The Khalifah's Mirror E-Book

Andrew Killeen

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

An Arabian Nights mystery where Ismail's storytelling entertains the sultan. "I have a story to tell you. It is a tale of adventure, of love, and deception, of destiny and death. It is a tale of kings, and emperors, and of beautiful princesses; but also of poets, pirates, and priests. It is a story to entertain and instruct, to stir the blood, to inflame the senses, to dizzy the mind and rouse the soul..." 'If you like your historical fiction full of action, intelligent and well-researched, then you'll be captivated by Killeen's interweaving plot lines.' David Viner in The Bookseller

Leseprobe

Original Fiction in Paperback

THE KHALIFAH’S MIRROR

Andrew Killeen was born and lives in Birmingham. He studied English at Corpus Christi College, Cambridge and has spent most of his career working with homeless and disadvantaged children.

In his spare time he makes music, and can occasionally be found performing as a singer, musician and DJ. He supports Birmingham City FC, as karmic punishment for sins in a past life.

Dedalus published his first novel The Father of Locks to critical acclaim in 2009. The Khalifah’s Mirror continues the story.

Andrew Killeen gratefully acknowledges the support of Arts Council England in the writing of this book.

Prologue

From The History of the Prophets and the Kings, by Abu Ja’far Muhammad ibn Jarir al-Tabari:

When God cast Adam down from the Garden, He set him on the summit of the mountain called Abu Qubays, and laid out before him the whole world, saying,

“All this is yours.”

But Adam asked,

“How, oh Lord, am I to know what is in it?”

So God made for him the stars, and told him,

“When you see this star, it means this, and when you see that star, it means that.”

In this way Adam came to know the world through the stars. Then he lost that knowledge, so instead God sent from heaven a mirror in which Adam could see everything on earth.

On Adam’s death, at the age of nine hundred and thirty years, a devil called Faqtas stole the magic mirror. He shattered it, and on top of the pieces he built the city of the east called Jabirat. When Sulayman ibn Dawud, King of the Jews, inquired about Adam’s mirror, he was told of the devil’s theft, and summoned Faqtas before him.

“Where is Adam’s mirror?” he asked.

Faqtas the devil said,

“It is buried under the foundations of Jabirat.”

“Bring it to me,” Sulayman commanded.

“Who will tear down the city?” asked the devil.

“You will,” answered the King.

So the devil destroyed the city, and retrieved the mirror, which he brought back to Sulayman. The King put the pieces back together and bound it round the edge with a strap. He looked into it every day until the day he died.

Once again the devils pounced on the mirror and carried it off, but they left a shard behind. The Children of Isra’il passed the shard down from generation to generation, century after century, until the Age of Islam, when it came into the possession of the Resh Galuta, their leader in exile. The Resh Galuta wished to gain the favour of the Khalifah Marwan ibn Muhammad, the Commander of the Faithful, so he gave him as a gift the shard from Adam’s magic mirror. The Khalifah polished it vigorously and set it within another mirror. What he saw therein, though, so horrified him that he hurled it to the ground and had the Resh Galuta beheaded.

A slave girl was ordered to clear up the shattered mirror, but she took the magical shard of glass, and wrapped it in cotton, concealing it under a stone. When al-Mansur the Victorious became Khalifah, he asked what had happened to it, and was told that a woman had it. He ordered a search of the palace, and the shard was found.

Al-Mansur, too, polished it and set it in an ordinary mirror. And when he looked into it, he could see the man he had been searching for… It is said that the mirror showed him who was his friend, and who was his enemy.

Contents

Title

Original Fiction in Paperback

Prologue

Chapter I

The Tale of the Wali’s Gold

Chapter II

Chapter III

The Education of a Postman

Chapter IV

Chapter V

The Tale of the Disputation of the Khazars

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

The Tale of the Palace in the Sky

Chapter IX

Chapter X

The Tale of the Elephant and the Dragon

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

The Tale of The Tenth Element

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Copyright

I

The Khalifah Harun al-Rashid, the Righteous One, Commander of the Faithful, Successor to the Prophet of God, settled himself delicately on his cushion, and winced. It seemed that no amount of gold could purchase relief, that no down was sufficiently soft, no silk so smooth, as to save him from discomfort. If God had chosen al-Rashid to lead His people, to shoulder the onerous burden of governing the Land of Islam, that He might at least have spared His servant the pain and ignominy of piles.

The arrival in the audience hall of two guards, dragging a prisoner between them, stirred al-Rashid to further irritation. Today was such a vexing day. His arse was throbbing, a peach he had eaten for breakfast had a worm in it, and now he was going to have to order the execution of one of his best friends.

“Ah, Father of Locks. I am very disappointed in you.”

He studied the man who knelt before him, robes spattered with blood, a secretive smile on his face despite his predicament. Abu Ali al-Hasan ibn Hani al-Hakami, known as Abu Nuwas, the Father of Locks, was still a handsome man, although he must be nearing fifty years of age. The belly that protruded above his belt was at odds with his rangy frame, but suggested years of good living rather than sloth or ill-health. His eyes were sapphire blue, though tinged with redness around their edges. The long hair that spilled from his turban was combed into tresses, like snakes curling over his shoulders. Al-Rashid shook his head in sadness.

“I am, as you know, a great admirer of your poetry, and take much pleasure in your company. I am most put out that I must have you killed.”

“I share your chagrin, my prince.”

Al-Rashid knew he should be angered by the poet’s impertinence, but instead could not resist a smirk at the man’s insouciance in the face of death. A twinge from his royal backside restored the Khalifah’s sense of indignation.

