23

‘Where did you go?’

They were lying in their secret place, the hollow between the oleanders down by the river. The frogs were silent now; the water was all but gone, dried up by a sun that burned hotter every day as the earth turned slowly. In her homeland, they would have moved up into the hills by now, where water could still be found in the shady gueltas, or into the lowlands, where the pasturage was irrigated by the harratin who worked for them; but the Kel Teggart were too poor to keep harratin, too weak to stop them deserting to the towns.

Amastan reached up and brushed her hair from her face. Her skin was sticky with sweat as she sat astride him in the darkness, and the mystery of the joining of their two bodies was curtained by the rucked-up fabric of their robes. He ran a finger across her forehead, feeling the ridge of her frown, and considered how they tempted fate every time they did this, making themselves prey to so many evil influences by being out here in the night, without shelter or protection. ‘To the market,’ he said lightly, pressing the frown away. ‘You saw the things we brought back. Think how pretty you will look in the headscarf I bought for you. The shells on it are called cowries: they come from the islands off the coast of the Indian continent, far away to the east. It is said that traders first brought them here in the time of the great pharaohs: imagine that, before the time of Tin Hinan! Who knows, some of these very shells may be even older than your ancestor, older than the Mother of Us All. They’ve been circulating as currency all these years, from the Maldives to Egypt and through the Great Desert into the hands of the most beautiful girl ever born. What a glorious sight they will be, adorning my bride on our wedding day! They are as white as your teeth, as white as the whites of the eyes that are glaring down at me like stars in the night. How they will gleam!’

Mariata bit her lip. She loved it when he spoke like this, spinning words about an exotic world she would never see, but she would not be distracted. She said again, ‘Where did you go? Apart from the market?’ And when he did not immediately answer, she squeezed her thighs so that he winced. ‘Painful, is it, your arm? How did you do it again? Remind me.’

Amastan narrowed his eyes at her. ‘You shouldn’t question your husband so. It demeans my honour.’

‘You are not my husband yet, Amastan ag Moussa. And I do not believe for one moment that you fell from your camel, you who are such an expert rider.’ Pinning his hand beneath her knee, she started to push up the sleeve of his robe, exposing a bandage beneath. He lay there and let her unwrap it, fold by stiff fold, until the crusted dark wound was exposed, the blood rendered black by the starlight. ‘And that looks nothing like a wound caused by falling off a camel.’

‘I gave my word I would tell you nothing.’

‘Because the Kel Ahaggar are traitors?’

Shock stirred him into action. He struggled up on to his elbows, dislodging her. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Where did you get the guns, Amastan?’

‘I think you must be one of the Kel Asuf. Did you transform yourself into an eagle-owl and glide unseen overhead? Did you send your spirit-self seething up through the rocks in the form of a hyrax? Are you a shape-shifter? Will they open up our tent on the third night of our wedding and find nothing but my chewed-over bones?’ He regarded her with wary respect; or was it fear?

‘Never mind all that nonsense,’ she said impatiently. ‘I heard it all; I know what it means. If there is danger coming, as Tana says, I want to be ready for it. The women of the Tuareg have always been as fierce and bold as their menfolk. Teach me to use one of your stolen guns, Amastan, and when the time comes I will prove that the Kel Taitok are neither collaborators nor cowards!’

Amastan looked at her in amazement. Then he laughed. ‘Kalash-nikovs are not weapons for women! I hardly know how to shoot one myself, though when my arm is healed, Azelouane says he will teach me. But when my arm is healed, if you still wish it, I will teach you how to use a rifle.’ He sobered abruptly. ‘But, Mariata, I cannot tell you how it is that we came by the guns: it is too dangerous. If the information fell into the wrong hands it would be disastrous, for all of us. Trust me in this one thing, will you?’

She held his gaze steadily. ‘I will.’

Mariata felt the tension building in her like a thunderhead as her wedding day drew near. She wanted to have it over and done with, to make her union with Amastan public and blessed, as if the legitimizing of it would ward off the evil influences she felt circling. Her impatience was palpable: her muscles twitched and she could not keep still, even when they draped gorgeous fabrics over her to choose for her marriage robe. ‘This indigo cloth came from the market at Kano, and this beautiful green too – see how it shimmers!’

‘Green is unlucky,’ someone said, and they looked to Mariata for her opinion.

