out in front of them.

  “Behold —”

  The satisfaction on his face turned to astonishment, then anger. Bemused, the Banu Jahm surveyed the nuggets of tin spilling onto the ground. Abu Wahb dropped the bag, and stormed over to the captives.

  “Where is the gold?”

  The merchant and the captain looked up at him, then at each other. The Shaikh’s voice fell lower and softer.

  “Where is the gold?”

  “What gold?”

  The merchant, fear in his eyes, seemed to speak despite himself. With a speed that belied his bulk Abu Wahb leapt upon him, beating him around the head until the men of the Banu Jahm hauled him off. The Shaikh yelled at the unfortunate merchant, screaming inches from his bloodied face.

  “Where is the gold, sucker of your mother’s rod? Do not lie to me, or I will bury you alive in the sand. I know, I know what you are doing! The black boy told me…”

  Abu Bishr tried to calm him.

  “Easy now, nephew. This man can tell you nothing if you kill him, and fear is the enemy of truth.”

  Abu Wahb stood upright, and his breathing slowed. His anger seemed to have abated, and Sa’id hoped that calm sense would prevail. Then another voice spoke.

  “I know where the gold is.”

  It was the lanky boy. He lay languorously, propped up on one elbow, watching events unfold as though it was an entertainment laid on for his benefit. The Shaikh’s head swung round towards him. His eyes narrowed.

  “Then tell me. Before I cut off your balls and feed them to the lizards.”

  The boy turned away, shrugging one shoulder.

  “Well, if you are going to talk to me like that, I think I shall not tell you after all.”

  Abu Wahb’s bristling eyebrows clashed furiously like two bears wrestling. He seized the youth’s robes and hauled him to his feet. The Shaikh’s rage was so great that he could barely squeeze out the words.

  “Tell. Me. Where.”

  Seemingly unconcerned, the boy examined the Shaikh’s crimson face.

  “I have hidden it. Do you want to know where?”

  Abu Wahb’s nod was little more than a twitch. It occurred to Sa’id that, by forcing the Shaikh to answer his question, the boy had subtly taken control of the situation.

  “I have hidden it…”

  The boy’s voice fell to a whisper, and a hush descended as the camp strained to hear.

  “…up your mother’s hairy old hole.”

  For an instant the hush persisted. Then a vast bellow erupted from Abu Wahb, and he snatched a dagger from his belt. The youth, however, twisted from his grip, causing the Shaikh to fall to his knees, and danced away laughing. The Shaikh scrambled towards him on all fours, growling like an animal. This time his kinsmen would not have intervened, had the captain of the caravan not jumped to his feet.

  “He is the honoured guest of the Banu Dahhak! If you kill him they will not rest until your whole clan lies dead.”

  The men looked to Abu Bishr, who nodded. Quickly they restrained the Shaikh, while Sa’id pinned the boy’s hands behind his back. Abu Bishr turned to the captain.

  “Who is he?”

  The captain stared venomously at the smirking youth.

  “His name is al-Hasan ibn Hani, of the Hakami tribe. He is a city boy from Basrah, who has been travelling with the Banu Dahhak. Learning the poetry of the desert, or some such nonsense. When I came to seek their protection for our caravan, he asked to accompany us. I wish I had refused, but they told me he had powerful friends.”

  He spat the words distastefully, as though they were sour milk.

  “For all I care, you can skin him alive and use his hide for leather. But for your own sakes you had best not harm him.”

  Abu Bishr put his arm around the Shaikh’s shoulders, and drew him back. Sa’id released the hands of the boy, al-Hasan, who bowed in mocking gratitude. A cousin spoke up.

  “Dawn is here. If the Banu Dahhak come upon us while we stand here chatting, then none of us will live to see noon. Let us take these men back to the camp, and sort it out there.”