“I cannot grant you your life, you must understand that. Your transgression is unforgivable. However, in recognition of our friendship, I will grant you one final boon. What do you wish for, Father of Locks? A jar of wine, perhaps, to ease the pain of your passing? A last meal? A virgin, or —”

The Khalifah’s face expressed his distaste.

“— I suppose you would prefer a boy, for a final fleeting moment of ecstasy?”

Abu Nuwas bowed low.

“Your generosity surpasses measure to the very end, Commander of the Faithful. My request is a simple one. I would like someone to speak on my behalf.”

Al-Rashid groaned. Now he would have to spend the rest of the afternoon listening to tedious legal arguments, instead of going hunting as he had planned. Really, he was a martyr to his own magnanimity.

“I warn you, Abu Ali, you must not hope for mercy. This will not be like the stories, where the ruler is moved by the condemned man’s tale, and in the end pardons him, and rewards him with gold. You will die this day, I swear it on the life of my son.”

“I would not dare dream of mercy, my prince; I know I cannot expect it, even from one as beneficent as Harun the Righteous. I wish only to give an account of myself, so that you might understand how your loyal servant came to be here, cast down before you, convicted of treason and murder.”

“Oh, very well. I suppose you will want al-Shafi’i to plead your case? I believe he studied the Shariah under you. Or al-Waqidi?”

“As in all matters, my prince, your suggestions are impeccable. However, it is not the services of a jurist which I require. I ask instead for a storyteller. A man called Ismail al-Rawiya.”

Despite himself, al-Rashid was intrigued.

“Masrur, do you know where to find this al-Rawiya?”

Masrur the Swordbearer, the Khalifah’s bodyguard and executioner, stood at his master’s side, as he always did. Al-Rashid was reassured by the giant eunuch’s presence, the soft rumble of his voice and the sharpness of his blade.

“Yes, Commander of the Faithful. He was apprehended in the palace earlier today, and is in custody below.”

“Then have him brought here. But I warn you, Father of Locks, if he is your accomplice in treachery, then you will both regret your choice.”

Masrur signalled to a guard, who left the hall, returning moments later with a young man in tattered clothing. Short and slender, the youth’s dark eyes stood in stark contrast to his pale skin.

“Are you the storyteller Ismail al-Rawiya?”

The young man bowed.

“That is indeed your servant’s name, Commander of the Faithful.”

“This man is sentenced to death, and wishes you to speak in his defence. Are you willing to stand with him?”

Al-Rashid saw the poet and the storyteller exchange a glance.

“If the Khalifah asks, I can do no other than obey.”

“Good. Then speak, and quickly. What do you have to say on his behalf?”

“My prince, I have a story to tell you.”

“A story?”

Al-Rashid’s tone was testy, but secretly he was pleased. He liked stories much better than lawyers’ speeches.

“Indeed, my prince, a story. It is a tale of adventure, of love, and deception, of destiny, daring, and death. It is a tale of kings, and warriors, and of beautiful princesses; but also of poets, pirates, and priests. It is a story to entertain and instruct, to stir the blood, to inflame the senses, to dizzy the mind and rouse the soul. It is one tale but also many, a tale of past, present and perhaps future too. It —”

“Yes, yes, very good. Get on with it then.”

“My prince, I present, for your delight and edification…”

The Tale of the Wali’s Gold

They came in the hour before dawn.

From the black silence of the desert night they came, in the breathless hour when even scorpions and vipers are still; when the darkness is so deep that beyond the firelight the world might have ended, and a man alone in the desert be the last man on earth, but not yet know it; in the hour when Azrail, the Angel of Death, loves to visit the sick and the old, and carry away their souls to judgement; that was when the Banu Jahm struck.

They were only a hundred paces from the caravan when the alarm was raised. The guard was a heavy man, and the suck and rattle of his breath as he leaned on his spear might have drowned out their approach, even if he had not been dozing, dreaming of houri lips where he stood. Nobody else was awake: the captain and the merchant, the camel-drivers and the boy all lay in the tent, stirring in shallow sleep. No moon illumined the camp, only a single torch shoved in the ground. Its feeble light wavered and was haunted by shadows.

The Banu Jahm had come this far by stealth, their camels’ hooves shuffling across the sand. Now they charged, shattering the silence with terrible screams and yells. The guard jerked awake, his member still hard despite the terror, and saw only distorted shapes emerging from the gloom. Although his sticky eyes were open, he could not quite escape his dream, and thought a horde of ghuls came howling at him.

Now, to his horror, one of the shapes peeled away from the pack and headed directly towards him. The guard’s spear wavered in his shaking hands. By the time he could make out that the shadow approaching him was not a monster, but a handsome youth riding a camel, the point of a lance was already at his throat.

“Put that down, friend. Is this really how you want to die?”

The guard slowly crouched down, and laid his spear on the sand. Sa’id ibn Bishr al-Jahm jumped down from his camel, and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Sensible fellow. No need for anyone to get hurt, eh?”

Sai’id’s tribesmen were appearing all around him now, dragging the captives from their tent. He felt pride at the sight. They were skilled, his cousins, each knowing their place, carrying out their tasks in silence, no need for talk. This would be a good raid, a clean raid, with no blood spilt and no repercussions. A cracked voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Eh, Sa’id! Have you overwhelmed the guards single-handed? What courage! I must write some verses in celebration.”

Abu Bishr, Sa’id’s grandfather, walked towards them leading his camel. Sa’id glanced down at the big man grovelling on the ground.

“A warrior can only fight the enemy in front of him. It is no slur on his honour if the enemy is a coward, or a fool. Who taught me that, grandfather? I cannot recall.”

