The book of John Doe

You drive through the desert at full speed, the wind tearing at your clothes, your eyes stinging from sand. The dromedary grunts beneath you, pushed to its limits. But it isn’t enough.
The hoofbeats behind you grow louder—closer.
A shout. A flash of moonlight on steel. Something strikes your back. You reel—
—and fall.
The world spins. Sand fills your mouth. You hit the ground hard. The breath leaves your lungs in a gasp. Before you can rise, hands are on you—strong, calloused. They wrench your arms back. Sabers flash in the dark. You’re surrounded.
You close your eyes, heart thundering. This is it. The end.
You wait for the blow—the slice of steel through flesh, the final judgment of the desert.
But instead, you hear a grunt. A thud.
Then the sound of someone dismounting.
—Let’s eat,— a voice says.
You open your eyes.
The leader has stepped down from his beast. The others are already moving, dismounting, tying reins to jagged rocks. One of them grabs your dromedary’s harness and ties it away from you like a prize mule. But no one looks at you. No one seems concerned.
You rise slowly, uncertain.
They set a fire.
A few moments later, your guide arrives. He’s led by another thug, who holds a saber close to his back. Your guide walks stiffly, like a man in a trance, leading his camel with the same mechanical grip as if sleepwalking.
He sits cross-legged in front of the flames. You follow suit.
No one says a word. You are prisoners. You know better than to speak. To speak uninvited would be to invite a blade.
The meat they cook is tough, stringy, unfamiliar. Not goat. Not camel. Wild meat, perhaps. You chew slowly, carefully, and try not to taste it too much.
When the last bones are tossed into the darkness and the men begin to stamp out the fire, the leader looks at you.
His voice cuts the night.
—Now that we’re finally behaving like civilized people,— he says, —let me propose you a business you can’t turn down.
He crouches near you, his face half-lit by the coals.
—You either give me the satchel of diamonds you have in your possession, or you shall not pass through to Zalenica.
You stare at him, annoyed.
—What diamonds?
—The ones your companion has,— he says, nodding toward your guide, —the ones the Baroness gave him—for you.
The world shifts. You understand now. The Baroness’ plan. She helped you—even in spite of your own will.
—What do you need my permission for?— you ask, voice sharp. —You could just take it.
—You mistake me, Your Grace,— the thug replies, his tone polite and poisonous. He almost seems to mock your title. —I’m not a thief. I’m a businessman. You pay the toll and you pass.
He stands.
—Or you go back to where you came from, and never arrive in Zalenica. And I mean never.
He leans forward slightly.
—We have eyes all across this road.
Your guide doesn’t look at you. He reaches slowly into the folds of his robe and pulls out a worn leather satchel, its weight unmistakable even in the dim firelight. Without a word, he holds it out to you, his hand steady, eyes still fixed on the flames. The pouch swings slightly between you, like a question waiting to be answered. You take it.

You loosen the strap and open the satchel with a steady hand, though your chest feels tight as a drum. Around you, the mercenaries fall silent, their eyes trained on the pouch as if it might explode. You draw it out—leather creaking, the unmistakable clink of stone against stone—and toss it to their leader. He snatches it mid-air with a single motion, opens it just enough to glimpse the shimmer inside. The corners of his mouth curl beneath his headscarf. His eyes catch the firelight—glinting with triumph.

Your fingers tighten around the satchel. You look up at the mercenary leader, his face still and unreadable in the firelight.
“No deal,” you say. Your voice is flat, but final. The pouch remains in your grip.
For a moment, the desert holds its breath. Steel shifts in scabbards. The fire snaps. But you don’t flinch. You’ve made your choice—and it echoes louder than any threat.