  It was true; the eastern horizon was growing pale, and Sa’id thought he could see dark figures moving against it. Abu Wahb nodded his assent, and the warriors of the Banu Jahm prepared to leave. The camel drivers and the guard were released, deprived of their cargo but with sufficient food and water to take them back to civilisation. They were sullen, but made no trouble; the captain’s tribe would recompense them for their loss, as was the custom. The captain himself though, along with the merchant and the boy al-Hasan, were set on camels with their hands bound, and led away at swordpoint.

  Sa’id was pensive as he mounted his own beast and followed his clan south. He was thinking about his uncle’s words to the merchant.

  “I know what you are doing! The black boy told me…”

  Sa’id could see it now, when he closed his eyes: that day in Hajr, a month or two before. He and the Shaikh had gone to the town to trade for carpets. A storyteller was performing in the market, and Sa’id had drifted over to listen. While the man span implausible tales of princes and jinni, Sa’id let his eyes wander around. He was surprised to see his uncle in conversation with a small black boy in ragged clothes. He was still more surprised to see some coppers change hands. The Banu Jahm wanted for little, but they rarely had much coin, and certainly not enough to give away casually to strangers.

  Sa’id would not usually have challenged his uncle, but the journey back to the camp was long, and his curiosity was great. On the third night, as they sat staring into the fire, he could bear no more.

  “Uncle, why did you give money to that boy?”

  “What boy? You mean that black boy? It was nothing — he was a beggar — God put charity into my heart.”

  Sa’id had seen his uncle every day since the day of his birth. However he had never before seen the expression that contorted his face when Abu Wahb answered him, an expression that spoke of fear and anger and shame. It was only when he lay awake at night, pondering the strange events of their trip, that he understood. For the first time in his life, he had seen his uncle tell a lie.

  “What do you think of this business, Sa’id ibn Bishr?”

  Sa’id had not noticed his grandfather fall in beside him as they rode. He stirred himself from his recollections, and considered the question put to him. It was not for a young man like Sa’id to judge the decisions of his elders. On the other hand, his grandfather had addressed him directly, and not to answer would be disrespectful.

  “I think the whole thing stinks. The caravan is too small, and travelling at the wrong time of year. They are neither carrying enough merchandise to make a profit, nor taking sufficient precautions to protect themselves. Fear grips my testicles like a cold hand.”

  Abu Bishr nodded slowly, his jowly head bobbing like that of his camel.

  “My descendants will prosper under your guidance, some day; if God the Protector keeps us safe that long.”

  Sa’id accepted the compliment in silence. He knew that he had only told his grandfather half a truth, but could not bring himself to voice his innermost thoughts: that what frightened him most was not the suspicious nature of the caravan, nor any such rational concern. Rather it was the glittering eyes of the tall boy, al-Hasan ibn Hani, that chilled his blood, inducing a primitive, mindless terror as though he had seen a snake slithering through an oasis.

  The sun was high by the time they returned to the camp of the Banu Jahm. Children ran out in excitement at their arrival, and wives offered silent prayers when they saw their husbands were unhurt. Sa’id was unmarried, and had no dependents to fuss over him. Once he had managed to evade his mother’s solic
itous attentions he was able to skirt the uproar, and take shelter in the shade of a tent wall.

  From there he surveyed the confusion as the prisoners dismounted. Free men were not normally taken captive in raids, and nobody was certain whether they should be treated as guests or slaves. In the end the hostages were shown to the men’s area of the tent where they were served camel’s milk and bread. Outside the warriors of the Banu Jahm gathered around their Shaikh; but it was Abu Bishr who spoke first.

  “You should not have put the family in danger, nephew. You may be head of this clan, but you have no right to keep secrets from us. Each man should share his knowledge, so that together we can decide on what is best for us all. Were you aware that the caravan had the protection of the Banu Dahhak, when you proposed that we raid it?”

  Abu Wahb stood before his uncle like a child being rebuked, shamed but still petulant.

  “Why did you hold me back from killing that boy, that al-Hasan ibn Hani al-Hakami? He must die for what he said. We cannot allow such an insult to pass! The family would never recover from the dishonour.”

  Abu Bishr gazed at him sadly.