Abu Bishr cackled.

“I do not know, but he must be very wise, and no doubt brave and virile too.”

The guard flinched as the old man poked at him with a sword, tarnished from years in the harsh desert. Sa’id doubted the blade was sharp enough to cut the man’s flesh, or that his grandfather had the strength to do it if he meant to. The Shaikh had told Abu Bishr that he need not join the raid, that there would be no dishonour in a man of his age staying behind, but Abu Bishr had scoffed at the idea.

“What, cower in the tent like the women and children? No, nephew, when I am too old to mount a camel and hold a sword, you may leave me out in the desert to die.”

The dim scene flickered, then sharpened as the Banu Jahm lit torches. Sa’id looked around.

“Then it is true, that this fat clod is their only guard?”

Abu Bishr spat contemptuously.

“It is an insult to the Banu Jahm! They cross our territory, without paying for our protection. Then they do not even trouble to hire any decent blades. Just this… toad with a stick. They might as well have pissed in our well as they passed.”

Sa’id smiled, but his eyes expressed uncertainty. He pulled the guard to his feet, and hauled him over to where the men of the caravan knelt, ringed by warriors of the Banu Jahm. As he did so, he noticed a lanky figure seated in the dirt, watching the raid with cool interest. Sa’id walked over cautiously. In the shifting glow of the torches he could make out a softly bearded face, the face of one a few years his junior, little more than a boy. The boy’s eyes flamed, and for a moment Sa’id thought they were lit from within, not merely reflecting the fire.

“Am I yours, then?”

The boy got up as he spoke, and it seemed to Sa’id that he uncurled, rising from the ground like a cobra. At full height he stood a head taller than Sa’id, even though he swayed slightly. His features were sharp and angular as a gemstone, and the fierce eyes fixed on his captor. Sa’id shuddered, although he was not sure why. Reluctant to touch the boy, he prodded him with his spear, goading him toward the other captives.

“Wait there. My uncle the Shaikh is coming.”

Abu Wahb al-Zubayr ibn Tahir al-Jahm, Shaikh of the Banu Jahm, was a big man. Over four cubits in height, and broad as a mountain bear, he looked ungainly atop his camel as he trotted around his prisoners. His beard was bushy, and his eyes were bright. Generous to his guests, ruthless to his foes, protective of his family, devoted to his camels, he was a true Badawi: quick to draw his sword at an insult, slow to forget a debt of honour, easily moved to tears by a sentimental song. And when his booming laugh burst out in the night, startling the owls, his kin knew that all was well at the camp.

To Sa’id, his uncle was a great man; the most important in the world. He knew, of course, that they owed allegiance to the Commander of the Faithful, al-Mansur the Victorious. But the Khalifah was far away in Baghdad. Here, in the Empty Quarter, Abu Wahb bent his knee to no one. When he spoke, his voice compelled the attention of both friend and enemy.

“Who is leading this misguided adventure?

The captives looked at the ground or at each other. Most of them were local camel drivers, well known to the Banu Jahm. A rotund man with bushy eyebrows hissed at the long-nosed man next to him.

“You said there would be no trouble!”

The long-nosed man slowly got to his feet.

“I am captain of this caravan, which is under the protection of the Banu Dahhak. You will regret this discourtesy.”

Sa’id shifted uneasily, and squinted at his uncle. He noticed other heads turn sharply. Nothing had been said before the raid about the Banu Dahhak. Abu Wahb, however, was defiant.

“The Banu Jahm are a free people of the desert. If you would pass through our lands then you must seek our protection, not that of the Banu Dahhak.”

The rotund man scrambled to his feet, bursting with indignation.

“But you pay brotherhood tribute to Abu Musa al-Dahhak!”

It was not clear whether his annoyance was directed at his captors, or the captain who had led him into the ambush. Either way, he was silenced by a swordpoint at his breast. The Shaikh addressed him in a low voice.

“And who are you, that is so knowledgeable in the affairs of the Badawi?”

Sa’id wanted to give the man a warning, tell him that when his uncle spoke in this tone it was usually a precursor to violence. But it was not his place to speak. Besides, the man’s belligerence had been punctured by the mere sight of a blade, and he dropped his head.

“I am a merchant of Najran — nobody of consequence. I meant no disrespect. This man assured me —”

Abu Bishr stepped forward, and with his rusty sword carefully pushed the Shaikh’s blade away from the merchant.

“If they have the protection of the Banu Dahhak, we should let them go on their way.”

Abu Wahb bristled.

“And bring shame on our clan? We would be mocked throughout the Empty Quarter — the Banu Jahm, who captured a caravan, then let it go out of fear! Why should we fear the Banu Dahhak?”

“Why? Because they outnumber us fourfold, that is why. If it came to war they would exterminate us.”

The Shaikh folded his arms and smiled.

“You will understand why I took the gamble, when you see the prize. Bring the cargo of the caravan.”

The men exchanged glances. Then one shrugged, and went off to fetch a saddlebag. Abu Wahb grinned as he took it, and emptied it out in front of them.

“Behold —”

The satisfaction on his face turned to astonishment, then anger. Bemused, the Banu Jahm surveyed the nuggets of tin spilling onto the ground. Abu Wahb dropped the bag, and stormed over to the captives.

“Where is the gold?”

The merchant and the captain looked up at him, then at each other. The Shaikh’s voice fell lower and softer.

“Where is the gold?”

“What gold?”

The merchant, fear in his eyes, seemed to speak despite himself. With a speed that belied his bulk Abu Wahb leapt upon him, beating him around the head until the men of the Banu Jahm hauled him off. The Shaikh yelled at the unfortunate merchant, screaming inches from his bloodied face.

