April 652, Sha'aban 31 AH

It had been well over a month since I had been dispatched to dispose of the Persian rebel that plagued the lands and estates entailing the city of Basra. My quest was a success, though I would have preferred dragging a bound, fettered and humiliated foe to the presence of Mu'awiyah. Yet, I knew my son was volatile and unstable to the bone. I was beginning to believe the tales the Banu Asad chieftains told, of how he ate the heart of a corpse.

Warlordism was plentiful among the remnants of the conquered Persian regime farther east. Generals and Persian men of state who had remained loyal to their defeated Shah roamed the wilderness, stalked the mountains still. Much like myself.

It is the irony of fate that I was habitually dispatched to the lands of 'Iraq and Persia to root out one warlord or the other. It was one of life's dark jests that one infidel warlord would be considered legitimate while the other outlaw.

On the road back to Damascus, I snuck a quick peak at my earless son, 'Abd al-Ka'aba, known to the Muslims as Muhammad. He was atop his stallion, dreary-eyed, caressing his bandaged head.

We had successfully dismantled the Persian warlord's group and captured the man himself. But where my boys were well-trained and disciplined, I knew my son to be...less reliable. My boys knew when to cease the slaughter at command.

'Abd al-Ka'aba didn't.

He would immerse himself at the peak of fighting in enemy blood. He would take great joy in his work. He bathed himself in the battle drunkenness, the fury that befalls a man in the thick of the fray, flushing one's cheeks red and warming his entire body, oblivious to the dozens of bruises and cuts and scabs one suffered in the journey.

It was after the sounds of fighting dwindled down that my massive son began shrieking like a deep throated demon, threw himself at the bound and fettered Persian warlord, ending him with one swift stroke. It was then that he began hacking at the corpse over and over again, showing no hint of mercy or succor.

The Persian's body looked like it was ravaged by a pack of wild wolves but 'Abd al-Ka'aba did not relent, instead raising his sword again and stabbing.

He did not stop until he was smacked with a stone on the back of the head.

I wondered who the boy reminded me of...

I sighed, shaking my head. Mu'awiyah preferred them alive rather than dead. He used a reward bonus to entice me into capturing the warlord rather than slaughtering on the spot.

A severed head would serve the same purpose just as well, I supposed. It would still be a handsome payment.

The Persian's head had deteriorated severely despite our best efforts to preserve the skin through embalming. It had been crawling with maggots and earthworms as well as a dozen other types of skin-shriveling bugs.

We wiped it clean of such abominations to present the head to Mu'awiyah. Some maggots yet crawled through the eye sockets, but it disturbed me not for it was bound in a cloth sack.

Under a fierce gaze, sharp words and a raised fist, the guards at the palace gates let us through. I stalked up to the upper levels of the palace and strode toward Mu'awiyah's spacious audience chamber which I knew he frequented both in times of business and leisure.

There were two guards standing at the heavy oak doors clasped with bronze hinges and knob. They leaned lazily on their spears. Their leather and mail hung loose from their frail bodies. The sight of them, so similar to docile house cats stoked my anger. They were men corrupted by life in barracks, a privileged existence of being provided regular rations, of having servants see and cater to their every need. They were weak and soft, the sort of men I took pleasure in crushing.

I snarled at them as they perked up as if to challenge my advance. They shrank away from my unwelcoming gaze, clutching their spears closer to their chests. I stopped at the doors as one of them timidly stepped in my way and opened his mouth as if to speak, only managing to stammer incoherent sentences.

"You presume to bar my path, boy?" I empathized that last word.

He stared at me with glassy eyes, his mouth hanging open.

"Move out of my way before that pretty little head of yours keeps the other one in this sack company," I propped up the sack for emphasis.

His gaze fluttered to it and he looked as though he were about to retch.

"And shut that mouth of yours before you find a cock wriggling its way through," I continued.

I shoved past him and slammed the doors open with a kick. The hinges creaked, revealing the dumbfounded inhabitants of the room flinch at the intrusion.

Mu'awiyah sat in the circular array of pillows I remembered, a burning stove at its center. There was a bowl of grapes resting on his lap as well as other platters of fine dinery lining the area around the stove.

In every corner of the room there were timid servants and shrinking slaves, either holding jugs of water, juice or milk, standing at the ready to fulfill any command from their masters.

Light spilled into the room from a single rectangular window at Mu'awiyah's back.

