Ali took a single backward step that brought him nearer Ben Akbar. The move could have been interpreted as a wholly natural desire to find such comfort as he might in his camel, the one friend he had or was likely to have. But Ali's purpose was more practical.
Unless every imaginable advantage was on his side, the wielder of a dagger hadn't the faintest chance of overcoming anyone armed with a scimitar, but Ali intended to concede no point not already and unavoidably given by the difference in weapons. When The Jackal swung, which he would do when he considered the moment right, he would not miss. But if Ali was agile enough at ducking, and ducked in the right direction, it did not necessarily follow that he must be killed outright.
For a split second immediately following his blow, The Jackal would be off guard. Before he recovered, always supposing he was still able to move, Ali might go forward with his dagger and work some execution, or at least inflict some damage, of his own. All else failing, there was reason to hope that Ben Akbar would trample his foe after he went down. Ali studied The Jackal.
Of medium height and probably middle-aged, he was veiled in a certain mystic aura that defied penetration and prevented even a reasonably accurate guess as to how many years he had been on earth. He blended in a curious manner with the harsh and wild desert background, as though he had been a part of it from the beginning. His hair was concealed beneath a hood, but not even a thick beard succeeded in hiding a cruel mouth. His nose was thin and aquiline, with nostrils that seemed forever to be questing. His eyes were unreadable, but they possessed certain depths that combined with a broad sweep of forehead and a vast arrogance of manner to mark The Jackal as a man apart.
Ali remembered the first time he had run across him, or rather, evidence of his work.
It was Ali's third year with the caravans, and they were going from Mersin to Erzerum, with seven hundred camels and an assorted load, when they overtook all that remained of the caravan preceding them. It had been the entourage of some wealthy Amir, traveling north with his family and a powerful guard of soldiers. When Ali arrived, The Jackal had been there and gone, but he had left his trademark.
All human males, from babes in the arms of his wives to the gray-bearded Amir himself, lay where they had fallen. The older women and the girl children were massacred, too. Only the young girls had been carried away with the remainder of the legitimate booty.
Savagely cruel though it was, the raid was equally audacious. Of the many bandit leaders infesting the caravan routes, few had the imagination to plan a successful attack on a heavily-guarded Amir's caravan or the courage to proceed, once such an attack was planned.
Thereafter, at sporadic intervals, Ali found additional evidence that The Jackal was still at work, and there could be no mistake about his identity. His raids were noted for cruelty and for the fact that he never bothered with any except wealthy caravans. Three years later, Ali met The Jackal.
The caravan for which Ali was handling camels came to an oasis one day out of Ankara and found another caravan already encamped. However, there was ample room for both and no apparent reason for either to challenge the other. Ali took care of the camels for which he was responsible, then set about to do something he would have done before had an opportunity offered itself.