Her thoughts were spinning: it took a while before she realized they were all gazing at her, waiting for her answer. They are enjoying this far more than I am, she thought. What is wrong with me? Most girls would be immersing themselves in every tiny detail of the preparations, living every second of the picking over of embroidery styles and jewelled slippers, of bracelets and earrings and henna patterns, with the knowledge that they would treasure these moments for the rest of their life, would look back on them when their own daughters were married; their granddaughters too … But she could not shake off the sense of impending gloom that enveloped her, that made her want to run headlong into her wedding there and then wearing whatever robe she had on, without all this fuss and nonsense. But looking around at the expectant faces, at the eyes brimming with benevolence and delight, it occurred to her that weddings might be more for the benefit of the whole tribe than for the couple who were to be married, that it was an event that brought everyone together in joyful purpose, and that she had better play her part.

‘Not the green,’ she said at last. ‘The indigo is lovely.’

‘And very traditional,’ Rahma added approvingly.

Mariata caught her eye. Well, why not please her mother-to-be? It was a small and easy gift to give her. ‘The indigo, then.’

Now it was veils and slippers and bands of shimmering embroidery, and strings of beads and belts and brooches: an endless succession of little, but crucial, decisions to be made. People argued over minute details; Mariata felt as if she were in a sort of dream, hovering over them all like a shadowy presence, her mind largely elsewhere.

‘More kohl. You need more kohl.’

Mariata squinted critically into the mirror. Her eyes were already startling, the whites contrasting brilliantly with the dark irises and the powdered antimony. They looked huge. ‘How can I need more? I’ve never worn so much in my life.’

Nofa shook her head, tutting. ‘It’s your wedding: everyone will be talking about you. You will be the target for the tehot, the evil eye will be upon you wherever you go, so we must apply as much kohl as possible to turn the malign influences aside.’ She twisted the silver wand inside the little pot, removed it again and carefully blew off the excess. ‘Now close your lids and let me do my job.’

Mariata did as she was told: there was no point in making a fuss about it. She had already spent five hours the day before having her hair rebraided and being adorned with the henna that would protect her hands and feet, with the other girls squabbling and falling out over the designs to be used. She had long given up trying to have a say in the process: she was too happy, too caught up in the dream of marrying Amastan at last, at last. And the day before that? She almost laughed aloud at the thought of it. Such a strange contrast to all this primping and preening, this world of women. The day before, in the hour after the sun rose, she had been in the hills with him, resting the long barrel of a hunter’s rifle along a shoulder of rock, learning how to control her breathing so as not to send the shot wide; how to apply gentle pressure to the trigger, how to anticipate the heavy recoil of the weapon when it fired. By the end of the day she had managed to hit two pieces of wood and a shard of pottery that Amastan had set as targets for her; but a moving object was another matter entirely. She had marvelled at Amastan’s speed and skill as he brought down a rock pigeon and then a wild boar they had scared out of the bushes. ‘What will you do with it?’ she had said, gazing down at the strange creature with its wiry-haired hide and its cloven feet. ‘Can we carry it back with us?’ She had prodded its haunch with a toe: it felt impressively solid. ‘There’s a lot of meat on it.’

‘Little heathen! Half the tribe won’t touch it; more than half. Do you not know that pig is forbidden by Islam?’

‘That’s a pig?’ Mariata had never seen one before. She stared wonderingly at its bristly, curled lip, the sharp tusk protruding.

‘A fine boar. Don’t worry.’ He tapped the side of his nose knowingly. ‘It’ll get eaten.’

‘By jackals!’

Amastan laughed. ‘You could call them that.’

In the end he had dragged the carcase into the shelter of the rocks and built a cairn of stones over it to keep the scavengers off. ‘Can’t afford to pass up good meat like that. Don’t worry, it’ll be used.’ And he scraped a series of symbols on to the rock face over the cave wherein the boar lay.

‘Amastan welcomes you to feast,’ Mariata read the Tifinagh script, smiling. She thought of it now, and her smile broadened.

‘See, she is thinking of the third night already,’ Bicha said, elbowing Nofa, whose jogged hand drew a long, black line of kohl almost down to Mariata’s nose as a result, making all the women laugh and whistle.

People had been arriving for the celebrations all week, some with gifts; most without. Mariata was surprised: she knew none of them. Amastan, however, seemed to know them all. She watched the way he greeted them: a subtle adjustment of the veil to show his respect, the brushing of palm against palm, a light touch of hand to heart. They were mostly men, dressed not in finery but in plain and dusty robes, and they looked too solemn to be musicians, for all that they carried instruments with them.