“Where is the gold, sucker of your mother’s rod? Do not lie to me, or I will bury you alive in the sand. I know, I know what you are doing! The black boy told me…”

Abu Bishr tried to calm him.

“Easy now, nephew. This man can tell you nothing if you kill him, and fear is the enemy of truth.”

Abu Wahb stood upright, and his breathing slowed. His anger seemed to have abated, and Sa’id hoped that calm sense would prevail. Then another voice spoke.

“I know where the gold is.”

It was the lanky boy. He lay languorously, propped up on one elbow, watching events unfold as though it was an entertainment laid on for his benefit. The Shaikh’s head swung round towards him. His eyes narrowed.

“Then tell me. Before I cut off your balls and feed them to the lizards.”

The boy turned away, shrugging one shoulder.

“Well, if you are going to talk to me like that, I think I shall not tell you after all.”

Abu Wahb’s bristling eyebrows clashed furiously like two bears wrestling. He seized the youth’s robes and hauled him to his feet. The Shaikh’s rage was so great that he could barely squeeze out the words.

“Tell. Me. Where.”

Seemingly unconcerned, the boy examined the Shaikh’s crimson face.

“I have hidden it. Do you want to know where?”

Abu Wahb’s nod was little more than a twitch. It occurred to Sa’id that, by forcing the Shaikh to answer his question, the boy had subtly taken control of the situation.

“I have hidden it…”

The boy’s voice fell to a whisper, and a hush descended as the camp strained to hear.

“…up your mother’s hairy old hole.”

For an instant the hush persisted. Then a vast bellow erupted from Abu Wahb, and he snatched a dagger from his belt. The youth, however, twisted from his grip, causing the Shaikh to fall to his knees, and danced away laughing. The Shaikh scrambled towards him on all fours, growling like an animal. This time his kinsmen would not have intervened, had the captain of the caravan not jumped to his feet.

“He is the honoured guest of the Banu Dahhak! If you kill him they will not rest until your whole clan lies dead.”

The men looked to Abu Bishr, who nodded. Quickly they restrained the Shaikh, while Sa’id pinned the boy’s hands behind his back. Abu Bishr turned to the captain.

“Who is he?”

The captain stared venomously at the smirking youth.

“His name is al-Hasan ibn Hani, of the Hakami tribe. He is a city boy from Basrah, who has been travelling with the Banu Dahhak. Learning the poetry of the desert, or some such nonsense. When I came to seek their protection for our caravan, he asked to accompany us. I wish I had refused, but they told me he had powerful friends.”

He spat the words distastefully, as though they were sour milk.

“For all I care, you can skin him alive and use his hide for leather. But for your own sakes you had best not harm him.”

Abu Bishr put his arm around the Shaikh’s shoulders, and drew him back. Sa’id released the hands of the boy, al-Hasan, who bowed in mocking gratitude. A cousin spoke up.

“Dawn is here. If the Banu Dahhak come upon us while we stand here chatting, then none of us will live to see noon. Let us take these men back to the camp, and sort it out there.”

It was true; the eastern horizon was growing pale, and Sa’id thought he could see dark figures moving against it. Abu Wahb nodded his assent, and the warriors of the Banu Jahm prepared to leave. The camel drivers and the guard were released, deprived of their cargo but with sufficient food and water to take them back to civilisation. They were sullen, but made no trouble; the captain’s tribe would recompense them for their loss, as was the custom. The captain himself though, along with the merchant and the boy al-Hasan, were set on camels with their hands bound, and led away at swordpoint.

Sa’id was pensive as he mounted his own beast and followed his clan south. He was thinking about his uncle’s words to the merchant.

“I know what you are doing! The black boy told me…”

Sa’id could see it now, when he closed his eyes: that day in Hajr, a month or two before. He and the Shaikh had gone to the town to trade for carpets. A storyteller was performing in the market, and Sa’id had drifted over to listen. While the man span implausible tales of princes and jinni, Sa’id let his eyes wander around. He was surprised to see his uncle in conversation with a small black boy in ragged clothes. He was still more surprised to see some coppers change hands. The Banu Jahm wanted for little, but they rarely had much coin, and certainly not enough to give away casually to strangers.

Sa’id would not usually have challenged his uncle, but the journey back to the camp was long, and his curiosity was great. On the third night, as they sat staring into the fire, he could bear no more.

“Uncle, why did you give money to that boy?”

“What boy? You mean that black boy? It was nothing — he was a beggar — God put charity into my heart.”

Sa’id had seen his uncle every day since the day of his birth. However he had never before seen the expression that contorted his face when Abu Wahb answered him, an expression that spoke of fear and anger and shame. It was only when he lay awake at night, pondering the strange events of their trip, that he understood. For the first time in his life, he had seen his uncle tell a lie.

“What do you think of this business, Sa’id ibn Bishr?”

Sa’id had not noticed his grandfather fall in beside him as they rode. He stirred himself from his recollections, and considered the question put to him. It was not for a young man like Sa’id to judge the decisions of his elders. On the other hand, his grandfather had addressed him directly, and not to answer would be disrespectful.

“I think the whole thing stinks. The caravan is too small, and travelling at the wrong time of year. They are neither carrying enough merchandise to make a profit, nor taking sufficient precautions to protect themselves. Fear grips my testicles like a cold hand.”

Abu Bishr nodded slowly, his jowly head bobbing like that of his camel.

“My descendants will prosper under your guidance, some day; if God the Protector keeps us safe that long.”

