Without another word or a backward glance, Al Misri turned and waddled back to his tent. The officer disbanded his men.
Ali led Ben Akbar to pasture at the edge of camp.
The travelers came to Tanim, far enough outside Holy Territory so that there was no possibility of desecrating it, but near enough to furnish a convenient stopping place for donning the ihram, in the cool of early morning. Not all who had been with the Hadj when Ali finally joined it—and not all who had since come from one place or another—were still present. Many good Moslems who would never see the Holy City had died trying to reach it.
Ali reflected curiously that some of the more devout were dead, while some who seemed to regard this holy journey in anything except a pious light were very much alive. A merchant who had come all the way from Damascus, and who was about to don the ihram, deferred the ceremony so that he might bargain about something or other with another merchant from Smyrna. Though they were all Moslems—except for The Jackal, Ali thought quickly—obviously the true light burned brightly for some and dimly for others.
Ali wondered uneasily about the category in which he belonged. He worried about the fact that he did not feel greatly different from the way he had felt while out on the caravan routes or in the bazaar of The Street Called Straight. He thought he should feel something else.
Though many had died, his pilgrimage had been almost luxurious. He had nothing at all to do except watch over Ben Akbar, which was simplicity itself because the powerful young dalul wanted nothing except to be where Ali was. Though Ali was forbidden to ride, the Pasha of Damascus, the only human worthy of riding Ben Akbar, had allowed himself to be carried all the way to Mecca in a sedan chair. Seeing the Pasha once, and from a distance, Ali decided, to his own satisfaction, at least, that he had not asked to ride Ben Akbar for the simple reason that he couldn't. Judging by the Pasha's looks, he'd have trouble riding an age-broken baggage camel.
Always together, Ali and Ben Akbar had walked all the way. It had still been the easiest of walks since, as long as he took care of Ben Akbar and kept himself in the background, Ali was assured ample food and water. With the finest of care and nothing to do, Ben Akbar was at the very peak of perfection.
With appropriate ceremony, Ali donned the ihram and ran a mental tally of the things he must not do until the Hadj came to an end. He must wear neither head nor foot covering. He must not shave, trim his nails—But there was nothing in the entire list that forbade taking Ben Akbar with him. Ali remained troubled, nevertheless because, try as he would, he was unable to achieve what he considered a necessary level of piety.
Rather than feeling spiritually uplifted by what had been and what was to be, he could think only that, very shortly, he would have the right to call himself Hadji Ali.