Melchior stretched and stiffly turned in his camel’s qatab, or saddle, and groused lightly to Gaspar, “I’m too old for this long on camelback. Every trip it takes me longer to get my ground legs back. The emir once thought I was drunk when I went to his audience room upon my return from a long trip, until his nose caught whiff of the beast, not the flask, about me.”
His old friend chuckled over the favorite memory, then gasped, “Look! We’re here!”
They were just cresting a ridge. (the desert had suddenly turned to rocky hills the day before, shortly before they crossed the Jordan River and into Israel. Balthazzar, the youngest, and originally from the sands of Arabia, hadn’t been thrilled with the change to hard rocky ground.) Suddenly, they caught a glint of the noonday sun reflecting off of gilt buildings hugging a hill a few stadia and several more ridges ahead.
Melchior snorted, “I’d say we’re nearly there. It looks like it will take most of the rest of the day before we actually are there.” But he did sit in the qatab straighter and lean forward a bit in eagerness. The camels, sensing the anticipation sped up a gait.
