He washed his face in the well water, and dried himself with the towel provided. Then he picked up the curved sword and asked to be taken to the sheikh.

Despite the burning sun outside, the reception room Benzamir was ushered into was cool, with a gentle breeze fluttering the thin sheets of coloured cloth draped across the walls. He would have to ask how that was done.

‘Peace be on this house, Sheikh Alam. You’ve shown a traveller much kindness already.’ He approached the sheikh, who reclined on a low seat, buoyed up by plump cushions. ‘I make a gift of this sword.’ He presented it hilt first, and the sheikh took it, clasping it tightly.

‘My youth returns all too briefly, Benzamir Mahmood. Sit.’ He tossed two small bags at Benzamir’s feet. The bags chinked as they landed on the patterned red carpet. ‘For your troubles.’

Without looking inside them, Benzamir bowed low, and then sat on a tasselled floor cushion. ‘Your generosity does you great honour.’

‘Enough of the small talk. We could do this for hours, dancing around each other, never saying what we mean.’ The sheikh clapped his hands, and servants brought brass plates and dishes to set between the two men. Each plate held a different type of food, and Benzamir goggled at the variety. He didn’t know where to start.

The sheikh waved to dismiss the waiters, and carried on: ‘My son was foolish enough to attack you. I expect you beat him without raising a sweat.’

‘I was sweating already.’

‘You carry nothing, yet you do not behave as if you are poor. You act as if touched by the sun, but beneath that skull of yours there is something going on that I am not at all comfortable with. You are a son of the desert, though your skin is wan as if you had spent too many winters with the Ewer people. None of this tallies. So I ask you plainly: Who are you, and what do you want with me?’

Benzamir’s hand was hovering over the dishes, working out which delight to try first.

‘You know my name, and I want nothing from you. That,’ he said, ‘is the truth. My people are nomads. They left this very place centuries earlier, and I’ve come back to see what has become of our friends.’

‘Ah, a traveller then. But you came with nothing. No satchel, no camel, no coat, nothing. Do you always rely on the kindness of strangers?’

Benzamir took a piece of flat bread flecked with herbs. He sniffed it, breathing in its pungent aroma, then took a bite, savouring its taste.

‘Yes. There are no strangers, only friends not yet recognized. This is excellent, by the way.’

‘So you have found friends. What of your enemies? . . . These you must try. They are grown here in the courtyard.’ The sheikh allowed himself a wrinkled black fruit. Benzamir realized that these had to be the fabled dates.

‘I have enemies. They’ll hide as best they can, but I’ll find them too. I’m very determined.’

The sheikh spat the date stone out onto an empty brass plate. It sounded like a gong. ‘If I were them, then I would quake to know Benzamir Mahmood is looking for me.’

‘You’re very kind.’ Benzamir’s face split into a brilliant smile. ‘Your people are fortunate to have you rule over them.’

‘Their good fortune is running out.’ The sheikh took another date. ‘Hassan Ibn Alam wonders how much longer he has to wait before he takes my place.’

‘Many years, I hope.’

‘Now it is you who is being kind. I am an old man, soon off to meet his maker. My people love me all the more because they fear my passing. This has its benefits, but I have other sons I can leave my land to. Hassan believes that because he is first-born, it is his right – and so it is – but I must look beyond narrow tradition. I must choose wisely. Bloodshed is, well, regrettable.’

Benzamir reached out for a date, felt its texture, judged its weight. ‘There’s one favour I must ask you.’ The sheikh nodded his assent. ‘I need to talk to someone who knows the stars.’

‘A mystic? You wish to know what the future holds for you?’

‘After a fashion. There are signs in the night sky. I need help to interpret them.’

‘There is a man, the imam. He keeps a careful watch on the heavens, the better to instruct men as to when to plant their crops and when to harvest them, when to expect the rains and when scorching winds drive from the north. I will send you to him after you have eaten your fill.’

‘That might take some time. Your generosity exceeds my appetite, but only because you’re extremely generous.’

CHAPTER 5

HIS NAME WAS Bin Haji, and he wore a circular cloth hat that had been his father’s, and his grandfather’s before him.

‘He came from the far west, from the mountains. At that time there was lots of fighting and he had had enough of it.’

Apart from that, Bin Haji wore the jellaba and looked like everyone else.

‘Fighting?’ asked Benzamir. ‘Who was attacking your grandfather’s people?’

‘He told my father everybody. But I think it was the Rus. Their land lies to the south and it is poor. Where are you from? You sound like you learned your Arabic from the Holy Qur’an.’

‘Near enough. My people speak a different dialect now, and it’s all but incomprehensible to anyone but us.’

‘But you keep the teachings of the Prophet, peace be upon him. This is good.’

It was later. The sun was starting to slide down towards the east, and a cooling breeze was beginning to drift in from the sea. They stood on the steps of the mosque and watched the men of El Alam stroll around the square, talking in twos and threes.

‘The sheikh said you know the stars,’ said Benzamir.

‘Yes, though I am puzzled as to why you want to talk to me. Are you after learning, or do you seek your fortune? I tell you now, I do not deal with that. Allah, the Most Merciful, gives me all the direction I need.’

‘Learning only.’

‘Then that is good.’ Bin Haji looked at the shadows in the square. ‘There is an hour or so before prayers at sunset. Come with me.’

Benzamir padded barefoot through the silent mosque to reach the imam’s rooms at the back. In the first room were divans and cushions, like the sheikh’s, only less rich and padded. There was also a trunk, its lid hanging back on a chain. It was full of books.

‘A library,’ breathed Benzamir. ‘May I?’

‘Of course. It is good to meet another man who can read.’

Benzamir knelt by the edge of the trunk and touched the cover of the topmost book. It was bound in red leather, hand stitched, with brass corners. He picked it up and slowly, almost reverentially, weighed it in his hands. It was heavy, and smelled of age.

It was closed by a metal clasp, and he had to study it for a moment. Then he worked it loose and creaked back the wooden cover. The Arabic script inside was upside down: of course – he had the book back to front.

Bin Haji was watching him. He said nothing about the mistake.

Benzamir looked down and leafed through the first few pages. Lines of dense type, black ink on a worn cream background, together with diagrams and notation.

‘Geometry,’ said Bin Haji. ‘Do you know geometry?’

‘Yes, yes I do. Tell me, is this an original work or a translation?’ He kept on turning the pages to see if there was something he didn’t recognize. It started very simply, with regular shapes and solids; how to bisect lines, how to calculate angles. It moved on to the properties of a sphere: these pages looked well-thumbed.

‘I believe it is a translation of a much older work. You know how it is with these things.’

Benzamir didn’t, but nodded slowly as if he understood. ‘Fascinating.’ He looked at all the hand-drawn conic sections. He put the book on a low table and went back to the trunk for another.

‘You wanted to ask me about the stars. What is it you want to know?’