Sa’id accepted the compliment in silence. He knew that he had only told his grandfather half a truth, but could not bring himself to voice his innermost thoughts: that what frightened him most was not the suspicious nature of the caravan, nor any such rational concern. Rather it was the glittering eyes of the tall boy, al-Hasan ibn Hani, that chilled his blood, inducing a primitive, mindless terror as though he had seen a snake slithering through an oasis.

The sun was high by the time they returned to the camp of the Banu Jahm. Children ran out in excitement at their arrival, and wives offered silent prayers when they saw their husbands were unhurt. Sa’id was unmarried, and had no dependents to fuss over him. Once he had managed to evade his mother’s solicitous attentions he was able to skirt the uproar, and take shelter in the shade of a tent wall.

From there he surveyed the confusion as the prisoners dismounted. Free men were not normally taken captive in raids, and nobody was certain whether they should be treated as guests or slaves. In the end the hostages were shown to the men’s area of the tent where they were served camel’s milk and bread. Outside the warriors of the Banu Jahm gathered around their Shaikh; but it was Abu Bishr who spoke first.

“You should not have put the family in danger, nephew. You may be head of this clan, but you have no right to keep secrets from us. Each man should share his knowledge, so that together we can decide on what is best for us all. Were you aware that the caravan had the protection of the Banu Dahhak, when you proposed that we raid it?”

Abu Wahb stood before his uncle like a child being rebuked, shamed but still petulant.

“Why did you hold me back from killing that boy, that al-Hasan ibn Hani al-Hakami? He must die for what he said. We cannot allow such an insult to pass! The family would never recover from the dishonour.”

Abu Bishr gazed at him sadly.

“Nephew, there is not a man here who would not risk his life to avenge an insult to your mother. But if we slay the guest of the Banu Dahhak —”

The Shaikh snarled.

“There was a time when the Banu Dahhak would shit themselves if they heard the Banu Jahm were riding by.”

“Indeed, there was such a time. But that bright day is over. The sun set on that day when first we found the sores on our camels’ mouths. The shadows lengthened when our animals sickened and died in scores. In the confusion of its twilight we conceived the calamitous notion of raiding the Banu Dahhak to replace our lost beasts. Dusk fell with the spear that pierced my son’s heart, on that ill-fated venture. And when our kinsmen left to work in the cities like slaves, because there was no longer enough food for us all, the darkness was complete.”

“But this gold could restore our fortunes!”

Abu Bishr sighed.

“Yes, nephew, the gold. Tell us all about the gold, for which we have put the whole clan in peril.”

The Shaikh was defiant, but there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

“There was a boy… in the city of Hajr. He described the caravan — told me its route — knew everything about it. He said it was carrying tax money, embezzled by the Wali of Basrah.”

“And you believed him?”

“But he was right about so many things…”

“And why would the Wali not send a regiment of men to guard his gold?”

Sa’id thought that, in recounting the story, even his uncle was beginning to realise how implausible it sounded.

“He said that any movement of troops would draw the attention of the Khalifah’s spies. That a small caravan, under the protection of the Badawi, would be of no interest to the Barid.”

Nobody spoke. It seemed to Sa’id, though, that his uncle’s leadership of the Banu Jahm hung in the balance. For the first time in his life, he spoke unbidden at a family council.

“The camels need pasture.”

Everyone turned and looked at him. Then his grandfather smiled.

“Your words are wise, Sa’id ibn Bishr. Let us not risk the little wealth we have, arguing about a treasure that may not even exist. We will take our camels to pasture, and think about this matter before we discuss it further.”

It was Sa’id’s honour to be responsible for the she-camels with young. On the day of the raid he had decided to take them north-west, where sweet nasi grass sprouted from a long dune. It took some time to marshal his charges, and most of the men had gone by the time he drove his herd away from the camp.

Playful winds whipped up tiny storms in the sand, bringing freshness to the late spring morning. Sa’id enjoyed the contented lowing of the mothers and the clean desert air, and though he was usually alert, it was some time before he noticed the tracks that ran along their path. He had no difficulty recognising the hooves of his uncle’s riding camel, al-Afzal. The Shaikh, his authority under greater threat than ever before, must have set out for the emptiness to contemplate his position.

Sa’id wanted to respect his uncle’s need for solitude, but the camels had to eat if they were to produce milk for both their young and the Banu Jahm, and the Shaikh’s path led inexorably toward the pasture. By the time he had arrived at the green outcrops of nasi, Sa’id could see the bulky figure of Abu Wahb below him on a rocky plain.

The Shaikh sat immobile on his camel, staring out to the hazy horizon. Sa’id wondered if he should call to him, but thought better of it. He was about to turn away, when he saw another figure approaching. It was the young man al-Hasan. He strolled toward the Shaikh as if he were promenading in a cool garden of Basrah, not deep in the inimical wasteland of the Empty Quarter. Sa’id noticed that he trailed a cloak behind him, seemingly casually, but with the effect that his tracks were obscured.

Without being wholly sure why, Sa’id slid from his camel and crept into earshot, just as al-Hasan greeted the Shaikh like an old friend.

“Peace be upon you, brother! What luck that I should stumble across you here.”

The Shaikh’s head turned slowly, as if it took great effort. His voice was so low Sa’id could barely hear it.

“If I kill you here, no man would ever know.”

Al-Hasan seemed undeterred by this reception.

“Kill me? Now why would you want to do such an unpleasant thing?”

With astonishing lightness the bear-like Shaikh leapt from his saddle. He was shaking so violently that Sa’id could clearly see his tremors.

“For the sake of my kinsmen I will not harm you for now. But you cannot hide behind those sons of dogs, the Banu Dahhak, for ever. Some day I will hunt you down, like the filthy vermin that you are, even if you flee to the ends of the earth. And may God sear my soul for all eternity if I do not avenge the insult to my family.”