‘Who are they?’ she asked Rahma, but the older woman shrugged.

‘He says they are friends.’

Her tisaghsar, her bride-gifts, were gathered on a wide blue rug in the centre of the dancing field: a carved wooden box filled with spices from the men of the tribe, a robe and an amber necklace with beads as large as bird-eggs, a bag of rice and another of millet, her own mortar and pestle, a bunch of mountain thyme one of the old women had picked that morning, a whetstone, a bone-handled knife, a newly made waterskin, some pots, a blanket, a reed mat and a pair of chickens; and these joined the bolt of pure white cotton Amastan had brought from the market at Kidal and the intricate silver veil-weight, as long as a hand and as heavy as a comb, that she would wear as a wife.

She came out into the bright midday sun at last in her shimmering blue wedding robe, her face painted with ochre and her lips and eyes blackened with kohl, her hands and feet swirling with bright henna, huge triangular earrings weighing down her earlobes, silver amulets pinned all over her robes for luck, and a dozen bright bangles clinking on her arms, to find the women of the tribe erecting a bridal tent for her a discreet distance from the one she had shared with Rahma. There were at least forty goatskins in it: how they had managed to gather so many hides together and stitch them without her seeing them engaged in this secret work touched her to the core. The Kel Teggart were not a rich tribe and did not have forty goats to spare; and that they would do this for her, an outsider without family, was so startling that she surprised herself by bursting into tears.

Tadla came bustling over, her usually dour face transformed by an indulgent smile. She wrapped Mariata in a warm embrace, with the experience of decades managing not to displace the amulets or damage, any more than the tears already had, Nofa’s hours of maquillage. ‘There, there, sweet one, do not fret: it is your happy day and we are happy for you. You will bring us all great joy and luck, and strong new blood for our tribe; and you are making my dear friend Rahma a proud and happy woman, is she not, my dear?’

Mariata looked up and there was Rahma, wiping her hands on her robe, the sweat glistening on her forehead from the strenuous business of getting the tent up, grinning from ear to ear. ‘Now, you know you cannot enter until you are wed: it is the worst luck. Leave it all to us. We will make it beautiful for you: you will want for nothing. We have woven a new rug for your floor: see –’ She waved and called to the other women, and they ran off, returning moments later with a long bundle that was proudly unfurled.

‘I chose the colours!’ called Noura. ‘Don’t you love them? The lichen for this wonderful green came from up in the hills: it took ages to gather it, but look, it’s the Prophet’s own colour. And we used indigo for the blue, no expense spared! And the skins of the wolf-onion for this lovely rich red.’

‘And I wove the frogs into the border here,’ Leïla said, pointing out the geometric triangles and dots that decorated the edge. She gave Mariata a wink and they all chuckled: frogs were well known for their fertility, and were a good luck symbol too, given that they lived in water.

‘Make sure the bed is well positioned on this rug and you will give your husband many fine sons!’

There was a great noise of whooping and cheering and suddenly everyone was running. Rahma took Mariata by the elbow. ‘It’s the sacrifice: come and watch.’

A bull-calf had been led into the festival grounds and the young men of the tribe now ringed it, clutching their best ceremonial lances. The bracelets glittered on their forearms; the sun beat down. The calf backed away from one side of the circle, found its way barred and ran madly around, rolling its eyes and snorting with fear, its long legs awkward and ungainly.

There had been no bull-calf for Kheddou and Leïla’s wedding: the expense was too great. Amastan, by contrast, had travelled and traded for years, amassing a tidy sum. The bride-wealth he had offered for Mariata was handsome too, though there had been no one to whom he could offer it and so the amghrar of the tribe, the widower Rhissa ag Zeyk, had taken it in trust until such time as it could be passed into the hands of Mariata’s family for safekeeping. If anything were to happen to Amastan, or the marriage was dissolved, the money would help towards the raising of their children.

It was Amastan who stepped out of the circle and into the arena, the indigo of his robe glittering with its metallic sheen, the brim of his tagelmust crowned by a diadem of amulets. The lance he carried was generations old, but its head had been honed to a lethal sharpness. The bull-calf stopped before him, jinked and then spun away across the ground, as if seeing its fate in the shining metal. The circle widened to let it run and it drew to a halt on the opposite side, eyeing the figure that paced towards it balefully.

‘Can’t the smith just take the beast away and cut its throat?’Mariata asked quietly, clutching Rahma’s arm.

