I remember the suffocating stench; the still, unclean, foul air. The sweltering heat beneath layers of garment and armor. The almost reflexive motion of wrinkling my nose at the behest of sweat, muck and shit. I remembered the den of scum.

I longed for it.

Nostalgia, irksome and incessant, ravaged me as I hovered over the steel gateway embedded into the ground. I was pondering my reality. Who I was now that I had been shown the error of my ways.

Now that I had everything stripped from me. It was then that I realized the important things in life.

They were those earthly joys the Arabs of old idealized so. They were bravery, hospitality, strength, generosity. And above all...

The warmth of a united family.

But as I stared down at the clandestine entrance to the pits, where no doubt slave gladiators labored beneath foot as I toyed with my existential crisis, I knew there was only one way to drench the raw pain baking within me.

I knew I needed the elation of the kill, the rush of flowing blood. The battle drunkenness.

But was that the man I wished to be now that I had achieved epiphany? Would those I had alienated accept the brutal behemoth they had come to resent?

I knew that glory and riches were temporary now; prone to eradication. What outlived a man was his legacy. His reputation. And what better legacy and reputation than the fruit of his loins learning at his feet? Setting an example for all to follow so that Arabs generations from now may think 'what a wonderful seed!'.

And when they traced back the lineage of those who sowed good in the land, they would find Hanthalah ibn Ka'b at its root.

But it was unbearable. The agony. The torment ripping me apart. No father deserves to bury his own child, much less spectate, helpless, as not one, but rather two, perish before his own eyes.

I did not even have that luxury of closure. I did not bury either. We had never recovered the remains of Sa'ad, my young boy, whom had plummeted from a cliff. 'Abd al-Ka'aba, my eldest, was rotting at the bottom of the Mediterranean.

Not even beer proved a match for the pain.

I need this, I thought. I deserve this. Anything to conquer my affliction, if only for a moment.

I reached for the grate, bracing myself for the heaving of metal and the subsequent influx of foul stench.

It was then that the call to prayer shook me from my trance.

It was Friday. It was noon. The people of Damascus would be gathering in the great mosque right now in preparation for the Friday prayers and the sermon that predates it.

I hurried away from the grate, clutching the stick hung around my neck. Though I did not know whether the gods occupied a place in my heart any longer during that crisis, I kept that token of good fortune on my body at all times.

And to keep up appearances, mine was to perform the required Islamic prayers in the place of worship all five times a day. It would not do to incur any more unnecessary problems on my person.

The massive complex of the great mosque was teeming on the noon of that Friday, as was characteristic of it during such events. It was an impressive feat of construction undertaken by the Romans, I remember thinking to myself every time I laid eyes upon it.

It had once been a church before our conquests, housing the head of one Prophet Yahya according to Islamic scripture – John the Baptist according to that of the Nazarenes.

A spacious courtyard offered much-needed ground for those that could not find a place within the sheltered building within. I walked past the cobbled stone, feasting my eyes on the intricate lavishness of the mosaics and paintings that adorned the walls of the courtyard, testimony to the holy place's rich past.

I walked past the portico and into the mosque proper, finding a free spot on the rug by a sturdy white-plastered pillar. In full view of the pulpit – a great seat at the forefront of the mosque, raised by a brief flight of stairs – where none other than Mu'awiyah ibn Abu Sufyan, governor of the Levant and my liege, lounged in preparation for the deliverance of the Friday sermon.

I raised an eyebrow as I saw an unusual item laid to rest on his lap.

"In the name of Allah, the Merciful, the Most Merciful," the governor began, his eyes fixed on his lap, his tone melancholy, imbued with grief. "My brothers in Islam. Surely, you have heard of the recent passing of our esteemed Commander of the Believers. My dear cousin, Allah be pleased with him."

Mu'awiyah dropped his head further, shutting his eyes tight as though in pain. I suppressed a scoff, remembering how Mu'awiyah had seemingly marched south to Madinah at a deliberate pace as if to relieve the siege on his cousin's home. He returned to Damascus when he was 'too late'.

Mu'awiyah raised his head abruptly, meeting the eyes of each and every one of us in the front rows. Where sorrow and shattered will had radiated from them moments before, I only saw sharp vehemence within them now.

"Nay!" he boomed, his voice carrying across the vast complex. "He has not passed! My relative 'Uthman was martyred in his own home. The holy city desecrated by these molesters – these vagabonds. These enemies of Allah!"

A wave of murmurs swept through the mosque as thousands shifted uncomfortably on their haunches. I moved my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them, my chin resting atop.

"Nay!" he repeated, shaking his head vigorously. "Uthman was not my relative. He was my master! He was the deputy of God on earth, the leader of this ummah. We had only to obey his every command, dutifully and without balking. Alas, there are imposters among us. Those that feign faith when they harbor naught but the scriptures of the Devil within their hearts!"

Tell me about it, I thought, toying with my stick necklace.

Mu'awiyah grabbed the item on his lap, raising it high above his head as to be seen by all. It was a torn shirt, soiled with large droplets of blood all over.

"This is the shirt of our dear martyr!" he bellowed, shaking it within a firm grip, clenching his fist to crush the fabric in his palm. "Feast your eyes upon the blood of him who was purer than all of us combined!"

Cries of rage sounded out from the corners of the mosque and from the courtyard without. Still more murmured prayers for 'Uthman's soul.

Mu'awiyah held up wisps of grey and white hairs in his other hand.

"Weep, my brothers! Weep over the torn beard of your martyr!" Mu'awiyah's voice faltered, breaking as he arched forward as though in affliction.

An impressive charade. I leaned on the pillar by my side. It was a welcome distraction.

"His dear wife the Lady Na'ilah delivered me these items along with a letter, my brothers!" he continued. "A letter in which she was beseeching me – pleading to me for retaliation. For justice. Justice against the killers of 'Uthman!"

The declaration was met with zealous cheers and the clamor of those aggrieved.

"To show you the full extent of what we face, my brothers – to show you the evil of Shaytan's agents who wish to sow discord in our community," he declared before pausing. I flinched as he held up several severed fingers, displaying them to a shocked crowd. The image evoked a plethora of gasps as the mosque fell silent. "The enemies of Allah not only molested the sanctity of the holy city and that of the Khalifa's home. They dared shed the blood of women, like the cowards they are! The wife of the Khalifa!"

The rows of worshippers erupted into a chaos of bellows; men calling out for blood, enraged by the vivid depictions of their overlord.

"What are we to do, son of Abu Sufyan?" one man was heard over the rest.

"Uthman was your cousin and you are the guardian of his blood!" another announced. "We are with you!"

Mu'awiyah tossed the blood-stained shirt over the pulpit, covering its top. He carefully fixed the severed fingers and wisps of hair on the cuffs of the seat.

"Let this be a reminder to us all!" he issued. "You can weep over 'Uthman all you want, brothers. But never forget the culprits. There is a new Khalifa in Madinah today. If 'Ali delivers the murderers of 'Uthman to us, we will know justice. If not, he is in collaboration with the criminals!"