A deep-throated cry went up from the assembled tribesmen. Many raised their camel whips and flailed the air. Rifles were fired skyward as everyone rose and shouted. The ululating cries of the women, the trilling to frighten off the zars of the night, echoed in the darkness. “Allah!” the men chanted. “God is great!”

As the shouting subsided, Muhammed stood and faced the Scorpion. The corners of his mouth were drawn down as if he had tasted something sour. “To involve ourselves in such intrigues is dangerous—not to mention bad for business. If it is the will of the tribe, I shall not interfere; but neither shall I support such adventurism,” he declared. He turned his back on the others and strode away towards his lavish RV van.

“Beware—such a one may betray you,” Faisal whispered in the Scorpion’s ear.

“It doesn’t matter. The enemy already knows of my presence, but I still have a trick or two up my sleeve,” the Scorpion whispered back, his lips scarcely moving. His eyes were flames in the fire glow.

Everyone was silent, waiting for the old sheikh to speak. Zaid motioned to Faisal who came over and helped the old man to his feet. How frail he had become, the Scorpion thought sadly. His hands were crooked and brittle as winter twigs. When he was a boy, those same strong hands had lifted him so easily into a saddle.

“Muhammed is entitled to his view. As for myself, I plan to be at the King’s Camel Race, as always. Something tells me that it’s going to be particularly exciting this year,” Sheikh Zaid declared.

As the Scorpion rose, Youssef plucked at his sleeve.

“Come, I have something to show you.”

Youssef led him to a cluster of pick-up trucks by the edge of the camp. The trucks were parked in a circle, serving as a makeshift corral. Now he could see the hobbled camels clearly in the pearl-gray light of the stars. As always, they began to roar and snarl whenever men approached.

“What do think of her?” Youssef asked proudly, gesturing at an unusually large honey-colored she-camel, her nostrils flaring as they came up to her.

The Scorpion ran his hands along her flanks and pinched her thighs, taking care not to stand at an angle where she could kick him. She turned her great head towards him and hearing her snarl and gurgle, he just managed to dance aside to avoid being sprayed by slimy green cud.

“May the raiders get you,” the Scorpion snapped goodhumoredly. He grabbed her head-rope and kicked her sharply in the stomach to gain control of her.

“Good! You must master her spirit right from the start,” Youssef said, his eyes sparkling with delight.

“Is she as fast as she looks?”

“Faster.”

“How is she called?”

“Basbusa,” Youssef grinned.

“But not so sweet, I think,” the Scorpion retorted. It was the name of a syrupy-sweet dessert tart.