"They are bound to clash and there is bound to be a victor from this engagement," Mu'awiyah announced to the round-table discussion in the great audience chamber.

Honestly, I was surprised I was still privy to such meetings.

In the past, I had served Mu'awiyah and the Islamic Caliphate dutifully and without fault. I had distinguished myself in a raid on Cyprus. I had ventured many a time into the Anatolian heartland. I contributed to the cultivation of a loyal support base for Mu'awiyah in the native Syrian tribes. I had embarked on many a campaign against rogue Persian warlords in 'Iraq or against unruly nomadic chieftains by the Jordan.

But then, I had soiled myself with heavy losses in Crete. I knew that even my participation in the resounding success at the Battle of the Masts would not entirely restore my once flawless status in the Syrian court.

Yet, here I was, yet affiliated with those nearest to the governor's ear.

"Then let them bleed one another out," replied Abu al-A'war, a renowned general and admiral loyal to the Umayyad regime that I had served with many a time. "The victor will be reeling and with depleted numbers besides."

Habib ibn Maslamah nodded in agreement. He was another of Mu'awiyah's beasts. He was known for his subjugation of the Armenians. "Let us preserve our strength. Pounce when the time is right."

"Which is why we ought to mobilize the tribes," Mu'awiyah explained. "Send emissaries to the Syrian chieftains of Banu Tanakh and Kalb. Call out to all Muslims sympathetic to our cause. What say you, 'Abd al-Rahman?"

All eyes shifted to the man in question. His face was almost entirely obscured by a monstrosity of a beard mirrored by jet-black wavy hair that cascaded down to the small of his back. Those dark beady eyes...so unnerving. So unsettling. He had his father's gaze. The sort that penetrated your soul deep within.

And it was directed right at me. With unreserved contempt.

"Abd al-Rahman," Mu'awiyah prodded him further.

'Abd al-Rahman ibn Khalid, son of the extraordinary Khalid ibn al-Waleed who pioneered the Muslim conquests, jolted out of his trance of enmity.

"Yes," he groaned. "Mmm. Yes, yes."

What has he got against me? I wondered. I enjoyed cordial relations with his father. Khalid was a military genius that I admired with every bone in my body. I bore witness to his brilliance on the field of battle many a time – sometimes on the wrong end of it. I was even there when he died, on his deathbed.

I shoved the thought aside. What was I doing there? I knew not my purpose any longer. How could Mu'awiyah trust me still? I failed. I was no general. I was no feared warlord.

Who was I?

"You hold considerable sway with the Kalb and Ta'i tribes in particular," the general Habib broke the awkward silence.

I flinched despite myself, realizing the statement was directed at me. Curse my newfound uncertainty. Once, I would have looked down at these men with disdain – as lesser beings. I would be swaggering about the chamber, running intellectual rings around them with my knowledge of battle stratagem.

Perhaps that's why your children despise you, I thought to myself.

"Yes," I gulped, feeling the weight of their eyes on me. "I have been known to have corresponded with those of Tanakh as well. My contingent was an amalgamation of Syrian tribes."

"Before you squandered their souls," ibn Khalid butted in, the venom lingering in his black, black eyes.

I made no retort to the interjection. It was Habib, the conqueror of Armenia, that intervened on my behalf.

"Your father would have known the sensibilities of propriety," he spoke in a low voice.

"I do not live in my father's shadow," ibn Khalid huffed.

"Yet you play the part of petulant child all the same," I bit back.

There was a collective gasp that put a halt to the argument. Even I was surprised. The words just rolled out of me. For a moment, I felt my true self again. But then, life dimmed again, and my state of mind restored to that of a dullard.

Ibn Khalid chuckled dryly. "So, you do have some fire in you."

Mu'awiyah smacked the table flat with a palm, sending deafening thunder crashing against our ears.

"The state of Islam is split in three parts, yet you imbeciles bicker like a maiden on her wedding night!" he bellowed in fury to rival that of the table-pounding he had inflicted upon us a moment earlier.

Mu'awiyah was not usually quick to betray emotion. Ever the shrewd politician with his soft words and false smiles. Speech with him was a game, a means to an end in his mind.

Seeing him rattled gave us all pause. Finally, the governor of Syria regained composure and resumed discussion as though the outburst never happened.

"Ali has appointed a governor in Egypt," Mu'awiyah spoke.

"Yes, a man of the Ansar," Abu al-A'war offered. The Ansar were the tribesmen native to Madinah who accepted the message of Islam. "An unusual choice."

One that leaves the Quraysh of Makkah feeling alienated, I noted, the Umayyad clan definitely included. Those of Makkah enjoyed considerable prestige in the reigns of Khalifas past, particular that of 'Uthman who almost exclusively appointed direct kinsmen or milk brothers. Perhaps this affront was a catalyst to 'Aisha's rebellion.