  “Nephew, there is not a man here who would not risk his life to avenge an insult to your mother. But if we slay the guest of the Banu Dahhak —”

  The Shaikh snarled.

  “There was a time when the Banu Dahhak would shit themselves if they heard the Banu Jahm were riding by.”

  “Indeed, there was such a time. But that bright day is over. The sun set on that day when first we found the sores on our camels’ mouths. The shadows lengthened when our animals sickened and died in scores. In the confusion of its twilight we conceived the calamitous notion of raiding the Banu Dahhak to replace our lost beasts. Dusk fell with the spear that pierced my son’s heart, on that ill-fated venture. And when our kinsmen left to work in the cities like slaves, because there was no longer enough food for us all, the darkness was complete.”

  “But this gold could restore our fortunes!”

  Abu Bishr sighed.

  “Yes, nephew, the gold. Tell us all about the gold, for which we have put the whole clan in peril.”

  The Shaikh was defiant, but there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

  “There was a boy… in the city of Hajr. He described the caravan — told me its route — knew everything about it. He said it was carrying tax money, embezzled by the Wali of Basrah.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “But he was right about so many things…”

  “And why would the Wali not send a regiment of men to guard his gold?”

  Sa’id thought that, in recounting the story, even his uncle was beginning to realise how implausible it sounded.

  “He said that any movement of troops would draw the attention of the Khalifah’s spies. That a small caravan, under the protection of the Badawi, would be of no interest to the Barid.”

  Nobody spoke. It seemed to Sa’id, though, that his uncle’s leadership of the Banu Jahm hung in the balance. For the first time in his life, he spoke unbidden at a family council.

  “The camels need pasture.”

  Everyone turned and looked at him. Then his grandfather smiled.

  “Your words are wise, Sa’id ibn Bishr. Let us not risk the little wealth we have, arguing about a treasure that may not even exist. We will take our camels to pasture, and think about this matter before we discuss it further.”

  It was Sa’id’s honour to be responsible for the she-camels with young. On the day of the raid he had decided to take them north-west, where sweet nasi grass sprouted from a long dune. It took some time to marshal his charges, and most of the men had gone by the time he drove his herd away from the camp.

  Playful winds whipped up tiny storms in the sand, bringing freshness to the late spring morning. Sa’id enjoyed the contented lowing of the mothers and the clean desert air, and though he was usually alert, it was some time before he noticed the tracks that ran along their path. He had no difficulty recognising the hooves of his uncle’s riding camel, al-Afzal. The Shaikh, his authority under greater threat than ever before, must have set out for the emptiness to contemplate his position.

  Sa’id wanted to respect his uncle’s need for solitude, but the camels had to eat if they were to produce milk for both their young and the Banu Jahm, and the Shaikh’s path led inexorably toward the pasture. By the time he had arrived at the green outcrops of nasi, Sa’id could see the bulky figure of Abu Wahb below him on a rocky plain.

  The Shaikh sat immobile on his camel, staring out to the hazy horizon. Sa’id wondered if he should call to him, but thought better of it. He was about to turn away, when he saw another figure approaching. It was the young man al-Hasan. He strolled toward the Shaikh as if he were promenading in a cool garden of Basrah, not deep in the inimical wasteland of the Empty Quarter. Sa’id noticed that he trailed a cloak behind him, seemingly casually, but with the effect that his tracks were obscured.

  Without being wholly sure why, Sa’id slid from his camel and crept into earshot, just as al-Hasan greeted the Shaikh like an old friend.

  “Peace be upon you, brother! What luck that I should stumble across you here.”

  The Shaikh’s head turned slowly, as if it took great effort. His voice was so low Sa’id could barely hear it.

  “If I kill you here, no man would ever know.”

  Al-Hasan seemed undeterred by this reception.

  “Kill me? Now why would you want to do such an unpleasant thing?”

  With astonishing lightness the bear-like Shaikh leapt from his saddle. He was shaking so violently that Sa’id could clearly see his tremors.