The young man’s face expressed mild dismay.

“Oh dear. I was so hoping we would be friends.”

The Shaikh emitted a strangled noise of fury and frustration.

“You — you should crawl back to your cesspit, street rat. You do not belong here. You do not belong in the Empty Quarter, where the fierce sun and hot sands and dry winds scour a man’s soul. You bring the filth, disease and insanity of the city into our pure lands. You are not welcome.”

Even at this distance Sa’id could feel the scorch of the young man’s eyes.

“Is this the famous hospitality of the Badawi? Oh, you wanderers of the wastelands! You think yourselves better than other men, while you live out here, in a place so parched and cruel you may as well be in hell already.”

Abu Wahb had recovered his dignity.

“I could come and live in Basrah any day I choose, boy. But if you were alone in the desert, you would not survive to say your prayers at sunset.”

“Perhaps that is so. Perhaps you would survive the city, although I think you underestimate its dangers. There are enough of your kind there now that you could find shelter, and kin. But it would be a mean life, and a miserable one. You would be nobody, mighty Shaikh, another termite clambering the mound. So rather than grovel to civilisation, you choose to lord it over the void.”

The young man gestured across the Empty Quarter. A gust moaned, as though the spirits were unquiet at his call. Sa’id saw his uncle shiver, but stand his ground.

“You adorn yourselves in gold, you city dwellers, and gorge yourselves on forbidden pleasures. But God sees all, and will punish you for your sins.”

Conviction was draining from the Shaikh’s voice. The young man al-Hasan, in contrast, sang like a mu’addhin.

“Yes, Badawi, God sees into our hearts. What does He find, I wonder, when He looks into yours? The noble strivings of a warrior of the desert? Or is it something different, something darker?”

It seemed to Sa’id that his uncle swayed to the rhythm of the young man’s voice.

“Does He see your revulsion when you come to your wives? Does He see you grimace at their mounds of flesh, their hairy darknesses, the smell under their arms and between their legs? Does he know what you think of, to make your manhood stand so that you can do your duty as a husband?

“The Persian sickness is in your soul, Abu Wahb al-Zubayr ibn Tahir al-Jahm. You have no secrets from me. And you did not catch the sickness in a city or a slum. It was in you from childhood, wasn’t it? All your life you admired the hard faces, the strong arms of men, the long legs of your friends as you ran together.

“And now you see only him, don’t you, mighty Shaikh? When you cough and spit your seed on your heavy wives, the only face in your eyes is his, that young, admiring, idealistic face; the beautiful face of your nephew, Sa’id.”

Abu Wahb, Shaikh of the Banu Jahm, fell slowly to his knees, and a great sob burst from his ursine head. Al-Hasan put out his hands and cradled the Shaikh’s face.

“But I have the cure for the sickness, the only remedy for the pain that wracks your body and soul…”

Sa’id ibn Bishr al-Jahm turned away as their lips met, and walked thoughtfully back to his camel. The pasture here, he decided, was not so good after all. He would take his herd elsewhere.

The grassy erg was some miles away, and it was late by the time Sa’id returned to the camp that evening. The men were already gathered around the fire, with their prisoners sitting amongst them. The captain was in defiant mood, although the merchant sat meekly beside him hanging his battered head.

“How long will you keep us here? This goes against all reason and tradition. Surely you do not still believe in the Wali’s gold?”

Abu Wahb stared at him, but said nothing. Sa’id noticed al-Hasan lounging nearby, smirking at the conversation. The young man winked at him, but Sa’id ignored the provocation. He had news to share.

“A rider is coming.”

The captain smiled.

“Now we will have an end to this nonsense. The Banu Dahhak have sent to see what has happened to the caravan under their protection.”

Even Sa’id’s sharp eyes could not make out the rider at that distance, but as the figure approached the camp it became clear that the captain was right. Ibn Musa al-Dahhak dismounted from his camel and swaggered over towards the assembled men. The Shaikh went to greet him.

“You are welcome in my tent, son of my friend. Come and be refreshed, take milk with us.”

Abu Wahb made to rub noses with his guest, but ibn Musa stepped away, avoiding him. The men of the Banu Jahm gasped at this open discourtesy.

“I have not come to enjoy your meagre hospitality, Abu Wahb. I would not take your food, and leave your scrawny offspring to starve. I have merely come to ensure the return of our friends and their possessions, which you have so rudely snatched.”

Sa’id saw that his uncle was fighting to keep control of himself.

“They were in the territory of the Banu Jahm, and had not asked for our protection. They were ours to take, by the laws of the desert.”

Ibn Musa laughed harshly.

“The Banu Jahm have no territory. You live on the lands of the Banu Dahhak, under our sway and on our sufferance. Either these men and their cargo leave with me, or we will drive your kin from the Empty Quarter for ever.”

A thin hissing sound escaped the Shaikh. Abu Bishr took a step towards him, and Sa’id knew that if his grandfather had to intervene, then Abu Wahb’s leadership of the family would be at an end. Fortunately Abu Wahb seemed to understand this too. He spoke proudly, but calmly.

“As a gift of brotherhood and friendship, from one free clan of the Badawi to another, I give these men and their possessions into your care.”

It was only when he exhaled that Sa’id realised he had been holding his breath. From the soft sighs around him he guessed he was not the only one. The Shaikh’s next words, though, caused him to draw air in sharply once more.

“All except the boy from Basrah. He is mine.”

“What madness is this, nephew?”

