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“The Ibn Rashid clan of the Hamadyiin,” Zeinab confirmed.

Ellie had read about Egypt’s Bedouin, the nomadic people who herded their flocks across the desert that lay between the Nile and the Red Sea.

“But why are we going to the Arabs?” Sayyid pressed, clearly unsettled by the notion.

“Because they owe me a favor,” Zeinab replied shortly. “But the Hamadyiin keep the harem. I will need you to entertain Sheikh Mohammed while I speak with his wife.”

Ellie gathered that ‘keeping the harem’ meant the men and women would be in separate tents, and that their party would therefore be split accordingly. That would leave Sayyid and Adam charged with acting the part of gracious guests for a Bedouin chief—a prospect Sayyid did not look particularly happy about.

Ellie couldn’t tell what Adam thought about it, as he was currently covered in a mass of joyful dogs—a situation he appeared to be enjoying thoroughly.

She felt a pang of sympathy for Sayyid. He and Zeinab still hadn’t had a chance to talk about her revolutionary activities—a revelation that had clearly come as a shock to him and which would certainly require discussion. Entertaining a Bedouin sheikh would likely put that off for a while longer.

The two fellows who had risen from the campfire intercepted them.

“Salamu 'alaykum,” Zeinab said, stepping forward to meet the greeting party.

“Salam,” the older of the two men returned.

The greeting was courteous, but his eyes flashed with a note of caution—until they fell to where Adam was extracting himself from under a mass of wagging tails.

“Stop! Enough!” he laughed, stumbling back and pushing down on more wet noses as the dogs tried to leap up to him.

The Bedouin took in Adam’s bruised face, split lip, and dog-licked hair. He raised an eyebrow.

“He’s an American,” Zeinab said, as though that explained everything. “I have come to see Nur Hanim al-Rashidi. May we share your fire?”

“Ahlan wa sahlan,” the Bedouin replied. “You are welcome. Please, follow.”

?

Their arrival at the tents was more unambiguously warm. Sheikh Mohammed—a large man with a luxuriant silver beard—greeted Sayyid with open arms and kisses to his cheeks as though they were the oldest of friends, though Jemmahor quietly informed Ellie that they had most certainly never met before.

Sayyid and Adam—trailed by a few hopeful dogs—were compelled over to the fire where the men of the family were gathered, and a great show was made of setting out a pan to roast beans for coffee. The nutty aroma soon filled the air.

Ellie found herself caught up in a mass of veiled and cloaked women who hurried her and the other ladies over to another tent. The space was warmly lit by hanging lanterns of pierced copper, while the ground was covered with brightly patterned carpets and soft cushions.

The black coverings fell away as they came inside, revealing colorful galabeyas and hijabs. The tent was packed with women who eyed the new arrivals with curiosity, from young girls whose heads were not yet covered to wrinkled great-grandmothers gossiping on comfortable pillows.

Zeinab crossed over to a plush seat where an elegant lady roughly Umm Waseem’s age held court. She sparkled with gold from the ring in her nose to the anklets that jangled at her feet. Her chin was decorated with three blue-inked lines Ellie realized were not paint but tattoos.

The lady rose as Zeinab approached, greeting her warmly and kissing her cheeks.

“That is Nur Hanim al-Rashidi,” Jemmahor whispered in Ellie's ear. “She is the first wife of Sheikh Mohammed.”

“Firstwife?” Ellie’s eyebrows rose. “Is there a second?”

“There is athird,” Jemmahor informed her. “And he keeps them all very well, from what Ostazah Zeinab has told me. She delivered Nur Hanim’s grandsons in Cairo—twins, and a most difficult birth, but both were born healthy and the mother is well, praise be to God! It is Nur Hanim who will make the arrangements for us.”

“And what arrangements are those?” Ellie had been excited to find herself among the famous Bedouin, but now they had arrived, her worries about Julian Forster-Mowbray, her missing loved ones, and the lost tomb had all returned.

“Who knows?” Jemmahor shrugged. “But in the meantime, we can eat. I smell lamb!”

Ellie was handed a cup of sweet mint tea and settled by a great platter covered in rice, herbs, and roast meat, from which everyone ate neatly with their hands, plucking up morsels with little pieces of soft, flat bread.

By the time dinner was through, the sun was setting. The children flooded outside, racing through the open space by the sheep pen in a game, their voices high and bright in the evening air. The women washed up and made their evening prayer as Ellie watched from a little apart. Jemmahor, who remained behind as well, had acquired one of the many babies in the family and cheerfully tickled him, eliciting happy chirps and giggles.

As the ladies returned to the tent, one of the women took up a drum, tapping out a happy rhythm on it as others began to sing. Several of the women got up to dance, and the atmosphere devolved into that of a party.