John. He tipped it back and a tiny mouthful of water ran out, then nothing. He tossed the skin aside. ‘We’re out of water.’ He gazed across the endless plain stretching out before them. The landscape wavered and shifted as heat rose from the ground. John licked his dry lips. ‘Maybe we should rest here.’
‘No, we cannot stop.’ Yusuf pointed to the ground behind them. Their footprints in the dust stretched away into the distance. ‘If the bandits decide to follow us, it will be easy enough.’
‘We won’t make it much further in this heat.’
‘We have no choice. We’ll stop when night falls. It will be harder to track us, then.’
They pushed on across the scorching desert. At first, John glanced back frequently, checking for signs of pursuit. He saw nothing, and after a few hours he ceased to care. His mouth grew so dry that he could not summon spit. His muscles burned and his thoughts slowed. He became dizzy, but he staggered on after Yusuf. Finally, the sun set behind them. Yusuf stopped. ‘That is far enough.’
Groaning with relief, John lay down and stared up at the sky. Yusuf joined him, and they lay there without speaking while the world darkened around them. The fading light took the heat with it, and the air grew chill. John began to shiver in his sweat-soaked clothes and curled up on his side. He and Yusuf huddled together, back to back, and John could feel Yusuf shaking with cold. They lay awake, too miserable to sleep.
‘Do you think we’ll reach the river tomorrow?’ John asked.
‘I-inshallah,’ Yusuf replied, teeth chattering. ‘We w-won’t make it through another day without water.’
Then John saw something in the dark – a pinprick of light. He sat up and squinted into the distance. ‘I see something. Look, there.’
‘A fire,’ Yusuf said as he sat up.
‘The bandits?’
‘Or Bedouin.’
‘They would have water,’ John said, pushing himself to his feet. He began to stumble towards the light.
‘John!’ Yusuf called. ‘If it is the bandits, then you are walking to your death.’
John turned to face Yusuf. ‘What does it matter? Like you said, we’ll die anyway without water.’
‘You are right,’ Yusuf said and rose. ‘Let us go to meet our fate.’
Yusuf stood just beyond the reach of the firelight and peered into the camp. The flickering light played on the dark wool of three tents – large, rectangular structures with peaked roofs, which had been erected in a row to the right of the fire. The shadowy forms of camels were just visible in the darkness beyond the camp, and from behind them came the bleating of sheep. A piece of meat roasted over the fire, unattended. There was no movement anywhere.
‘Are they Bedouin?’ John whispered, leaning close to Yusuf.
Yusuf nodded. ‘But something is wrong. Someone should be tending the fire.’ He put his hand to his sword hilt and took a step forward into the ring of firelight.
‘Waqqif!’ a deep voice called from the darkness behind them – stop. Yusuf spun around to see four Bedouin step out of the night with bows drawn. A fifth man stepped past them, leaning on a long staff. As he approached, the fire lit his face which was leathery and tan, with a long, greying beard.
‘Who are you?’ the old man demanded in a gravelly voice.
‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, sheikh. I am Yusuf ibn Ayub, emir of Tell Bashir.’
One of the archers laughed at this. He was tall with a short, black beard and teeth that flashed white in the night. ‘You are far from your citadel, emir.’
The old man waved for him to be quiet. ‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam,’ he said to Yusuf. ‘I am Sabir ibn Taqqi, sheikh of this goum.’ A goum was several related families, living together. ‘And who is this?’ Sabir pointed to John.
‘My servant.’
‘What brings you to our camp?’
‘We were attacked by Frankish bandits. We have wandered far on foot. We need water and have come to beg your hospitality.’
Sabir looked into Yusuf’s eyes, and Yusuf returned his gaze. After a moment the old man nodded. ‘You are welcome in my tent.’ He raised his voice. ‘Wife! Prepare food for our guests.’ A veiled woman stepped out of one of the tents and began to turn the spit of roasting meat.
The archers surrounding Yusuf shouldered their bows, and Sabir led the way towards the fire. ‘Sit and warm yourselves,’ he said, gesturing to a wool mat that had been laid out beside the fire. Yusuf and John sat, and the other Bedouin men joined them around the fire. ‘Drink.’
One of the women handed Yusuf a waterskin. The cool water stung his cracked, dry lips, but he did not care. He took a long drink, then handed the skin to John. ‘Shukran,’ he said to Sabir, thanking his host.
Sabir nodded. ‘This is my brother, Shaad,’ he said, gesturing to the heavy-set man seated across from Yusuf. ‘And this is my cousin, Saqr, his son Makin, and my own son, Umar.’ Umar was the tall archer with the white teeth. In better light, Yusuf saw that he was a handsome man, with lean features and a prominent nose. He was fingering his dagger as he eyed John.
Suddenly Umar rose to his feet, dagger drawn. He stepped around the fire and tore the waterskin from John’s hands, tossing it to the side. ‘He has blue eyes,’ he growled. ‘He is a Frank!’ Umar grabbed the front of John’s tunic and held the dagger close to his face.
Yusuf sprang to his feet, his hand on his sword hilt. ‘If you kill him, then you will die,’ he said quietly.
‘Put your dagger away, Umar!’ Sabir barked.
‘But he is one of them!’ Umar protested.
‘He is our guest. It would shame us to do him harm.’
Umar released John and stepped back, shaking his head. ‘There would be no shame in it. I recognize him. He is one of the Franks who attacked us.’
‘Forgive my son,’ Sabir said as he pushed himself to his feet, leaning on his staff. ‘We were attacked by Frankish raiders two days ago. They killed Umar’s wife.’
‘You did it!’ Umar spat, pointing his dagger at John.
‘My servant had nothing to do with this,’ Yusuf said. ‘Those same Franks attacked us. They killed ten of my men.’
‘You lie!’ Umar snarled.
‘Silence!’ Sabir roared. He examined John for a moment, then turned to Yusuf. ‘You swear that this man is your servant, that he had nothing to do with the Franks who attacked us?’
Yusuf nodded. ‘By Allah, I swear it.’
‘You would accept the word of this stranger over that of your own son?’ Umar demanded, red-faced. ‘I tell you: I saw this ifranji kill my wife. He must die!’
Sabir looked from his son to John, and then back to Yusuf. ‘There is only one way to prove that what you say is true, young emir. You will undergo the bisha’a.’
The blood drained from Yusuf’s face, leaving him pale, but he nodded. ‘I will.’
‘Then let it be done.’ Sabir drew a dagger from his belt and crouched down beside the fire. He plunged the dagger’s blade into the glowing coals. Women and children came out of the tents and gathered around the fire.
John stepped close to Yusuf. ‘What is going on?’
‘Bisha’a is a trial by fire, an old Bedouin ritual. I will lick the hot blade of the dagger three times. Then the sheikh will examine me. If my tongue is burned, I lie. If it is not, then I tell the truth.’
‘But that is ridiculous!’
‘It is their way,’ Yusuf said and turned back to face the fire.
Umar crouched down with a wet cloth in hand, and pulled the dagger from the fire. ‘The blade is ready!’ he declared, holding it up for all to see. The dagger’s blade glowed red against the night sky.
Umar handed the dagger to Sabir, who brought it to Yusuf. The rest of the tribe pressed close as Sabir held the dagger out before Yusuf’s face. Yusuf could feel the heat radiating from the blade. ‘Now,’ Sabir commanded.
‘Allah protect me,’ Yusuf whispered under his breath. He extended his tongue and pressed it briefly to the glowing blade. The searing pain was excruciating. He thought he could already feel his tongue beginning to blister, but he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to show no sign of his agony. If he showed pain, it would be clear his
