Arn turned to see to the first man he had knocked to the ground, but as he did the man he had just helped up drew his sword and ran it full force into the belly of Khamsiin.
Khamsiin reared up screaming in fear and cast himself about while wildly bucking and kicking his hind legs. The sword was buried in his flesh almost to the hilt. Arn stood as if petrified for a second, then he ran toward the villain who sank to his knees and held up his hands before his face, pleading for mercy. But he found none.
Then everything that had to be done was done at once. Arn went to get his own sword after sticking the holy Saracen sword under his belt. He called Khamsiin to him using loving and soothing words. Despite his terror and rolling eyes the stallion came staggering toward his master, the Frankish sword jolting up and down with each step. Arn caressed the animal, kissed him, and then took two steps to the side behind him, turned around suddenly and as if in a fury of despair sliced off Khamsiin’s head with a single blow.
Then he numbly dropped his sword to the ground and walked away from the camp, his face white, and sat down by himself.
Women and children now came rushing from all directions and began quickly digging in the sand. Some began folding up the tents, and others rounded up the camels, goats, and horses. Harald did not understand everything that was going on. He definitely didn’t want to disturb his jarl right now, and he knew he could not be of any assistance.
The old man went to get Arn’s sword where he had dropped it, wiped it off, and then walked with slow but deliberate steps toward Arn. Harald was quite sure that he should not interfere.
When Ibrahim came up to Arn he was sitting motionless with an absent look on his face and holding the holy sword of Islam in his hand. Ibrahim was a Bedouin and could understand Arn’s grief. He sat down next to him without saying a word. If necessary he was prepared to sit there for two days and two nights without speaking. According to custom, Arn was the one who must speak the first words.
“Ibrahim, I know that I must speak first,” said Arn, in torment. “Such is your custom, but it might just as well have been my Rule, about which you are fortunately unaware. The sword you gave me is truly remarkable.”
“It belongs to you now, Al Ghouti. You were our saviour. Thus it was written and thus it has now been proven by what happened.”
“No, Ibrahim, that is not the case. Do I have the right to ask you for a favor?”
“Yes, Al Ghouti. And whatever you ask, if it is within human power or the power of all of Banu Anaza, I shall fulfil your wish,” Ibrahim whispered with his face bowed to the ground.
“Then take this sword and ride with it to the one to whom it belongs. Go to Yussuf ibn Ayyub Salah al-Din, the one we call in our simple language Saladin. Give him this sword. Tell him that it was written so, that Al Ghouti has said so.”
Ibrahim silently accepted the sword which Arn now carefully handed to him. They sat for a while next to each other, staring out over the sand dunes toward the sea. Arn’s sorrow was so great that it seemed to create a shroud of coldness around him, and Ibrahim was a man particularly well suited to understand the cause, at least so he believed. But he was only half right.
“Al Ghouti, you are now the friend of Banu Anaza forever,” said Ibrahim after a pause that could have been long or short, because for Arn time hardly existed anymore. “The favor you asked of me was too small, although I shall see that it is done. Let us now do what has to be done. We Bedouins bury horses such as Khamsiin. He was a great warrior, almost like one of our horses. Come!”
The old man persuaded Arn to stand up and follow him. When they approached the camp everything was almost packed up and loaded onto camels. The three dead Franks, like their horses, had vanished somewhere beneath the sand. But all the women, children, and old people of the camp stood solemnly gathered around a grave in the sand, and a short distance away stood a bewildered Harald.
The ceremonies were brief, for horses as well as for men. The Bedouins’ belief, as it was spoken in the prayer of their leader Ibrahim, was that Khamsiin would now run forever among wide green fields with plenty of cool water. Arn’s prayer was similar, although he murmured the words silently to himself, since he knew that he was now committing blasphemy. But Khamsiin had been his friend since he was a boy, and Khamsiin was the only one for whose sake Arn had ever blasphemed in his life. So great was his grief that at the moment Arn preferred the belief of the Bedouins. In his mind he could see Khamsiin in full gallop with his tail raised high and his mane fluttering, racing across the green fields of Paradise.
Then they all set off toward Gaza. Three Franks from Ashkelon had died in Banu Anaza’s camp. Because of this the new camp had to be pitched right next to Gaza, and if that was not safe enough, then inside the city walls.
The Bedouins’ women and children were just as skilled at riding camels and horses as any Saracen man, and they knew how to keep all the animals with them in a close group.
Harald rode next to Arn, who had borrowed a somewhat unruly horse that seemed to be giving him trouble. But Harald did not dare say anything to his jarl on the short ride to Gaza. He never could have imagined a man such as Arn Magnusson weeping like a child, and he felt much embarrassment at seeing this weakness, especially as it was displayed before un-Christian savages. But they in turn seemed not in the least surprised at the knight’s childish sorrow over a horse. Their faces were as if carved in leather, immobile, showing no expression of either sorrow or joy, fear or relief.
They were Bedouins. But about such people Harald knew hardly more than any Norseman.
When they reached Gaza, Arn silently pointed out a spot where the Bedouins could pitch their camp near the city wall, but on the north side so that the smells from the city would not bother the camp since the wind was from the west. He got off his borrowed horse and began to unfasten Khamsiin’s harness and saddle. But then Ibrahim rode quickly up to him, hopped nimbly from his horse, and took Arn by the hands.
“Al Ghouti, our friend, you must now know one thing!” he stammered, out of breath. “Our tribesmen, Banu Anaza, own the best horses in all of Arabia; that is known to all. But no one, not even sultans or caliphs, has ever been able to buy such a horse. We only give them away when we have found an exceptional reason to do so. The young stallion you just rode from our camp has hardly been broken to the saddle, as you surely noticed. He has no true master. He was intended for my son since his blood is the purest of any steed; he is our best. You must take him, because what you asked as a favor from me was too little, and so I must make you this gift.”
“Ibrahim, you can’t…” Arn began, but could not go on. He bowed his head in tears. Ibrahim then embraced him like a father and stroked his back and neck to console him.
“I certainly can, Al Ghouti. I am the eldest of Banu Anaza, and no one may contradict me. Not even you may contradict me, for until now you have been my guest. You can’t insult your host by refusing his gift!”
“That is true,” said Arn and took a deep breath, wiping his tears with the back of his hand. “Before my own people I seem weak as a woman and possibly a fool for showing such grief for a horse. But you are a Bedouin, Ibrahim. You know that this grief will never pass, and only to someone like you can I admit such a thing. Your gift is very great, and you will have my gratitude as long as I live.”
“You shall also have a mare,” Ibrahim smiled slyly, and made a sign. Leading the mare forward was Aisha, the young woman whose love for Ali ibn Qays from the other Bedouin clan had prompted Arn to negotiate a peace between tribes.