Men had always fished these waters. Even in prehistoric times, fishermen had harvested here, leaving nothing behind but the name they gave to the lake. They called it Kinneret, because its shape reminded them of a harp. The name was kept by the Hebrews who documented it in their records, which became the Bible, until the Romans came and gave it the name of the soft rolling hills to the west. They called it “the Sea of Galilee” and so it stayed for two thousand years, until the Jews returned to reclaim the land and rename the lake once more. Kinneret again, still harp-shaped, still mysterious.

It was the dusk hour. The restaurant was closed. A couple sat on the deserted terrace and looked out over the lake, turned to molten gold by the last rays of the sun. Across the lake they could clearly see the rounded outlines of the hills of Galilee against the red sky. The Sabbath stillness was complete, except for the lapping of the waves against the low terrace wall, a few feet from their table. At such a moment, it was easy to imagine Jesus walking along this shore, followed at a distance by the shy fishermen of the village struggling to understand what he meant by talking about love in a world which seemed to have no place for it.

This is where she thinks she belongs, the Scorpion thought, looking across at Kelly. She was slim and tan and healthy-looking in a frayed white shirt and khaki shorts. This is her world now, as alien to her as Arabia; but she believes in it and maybe that makes it her world, he thought.

“Call me Chava,” she had told him when he found her at Kibbutz Shaar Ha-Golan, in the Jordan Valley where Wadi Yarmuk divides the three territories, Jordan, Israel and the occupied Golan. After dinner in the kibbutz dining hall, they had driven the three or four miles to the restaurant at Ein Gev.

“I wanted to show you this,” she said, gesturing at the lake. “I like to come here on erev shabbat when it’s quiet like this. It’s a special place.”

“I can see why they called it a Land of Milk and Honey, coming out of the desert,” he said.

The mention of the desert brought back the memory of Arabia. The shadow of it flickered in her wonderful violet eyes and she looked away for a second. The Scorpion cursed himself for being an idiot.

“I’m sorry about your father,” he said, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

“Don’t be. Nobody else is,” she shrugged, her face a mask against pain.

“I suspect you’ll be inheriting quite a lot,” he said.

“It’s a lot,” she agreed gravely.

“You could go anywhere. Do anything,” he said.

“I am doing something,” she said, her chin set defiantly. She sat up straight and looked directly at him, wearing her independence like a flag.