Benzamir smiled as he walked by. ‘Salam alaykum,’ he said.

Then the boy saw the truth of the matter. The sheikh’s first-born son and his man were being led into town tied to their own mounts and backwards. He dared not reply. He hid instead, averting his eyes from his master’s shame. But Benzamir knew that as soon as they were past, he would run into the town by a different route and tell all his friends that he’d seen Ibn Alam’s face set like stone in a grimace of fury and embarrassment.

It was just how he wanted it.

As they entered the town with its huddled buildings and narrow streets, he felt himself being watched. Faces would appear at windows for the briefest of moments, confirm the scandalous rumour, then dart back. The bolder ones, all dark-eyed boys with their faces obscured in their father’s second-best head cloth, peered down from the roofs. They nudged each other and whispered.

It was different as they penetrated further in. The horses’ hooves clattered on the packed stone surface, and craftsmen looked up from their labours at the strange procession. They fell silent as Benzamir approached, and either scuttled back into the darkness of their workshops or studied their laps so closely as to be oblivious to anything else.

In the very centre of the town was a paved square. On one side was the mosque. On the other was the fortified palace of the sheikh. The minaret’s shadow fell across the ground like a sundial’s gnomon, marking the passage of the high-thrown sun. Three old men sat on the steps of the mosque, smoking from a shared pipe. Almost as if they had booked seats for the performance.

Benzamir led his captives into the middle of the open space, to the place where there was a raised stone slab, worn and crumbling with age. He ran his hand over it, thinking that some of the depressions in its dry and chalky surface could have been writing. He hopped on top of the slab and called up to the sandstone walls of the palace.

‘Salam alaykum, noble Sheikh. I bring you greetings and gifts.’

There was a long silence. Eventually one of the shuttered windows was thrown open and a voice called out: ‘Who disturbs my lord’s rest?’

‘My name is Benzamir Michael Mahmood. My humble apologies for intruding on your lord’s righteous slumber, but I believe I have certain items in my possession that rightly belong to him. If he would deal with me direct, I can return them to him without further delay. The sun is damaging them as we speak.’

Said hissed a warning. ‘You have a brass neck. Do not stretch it out so far that you find it cut.’

‘I know what I’m doing, despite appearances to the contrary.’ Benzamir looked up at the window, wondering if the sheikh would make an appearance. ‘But thank you for your concern, Said.’

The entrance to the palace was barred by a pair of heavy wooden doors, studded with iron. They creaked, split and swung apart. Four white men each carried the corner of a sheet on a pole. The sheikh walked in its shade, slowly and deliberately, as if he were processing. In the time it took for them to cross to Benzamir, he was able to judge his welcome. These were no men-at-arms, only slaves. However, there were at least two men on the toothed battlements of the palace, and they both had bows.

Benzamir wondered if they could hit him from their vantage points. He presumed that they thought they could, otherwise why would they be there?

‘Salam alaykum, my lord.’ He jumped from the plinth and landed lightly in front of the sheikh.

‘Salam, Mahmood. You return my son to me.’ When he spoke, he growled.

‘The Prophet, peace be upon him, instructs that the release of captives is an act of compassion. I’ve no wish to own a fellow man, so I release him to your care. Said, you’re also free to go.’

‘Most generous for one so obvious in his poverty,’ said the sheikh. His gaze fell on the sword at Benzamir’s side.

‘However, custom demands that for the wrong done to me by your son, I ought to keep both horses and this rather fine sword. I hope it doesn’t have any significance to you or your family.’

Sheikh Alam reached up to stroke his grey and black beard. Lines of age deepened around his eyes. ‘I might offer some exchange for that poor piece of workmanship. It has sentimental value. Nothing more.’

‘Your favour would be enough, but a man cannot eat favour.’ Benzamir was trying so hard to be serious, but the corners of his mouth kept on turning up. ‘I can’t deny such a bargain might tempt me.’

The sheikh’s beard-stroking reached a steady rhythm – first two fingers and thumb of the right hand from the cheeks down to the point of the chin. ‘Perhaps we can talk in more comfortable surroundings. You would be my guest, of course. Come, we will walk back together.’

Benzamir stepped under the flapping sheet and held his arm out. The sheikh rested a nut-brown hand on his forearm. As they turned, so did the slaves, all starting the slow walk to the palace.

It suddenly occurred to Benzamir that the sheikh was moving so slowly because he was so very old. Not just of great age, but actually old – creaking limbs, shrinking spine, failing hearing and eyesight, forgetfulness and a tendency to reminisce about events from childhood.

He was leaning on Benzamir’s arm, using it for support. The walk from his rooms to the square had tired him out, and now he needed help on the return journey. Benzamir felt terrible: he’d thought of Ibn Alam’s father as someone vigorous and vital, not as a sick man he would drag out of bed.

‘Again, many apologies for disturbing you, great one. Had I known, I would’ve waited until evening before calling.’

‘Never mind,’ said the sheikh. ‘It is well worth being woken from my slumbers to see my first-born son humiliated in such a fashion. The vulture.’

Benzamir was smiling again. ‘I’m delighted I could bring you even a small pleasure.’

‘You have done much more than that, but we must not show it. My son’s wrath is legendary, and he will bear a grudge longer than any other man I know. Most likely he is already plotting to kill you as soon as you leave my protection.’

‘I thank you for such wisdom.’

‘My son may have underestimated you. Do not think that I will make the same mistake. I see more than he does, perhaps more than he ever will. But at the moment I see the dust of many days on your feet. My servants will refresh you, and then you will join me in my rooms. We can get business out of the way, and then talk. I wish to hear of the outside world. My body has become my prison, and only in my mind am I free.’ The sheikh curled his bony fingers around Benzamir’s wrist and gave a half-hearted squeeze. ‘See? Once I wielded a sword in battle, and fought like a lion. Now I am but a little cat, with little claws.’

Behind them, more of the sheikh’s men were trying to help Ibn Alam and Said dismount the horses. Said was content to let himself be cut loose, and climb down on his own; Ibn Alam kicked every servant who came in range.

Benzamir and the sheikh walked through the main gateway into the courtyard beyond. Within the high walls were more date palms and a well. A woman – at least, Benzamir assumed the veiled figure at the winding mechanism was a woman – drew up a bucket and emptied it at the foot of one of the palms.

‘My servants will attend to you now. When you are ready, they will bring you to me.’

A man – a local, not a slave – touched his hand to his forehead, his lips, his heart. ‘Follow me.’

Benzamir had his feet washed, which he felt uncomfortable about, but recognized that it was an act of hospitality, not ablution. A clean jellaba and a finely woven kaftan were laid out for him, and he accepted them eagerly. Hand-made, hand-stitched, the raw materials grown in a field or cut from the back of a sheep. They felt odd to the touch; imperfections in the weave marked each piece as unique.