Fifteen days had passed since the convoy made its way from the castle of Bani Salamah, in central Maghrib, to the capital of Tunisia. Since then, it had been crossing a dry, rugged terrain full of furrows, bumps and lowlands. The road was surrounded by numerous dunes of fine golden sand forming a symmetrical, impenetrable landscape where water was scarce, and the prospect of coming across highwaymen – who were numerous in this desolate space – lay behind every sand dune. No signs of life could be spotted in this barren desert except for some rodents, predators and poisonous reptiles in addition to a few traces left behind by other convoys on their way back and forth from the African jungles to the Mediterranean. There was Abdurrahman Ibn Khaldun on his way back to his hometown after being overseas for longer than he had expected. When he first left his country, he was almost twenty, and here he was now over fifty years old, sitting astride his palomino horse. Next to him, on the back of a black mare, rode his first born son, Zaid, while his wife Fatima and his two daughters, Rawia and Nahla, were each riding a purebred camel...