The older woman laughed. ‘I hardly think a year-old bull-calf is likely to do our boy much damage,’ she said; but that had not been Mariata’s thought. She had never felt particularly squeamish before over the killing of an animal, for food or for luck, but she was gripped by a deep presentiment of dread and the enad’s words came back to her forcefully: ‘Blood will be spilt …’ The calf’s blood would be spilt one way or another this day; but suddenly she did not want to see it slaughtered in front of her, no matter how fine the spectacle or traditional the ritual.

‘No!’ she cried out, and people turned, amazed. ‘Killing it like this is a bad omen,’ she declared. ‘I feel it here –’ She pressed a palm against her flank, above her liver, that place in the body from which the deepest and most authentic convictions sprang. They stared at her, and for the first time since she had left the Kel Bazgan she felt a wave of hostility envelop her.

Amastan strode across the festival ground. A few paces away from her he rammed the point of the lance deep into the earth. ‘If you do not wish to see the animal killed, I will honour your choice.’ He turned to address the crowd. ‘As you know, Mariata saved me from the Kel Asuf. She hears the spirits. If she says the slaying of the bull-calf is ill-omened, we should respect her instincts.’

People started to mutter; many touched their amulets. It was one thing not to sacrifice a calf at a wedding for lack of funds; quite another to gather for the deed and not see it done. ‘No good will come of this,’ one said.

‘Women should not interfere in a man’s ritual,’ said another.

‘I think we know who will be the master in this marriage,’ said another, which made many laugh.

Amastan shook his head ruefully. ‘You may tease me all you like, but I value my bride too much to cause her distress on this auspicious day. There’s already a fine sheep roasting for the midday mechoui, plenty for all to eat and no need to shed more blood. I hereby pardon the beast’s life.’ He placed his palm on his heart, bowed his head to Mariata, retrieved the lance and walked away to join his companions, leaving the artisans to deal with catching the bull-calf and returning it to the pens.

Rahma patted Mariata on the shoulder. ‘I think we’d better get the music started, don’t you?’ She nodded to the head musician, and the band quickly gathered their instruments and launched into a rendition of ‘The Hunter and the Dove’, which soon took people’s minds off the disquieting matter of the failed sacrifice.

Tana walked across the festival ground and stood before Mariata. ‘Bravely done, little one, though it won’t make any difference in the end.’ She scanned the girl’s robe and accoutrements, her head cocked to one side like an eagle surveying prey. ‘You’ll do,’ she pronounced at last. ‘Though I see you persist in wearing that damnable amulet.’

Indeed, Amastan’s amulet took pride of place in the middle of Mariata’s chest. Tana reached out and tapped it lightly but with enough force for it to press hard against Mariata’s breastbone; and abruptly the mechanism flipped open. Holding the little hatch open with a finger, the enad pressed a tiny roll of parchment into the revealed compartment, then closed the central boss back over it. ‘For luck,’ she said. ‘For life. It is the charm I should have made for Amastan when once he requested one of me. Perhaps this time it will serve its purpose. But that is not your wedding gift.’

And then she produced, as if from nowhere, the wonderful fringed leather bag in emerald green, scarlet and blue that Mariata had seen her sewing under the tamarisk. She slid the strap over the girl’s head and under her arm, positioning it so that it sat in the small of her back, where it fitted so neatly and comfortably it might have been a part of her, for all that it was heavy with contained objects. Even so, curiosity overcame Mariata: at once she twisted so that the bag swung around and, marvelling at the gorgeous clarity of the colours, at the sunburst motifs and minute stitching, she made to open it.

‘It is not to be opened now,’ Tana said sternly, repositioning the bag. You will know when you will need it most. You will have a choice to make; two lives to save. Choose wisely, no matter how hard it may be.’ Then she smiled, the expression in her fierce old eyes softening, and reached out and stroked Mariata’s cheek. ‘Take care, little one.’ And then she walked away, leaving Mariata staring after her, wondering at the strange-sounding finality of this. But there was no time to be lost on pondering Tana’s inscrutable pronouncements, for the marabout had arrived to perform the brief marriage service. Their short vows were exchanged, witnesses spoke for each of them, their hands were placed on the Qur’an, gifts were exchanged and in a surreally short passage of time they were man and wife.

