And he would be blamed, for it was his dagger that had pierced the old one’s heart.

Behind him the scout heard the hoofbeats of his mounted tribesmen. His fear was so great that his breath came in shallow gasps. This was a blood feud now, and they would say he started it.

The herder lay still, his sightless gaze turned toward the scout. With trembling fingers the Bedouin leaned down to close the old man’s eyes. “May the Prophet be with you,” he said. Then he felt for the handle of his knife and pulled it out with a jerk. It was all so senseless. The old man could have done nothing to stop them from stealing the black colt.

He turned and saw the horsemen riding toward him. Taking a long breath of the cold mountain air, he attempted to feel the excitement that always accompanied a successful raid. And yet his eyes returned to the old, old man whose words and prophecies and legends were those, people said, known to no other but the Prophet.

Convulsively, the old man’s legs suddenly twitched, as if still trying to reach the black colt he believed destined for greatness. Finally, he lay still.

IBN AL KHALDUN
3

The black colt’s eyes and movements had disclosed only curiosity and interest in the robed figure coming up behind the old man. He had no reason not to accept the newcomer as he accepted the others in the tribe of Abu Já Kub ben Ishak. His world had been one of great peace and contentment, and his care and feed the best.

But suddenly, the old man had screamed, his cry rising in the air and filling the pitched ears of the black colt.

The black colt whinnied, breaking the ominous stillness. At his warning, every colt in the small band bolted, scattering, neighing, running. And the sound of their hoofbeats was echoed by those of the mounted horsemen who suddenly appeared from a little-used trail that wound its way along the upper slope of the valley.

There were twenty in all, white-robed figures sitting still and straight in their saddles as their horses—bays, chestnuts and grays—moved quickly across the pasture, their heads held high and tails streaming behind them. The men rode in no particular formation, their long guns resting easily across their thighs, their hands lying only lightly upon them. They had no use for guns just then. The old man, the legendary one, was already dead, and there was no one else to stop them.

Their horses pulled on the bits, eager to break out of the slow canter to which they were held. The riders, too, were impatient but awaited command from their chieftain, Ibn al Khaldun. It had taken three weeks for them to cross the desert and reach the mountain stronghold of Abu Já Kub ben Ishak. They never could have made it this far if their spies had not helped them evade Abu Ishak’s guards. All this to take the young black colt with spindly legs.

He, yes, it was he who was responsible for their long, tiresome march. It was he who had caused them to ride for so many suns to reach this rooftop of the world! All for the possession of this black colt that their chieftain had told them was worth all the treasures beneath the heavens, for he had been foaled by the stallion of the night sky.

They believed none of it. And seeing the black colt just a short distance away, they were unimpressed. Though larger, to their eyes the black colt was no different from the others in the small band. Certainly he was no better, perhaps not as good, as those they had left behind at home.

But all this they would keep to themselves. One did not question Ibn al Khaldun. It was he who dared challenge the might of the powerful sheikh Abu Já Kub ben Ishak by raiding his mountain home. It meant war between their tribes, with much blood to be shed in the days and weeks to come. But for now the worst part of their trek was over and possession of the black colt easier than anyone had dared hope, including their chieftain, who rode ahead of them.

Ibn al Khaldun sat erect and still on his horse, a dapple-gray stallion with silver mane and tail.