Abu Bishr stormed forward, the men of the Banu Jahm in close attendance. The Shaikh backed away from them, suddenly reaching down to yank al-Hasan to his feet and pulling a long knife from his belt.

“The boy knows the key to the riddle of the Wali’s gold! He will stay with me until I get it out of him — whatever it takes. And I will kill any man who tries to take him from me.”

Sa’id wondered whether his uncle still believed in the gold, or whether it was merely a cover for his own, darker secret. He looked into the Shaikh’s face, but this time saw none of the contortions of untruth. It occurred to Sa’id that the man’s desires must have fused into one, melting together in the furnace of his insanity: the gold. The boy. And Sa’id himself.

“Put the knife down, nephew. Nobody here seeks to do you harm. We are your kin.”

From childhood Abu Bishr had taken second place. His younger brother Isa, quick, confident, and handsome, had acceded to the leadership of their family with such natural ease that Abu Bishr could not recall the matter ever being discussed. By the time Isa died, Abu Bishr had been deemed too old for the Shaikhdom, but was proud to defer to his son, and then his nephew after him. Abu Bishr had taken comfort from the fact that it was his grandson, if God willed, who was destined to succeed next. But now the old man stood at the head of the Banu Jahm, and his voice was calm and strong.

“Put the knife down.”

Abu Bishr walked fearlessly towards his nephew, arms outstretched in peaceful supplication. Abu Wahb, however, did not lower his blade, even when the point pricked his uncle’s skin, and a scarlet drop glistened in the low sun.

“Drop the knife, or I will put an arrow in your eye.”

Sa’id was as shocked as anyone else to see that it was his hunting bow drawn in trembling hands, and his own voice echoing around the camp. Abu Wahb turned slowly to him, as though waking from a dream.

“But, nephew…”

A look of confusion crossed his face, and the knife wavered at the old man’s throat. Then the boy al-Hasan gently peeled the Shaikh’s fingers from his collar, and rose to his full height. Slowly, teasingly, he planted a lingering kiss on Abu Wahb’s cheek. His eyes, though, were fixed on Sa’id.

Later, Sa’id could not recall releasing the bowstring. It seemed that al-Hasan blew lightly in his direction, and that the puff of air gave wing to the arrow, which leapt from its constraints, soaring like a spirit. In reality Sa’id’s shaking must have become so violent that the string slipped from his fingers.

It was fortunate that his tremors diverted the missile from his target. Sa’id could hit a running hare from fifty paces, so for him to miss his uncle at such close range evinced how little his hands were under his own control. Abu Wahb let the knife fall from his fingers, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. Abu Bishr and Sa’id leaped towards him, the former to restrain him, and the latter to comfort him. Such was their relief that it was only the thud of a falling body that drew their attention to the arrow’s actual resting place. It protruded from the throat of ibn Musa al-Dahhak, who lay on his back staring glassy-eyed at the desert sky.

II

“Ibn Musa al-Dahhak is dead.”

The captain looked up from the body, his voice full of malicious satisfaction.

“Now you’re going to hell. When they learn that you have killed their Shaikh’s first-born son the Banu Dahhak will slaughter every last one of you, and defecate on your corpses.”

The Banu Jahm stood around in silent consternation. Their Shaikh was sitting on the ground, rocking in the evening breeze. Abu Bishr gently prised the bow from his grandson’s hands, and held them between his own to still their shaking. His voice was cold as he addressed the captain.

“Go. Your companions as well. Go to the Banu Dahhak, and carry the body of their kinsman with you. Whatever blood price they demand of us, we will pay it.”

“And our cargo?”

The old man spat on the ground.

“That cursed metal has brought nothing but disaster to this family. Take it away, and may its ill luck go with you.”

Sa’id watched this exchange as though he were not involved, but standing several paces away. He saw, rather than felt, the protective warmth with which his grandfather grasped his hands. He even imagined that he stared into his own grief-stricken eyes, and marvelled at the youth and vulnerability of the face before him. Then reason returned, sucking him back into his body.

The captain was struggling with the Dahhaki’s cadaver. Reluctantly, as though fearing a trick, the merchant rose to help him.

“I will not go.”

The boy al-Hasan crouched defiantly beside Abu Wahb, the Shaikh’s helpless head drooping onto his shoulder. He fixed them with his glittering eyes as he spoke, as though daring them to contradict him.

“I am a free man, and serve neither the Banu Dahhak nor the Banu Jahm. Your chief has offered me hospitality, and I will not leave unless he commands it.”

Everyone looked to Abu Bishr, but the old man seemed suddenly weary from the exercise of unaccustomed authority, and said nothing. Sa’id wanted to scream, to demand that they chase the boy away as if he were a rabid dog, stamp on him as if he were a scorpion. But his voice would not obey him, and he doubted that his family would either. The men of the Banu Jahm drifted off, taking comfort in familiar chores, as the merchant and the captain led away their camels, and their cargo of tin.

That night Abu Wahb did not lie with any of his wives. He spent the hours of darkness beyond the firelight, with the boy al-Hasan, but his moans and gasps could be heard throughout the camp. Sa’id did not know whether they were sounds of passion or pain, or, most likely, both; nobody went to investigate. Sometimes a hush would briefly fall, and his family would dare to hope he had fallen asleep. Each time, however, the cries would begin again, until a harsh dawn lightened the sky.

The prospect of a day alone with the camels was welcome to Sa’id, and he wasted no time in driving his herd from the camp. He was more glad, however, when his grandfather caught up with him after a few miles. They exchanged no greetings, but rode together, warmed by the ascending sun and each other’s company.

