From his vantage point on a rocky promontory, the shepherd watched as hard as he could, but there was nothing to see but dust. Here and there, dark, shadowy shades of ochre moved sluggishly, and it was impossible to say whether they belong to people, animals, wagons, or to the ghosts of ancient dwellers, angry at the disturbance. The dust was a thick mantle of powdery loam mixed with crushed bones and dried animal litter. It would take days to settle after the drive had passed. It would not rest as long as a living creature dared to move inside it. And creatures moved, and suffered. The frailest would cough their way to a sure death. But the shepherd had led the drive many times, and he knew that the dust was also their best friend, hiding them from enemies or making them bigger than they were. The dust also blurred their tracks. Their stalkers, good or evil ones, would have a difficult time figuring out the way they had taken to the promised land. Even the smells were lost, carried by dust winds in every direction. The shepherd drew a long breath and flattered his horse into doing the same, then he climbed down the rock. He could now make out the shapes in the yellowish gloom, strong-willed oxen and steel-rimmed wheels. He could hear the muffled slash of the whips and the smothered cries of babies. The bowed heads of his flock, fierce eyes glinting under the heavy hoods, passed him by in an uninterrupted flow. This was a good herd, obedient and brave, a perfect addition to