After the formalities of the marabout’s blessing, the rest of the day was taken up by all the usual delights of a wedding. There was singing and drum-playing, and the sheep that had been turning on its spit since dawn was eaten with much gusto with dates and spice and bread. Camels were raced, sword-dancers showed off their agility and skill; and then the unwed girls danced the beautiful ritual guedra, the blessing dance, wearing their cowrie-shelled headdresses and moving their feet in the economic but precise steps of the dance, until the sun went down and the old folk nodded into a trance, lulled by the gentle repetitiveness of the clapped rhythms, until at last the momentum built to a crescendo, heads rocked and braids snapped wildly like striking snakes. The air was full of baraka – you could feel it all around – a great electric cloud of good luck and benefaction. People were gathering it to themselves, touching each other’s hands, touching their own stomach, heart and head. Amulets were kissed, children too, to spread the baraka. The women ululated joyfully. Amastan pressed Mariata’s hands to his heart: they were married at last.

The feasting and music went on and on. The men heated their drums over the campfires to tighten the skins in readiness for the faster dances. Older people took another glass of fortifying tea and a handful of dates to keep themselves going into the small hours and went off to gossip in clusters, leaving the young ones to flirt and tease one another without the embarrassment of having the married ones watching over them.

The moon was high overhead when some figures appeared on the horizon of boulders to the east of the camp: a large group of riders mounted on camels. It was one of the musicians, taking a walk into the bushes to relieve himself, who raised the alarm. The drummers stopped in mid-beat; the dancers shifted anxiously from foot to foot. Amastan said something quietly to Bazu, who slipped away into the night. Several others followed him.

‘Who can they be?’ Mariata asked. In the pale ochre of her face, her kohl-rimmed eyes looked enormous.

‘I do not know,’ said Amastan, winding his veil tighter. ‘They may be late guests delayed on their journey. Or they may not. Go to our new tent, Mariata. Outside it you will find a sword stuck in the ground to ward away the spirits. Fetch it for me now, will you?’

‘They do not look much like spirits to me,’ she said dubiously, but she went to do his bidding. The antique sword, its hilt and crosspiece bound with copper wire and decorated with bands of coloured leather, had been lent by Azelouane. Mariata grabbed it up and went running back to the festival ground, with Tana’s leather bag bumping against her back and the sword banging against her leg all the way; but Amastan was not where she had left him. Instead, she was alarmed to see him far across the encampment running towards the boulders, his hunting rifle slung across his back. She stood there with the ancient sword in her hands, feeling like a fool; then she ran after him. Other men had fetched guns now and were running too; men she had not seen before, or simply did not recognize in this warlike mode. The riders, undeterred, came closer, until a single shot rang out.

‘Who are you?’ It was the amghrar who cried out, his old voice as reedy as a woman’s.

No answer came back, but perhaps they had not heard him.

‘They are djenoun,’ someone said. ‘We should have slaughtered the bull-calf: the spirits are angry and have come to claim the blood they awaited.’

‘Announce yourselves or we will shoot!’ Amastan cried more loudly.

One of the cameleers advanced. ‘My name is Ousman ag Hamid, of the Kel Ahaggar, and my daughter is Mariata ult Yemma. I come with men of the Kel Bazgan and my sons, Azaz and Baye.’

Mariata gasped. She ran to Amastan’s side. ‘It’s my father, my father and brothers!’ She gazed into the darkness, trying to make out the features of the three men she had not seen for so long. Would they be much changed by their treks beneath the desert sun? Did they come in joy, to celebrate their union, or under the duress of familial duty? Anxiety gave way to the sudden euphoria of knowing that it no longer mattered whether they came in blessing or not: she and Amastan were lawfully wed and no one could separate them now.

‘Welcome!’ she cried. ‘Welcome one and all to our wedding feast!’

Word soon spread: people began to laugh, tension dissipated; the musicians were reassembled. Someone was dispatched to slaughter a goat and rekindle the cook-fire, someone else set pots of tea to brewing: the visitors must have travelled far and hard to arrive so late, and there was no easy way across the Tamesna.

The riders were almost upon the festival grounds when one of them rode free of the group, into the jumping light of the fires.

‘Before you celebrate any more there is a debt to be settled!’ cried a harsh voice.

Mariata stared. Dread clutched at her with its chilly hand. She knew before the firelight fell upon his face that it was Rhossi ag Bahedi.

‘This woman is a thief!’ Rhossi called loudly. ‘She stole two camels from me; but, worse than that, she stole my heart!’

People looked at one another in confusion. Was this a jest, or a serious complaint?

