Daggers in the Dark (Book 3 of Hanthalah)

Interlude

          The gate of Damascus was stout and solid. The fading white plaster shone slightly in the humid afternoon as 'Abdullah reined in his camel. He dreaded dismounting after so long in the saddle; he would discover the usual saddle sores and the muscle stiffness that would linger on for days. Clicking his tongue, he mused on how he had never enjoyed riding. His distaste for the journey only deepened whenever reminded of their destination.

Abdullah shared none of his twin's enthusiasm to meet their father. This was his fifteenth summer and the man who bore Abdullah and Umaymah from his loins had failed to see them once ever since he abandoned them to the desert nomads. The tribesmen claimed it was an act of love and responsibility, for them to grow strong and capable.

"Even the Prophet's mother did the same," a tribeswoman had once said, attempting to rouse the affectionate feelings for Father that were simply not there. "And he loved his mother and his mother him."

Only it was not the same. It was not the same at all. The Prophet's father had died before his birth. And he returned to his mother two years afterward anyway. It is a common practice among sedentary Arabs, some said.

A common practice among indolent, selfish bastards, thought Abdullah. His father had thrown him away like a dog, when both his parents yet drew breath. The very existence of Abdullah disproved the theory that he would grow stronger among the Bedouins. For over a decade, he had suffered the toxic dust and mites, the stench of unwashed tribesmen and women, the curdled milk and dried cheese, the saddle sores, the almost constant illness, the ridicule, the bullying, the blithering sun, the still, humid air. The bloody air.

And he lost a finger for his trouble.

He was not a warrior nor was he a shepherd. His dream was to be a scholar in all things Islamic. The Prophet commanded Muslims to seek knowledge, even if it were as far away as China. And what better knowledge was there than that of the creator and the heavens?

Abdullah regretted that he had not been born in the lifetime of the Prophet Muhammad. Perhaps if he had, he would have been a purer man for it. He yearned to accumulate as much knowledge of his fabled sayings as possible, to learn at the feet of his contemporaries such as the Lady A'isha, his wife who still resided in Madinah and taught the ways of Islam. Ali ibn Abu Taleb was always regarded as the man closest to the Prophet; he was his first cousin, his son in law and the Prophet even expressed his deep affection for him on many occasion, loving him as though he were a son or a younger brother.

But no. Abdullah was always denied his wishes. He did not even remember his own mother. They said she died of the plague. But he remembered some of the boys when he was younger taunt him for being the son of a fornicator. That could have just been verbal bullying, hurling around uncouth names without giving it a second thought, but there was such certainty in their eyes; the way they giggled suggested they knew something he did not.

In any case, Damascus was the last place he sought to be. Other than the Banu Asad encampment.

He wished to be a free soul, to discover the secrets of universe, to bring himself closer to Allah and his apostle. None of which would be achieved by clinging to the skirts of a negligent father, a man who knew no rule but that of the sword.

***

Umaymah had not been this excited since...actually, she'd never been this excited! She was shaking visibly, barely able to contain the flurry of emotions that consumed her. She was about to meet one of her childhood heroes! Her own father! She'd heard tales of him beating back the Romans on the borders and on the seas. Not to mention that he served with distinction in the wars of conquest. Her father was a man that others looked upon to lead. She wondered whether she would serve with equal distinction in her father's ranks.

She fondled the hilt of her sword. One of the many emotions that rippled through her was anxiety. She was unsure whether her father's men would accept her. It had taken the Assadi tribesmen long to cease their ridicule of her for wearing man's mail, turban and gear. At least to her face. She proved a valuable asset in defending against mountain raiders or among the guard of a trade caravan. Her father would see that as well, she was sure. He would welcome her by his side with open arms once he realized her merit. She was fit to wield a sword.

Now was her chance to prove herself not only to a father she'd dreamed of fighting alongside for years, but also to herself. A new task was laid upon her. She would no longer be challenged by ragged bandits, but by proper soldiers. She grinned widely at the prospect, the carts rumbling through the streets of Damascus. She gasped sharply, taking the sights of the sprawling city in. She was born in a city, she knew – in Madinah. But she scarcely remembered it. The tribe had been her entire life.

And now, she would be pitted into a new one.

She had never seen such structures, nor so many people in one place. The people looked different, even the smells were foreign. She recognized some of the passersby as Arabs; she knew that the Levant was a newly acquired region the Arabs were already familiar with through decades of trade with Roman merchants in Syria. Many Arab merchants already owned houses in Damascus prior to the conquests, and they saw no harm in taking up residence there once the city was firmly in Muslim grip.

The din of the massive crowds was unfamiliar to her. The hooting of scurrying urchins, the howling of merchants in their stalls seeking to attract attention to their stock. The deep throated ululating of women and the roaring laughter of clusters of men that sent ripples through other nearby gatherings. She could only gape in awe at the foreign sights, the sprawling maze of markets and streets; and wince at the sharp sounds that rang new against her ears. Already, she was developing a persistent nuisance of a headache.

She looked up from the city that seemed too surreal to be true and studied the face of her brother; the one thing she was familiar with in that moment other than Ja'afar and the other tribesmen that formed their escort. She frowned, noticing how Abdullah winced, shifting uncomfortably in his saddle. It was her job as his sister to protect him at all costs, yet she worried for him all the same. He would soon be his own man. She wished he would take her up on her offer to train him in the art of sword and shield.

The only thing she shared in common with Abdullah was her fascination with tales belonging to the warriors of religion. They would charge into battle with extraordinary courage, exuding strength and faith as they boasted of the might of Allah. She recalled the tales of angels descending from the heavens to fight alongside the Muslims at the Battle of Badr, of how Ali ibn Abu Taleb labored in the drenching rain to smite the heathen.

She set her jaw, the glimmer of a golden dome on a hilltop catching her eye as they made their way through a densely packed marketplace. She was determined to prove herself. But among the throngs of people clamoring and colliding against one another, Umaymah's resolve strengthened. She decided she would not only serve her father and Allah dutifully; she would ascend the ranks to become Hanthalah ibn Ka'b's finest warrior.