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follows him, continuing to kick. There is the sound of a cracking rib. “Runt,” the Grandee remarks, his voice remaining low and good natured. “High-voiced pimp with small testicles. Did you think that the master of Lat’s temple would claim comradeship with you just because of your adolescent passion for her?” And more kicks, regular, methodical. Baal weeps at Abu Simbel’s feet. The House of the Black Stone is far from empty, but who would come between the Grandee and his wrath? Abruptly, Baal’s tormentor squats down, grabs the poet by the hair, jerks his head up, whispers into his ear: “Baal, she wasn’t the mistress I meant,” and then Baal lets out a howl of hideous scif-pity, because he knows his life is about to end, to end when he has so much still to achieve, the poor guy. The Grandee’s lips brush his ear. “Shit of a frightened camel,” Abu Simbel breathes, “I know you fuck my wife.” He observes, with interest, that Baal has acquired a prominent erection, an ironic monument to his fear.

Abu Simbel, the cuckolded Grandce, stands up, commands, “On your feet”, and Baal, bewildered, follows him outside.

The graves of Ismail and his mother Hagar the Egyptian lie by the north—west face of the House of the Black Stone, in an enclosure surrounded by a low wall. Abu Simbel approaches this area, halts a little way off. In the enclosure is a small group of men. The water-carrier Khalid is there, and some sort of bum from Persia by the outlandish name of Salman, and to complete this trinity of scum there is the slave Bilal, the one Mahound freed, an enormous black monster, this one, with a voice to match his size. The three idlers sit on the enclosure wall. “That bunch of riff-raff,” Abu Simbel says. “Those are your targets. Write about them; and their leader, too.” Baa!, for all his terror, cannot conceal his disbelief. “Grandee, those goons -- those fucking clowns? You don’t have to worry about them. What do you think? That Mahound’s one God will bankrupt your temples? Three-sixty versus one, and the one wins? Can’t happen.” He giggles, close to hysteria. Abu Simbel remains calm: “Keep your insults for your verses.” Giggling Baa! can’t stop. “A revolution of water—carriers, immigrants and slaves . . . wow, Grandee. I’m really scared.” Abu Simbel looks carefully at the tittering poet. “Yes,” he answers, “that’s right, you should be afraid. Get writing, please, and I expect these verses to be your masterpieces.” Baa! crumples, whines. “But they are a waste of my, my small talent . . .” He sees that he has said too much.

“Do as you’re told,” are Abu Simbel’s last words to him. “You have no choice.”

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