with sand – water is far too scarce to be used for bathing. As the drops slide down their faces, they lap them up with their tongues, unwilling to allow even a teaspoonful to go to waste. Once the infection has been cleaned, the doctor breaks out the contents of his leather bag. This is one of the reasons he joined the service – Jessop likes to help and, big of heart and strong of stomach, he shows no horror or revulsion at whatever he is presented with. He mixes a solution of vinegar and applies it to each child in turn as an eyewash. It stings. The younger children make a fuss, the older ones succumb in silence.
‘That should help,’ he says. ‘We will look at it again tomorrow. Salaam,’ he says, bowing as he takes his leave.
Jones has stationed himself by the corral and has been trying to strike up a conversation with the horsemen. The refinement of the breed is most appealing. The finely chiselled bone and the concave profile, the comparatively high level croup and high-carried tail make the Arabians an enticing prospect. They are wonderful, majestic beasts and no mistake and the lieutenant has to admit he is moved when he sees two of the robe-swathed men from the encampment saddling up. They cut a queer kind of dash that stirs excitement in the whole group, and while the doctor faffs about with the barefoot children, everyone else comes out to watch the men set off. Where they are riding to is a mystery – perhaps they are only taking the animals for their daily exercise. The horses are worth a fortune; Jones isn’t sure yet where the best of the money is to be made, but he can almost smell that there is money in it somewhere – be it shipping home pure breeds or using an Arab stallion to cover a mare of another breed – there is something for which he knows the fashionable and wealthy around St James’s will pay through the nose. Some already are. Napoleon rode an Arabian, of course, but that is no matter for the King himself now has one – a present that arrived last year from the Sultan of Muscat and Oman. To Jones this is as good as receiving direct royal approval for his project. It is the sheer quality of the animals that will attract society and he knows if he can get a shipment or two back to Blighty, he’ll make his fortune. No smart family wants to be without the latest breed to take the royal fancy.
Jones pulls out his notebook, his mouth almost watering at the thought of the stud fees and what he might achieve when in receipt of them, given the faded glory of his family’s London house. He clears his throat and, with a sense of history, or at least publicity, puts pen to paper, for he will need notes to validate the authenticity of the animals and his experiences in selecting them.
The emir seems glad of our company and has invited us to feast with him. It is no cooler but the water here is very plentiful if slightly sour in taste. Coming in from the desert my camel drank for a full ten minutes. Brave beast, she has served me well and kept us supplied in milk the last days of our journey. There are seventy or eighty people in the encampment – the emir, his family, retainers and slaves. All are respectful and courteous. I envy these men little other than their horses – the horses are beautiful, though, and very fine.
By contrast, it is immediately apparent that the Bedu are less impressed by the infidels. Some of them have seen white men before – those who have taken caravans to the coast where if you linger long in any seaport between here and India you are sure to catch sight of a Nazarene – strange-looking creatures. Their blue eyes remind the Bedu of the sky, seen through the empty eye sockets of a bleached, white skull. They are haughty too, like living phantoms, zombies greedy for the lifeblood of Arabia. When the white men speak they always ask questions and the Bedu know what that means.
‘You do not have horses in England?’ Jones is challenged bluntly when he enquires about the breeding habits of the animals, where they can be bought and for how much. The Bedu are close to their livestock – camels, horses or goats – and at least as protective of such property as they are of their wives. Animals are their only measure of wealth and the truth is that they are unlikely to sell any of their horses unless they have to. Itinerant tribesmen rely on their livestock not only for food and transport but to find water – a good camel can save your life in the desert, and water is the only treasure that matters out on the hot, dry sands. Gold and precious jewels cannot save your life like a decent steed. The horse, of course, has the advantage of speed and intelligence over the camel – and they are necessary for successfully raiding other encampments or carrying important news.
There is a legend in this tribe that as a child, perhaps thirteen years old, the emir was caught out on the sands with only his horse for company. He survived two days without water and did not succumb to panic (a legendary feat in itself). Then when it could go no further, he used his sabre to slaughter his horse and drank its blood to survive. He made it back to his father’s camp on foot the following afternoon with the animal’s blood still crusted on his clothes and around his mouth. He had sucked the carcass dry. It is a tale acknowledged as so extraordinary and heroic that still the people of this tribe tell it to their children and will do so for several years after the emir dies. More importantly, the emir’s enemies tell the same tale to the children of their own camps – as a warning. The tough young man has grown up into a fierce opponent and he is respected and feared across the entire region.
The emir’s men are as hard-nosed as their master, Jones thinks. They continue to bat his questions back to him, revealing nothing in the process. When Jessop strolls out of the family tent he comes to stand by the lieutenant.
‘Nice animals,’ he says, with a nod. ‘I’m glad we arrived today. Several of those children might certainly have gone blind, or died even. If the infection gets into the blood it will poison them. I hope I have been able to avert that.’
Jones is not listening. ‘Thing is with these Arabs,’ he says nonchalantly, ‘they are great traders. They are trying to make me feel like a fool in the hope of gaining a better price.’
Zena is running. She is running so fast to get away that she doesn’t even feel the ground beneath her feet or the sun on her skin. Her body is almost silent – the way a dyk dyk moves through the trees at speed – the flash of a leaf and the movement of a branch. It’s like being invisible. Zena has hardly ever had occasion to run before – not since she was a child and she played with the others, hiding in the bushes and splashing in the stream. That was many years ago now, and this kind of running is different. It is a sensation that is both desperate and strange. Her breath comes fluidly and the further she goes the more energy she has. She does not look back. She can take any direction she likes. At least that is how it feels at first. After a little while she realises that she is being followed so she picks up the pace, stretching her limbs further.
I’ll never stop, she thinks. Running is all I want to do now. Running until I get shot of these strange men and this strange place.
The thought is no sooner formed than a hand claps down heavily onto her shoulder and pulls her to a stop. Forcefully, the palm pushes her onto her knees. Her heart flutters as she tries to stay upright. Her stomach turns. She has a sudden burst of energy and tries to pull away, but he is shaking her whole body, forcing her to the ground.
‘Wake up! Stupid female!’ the voice says.
Her limbs twitch as she opens her eyes, the lids heavy and her vision bleary with sleep. She bats her hand in front of her as if to move a fly and it is struck sharply.
‘Get up!’ the voice orders as she rubs the stinging flesh on her fingers.
The darkness of the warehouse is a shock and at first she can’t make out where she is. In her dream she was running in the sunshine. Still groggy despite the blow, for it was a much-needed and wonderfully deep sleep, Zena struggles to her feet, feeling confused. The man before her is small and his rounded belly shapes his jubbah.