  “For the sake of my kinsmen I will not harm you for now. But you cannot hide behind those sons of dogs, the Banu Dahhak, for ever. Some day I will hunt you down, like the filthy vermin that you are, even if you flee to the ends of the earth. And may God sear my soul for all eternity if I do not avenge the insult to my family.”

  The young man’s face expressed mild dismay.

  “Oh dear. I was so hoping we would be friends.”

  The Shaikh emitted a strangled noise of fury and frustration.

  “You — you should crawl back to your cesspit, street rat. You do not belong here. You do not belong in the Empty Quarter, where the fierce sun and hot sands and dry winds scour a man’s soul. You bring the filth, disease and insanity of the city into our pure lands. You are not welcome.”

  Even at this distance Sa’id could feel the scorch of the young man’s eyes.

  “Is this the famous hospitality of the Badawi? Oh, you wanderers of the wastelands! You think yourselves better than other men, while you live out here, in a place so parched and cruel you may as well be in hell already.”

  Abu Wahb had recovered his dignity.

  “I could come and live in Basrah any day I choose, boy. But if you were alone in the desert, you would not survive to say your prayers at sunset.”

  “Perhaps that is so. Perhaps you would survive the city, although I think you underestimate its dangers. There are enough of your kind there now that you could find shelter, and kin. But it would be a mean life, and a miserable one. You would be nobody, mighty Shaikh, another termite clambering the mound. So rather than grovel to civilisation, you choose to lord it over the void.”

  The young man gestured across the Empty Quarter. A gust moaned, as though the spirits were unquiet at his call. Sa’id saw his uncle shiver, but stand his ground.

  “You adorn yourselves in gold, you city dwellers, and gorge yourselves on forbidden pleasures. But God sees all, and will punish you for your sins.”

  Conviction was draining from the Shaikh’s voice. The young man al-Hasan, in contrast, sang like a mu’addhin.

  “Yes, Badawi, God sees into our hearts. What does He find, I wonder, when He looks into yours? The noble strivings of a warrior of the desert? Or is it something different, something darker?”

  It seemed to Sa’id that his uncle swayed to the rhythm of
the young man’s voice.

  “Does He see your revulsion when you come to your wives? Does He see you grimace at their mounds of flesh, their hairy darknesses, the smell under their arms and between their legs? Does he know what you think of, to make your manhood stand so that you can do your duty as a husband?

  “The Persian sickness is in your soul, Abu Wahb al-Zubayr ibn Tahir al-Jahm. You have no secrets from me. And you did not catch the sickness in a city or a slum. It was in you from childhood, wasn’t it? All your life you admired the hard faces, the strong arms of men, the long legs of your friends as you ran together.

  “And now you see only him, don’t you, mighty Shaikh? When you cough and spit your seed on your heavy wives, the only face in your eyes is his, that young, admiring, idealistic face; the beautiful face of your nephew, Sa’id.”

  Abu Wahb, Shaikh of the Banu Jahm, fell slowly to his knees, and a great sob burst from his ursine head. Al-Hasan put out his hands and cradled the Shaikh’s face.

  “But I have the cure for the sickness, the only remedy for the pain that wracks your body and soul…”

  Sa’id ibn Bishr al-Jahm turned away as their lips met, and walked thoughtfully back to his camel. The pasture here, he decided, was not so good after all. He would take his herd elsewhere.

  The grassy erg was some miles away, and it was late by the time Sa’id returned to the camp that evening. The men were already gathered around the fire, with their prisoners sitting amongst them. The captain was in defiant mood, although the merchant sat meekly beside him hanging his battered head.

  “How long will you keep us here? This goes against all reason and tradition. Surely you do not still believe in the Wali’s gold?”

  Abu Wahb stared at him, but said nothing. Sa’id noticed al-Hasan lounging nearby, smirking at the conversation. The young man winked at him, but Sa’id ignored the provocation. He had news to share.

  “A rider is coming.”

  The captain smiled.

  “Now we will have an end to this nonsense. The Banu Dahhak have sent to see what has happened to the caravan under their protection.”