But best of all, there was a scantily clad, pretty woman with curvaceous hips and curling brown hair wreaking of spices and exotic perfumes. The afternoon's entertainment, then.

In the circle of pillows by Mu'awiyah's side sat Ramla bint Mu'awiyah, his daughter, and her wretched husband, a son of Khalifa 'Uthman himself.

To my horror, Ramla was cradling a swaddled infant in her arms. My fury seared through me, burned as thoroughly as that stove. I froze before her weighing black gaze and her gleaming bronze skin.

I was reminded of the truth reason I fled Damascus.

With a start, I removed my gaze from her and shifted it to the perplexed Mu'awiyah. I cleared my throat and tossed the sack, the rotting head of the rebel rolling to a stop just short of his feet.

Ramla's husband gasped and several servants took a step backward.

"Damn you, ibn Ka'b, you've startled the girl," Mu'awiyah exclaimed.

Yet Ramla was not so much as fazed by the sight. There was a tight smile on her full red lips and warmth in her eyes as she glanced back and forth between me and the severed head. She bit her lip and my heart skipped a beat. A smile formed on my own lips despite myself and my mouth watered –

"I assume this...is what remains of General Mardanshah," Mu'awiyah roused me from my trance.

"If this is what the useless bastard was called, aye. I rid the ungrateful governor of Basra of his nuisance and he did not so much as reward me with a handful of dates."

Ramla's husband was recoiling from the head, attempting to remove his gaze from it but failing. His was a concerning pale shade.

"Never seen a head before?" I demanded of him. What was he called? Abdullah? No, Amr. Amr ibn 'Uthman. Bloody Umayyads. What sort of man shied away at the sight of blood anyway?

"You ought to show a shred of respect to the esteemed governor, ibn Ka'b," Mu'awiyah chastised me in a harsh tone, interrupting my conversation with the man who was not fit to deem himself man. "He voiced need for aid to rid him of this minor problem to the Khalifa. The Commander of the Believers, in turn, tasked me with exterminating the threat, as the governors of Kufa and Khorasan were similarly indisposed."

"Then there's only the issue of my reward from you, then," I grunted.

Mu'awiyah leveled me with a disapproving gaze.

"Your time away from civilization has done little to check your insolence."

"You want a general, right? I serve dutifully and loyally. I cut the heads off your enemies and train your men. What more would you want? You want me to shuffle at your presence and lick your arse?"

"I require a subordinate that displays courteous manners. Ibn Qays, a commander of equal rank to yourself, for instance – "

I snorted. "Ibn Qays? And the others? Have you seen the state of your men here in the palace, my lord? The guards at your door pissed themselves at the sight of me. You think they'd fare decent in battle?"

"Perhaps they will have a chance to prove themselves to you."

I raised an eyebrow. "Beg your pardon."

"The Khalifa has commissioned new raids on Mediterranean isles."

I grunted. "I'd heard rumors Abu al-A'war was off to Kos."

"Yes, General 'Amr ibn Sufyan is currently campaigning in the isle of Kos," Mu'awiyah subtly corrected me, pursing his lips in disapproval. Abu al-A'war was one of 'Uthman's generals, centered at Madinah. His name meant 'the father of the one-eyed'. Mu'awiyah did not approve of the common usage of the alias. "There may be room for you in these raids. There is one last task I have for you these coming months. If I find your performance satisfactory, you have my permission to lead as many men as you need to Crete, or perhaps Rhodes."

My mouth watered at the mention of Crete and Rhodes. The infinite possibilities of plunder. The spoils we collected from our northern raids on Roman border towns or Persian warlords to the east would be mere scraps and rags in comparison to what would be found in the Mediterranean. I remembered the great wealth we had encountered in Cyprus.

"What task?" I demanded eagerly, the memory of Ramla long since forgotten.

Mu'awiyah nodded. "Yes...in the meantime, have a bath. Cleanse yourself, for Allah's sake. We could smell your stench all the way from Basra."

***

My wife, Hafsa, studied me from head to toe with a leveled look that exuded disgust and barely contained disdain. There was no surprise in her demeanor. It was as if I had not been away for a year and then some.

"I've come to stay the night," I informed her, beginning to strip. "I'll be gone at the break of light."

She recoiled from me. My son, the boy named Sa'ad, was studying me with curious eyes.

