Not so far away, to the north of where he stood, his ancestors had lived in little mud-brick houses and kept goats. Then they had gone away on the greatest adventure imaginable: Benzamir had heard all the stories as a young boy and been thrilled by them. They had changed his life, directed his choices, inspired his very soul. Now he was here, finally home, and it felt fantastic yet slightly unreal. All that way for a dream.

He carefully put down what he was carrying and waded out into the sea. The hem of his robe caught against the water, pushing up waves of its own. As he strode out, he listened intently to the swoosh of his legs, the feel of the cool, shallow sea against his skin.

The beach dipped gently away. He was up to his knees when he reached the body, still bobbing up and down, pulled towards the coast and thrust away with each cycle of waves. The water was clear enough to see the problem. The man’s hands were shackled together with a length of heavy iron chain that acted like an anchor. Little brilliantly coloured fish darted in and out of the body’s shadow, scared of Benzamir but interested in scavenging.

Benzamir dipped his arm into the sea, took up the chain and started to haul the body behind him back towards the beach. It was easy while there was enough draught to float the man, much more difficult once he’d grounded. Benzamir was young and strong, and the dead man thin and pale, like a ghost. The limp feet dragged in the sand, making two parallel furrows. They were bound, like the hands, but on a much shorter length of chain.

The body hadn’t been in the water long. Long enough to drown, for certain, but not long enough for the little sea creatures to make much of a mess. Benzamir rolled him over. The blue eyes were wide and staring, the mouth open in a great fish gulp. The man’s pale skin had gone blue-white, making the thinness of his chest all the more obvious. He could count his ribs, and see his pelvic bones stand out like axe blades over the top of the thin loincloth he still wore.

Benzamir closed the dead man’s eyelids with his thumbs, and examined the shackles to see how they’d been closed. While he was running his fingers over the crude hinge and single hot rivet, two more men came up behind him.

Both were in white desert robes and riding horses. Benzamir had heard of this practice, of how you could use a bit and bridle to control a horse, use a saddle and girth strap to provide a seat, a pair of stirrups to give a better ride. He’d never seen it before, let alone seen it so casually done. The air was suddenly filled with the sharp perfume of hot beast.

One man threw himself off his saddle with practised nonchalance, despite the height. His horse, rather than running off, shook its mane and made a staccato sound in its throat. Its bridle jingled. The man pushed past Benzamir to kick the corpse rudely in the kidneys and give a rough grunt of frustration.

‘Salam alaykum,’ said Benzamir. He rather hoped it was the right thing to say. He had nothing else to go on but what he’d been told.

The man turned sharply, his head cloth falling away from his face to reveal a mouth more used to being twisted in a sneer than raised in a smile. He had dark, pin-bright eyes, and he looked Benzamir up and down.

When he spoke, it was difficult for Benzamir to tell what he was saying. His ancestors had left this part of the world many, many years before, and the language had changed: vowels shifted, tenses reordered, pronouns subtly different. He realized he must look a complete idiot, standing there in a soaking wet jellaba, no sandals, and smiling all the time, squinting into the sun and nodding. The horseman was jabbing his finger at the body by their feet and speaking increasingly quickly.

From what Benzamir could glean, the dead man was a slave from a ship. He’d jumped overboard and drowned. The horseman was complaining that his investment had been rendered worthless.

‘Yes, I see.’ If Benzamir had had any money, he would have recompensed the man for his dead slave. If the poor soul hadn’t been free in life, at least he could be in death. As it was, he had no currency, local or exotic, with which to redeem anyone.

The horseman was still gesturing, and Benzamir started to get the feeling that he was being blamed for the man’s troubles. He was starting to catch more of what was being said.

‘Who will take his place at the oar? Who will move my family’s cargo? Are we to be ruined for the want of one pathetic slave? Are my wives to be thrown out into the street, my children to beg for scraps? You could not wish this on any man!’

Benzamir might have been a stranger, but he was no fool. He chose his words carefully.

‘If it were my family, I would consider it both my duty and my honour to row myself.’

The second man stifled a laugh behind his white head cloth, but the first was furious. His hand went to his belt, where he had a great curved sword sheathed. Benzamir had thought it for show, or that it held some ceremonial function. He could see when it was brandished that he had misjudged. The length of the blade was notched, and the way it was held told him that it was balanced for fighting. That was all right, because Benzamir knew about fighting.

The sword being shaken in his face was both functional and highly decorated. There were patterns cut into the flat, and the hilt was made of rich red leather, topped with a faceted jewel. He thought it quite beautiful, and he wanted to examine it closely: perhaps later, when it wasn’t trying to cut him in two.

‘You are not from around here, are you?’

‘No,’ said Benzamir, taking a step back but still smiling. ‘You could say that.’

‘You lack the protection of your family and clan?’

‘So it seems.’

‘Good. Then I will take you as a slave, or I will kill you. Which do you prefer?’ The man completed a series of finely executed practice swings. The sun flashed off the blade, which sung as it moved.

Benzamir was enormously impressed. ‘You’re very good with that,’ he said, and he meant it.

The second man had sized up the two opponents and was already fetching rope from his saddlebags. Clearly he fancied slight, lithe Benzamir’s chances not at all.

‘Kneel,’ said the man.

‘I am Benzamir Michael Mahmood, and I kneel only to God.’

For his pains, he was slashed at. He danced out of the way. It had been a long time since he’d fought anyone quite like this. His body relaxed into the moves he had learned: he barely had to think at all.

He turned, once, twice, slipped effortlessly round the singing-edged blade and grounded his right foot at the point where the man’s ribs met his belly. He didn’t wait for him to fall, but was suddenly behind him, chopping with an open hand at the base of the stiff neck.

Never forgetting that he had two enemies, he stepped lightly across the sand, barely disturbing it as he loped. When he was in range, he leaped and spun, catching the second man across the throat with his fist. He cleared the horse completely, landed on the ground shoulder first, rolled, stood and waited.

The angry sword-wielding horseman was still upright, but motionless. Then he fell face first onto the beach like a felled tree. His rope-holding colleague was clawing at his chest in a vain attempt to stimulate breathing. After a few moments he too was unconscious, face down in the soft sand.

‘That was fantastic,’ said a grinning Benzamir to the bemused horses. ‘I’m really home.’ He did a little jig, because he was so absurdly happy.

He used the men’s own rope to bind their hands, and took the opportunity to search them for weapons. Both had steel knives, and then there was the sword. Benzamir made a few practice lunges and sweeps with it himself. It was a little too heavy for him, and he imagined he’d get tired quickly using it.