The port of Tunis greeted me with its familiar din: steam whistles, the shouts of dockworkers, the creak of wooden gangways, the splash of oars. It all blended into a single rhythm—steady, like the pulse of a vast body. I stood on the stone pier, hat in hand, and felt the dry wind hit my face—the breath of the desert.

  The expedition had not yet begun, but I already felt the weight of responsibility on my shoulders. I had arrived first, to prepare everything. I purchased supplies, hired pack animals, made arrangements with a guide. The rest were to be brought by a man I trusted. As for me...

  I left the pier, turned down a narrow alley, then another, and came out again to the sea—where the rocks dropped steeply into the water. Here, it was quiet. I sat on a warm flat slab of stone, stretched my legs, and placed my palms on the surface. It held the sun’s heat, as if it were breathing it.

  I looked at the sea.

  At first—just looked. Without thoughts. It was subdued, a little murky from the heat, but calm, self-assured. The sea knows no anxiety, no rush. It moves—and it accepts everything, forgives everything.

  I remembered another sea—my sea, the sea of childhood. The shores of Marseille. I was born and raised there. Everything began there.

  We used to leap from the pier, dive for a stone. Whoever found it first won. We always used the same one—a stone with a crescent-shaped scratch. When it was thrown into the water, we’d hold our breath and swim down. Some surfaced quickly, others lingered, feeling along the bottom with their hands. Sometimes we lost it, came up laughing—as if that were the worst loss we could imagine.

  We fished—with rods or homemade spears. We smelled of salt, seaweed, and the smoke of campfires where we grilled our catch. We sat on the beach, eating with our hands, burning our fingers, hungry as wolves. Some told stories, some spun wild tales, others simply stared into the flames.

  I was a strong kid then, sun-darkened skin and sturdy hands. There was a girl I liked—she sold shell necklaces to tourists. She rarely smiled, but when she did, something warm stirred in my chest. She became my wife. But that was later, much later.

  Even in winter I walked along the shore. The beach would be empty, the wind biting. But the sea then was especially beautiful: dark, almost leaden, with long grey waves. It didn’t call—it simply was. And I was with it. Just as stubborn. Just as alone.

  Now, sitting here on the African shore, I could feel that boy rise in me again—hair tousled by the wind, hands smelling of fish, heart full of hope.

  I knew the road ahead would be hard. Sand, heat, uncertainty. But the sea—it had reminded me who I was. And that was enough.

  I stood, brushed dust from my trousers, adjusted my bag. Out of the corner of my eye I looked toward the horizon. The waves kept their eternal motion, like the breath of the world.

  “Thank you,” I said softly, not knowing to whom.

  It was time to go. Forward—into the desert. Toward the mystery. Toward the truth. Toward myself.

  The Team

  I rose from the stone and looked at the sea once more. It was still calm. But something within me had shifted. The road lay ahead—I had to walk it. I made my way back to the port.

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  The street where Jér?me Valdeck’s office was located looked like any other. Dirty cobblestones, a wooden sign with faded letters: Sécurité et transport. But I knew—behind that door was a man I could trust.

  I knocked once. Then again.

  The door opened, and there he stood. He hadn’t changed: tall, slightly hunched, thick moustache, eyes that had seen far too much.

  “Well, hello, Chelago,” he said calmly. “Or étienne... or whatever name you're using now.”

  “Hello, Jér?me. And you're just the same,” I replied. “Only a bit more grey.”

  He stepped aside, letting me in.

  “Come in. Not a Legion headquarters, but I’ve got tea. Or something stronger.”

  We embraced like old friends who hadn’t seen each other in a hundred years.

  The room was small: an oak desk, two chairs, a rifle in the corner, a cabinet of files. Jér?me pulled a bottle and two glasses from a drawer.

  “I’ve already saved your skin once, remember?” he said, pouring.

  “I remember,” I nodded.

  “Seems it’s my fate. Always sticking my neck out for others. Well—some are born to be hanged, not shot.”

  We drank in silence. Jér?me studied my face, as if waiting for a catch.

  “I need men,” I said.

  He looked at me seriously now.

  “So it’s serious.”

  I nodded. He didn’t ask anything else. He simply stood, went to the cabinet, and pulled out a worn leather notebook.

  “I’ve still got a few names. The ones who didn’t die or drink themselves into oblivion. One grows flowers. One sells junk. One herds camels… but they’re alive. And if you call—they’ll come.”

  We went to the first the next day.

  I. Clément “The Gardener”

  The rooftop of a house on the outskirts. Clay pots, wooden trays, basil beds. Amid the greenery stood a massive man in a worn shirt. His face was sunburnt, his hands like shovels.

  “Clément,” Jér?me called. The man turned. “So, what have you two gotten into now?”

  I stepped closer. “Do you remember me?”

  He silently wiped his hands, looked up at me.

  “I do. You pulled that kid from my platoon—his leg was gone—when everyone else had already retreated. I owe you for that.”

  “I need your strength now.”

  He paused. “I’ll leave the flowers to the neighbor’s boy. The heat will burn them anyway. Fine. Where do we meet?”

  II. Gilles Beno?t

  An antique shop cluttered with junk and treasures. Gilles sat behind the counter, polishing a bronze idol.

  “I’ve got a rare saber from Safavid Persia,” he began.

  “I’m not looking for a merchant,” I interrupted. “I need the Beno?t who led us out under fire.”

  He frowned. “That Beno?t stayed back there. Now I sell the past.”

  “Then sell yourself one more time. I need you.”

  He sighed.

  “Give me a day. And that hat up on the shelf—the one with the bullet hole. It’s lucky.”

  III. Rachid ibn-Mokhtar

  Camel market. Dust, shouting, stench. Amid it all—tall man in a turban, proud features.

  “Chelago,” he said first. “I heard you’re back on the road.”

  “You always hear everything.”

  “I must go. Not because you call. Because you once saved my brother. And because I saw a dream.”

  “A dream?”

  “In it, the sand was screaming. But no one listened.”

  I didn’t ask further. I just nodded.

  IV. Raphael Lewinsky

  He stood in the port, inspecting horses. Thin, wiry, tired eyes, a gentle smile. We bumped into each other—by accident, or maybe not.

  “Chelago? Is that you?” he asked, cheerfully.

  “Raphael?” I didn’t recognize him at first.

  “Achi, you once taught us how to help the wounded. We haven’t forgotten. I haven’t.”

  “And what are you now?”

  “Trading horses, supplies, ammunition. A bit of everything useful.”

  “Good. I’m gathering men. And your goods will come in handy.”

  “Then I’m already here.”

  He held out his hand. I shook it. His gaze lingered on me a moment too long, as if studying. But I didn’t ask why. I knew him too well to need explanations.

  We gathered in an old warehouse outside the city. Tables, empty crates, dust. Jér?me brought out the same bottle, set it on a barrel.

  “Like old times,” he said.

  “Well, the times haven’t changed. Only we’ve gotten older,” Beno?t added.

  “But not dumber,” Rachid smirked.

  “And still breathing,” said Clément.

  “For now,” Raphael noted.

  I raised my glass.

  “To the one who goes first.”

  They raised theirs in silence. No one said another toast. A team that understood without words.

  That’s how our road began.