"You've long since abandoned my bed and the embrace of your son," she accused me in a biting tone. "Do not presume to enjoy your marital rights this night."

I chuckled wearily. "Woman, I have three concubines awaiting me. I need not your bed nor your soft son. I am weary from my travels."

"You will not enjoy the comfort of this bed," her eyes were set, her voice firm. She sat defiant on the bed, taking up much of the space.

I sighed. "If I wanted to, I would drag you off."

My thoughts wandered to my children, young Umaymah and 'Abdullah. They should be returning any moment, for they were of the age required. The Asad chieftains did not send word, but they had not done so when they returned 'Abd al-Ka'aba either.

I fixed my gaze on young Sa'ad, so frail and tiny. I could squash him with a boot. No son of mine should be so soft. I walked toward him and scooped him up. Hafsa squalled, voicing her high-pitched protests that I dare embrace my son.

"The boy is to become a man," I spoke softly. "Come morning, he leaves with me. I will dispatch a man to send him to the Asad."

Hafsa leapt upon me, clawing at me, attempting to rake me with long nails. I sidestepped, avoiding a feeble attack. I began walking to the door, Sa'ad in my arms.

"In the meantime, I will teach this boy about the true nature of life."

***

On the western side of the palace, the view of the city below was, suffice it to say, breathtaking. I'd heard that the former emperor of the Romans, Heraclius who had lost so much territory to the Arabs, frequented visits to Damascus, for it was his favorite among cities.

It was not hard to see why.

Damascus was larger than Alexandria, the packed mass of houses sprawling into the haze of the horizon. Glass, bronze, silver and gold shimmered beneath the glaring light of the sun. The allure of city life was easy to see; which is why it is so dangerous to a man such as myself.

"A man must not succumb to his earthly desires, lest he grow weak and gluttonous," I told Sa'ad who was too busy plucking something from a nearby bush.

This section of the palace was bereft of a wall, yet to be constructed. It was a perfect spot that revealed the beauty of the city beneath the hill. Clinging close to the buildings of the palace were shrubs and greenery, overflowing with berries and cherries and the like. Sa'ad seemed to be plucking one of them.

I sighed.

"You will learn the ways of men yet, boy."

I turned from him to study the city below and reflect on life. I stood, hands clasped behind my back, in a brand-new mail shirt. The one that belonged to the fallen Persian rebel, this General Mardanshah.

It was of a finer quality and seemed heavier than any I'd worn in the past. My fingers and arms were adorned with rings of silver and bronze, gleaming softly in the fine sheen of the afternoon sun. I would have found gold savory, but it was forbidden for men to wear gold according to Islamic scripture. It was a ridiculous ban, but I needed to maintain the façade.

I sighed, reminiscing worse days.

I've come a long way, I thought.

Once, I was either hunted, or enslaved, or distraught. Helpless, powerless, weak, emotional.

Now, I was a man that trampled thousands. A warlord that others trembled before, a warrior that saw fields devastated and towns razed to the ground in his wake. Men pleaded at my feet for mercy but instead found a blade through their hearts. Their bodies were left for the crows and the earthworms, the wolves and the eagles, but their jewelry and fine garments, their elaborate arms and armor belonged to me now.

My tent back at the mountains was adorned with hundreds of such trinkets, even though I had no use for them. I had more than a dozen fine bows and half as many swords, purely for ornamental purposes, mementos of my glory in battle.

Now, Mu'awiyah would doubtless see me rewarded for ridding the Caliphate of one more Persian foe. The plunder will continue to flow as well, now that he voiced his wish to raid the Mediterranean again.

The prior raid on Cyprus saw us garner great wealth. We even managed to conquer one settlement and establish another. The Muslims built a mosque for their settlers and left a garrison in the newly constructed city for defensive purposes. I intended to overshadow the success of that campaign on the next one.

I felt a tugging sensation to my right knee, startling me from dreams of wealth.

I lowered my gaze to see that Sa'ad was poking me with a stick, a solemn expression on his face. He poked again and grunted.

"I am Sa'ad ibn Hanthalah!" he exclaimed. "And I will kill you!"

He poked again and I noticed he was stabbing, or at least imitating the motion. Using the stick as though it were a sword. I chuckled, crouching down and patting him on the head.

"Perhaps you have a warrior in you, after all."