Rhossi drew himself up in his high saddle till he towered over them all. ‘Mariata ult Yemma took from me two fine Tibesti camels without prior arrangement; and, as everyone amongst the Bazgan knows, she was betrothed to me. Why she left so precipitously is a mystery now revealed: I see she was stolen away by one of the Kel Teggart. So there is a debt of honour to be paid. I carry the word of the amenokal of the Aïr drum-groups, Moussa ag Iba. He has declared that it is a simple enough matter and does not need to get out of hand. Give me back the camels, and the girl and I will be on my way with no hard feelings.’

It was Ousman who intervened, swerving his camel in front of the speaker. In a low but urgent voice he said, ‘You never mentioned a word of this “betrothal” to me before we set off for this gathering.’

‘If I had, would you have guided me across the Tamesna?’

The look Mariata’s father gave him was answer enough. Rhossi laughed. ‘Exactly so. Let us say I omitted that detail. But I did discuss it with my uncle, and as you know he is dying. And you know what that means, for you, and your sister, and nephews, and cousins.’

Ousman gave Rhossi a hard stare until the younger man looked away. Then he said, very quietly but firmly, ‘I have travelled a long way to find my daughter, hoping to arrive in time to dissuade her from this wedding. Had you not fallen from your camel as we crossed into the Doum, we should have been here yesterday; had you not complained constantly of the discomfort and the need for rest stop after stop as you eased your sore arse with useless unguents and more saddle-padding than any woman would use, we would have arrived the day before. Now you tell me of some “betrothal”, of which I knew nothing. As to the camels, that is a matter easily resolved and hardly worth a trip across the Tamesna. You may represent Moussa in making this claim; you may even be the next chief of the Bazgan; but Mariata is my daughter and if you have any care for her at all, you will let me handle this as is fitting.’ He clipped his camel’s poll and it obediently went to its knees; he dismounted and strode to where Amastan and Mariata stood together watching silently, Amastan with his rifle in his hand, Mariata with the ancient sword in hers.

A few paces away, Ousman inclined his head. ‘Daughter.’

‘Father.’

They did not embrace.

‘I thought I had left you safe with your Aunt Dassine, but it seems you have taken matters into your own hands. Word reached the Bazgan only a week ago of your impending wedding, and I must say your aunt is much displeased.’

Mariata’s jaw jutted. ‘There was no safety to be had amongst the Kel Bazgan, Father. I decided to leave them and come here instead.’

‘As to the matter of safety, we will come to that later. It does seem that you stole away from the Bazgan like a thief in the night, leaving no word of where you were going; and I gather two camels went missing at the same time. What have you to say to that?’

Mariata folded her lips. ‘Now is not the time to talk of such things. I had my reasons, and if you hear them you will be angry, though not with me. Let me say only that you and my brothers and the men you have with you are welcome to join our wedding celebration; but Rhossi ag Bahedi is not welcome here, nor anywhere I am present.’

At this, Amastan’s head jerked towards her. ‘Rhossi?’ His knuckles whitened on the rifle.

Mariata put a hand on his arm. ‘Now is not the time.’ She turned back to Ousman. ‘Father, this is Amastan ag Moussa, who is the amenokal’s son and a fine, upstanding man, so I cannot understand why my aunt should be displeased about my choice, apart from the fact that I did not consult her about it. But we did send messengers out across the trade routes to try to make contact with you and my brothers, my nearest kin; no word came back, and so I made my own decision to marry Amastan, as was my right.’

Ousman nodded slowly. ‘That was always the old way, I know. But things are changing in our world too quickly for the old ways to adapt. Let me speak plainly, Mariata. I have nothing against the man you have chosen, but I wish you would put off your wedding and come with me: our people are in danger, more so here than elsewhere, and that is why I have come to take you away with me to a place where you will be settled and safe.’

Mariata stared at him. ‘Settled?’

‘I have taken a new wife. She lives in a town in the Tafilalt, in the south-east of Morocco. I am giving up the desert roads and settling there with her. Her father and I have established a business together. You and your brothers will come with me and make a new and better life.’

‘Morocco?’ Mariata stared at him in horror, but Amastan took a step forward. ‘I understand your concern for your daughter’s welfare, but I can assure you her safety is the dearest thing to my heart, now that we are wed.’

‘But this is the first night of your wedding?’ It was Rhossi who interrupted. He spoke smoothly enough, but the whites of his eyes were bloodshot and his gaze sparked fire.

Amastan acceded that this was indeed the case.

