‘Hold on. Who is this “we”?’

‘You’re a stranger and you need a guide. How else are you going to get to El Asnam?’

The camel sat down in the dust and started belching. Benzamir ignored it. ‘I can find my own way there. I’m pretty good at that sort of thing.’

‘But you’re not so good around camels. You need me.’ Wahir squinted up hopefully.

‘And when Ibn Alam comes for me? I don’t want you to get into a fight. People can get killed that way.’

‘I can run quickly. Besides’ – Wahir pointed to the camel, which was more or less happily chewing the cud – ‘why don’t I watch while you get your camel to stand?’

Benzamir was holding the rope attached to the animal’s halter. He knew he oughtn’t, but he gave an experimental tug. The camel growled deep in its throat, then went on chewing.

‘You win. At El Asnam you turn round and go home.’

‘With the camel?’

‘As a gift. I can’t imagine it’d be very good on a boat. Do I need to go back and buy another camel for you?’

Wahir took the rope from Benzamir and made whooshing sounds. The camel reluctantly stood on its four splay-toed feet. ‘No. Only rich people have camels. Poor people walk. I explained earlier.’

The camel meekly followed Wahir. It turned as it walked and glared at Benzamir, curling its lip.

Benzamir stared back. ‘None of this makes any sense. Neither does that thing.’

The temperature was rising with the sun. Men were busy in their fields, and there was a general air of industry which Benzamir felt distant from. Indolence didn’t suit him, and he trotted up to walk beside the boy.

‘Wahir, I’ve decided that you should teach me about camels.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Firstly, why do people put up with them?’

Wahir laughed. ‘You’re funny. Strange, but funny. My father says you have to treat your camel like you treat women. Beat them to show who is their master. Never give them a chance to stray. When they are old, get a new one.’ He laughed again.

Benzamir blinked. ‘You beat women? Don’t they hit you back?’

Now it was Wahir’s turn to look startled. ‘Not that I’ve ever heard of. They’d be dragged out into the street and stoned. A woman doesn’t raise her hand to a man.’

‘Is that legal?’

‘Yes. Why aren’t you smiling any more?’

‘I’m surprised.’ He thought of his mother: anyone less likely to put up with that state of affairs he couldn’t imagine. ‘I’m not saying that I wouldn’t fight a woman. But I’d never fight her just because she was a woman.’

‘We don’t fight them,’ said Wahir; ‘we beat them when they do something wrong.’

Benzamir tried to frame his response in such a way that would instruct the boy without showing how appalled he really was. ‘I wouldn’t do such a thing. My people decided long ago that it was wrong to hit women, or children, just because you could. We decided that it was not weak to choose a different way. Men and women should share both the responsibility of power and the duty of work.’

‘How do you ever get anything done?’ Wahir stood open-mouthed.

Now Benzamir was smiling again. ‘If you knew anything of our history, you’d realize just how much we’ve managed to accomplish. I could tell you stories that’d make your hair turn white.’ He slapped Wahir on the back. ‘Stop gawping and point out the saddle I should buy.’

He ended up with Bedouin-style tack, where he’d have to crook his leg round the oversized horn on the front of the saddle. They were shown other examples with tassels and fringes: as Benzamir fingered the closely woven braids, Wahir told him that flapping things scared camels, and that he really shouldn’t go for ornamentation until he’d learned to ride.

He concluded the deal with an open slap of the palm. His bag of roughly made gold coins wasn’t getting obviously lighter.

By now it was hot. Wahir suggested they rest at a coffee house, and with the camel hobbled outside, they entered the cool dark room. It was cramped, with rough tables, low chairs, the sweet smell of smouldering tobacco and the click of wooden pieces on a painted board.

‘Backgammon,’ said Benzamir. ‘How odd to see something so familiar.’

Wahir ordered coffee and a sheesh.

‘We still have to get our provisions. The water’s free but the skins aren’t, and you always take more than you need. I’ll do all that for you if you want. Give me a couple of coins, and I’ll try and get some coppers. I’m nervous around that much money.’

Benzamir sucked the top off his coffee. ‘Is it a lot?’

‘More than most people see in a lifetime. Though they won’t say so, everyone is very envious of you. If you hadn’t come by it from the sheikh, and by beating Ibn Alam in combat, I think you would have been robbed by now.’

‘This is probably going to be a really stupid question, but why is the sheikh so rich and everyone else so poor?’

The shopkeeper brought the sheesh over, lit it with a hot coal and took an exploratory puff on the pipe. Water bubbled and smoke curled. He nodded and passed the tube to Benzamir.

‘Thank you,’ he said. He sucked in slowly, not knowing quite what to expect as he’d never done this before. His mouth filled with a sweet apple-scented aroma, soft and smooth. He grinned with relief and handed the pipe to Wahir, who was much less circumspect at his pull.

‘The sheikh owns everything important. He owns the ocean-going ship which brings goods from the west. He owns the land, he owns the roads, he owns the harbour, he owns the well. On top of that, he taxes everything that comes by camel train. He takes a little more when we buy and when we sell. He takes a portion of a farmer’s harvest and a shepherd’s flock, a weaver’s cloth and a smith’s nails. My father says: A little of everything soon adds up to a very great deal.’

‘What do you get in return?’

‘We live in peace. For the most part.’

‘Is that such a bad deal? People who are at war all the time – well, they’re pretty miserable.’

Wahir looked sour. ‘I think things should be better.’

‘Of course you do. You’re young. If you didn’t want to change the world, there’d be something wrong with you. I haven’t seen anyone starving. I haven’t seen anyone dressed in rags. That has to count for something.’

‘I suppose.’ Wahir handed the sheesh pipe back to Benzamir. ‘Everything was different long ago. There were cities that went all the way up to Heaven. People had these dream wheels that could make anything they wanted. Even the poorest orphan lived like the sheikh does – better even.’

Benzamir sucked on the pipe and watched the water bubble through the scratched glass. ‘That’s not really true. For every person who had everything there were a hundred – a thousand with less than you have. That’s what my stories say.’

‘But that was in the time of the Users. The Users took everything and kept it for themselves. That’s why the world turned.’

‘Wahir, how old are you?’

‘Twelve. I’m just short for my age. I’ll start to grow soon, and I’ll be a man, tall and strong.’ His chin jutted for a moment, and Benzamir recognized something of himself.

‘Of course you will.’ He ordered two more coffees and waited for them to be served. ‘What else do they say about these Users?’

‘That they thought themselves gods. That they could do anything. Allah struck them down and they were utterly destroyed. His mighty fist crushed them, and the echoes of it were heard all across the world.’ Wahir was reciting now, with closed eyes, remembering what the storytellers said around their fires while camped under the stars. ‘The land trembled, the seas rose, the wind was a terrible wall of sand that scoured their towns down to the rock on which they were built. Then they were gone, and nothing remained of them or their idolatry. Benzamir? Master?’

Benzamir shook his head suddenly. ‘Sorry. Very vivid, Wahir. You’ve got a talent. Drink your coffee. We need to get the rest of our supplies.’