“Soon the ulema will choose a new leader for our country,” the imam said thoughtfully. “Then next year, Allah willing, that man will relieve me of this privilege.”

The three soldiers were startled. “But, Wise One,” one of them said, “it’s a holy tradition.”

“Yes,” the imam said, sighing, “and when I perform it, I recall the faith of Father Abraham when the Lord directed him to sacrifice his son, Ishmael. Yet of all my duties, it’s the least pleasant. Now, hold this beautiful animal still. His head must be turned toward Makkah — that way.” The old man pointed across the plain with one long, bony forefinger.

“The sword, Wise One,” said the third man, who wore a sergeant’s uniform. He drew a magnificent gold-hilted ceremonial blade from its jeweled scabbard and passed it to the imam.

Imam Abbas took the sword in his right hand. “In the name of Allah,” he said in a loud, clear voice. He slashed the helpless ram’s throat and said, “God is most great.” Then, without turning his head, he handed the bloody sword back to the sergeant who held the scabbard.

“I’ll take the ram to the qadi,” the second man said. He was younger than the others, and his face was flushed with excitement.

“Ride quickly,” Imam Abbas said. “If the ram is still alive when you arrive at the house of the qadi, then there will be peace and good fortune in Bekhaout for the next year.”

The young man grinned. “That’s why I’m using the jeep and not my horse,” he said. The three soldiers wrapped the terror-stricken ram in a blanket and threw it into the back of the open jeep.

“Go with God, Salim!” shouted one of the other men. They watched as he got behind the steering wheel and roared off across the stony plain toward the gates of the city, raising a thick, choking cloud of dust behind him.

“Superstition,” the imam muttered. The two soldiers overheard, and exchanged glances.

“Imam Abbas,” the sergeant said, “you have no horse.”

“No,” the old man said, “I walked here from the city.”

“May I offer you my own horse to return, Wise One?”

The imam smiled but shook his head. “Thank you, sergeant, but I wish to go back on foot as well. For me, the most pleasant part of this day’s observance is to be left alone to meditate, here beyond the ramparts of the city. I enjoy the exercise.”

“As you wish, Wise One,” said the sergeant. “I return to you the Sword of the Sharif.”

The imam took the ceremonial weapon and watched the sergeant and his companion mount their horses. They saluted the old man, then wheeled their mounts and set off after the jeep at an easy trot.

Imam Abbas choked on the dust in the air, and unwound his turban a bit to serve as a mask over his mouth and nose. He looked about himself for a moment, seeing the northern mountains pink as crystal quartz in the summer sun, the dry, barren beauty of the plain, and the proud aspect of the city itself, which had witnessed too much history ever to admit that it was becoming a forgotten ruin. Here, where another man might have seen only desolation and poverty, Imam Abbas felt an inexplicable flush of happiness. “God is most great,” he murmured, and he prayed that Salim would, indeed, deliver the ram still alive to the qadi of Bekhaout.

The army private felt a similar joy as he bounced along in the jeep on the rocky track that led to the Bab es-Sayf, the Gate of Summer. Salim felt that bringing the ram sacrificed for the city was the most important event in his young life, and for a time the world seemed unnaturally vivid. The intensity of the colors, the smells, and the sounds exhilarated him. As soon as he rattled through the city’s gate and up the Avenue Colonel Boushaar, Salim pressed the jeep’s horn with the palm of his right hand and did not let it up again, sounding a shrill warning to the old women and donkeys beyond the sudden turns of the cobblestone street.

There were men and boys squatting in the meager shade of whitewashed walls, their heads covered with blue turbans or red felt tarbooshes. Their eyes turned to follow as Salim rocketed by, though none of them was curious enough in the heat of the day to stand and run after the jeep. Salim grinned as he wrenched the steering wheel once hard to the right, and then immediately back to the left, and finally stamped his foot on the brake to come to a halt before the house of the qadi on the north side of 10 January Square.

“This must be the sacrificial animal,” said the qadi to a young man in a gray business suit and white knit skullcap.

Salim jumped out and ran to the back of the jeep. “Look, Your Honor,” he said, pulling away the bloodstained blanket, “the ram is still alive!”

The man in the business suit turned his face away. The qadi came nearer to the jeep and glanced at the dying animal. “The butcher will attend to it now, soldier,” he said.

“Yes, Your Honor,” said Salim. “Good fortune to you, and to the city of Bekhaout!”

The qadi paid no further attention to him, but gestured to his companion. “My cooks will roast the animal,” he said, “and we’ll dine on it later, but I always distribute most of the meat to my neighbors for their festival. The streets will be filled with their singing all day long.” The qadi shrugged. “So this one day out of the year I feed their hunger, and all the rest of the year they call me Father of Generosity.”

“That is the art of politics, Taalab,” said the young man in the business suit.

The qadi smiled. “An art you’ve studied and learned well, Hussain Abdul-Qahhar,” he said. “Now, come with me. Let’s make ourselves comfortable. We have much to discuss before your meeting tonight.”

They entered the qadi’s home and climbed the stairs to a large, low-ceilinged room overlooking a tidy courtyard and splashing fountain. The warbling of caged songbirds came in through screens made of narrow strips of wood, and there was the delicate perfume of cultivated flowering shrubs on the warm breeze. The qadi indicated that Hussain Abdul-Qahhar should make himself comfortable, and he himself reclined on one of two lacquered divans, both upholstered in green brocade.

A servant girl brought a tray and set it on a low table between the two divans. “Coffee, Hussain?” asked the qadi.

“May your table last forever, Taalab.”

The qadi nodded, and the servant girl poured two cups of coffee. She handed one to Abdul-Qahhar and one to her master.

“Bismillah,” said Taalab. In the name of God.

“Bismillah,” murmured Abdul-Qahhar. He sipped the coffee. “Always! It is excellent.”

“May God lengthen your life,” said Taalab. He drained all the coffee in his cup and put it aside. “If we may, I’d prefer to dispense with the social niceties and get right to the immediate problem.”

“As you wish, Taalab. I’m at your disposal.”

The qadi regarded his guest in silence for a moment. “I’m too battle-hardened to take your meaning literally, my young friend. I wish to know if you think you have enough support among the ulema to be elected.”

Abdul-Qahhar sipped more coffee as he thought. He wondered if he dared be entirely truthful. “I admit that there’s been some doubt,” he said finally. “You haven’t attended the meetings of the Consultation, so you haven’t heard the arguments.”

Taalab yawned lazily. “The same old bickering, I expect. The conservatives fighting the young hotheads pushing for reform, am I right?”

Abdul-Qahhar shrugged. “Only now it’s complicated by the Berbers, who are demanding a higher standard of living. They claim that the Arab majority in the cities is holding them down.”

“It’s true enough, isn’t it?” The qadi was beginning to look bored.

“That’s beside the point,” said the younger man. “No, the issues are not new, but the matter of Unification is causing conflict even between long-time allies. The ulema will choose our new leader today or perhaps tomorrow, but he may not be the most qualified man. He may only be best at soothing tempers and making empty promises.”