Rhossi turned to Ousman. ‘So it is not too late, then; for everyone knows it is only on the third night that a decent marriage can be consummated! Place the safety of your daughter in my hands, sir, and I will guard her life with the whole might of the Aïr when I am chief.’

Ousman shook his head. ‘It is a handsome offer, Rhossi, but I am determined that she shall come with me to the Tafilalt.’

‘I am going nowhere, Father, without my husband.’

Another man joined them now: the amghrar, Rhissa ag Zeyk. He and Ousman exchanged the proper greetings, and then the chief of the Kel Teggart said, ‘These two young people are properly wed, by a marabout and in the eyes of all the tribe. Amastan is a fine man: I have known him for most of his life and can vouch for him.’

‘I knew him for twelve years before he came to this rat-hole, and know him as a feeble worm!’ burst out Rhossi.

‘And you, you were a bully and a coward, as any child of the Bazgan younger or smaller than you were can testify!’ Amastan cried.

Rhossi pushed him then, hard in the chest with both hands; Amastan stumbled and almost fell. Mariata jumped between them. ‘Stop this! Shame on you, Rhossi ag Bahedi! This is my wedding, a time for celebration. Anyone who does not wish to share in our joy may leave, right now.’

The amghrar smiled, his wily old eyes glittering in the light of the fires, and, though he seemed to address her, his attention was all on Rhossi ag Bahedi. ‘We can hardly turn such weary travellers away without offering our hospitality, no matter that we are poorer in material goods than the mighty Kel Bazgan. I think you will find that our encampment is a place of warmth and comfort, especially on this joyful day. Put aside your differences, I beg you. Ousman ag Hamid, your daughter is lawfully married to this man, and of her own free will: be happy for her. Rhossi ag Bahedi, we will talk about your missing camels tomorrow; but I think you will find that we have no fine Tibesti camels in this “rat-hole”. We live on the edge of hardship, and our camels are plain and solid working beasts: we are unable to indulge ourselves with rich men’s playthings.’

Rhossi drew himself up. ‘My camels were not “playthings”: I bought them as breeding stock, with the finest Tibesti lineage. The income I have lost from the sale of the bull-calves sired by the stolen stock is incalculable.’

Amastan shrugged. ‘Ah, well, if it is incalculable, there is not much we can do to compensate you for their loss, even if they were stolen, which I very much doubt. Most likely you failed to hobble them properly and they wandered away to find a better home where they would not be kicked in a tantrum.’

‘You know full well she stole them!’ Rhossi raged. ‘She may be your wife in name, but she lay with me first!’ And while a horrified silence fell at this outrageous claim, he named a truly extortionate sum for the price of the stolen camels, one he knew could never be paid by any except such as the sultans of the ancient Songhai Empire whose palace walls shone with powdered gold, and everyone who heard it gasped. Rhossi surveyed their appalled faces with satisfaction. ‘And if you cannot pay that, I will take no compensation for them other than the woman, married or not!’

Mariata could stand it no longer. ‘You are mad! First of all, I never lay with you, as well you know: you tried to force me, and that was one very good reason for leaving the Kel Bazgan as swiftly and secretly as I did. Secondly, when I fought back, I caught you a glancing blow in the face and you cried like a baby. Thirdly, we come to the matter of the camels. It is true that I made use of a pair of animals that I knew to be your own; but I took them in payment for your insult towards my honour, and, by my calculation, for that and the second and worse insult you have just added in public you owe me three camels more! Those I took are no longer here: they were sold at the market at Goulemime. I have the money still: they did not fetch much, by your inflated standards. I think perhaps they were not even male, or had perhaps been gelded, at the very least did not function as an entire bull should function. There are many creatures in the world that look very fine and proud of bearing and boast the finest lineage; but they often turn out to be sadly deficient when it comes to the matter of coupling!’

By now a crowd had gathered; someone burst out laughing and soon all the men of the Kel Teggart were jeering. It did not take much for them to dislike one of the Kel Bazgan: Rahma’s ill treatment by the Aïr chieftain had been widely regarded as an insult to the whole tribe.

Infuriated, Rhossi caught Mariata by the arm and twisted viciously. ‘Tell the truth, you little bitch. You spread your legs for me and loved every minute of it! You came back for it night after night!’

The next moment, Mariata felt her other hand caught in a hard grip, and then the sword was torn from her grasp and there was a wild scuffle and suddenly she was free and Rhossi was on the ground with Amastan astride him, Azelouane’s antique blade pressed hard against his throat.

