‘Unhand the sword of my fathers, infidel.’

‘You’re awake.’

‘Untie me, or you will suffer unimaginable torments.’

‘Of course I will,’ said Benzamir. He sat cross-legged with the sword across his knees, close enough to his captives that he didn’t have to shout. ‘What do they call you?’

‘I am Ibn Alam; my father is Sheikh Alam, who owns the land from the sea to the mountains. When he discovers the insult you have served on our family, he will strike off your head and mount it on a spear.’

‘I believe the insult is yours and yours alone. Who’s your friend?’

‘Said, the useless mongrel. My father pays him to protect his bloodline.’

‘And that’s worth preserving, is it?’ asked Benzamir in all innocence.

Ibn Alam spat at Benzamir. The gob of spittle arced through the air but fell short of its target. ‘The world is not large enough for you to hide in, even if you started running now.’

‘No. It’s more than big enough, I think. However, since Said is incompetent at keeping your precious balls intact, I’d better take you back to your father myself.’

Ibn Alam’s olive skin turned purple. ‘You would not shame me so. I am the sheikh’s son.’

‘I’m not at all concerned about your shame.’

‘I demand you release me.’

Said was coughing himself awake. Benzamir got to his feet and retrieved a supple skin bulging with water from the saddle of one of the horses. He took the opportunity to press his hand against the flank of the creature, feeling its sides heave with each breath.

He let Said hold the water skin and drink his fill, then offered it to Ibn Alam. He received more spit at his feet. So he tilted the bottom of the skin to the sky and drank his own fill. The water was warm, slightly brackish, with a hint of whatever the skin was made from. Benzamir thought it so very different to what he was used to.

He dried his mouth on the sleeve of his jellaba.

‘How do we get you two back? Without you trying to kill me, that is.’

Said finally cleared his throat. ‘If we swore on our honour not to attack you, would that be sufficient?’

‘You I trust,’ said Benzamir, ‘though I’ve doubts as to whether Ibn Alam’s honour will extend quite so far.’ He gave the matter some thought, then came up with a perfect solution. ‘Said, hold the horse’s reins.’

He poked Ibn Alam to his feet with the point of the sword and marched him across to his horse. With Said at its head, he told Ibn Alam to mount up.

Both men looked at each other, barely suppressed delight on their faces, until Benzamir told them: ‘Face backwards.’

With a growl, Ibn Alam did as he was told. Benzamir lashed his hands to the projection at the back of the saddle.

‘You too,’ said Benzamir to Said, and once he’d fastened him on, he tied the reins of Ibn Alam’s horse to the saddle of Said’s.

‘You will pay for this humiliation,’ called Ibn Alam.

‘Pay? What a fascinating concept. We’ll have to discuss this later.’ Benzamir lifted his face to the desert sun and tugged at the lead rope. Said’s horse obediently trotted on and, with a jerk, so did the other. ‘This is the right way, isn’t it?’

Said twisted in his saddle. ‘East. There is a harbour, and above the harbour a town.’

‘Shut up, you traitorous worm.’

‘Do you want to be killed out here with your own sword? Are you that stupid? This man has the power of life and death over us and you choose to stamp your feet like a child. Grow up.’

‘How dare you speak to me like that!’

‘Do shut up, I beg you. Do you value anything but your precious honour? East, I say. Let Allah decide our fate.’

‘Thank you, Said.’ Benzamir turned full circle, trying to get his bearings. East used to be in that direction, parallel to the coast; it was not just the language that had changed. Said meant the other way, the way that used to be west but was now east.

Said watched him dither. ‘Who are you? Where do you come from? You look like us, but you are not, are you? Your skin is paler than it should be: have you come from the far south where the sun does not shine?’

‘I can honestly say I’ve come even further than that.’ He picked up his sandals from the strand line and dropped them one at a time in front of him. He walked into them without breaking step. He looked behind him. A body, stretched out on the sand, hands and feet chained together. Birds, no more than dark smudges, circling overhead and waiting for them to leave. Two horses, one glossy black, one a rich brown; their riders both facing away from the direction of travel. Ibn Alam’s shoulders slumped in defeat, Said’s a less hunched hopefulness. Bright white sand underneath, fierce white sun overhead.

Nothing could be better than this, surely.

CHAPTER 4

TWO ARCS OF broken rubble stretched out into the sea like arms, protecting the little wooden boats from the worst of the weather. Benzamir was excited by weather: he wanted a storm, a real storm with fat drops of rain, the echoing roll of thunder, the wind so strong it howled. He couldn’t wait.

The boats in the harbour, a dozen in all, were bobbing on the choppy sea, their masts dancing to and fro. Further out beyond the wall was a single larger vessel. It was long and low in the water. On the gracefully curving bow there was a painted eye.

‘That’s beautiful,’ said Benzamir, stopping to admire it. ‘The sheikh must be very proud to own such a magnificent ship.’

Ibn Alam didn’t answer. Said looked out to sea and nodded. ‘It is the source of his great wealth. He can trade with anywhere along this coast, as far as the Outer Ocean.’

‘That’s to the’ – he thought about it for a moment – ‘east of here. Has he ever gone across the sea to the south?’

‘Why would he do that? There is nothing there but trees, no one there but savages. They make nothing of worth. They are all mad, and no trade is possible with such people. They would sooner grind our bones to bake bread with.’

‘I have heard,’ said Benzamir, ‘that they were once rich and powerful.’

‘I have heard those stories too, but I do not believe them. They are too weak, too stupid and too untrustworthy to have ever been great.’

‘Animals!’ spat Ibn Alam. ‘Good only for the simplest of tasks.’

‘Like rowing.’

‘Yes. You – you are worthy of death. They are not fit even for that courtesy.’

‘I’m glad you think so highly of me.’ Benzamir closed his eyes for a moment, gently moving his head from side to side. Then he opened them again, and led the horses towards the cluster of buildings that sat away from the coast. There were fields, and a complex series of water channels for moving the precious liquid from the river to the crops. It was the height of the day, and there was no one to be seen.

‘Man. You, Benzamir Mahmood. Untie me now. This is your last chance. My father will not take this lightly.’

‘Your father, Ibn Alam, is not just wealthy, but wise as well. I expect he’ll treat me as I deserve.’

He found the road into town, even though it was nothing more than a dusty track. As they came closer, an avenue of tall trees beckoned; each one was crowned with a head of great green branches. They looked familiar. Date palms, they called them, and Benzamir knew that seven dates made one meal. He was anxious to try just a single fruit. Would they be sweet or sour, hard or soft, big or small? He would get hold of one as soon as he could.

It was suddenly cool under the shade of the trees. There was a young boy sitting beside the road. He had no good reason for being there, no toy or book or task; just sat with his back against one of the hairy trunks, stirring the dust with a stick.

When he saw them coming, he leaped to his feet. Perhaps he recognized the horses first, and thought it would be politic to stand aside for someone as important as Ibn Alam.