Good grazing was becoming hard to find. The family would have to move north, the next day or the day after. When at last they came upon some vegetation, and the beasts were busy feeding, Sa’id finally spoke.

“How will we pay?”

Abu Bishr thought for a long time before replying.

“You mean the blood price? I can only hope that it is money, or livestock, that the Banu Dahhak demand. Tell me, my son; for I am an old man, my eyes burnt out by the remorseless glare of sun on sand. Do you see anything there, to the east?”

“Yes, grandfather. I see men riding.”

“That is what I thought. How many men, do you think?”

“I cannot yet tell. Three, or more, on swift camels. If the blood price is more than we can afford, it will mean the end for this family, as free people of the desert. We will have to flee to the city, and sell our soul for a daily wage.”

“You speak truly, my son. Perhaps, after all, it would be better to pay in blood. We have more of it to spare. Those men, to the east: are they coming towards us, would you say?”

“I believe they are, grandfather. There are four of them, and I see the glint of metal. Should we drive the herd back to the camp?”

“Can we outrun them?”

Sa’id wrinkled his brow, gauging the distance and speed of the approaching riders.

“No. We cannot.”

“And we cannot let them take the foals and their mothers, or the family will indeed be ruined. Perhaps you should ride for help, while I guard the animals.”

Sa’id merely shook his head, and drew the bow from his back.

The warriors of the Banu Dahhak separated as they approached, circling around Sa’id and his grandfather. They uttered no war cries; the sound of their attack was the muted thudding of camels’ hooves and the jingle of tack.

The horn of the bow felt wrong in Sa’id’s hands, now that he had killed a man with it. However he choked down his revulsion and pulled back the string. His first missile sang true, but he was relieved to see that it had only lodged in the Dahhaki’s shoulder. The man was hurt, but not dangerously.

Then they were too close. Sa’id dropped his bow and jerked the long knife free from his belt. Abu Bishr hefted his rusty sword.

The Dahhakis were carrying lances, and charged, points raised. The fastest could not control his mount, and veered wide, either he or the camel betraying inexperience. Another bore down on Abu Bishr, but the old man brushed the thrust aside with practised ease.

The third, however, drove his weapon into Sa’id’s camel, causing it to scream in pain, and keel over. Sa’id rolled off quickly enough that his leg was not crushed, but the knife span out of his grasp. As he scrambled away he saw two of the warriors looming over him. One had left his lance in Sa’id’s camel, but the other was still armed, and now poised to strike.

A terrible yell, drowning out the wounded animal, made the Dahhaki warrior pause, and look round. Then Abu Bishr al-Jahm crashed into him, his old cracked voice roaring and the rusty sword swinging. As Sa’id had suspected, the blade was too blunt to cut through the Dahhaki’s flesh, but the impact of the metal clanging into his head was sufficient to leave him dazed. Sa’id took advantage of the distraction to dive for his knife.

He turned to see his grandfather surrounded. The warriors had unsheathed their own polished swords, and battered again and again at the old man’s desperate defence. Sa’id staggered towards them, trying to draw their attention. But the mounted men were immersed in a narrow, desperate world of blows and grunts and the threat of imminent death. Sa’id may as well have been miles away.

While Sa’id watched, one of the blows broke through his grandfather’s guard. Dark blood erupted into the bright sunlight. Abu Bishr fought on, but the wound had clearly weakened him. A second blade bit. He still roared, and the air was full of his war cry and the clash of metal. A third cut came, and a fourth, and then he did not fight back any more. A fifth and a sixth and a seventh silenced him.

The only sounds that survived were the screaming of the injured camel, and the shouts of Sa’id. The men of the Banu Dahhak turned to look at him. Sa’id held his knife proudly. If he was to die he would die like a warrior. However his enemies spurred their mounts, and rode away.

Sa’id could not understand why they had let him live. Perhaps they wished to tend to their kinsman, whom Sa’id had shot. Perhaps they felt they had done enough to avenge ibn Musa. Whatever their reason, he had duties to attend to. He put his knife across his camel’s throat, ending its pain.

They buried Abu Bishr al-Jahm later that day. The men dug a hole while the women washed the body and wept. Sa’id led them in the prayer, stumbling over the words, then the old man was quietly interred.

After the ceremony, still standing around the grave, the men of the Banu Jahm debated their response.

“They have taken a life for a life. It is just. We should head north, let things calm down for a while.”

“And not take vengeance for Abu Bishr? What sort of men would that make us?”

“If we kill another of the Banu Dahhak, they will kill another one of us, and where does that end? They are many more than we are.”

“We could ask the Wali to enforce a peace…”

“Men of the desert do not go running to the cities to solve their problems. We should expel Abu Wahb. This whole mess is his fault.”

The former Shaikh of the Banu Jahm had not participated in his uncle’s funeral. He sat some distance away, with the boy al-Hasan wrapped around him and whispering in his ear.

“He is still our kin. Shaitan has possessed him. He is sick with love.”

“Whether we fight or flee, this family is finished.”

At this gloomy assessment the men fell quiet. Then they looked to Sa’id, who gazed at the horizon before speaking.

“There is one way we might save the family. But the risk is great.”

One or two of the men smiled.

“We may regret what has passed, but we cannot go backwards. So we must go forwards, boldly and without hesitation. We will raid the camp of the Banu Dahhak. Hit them so hard that they cannot hit back; so that they would not dare, even if they have the strength. We may yet turn this tribulation into a new beginning for our kin.”

Now all the men were grinning, despite the sombre setting. The Banu Jahm had a new Shaikh.

***

They attacked in the hour before dawn. This time, however, the Banu Jahm had not come to steal, to surprise and disarm, but to kill.