What happened next was sheer confusion. A shot rang out, splitting the night. No one knew what to do, how to react. They stopped what they were doing and stared around, bemused. Was it just a rock shattering, or had a gun gone off by mistake? A second shot whistled through the air and a man cried out; and then there came a vast wave of noise, a terrifying, unbreakable wall of sound as automatic gunfire took over from the single rifle shots. As if in a nightmare, Mariata saw Amastan hurled backwards, spinning suddenly away from Rhossi’s chest. The front of his robe – the lovely, costly indigo fabric with its magpie-sheen – now gave back a different quality of glimmer to the moonlight, as a new black patch of wetness spread slowly across it. He lay unmoving on the ground behind Rhossi ag Bahedi, his hands flung back and the useless antique sword relinquished. Against the hard, dark, dusty surface, the palms of his hands were pale and tender-looking, as light and as soft as oleander blossoms.

A woman screamed his name, over and over and over – Amastan, Amastan, Amastan! – and the word reverberated through Mariata’s head till it sounded like a nonsense word in a child’s rhyme, and only after the longest time did she realize it was her own voice she heard, demented and forlorn.

Then it was swallowed by a great barrage of noise – shouting and wailing and the whine and beat of rapid gunfire, and people were falling down all around them, clutching at themselves, shrieking in agony and shock as if blown by a great wind, their arms cartwheeling, feet scrabbling for stability.

Camels bellowed; someone ran past with their clothes on fire; it was Leïla, Mariata saw in horror. And then there was a man – no, many men, scores of them, hundreds it seemed, swarming like ants around the campground, their faces unveiled and bare, open to the night. She propelled herself forward to the space on the ground where Rhossi had been (where was he now? the question whispered at her but she had no answer for it, and did not care) and caught at Amastan’s arm. ‘Get up! Get up! We are being attacked!’ But the arm was limp between her hands. It lay as limp as the lamb she had delivered stillborn from a dying ewe that spring, shockingly limp and loose and clammy, as if it owned no fibre of working will or muscle. Even so, she shook it hysterically. ‘Amastan!’

He was just unconscious: she knew it. Lying there with his eyes tight shut, asleep in the midst of the mayhem. ‘Amastan! Get up!’ She managed to get an arm beneath his shoulders and tried to heave him upright, but he was so heavy. So heavy! He was a lightly built man, wiry and quick on his feet: how could he be so hard to move? Her wits felt dulled: she could not understand it. ‘Amastan!’ she bellowed at him, filled with a fury that was now tinged with terror.

Someone caught hold of her and wrenched her away. ‘There is nothing you can do for him!’

She dug her heels in and tightened her grip on her husband’s sleeve, her fingers as hard as claws, knowing that if she let go now she would never see him again. ‘No!’ she wailed. ‘No!’

The costly indigo cloth held, rooting the struggling figures in a bizarre tableau; then, with a ripping sound that was audible even amidst the chaos, it suddenly tore apart, leaving only a bloody fragment in her hand. Released at last, Mariata was spun around and bodily lifted, slung over a shoulder and borne away.

From her strange inverted vantage point she saw Rhossi ag Bahedi drag her brother Azaz from his camel so that the boy fell in a crumpled heap on the hard ground, saw her enemy scramble up into the saddle and kick the beast viciously till it took to its heels and fled. She saw Baye lean down and haul Azaz on to his mount; and all she could think was that she did not care, though she knew she should, about the fates of others, even if they were her brothers. None of it seemed real, especially seen upside-down. All that did seem real to her was the still figure lying on the ground behind her, dwindling further and further with each step until, no matter how she twisted her head and craned her neck, she could see it no longer.

She saw Tana flung to the ground by one man while another ripped at her robe; saw the amghrar casually cut down by a pair of dark-faced boys. She saw Azelouane stride through the mêlée, a glinting black Kalashnikov grasped in his hands, the fierce grimace of his face lit by the bright flashes of light that issued from its muzzle. She saw kindly Tadla yelling like a demon as a uniformed man tried to slash at the child that hid behind her. Her last sight was of Rahma bravely wielding a flaming branch against the attacker, who turned and almost negligently rested his black, scorpion-like gun upon his hip and calmly shot her in the face with a burst of gunfire that lit up the night air; then, as she spun and fell, another man caught her by her long braids and decapitated her with one exultant stroke of his moon-bright machete.