“Ya, beloved; beware the Ruallai with the thin moustache. Muhammed of Heikul was seen speaking to him,” Youssef whispered, indicating a rider with the kind of pencil-thin moustache popular in 1930s high comedies and wearing the black-and-white robe of a Rualla noble.

The Scorpion nodded. “Be sure that our father Zaid and the others leave as soon as the race starts. There may be much shooting and many may die,” he said.

“Of a certainty. We will all meet at the encampment south of Hofuf, Inshallah,” Youssef replied. He kept patting the camel’s side. His hands were like birds, never still. His eyes were soft and he avoided looking at the Scorpion.

“What is it?” the Scorpion asked softly.

“Last night … driving the Toyooti in the wadi …” Youssef began, hesitating. “It was … I was …”

“I know. It is the same for all,” the Scorpion said and swung himself up into the saddle. He felt constricted by the special mesh fabric wrapped tightly around his chest and he wondered for the hundredth time whether it was worth it. All around, riders were moving towards the starting line. With a tap of the whip and crooning “Grrr” from deep in his throat, he made Basbusa rise in slow jerky stages, like a mechanical creature.

“Go with God,” cried Youssef and turned to leave.

“And upon thee, the blessings of God,” the Scorpion murmured, almost to himself.

Basbusa began pulling to the left and the Scorpion shortened the rein, wheeling her in a circle and then stopping her. He pulled her head close and whispered curses like endearments into her ear, breathing the sharp camel smell of her. The air was white with dust as thousands of camels began to rise and gather in clusters near the starting line. There was no order, no course boundaries and, once the race started, no rules. There was only an approximation of a starting line. The finish line was the line of sight from King Salim some fourteen miles away.

As he reined Basbusa in close to the hindquarters of several other camels already crowding the starting area the Scorpion turned to glance over at Bandar. The camels around them skipped skittishly, growled and tried to bite each other. Just then Bandar looked towards him and their eyes met. It was as if a bolt of lightning crackled between them. They knew each other utterly in that instant and that only one of them would survive the race.

The Scorpion could see a curse come to Bandar’s lips. He smiled coldly in response, but his stomach felt like a volcano about to erupt. Bandar sneered, then turned and kicked Bashum into a lead starting position. Out of the corner of his eye, the Scorpion noticed the moustached Ruallai edge into position behind him. His back prickled, his spine tensed so tightly for an inevitable bullet that he had to force himself to relax.