I studied this lost son of mine, this boy I'd kept far from my thoughts for so long, ready to disown him for the sins of his mother who abhorred me so.

I'd believed him soft. But he had my eyes, I noticed. His skin tone was my own. Perhaps he shared my ferocity as well.

I nodded, grinning softly, as my son challenged me with his stick sword again.

Life was perfect, indeed. I was flourishing. I was at my prime.

I draped an arm around the young boy's shoulders and turned toward the sun, shining golden on its perch. I whispered a prayer of thanks to the goddess Shams for the fruit this day has provided. Another prayer of thanks was sent to al-'Uzza, the goddess of love, for the greatest gift of all.

The love of a son.

Lost in my thoughts, I tumbled, falling sideways. I found that I was hugging nothing, my son absent from my embrace. I steadied myself, assuming he had darted off somewhere with all the energy of a five or six-year-old, whatever he was.

Instead, I saw him dangling off the side of the cliff, his collar hanging tenuously in the grip of Zayn ibn Yazid.

I rose steadily to my feet. Sa'ad was not aware of the danger. He was giggling, eyes wide as he studied the precipitous fall hundreds if not thousands of feet below. He kicked his legs wildly as he swayed in Zayn's grasp.

"Ibn Yazid, you bastard," I growled, my heart threatening to leap out of my chest and send itself tumbling down the cliff as well. "Put the boy down and fight me like the son of a whore you are."

Zayn's one blue eye twinkled with sick pleasure. His twisted half twitched momentarily. His smile was a hideous thing to behold, a malformed sight of everything vile and homely.

"I know you won't kill the boy, you fatherless, motherless cunt. So, spare us both the trouble before I kill you. This time, I'm chopping that ugly head of yours clean off its shoulders so there won't be any surprises down the line."

Zayn glanced from me to the giggling Sa'ad.

"What makes you so sure?" his voice was low, suggestive. The spark in his eyes pricked my fury.

"You haven't dared touch me and mine for years," I answered, emboldened. I was Hanthalah ibn Ka'b. "You could have killed the boy the last time I was in Damascus. You could have killed any of my other children. But you know you can't. I'll feed you your cock, as I did your father."

Zayn made a clicking sound, shaking his head with amusement.

"I never hurt the boy or any of your other children because there was no love to be found in that cold heart of yours, old man. Your heart only harbors affection for your earless freak. But now...I saw the love in your eyes. A lovely moment between a man and the dirt of his loins. You would die for this boy as any father would his children. As my father did."

My heart was pounding, fluttering, threatening to leap out of its place and heave itself on this ghost of my past. I gulped, feeling numb and drowsy. My palms were slick with sweat, my throat was dry. My knees were weak and I was growing increasingly lightheaded.

"If you have a quarrel with me, settle it not with a helpless boy."

"But that was not your ideology twenty years ago," Zayn, the Crow, pointed out.

I inched forward, my mind racing with a hundred different ways to save Sa'ad and dispose of this Zayn once and for all. I took another step forward, more subtly.

Zayn noticed. He dropped the boy but clung to him again at the last moment, leaving him whirling lightly in the air. Sa'ad yelped joyfully at the motion, his cheeks flushed red with excitement, his giggling sweet to my ears.

"You would murder a child?" I demanded, my voice heavy.

"I would dispose of rotten seed. Beg for his life."

I licked my lips, looking around for any stray servant or guard.

"Beg," he repeated.

"No," I answered.

"Then he dies," he eased his grip on Sa'ad's collar.

"Alright, alright," I threw my hands up. "I beg you."

"Beg me to spare him. Voice the words, you self-important bastard."

I took a deep breath, suppressing the banal rage that flowed through me since youth.

"I beg you...I beg you to spare him."

"Not convinced."

Sa'ad was oblivious of the danger, of the impending doom. There was a lump in my chest. Tears welled in my eyes. I was a man accomplished, a warrior hardened in fire and blood, a leader of men. Yet on that day, in the heart of Damascus atop a cursed hill, I was as helpless as any child.

As my child.

A feeling I was accustomed to in my life, I thought sourly.

"Spare him," I pleaded despite my shame. "Spare his life."

For a moment, Zayn seemed thoughtful, compassionate even. My heart continued to flutter, and for the briefest of heartbeats, I was convinced he would show clemency.

Finally, he shook his head.

"You failed to spare me," he rasped through a damaged throat.

And he let go.