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rapidly to the others. Now one or two are even sporting pustules ripe with suppurating mucus.
    ‘Bring me water, please,’ he asks his translator, who eyes him with suspicion, but returns quickly with a flask nonetheless.
    Calmly, Jessop takes each child in turn and washes away the black powder with precious water. The children squeal for they are used to cleaning themselves only with sand – water is far too scarce to be used for bathing. As the drops slide down their faces, they lap them up with their tongues, unwilling to allow even a teaspoonful to go to waste. Once the infection has been cleaned, the doctor breaks out the contents of his leather bag. This is one of the reasons he joined the service – Jessop likes to help and, big of heart and strong of stomach, he shows no horror or revulsion at whatever he is presented with. He mixes a solution of vinegar and applies it to each child in turn as an eyewash. It stings. The younger children make a fuss, the older ones succumb in silence.
    ‘That should help,’ he says. ‘We will look at it again tomorrow. Salaam ,’ he says, bowing as he takes his leave.
    Jones has stationed himself by the corral and has been trying to strike up a conversation with the horsemen. The refinement of the breed is most appealing. The finely chiselled bone and the concave profile, the comparatively high level croup and high-carried tail make the Arabians an enticing prospect. They are wonderful, majestic beasts and no mistake and the lieutenant has to admit he is moved when he sees two of the robe-swathed men from the encampment saddling up. They cut a queer kind of dash that stirs excitement in the whole group, and while the doctor faffs about with the barefoot children, everyone else comes out to watch the men set off. Where they are riding to is a mystery – perhaps they are only taking the animals for their daily exercise. The horses are worth a fortune; Jones isn’t sure yet where the best of the money is to be made, but he can almost smell that there is money in it somewhere – be it shipping home pure breeds or using an Arab stallion to cover a mare of another breed – there is something for which he knows the fashionable and wealthy around St James’s will pay through the nose. Some already are. Napoleon rode an Arabian, of course, but that is no matter for the King himself now has one – a present that arrived last year from the Sultan of Muscat and Oman. To Jones this is as good as receiving direct royal approval for his project. It is the sheer quality of the animals that will attract society and he knows if he can get a shipment or two back to Blighty, he’ll make his fortune. No smart family wants to be without the latest breed to take the royal fancy.
    Jones pulls out his notebook, his mouth almost watering at the thought of the stud fees and what he might achieve when in receipt of them, given the faded glory of his family’s London house. He clears his throat and, with a sense of history, or at least publicity, puts pen to paper, for he will need notes to validate the authenticity of the animals and his experiences in selecting them.
    The emir seems glad of our company and has invited us to feast with him. It is no cooler but the water here is very plentiful if slightly sour in taste. Coming in from the desert my camel drank for a full ten minutes. Brave beast, she has served me well and kept us supplied in milk the last days of our journey. There are seventy or eighty people in the encampment – the emir, his family, retainers and slaves. All are respectful and courteous. I envy these men little other than their horses – the horses are beautiful, though, and very fine.
    By contrast, it is immediately apparent that the Bedu are less impressed by the infidels. Some of them have seen white men before – those who have taken caravans to the coast where if you linger long in any seaport between here and India you are sure to catch sight of a Nazarene –