The sun was setting when the shepherd boy found him.
The boy had come to the olive tree to rest his flock. He saw the bundle of rags and thought it was a beggar sleeping. He poked the figure with his staff.
"Wake up, uncle. The wolves come out at night."
The figure did not move.
The boy stepped closer. He saw the grey, matted beard. He saw the emaciated face, the skin pulled tight over the skull like a death mask. He saw the blood on the chin.
And he saw the arm.
The sleeve of the thobe had fallen back. On the forearm, faded but distinct, were the tribal tattoos of the Bedouin. The mark of the Falcon. The mark of the Al-Fayid.
The boy gasped. He ran. He ran to the city gates, shouting to the guards.
"A dead man! Under the olive tree! A Bedouin with the Falcon mark!"
The rumor moved faster than the wind. It moved through the market. It moved through the coffee houses. It moved through the Street of Silk.
It reached a crumbling house where the jasmine grew wild.
Layla was in the courtyard. She heard the servants whispering at the gate. She heard the words: Bedouin. Falcon. Dead.
She did not faint. She did not cry out. She stood up. She walked to the gate.
"Open it," she commanded.
"But Sitti," the servant stammered. "The Pasha's order..."
"The Pasha is forgotten," Layla said. Her voice was ice. "Open the gate."
The servant, terrified by the look in her eyes, slid the bolt back. The rusted hinges screamed as the doors opened for the first time in ten years.
Layla walked out. She did not run. She walked with a terrible, regal purpose. She walked through the staring crowds, her head high, her black veil trailing behind her like a shadow. She walked past the soldiers who were too stunned to stop her.
She walked out of the city gates. She walked toward the olive tree.