"A fickle one," Mu'awiyah announced. "We will lure him to our side or he will venture away from 'Ali on his own."

I nodded. "That's why you said the Caliphate has been split to three parts. You believe the new governor will break off to form his own claim in Egypt if we don't attract him."

Mu'awiyah grunted. "We are beset by enemies on all sides. The victor between 'Aisha and 'Ali to the east. Egypt to our south. The Romans to our north."

"It would be a wise choice to eliminate those enemies piecemeal, my lord," announced a gruff voice. "Sign a truce with the Romans, my lord."

The source came from the doorway.

We all turned to find the theatrical newcomer looming in the threshold. Elegant and imposing. Broad-shouldered and grey-haired as I remembered him all those decades past, with a well-trimmed beard flecked with white. His face was deeply lined with wrinkles and a dozen scars alike.

In tow, he had a younger adult man with similar features.

'Amr ibn al-'Aas, the general who conquered Egypt. One of my more flawless campaigns when I was but a youth.

He happened to be an Umayyad, I noted, secretly appreciating Mu'awiyah's subtle boost of morale through the arrival of this figurative cavalry – a solution to all the problems presented moments before.

A pang of pain washed over me as I remembered days past and sorrows that yet burned bright deep within me. Memories of the salt in the air, the crashing of waves against the shore, the sweet laughter of a woman. And her eventual screams.

"It would also be wise to secure the Judhama tribe in Palestine as your shield in the south," the square-jawed old general continued. "Otherwise, I am your answer to Egypt."

"Amr," Mu'awiyah acknowledged him. He swept his arm toward him in an encompassing gesture. "My brothers. Your governor of Egypt."

***

Ruqayya studied the bleeding faces of the returning men, battered from battle.

What was its use anyway? Battle. The sword was the tool of the simpleton and battle the medium through which the thickest of humans may showcase their primitive nature.

She supposed battle could sometimes be an effective means to drain the resources and morale of any troublesome pawns or foes.

But not this one. If you could even call the patches of brawling true battle.

This was her province. Egypt was hers. It belonged to Ruqayya. She would not tolerate the skirmishing.

Partisans of the old Khalifa 'Uthman were not pleased with the new selection for governor sent by 'Ali. They had withdrawn from the administrative capital of al-Fustat as soon as the old man was assassinated and had not returned since. They settled to the far north in the village of Kharbita, their base of operations.

She did not know who to back in the civil strife that engulfed the Muslims. The unrest she had pioneered herself through meticulous coordination and far-reaching hands.

Ruqayya resented the Islamic yolk that chained her Christian siblings in Egypt and Syria. The Muslims might hail themselves as liberators all they wanted, but the truth was evident for all to see. Increasing corruption within the province as the nobles of the tribes settled in al-Fustat demanded increasingly higher stipends, which led to increasingly unbearable living circumstances for the heavily taxed Christian populace. She had no doubt the situation was similar elsewhere as well.

Ruqayya felt gentle arms wrap themselves around her waist ever so delicately. She caressed Sofia's soft powdered cheeks with a hand.

"What troubles you?" her second in command inquired. Sofia would be off to conduct business with the governor of the province and some of his commanders. He sought to purchase weapons from her in order to ship off to his overlord 'Ali in 'Iraq.

This new war between the Muslims was proving to be more profitable than expected. Both sides had an insatiable hunger for arms and armor that grew more as the conflict spiraled further out of control. And as the demand soared, Ruqayya offered the hand of ample supply.

But she would enjoy it even more if the conflict was not threatening to introduce itself to her doorstep.

The old Muslim leader, the one they called 'Uthman whom they had assassinated, still had loyalists in Egypt. And to say the least, they were not pleased with some of the negative sentiments their comrades held for their former overlord.

Men and disagreement do not go well together, Ruqayya knew. It was a volatile union. And now, there was the threat of this war spilling over inside Egypt, putting her business at risk.

"I do not enjoy things slipping out of my control," Ruqayya answered. Hostilities in Egypt. This needs to stop."

"It has," Sofia gave her a soft peck on the neck. "Stopped, I mean."

Ruqayya pulled away with a jolt. "What?"

"I served as intermediary between the pro-'Uthman faction and the governor," the Roman slave girl explained. "I spoke on your behalf. The 'Uthman supporters promised to live in isolation in their nice little village. In exchange for the peace, the governor acquiesced."

Something about what the girl did irked Ruqayya. She felt out of the loop. Sofia had acted without her consent. Without her knowledge. But she had done well all the same, so there was no pretext for admonition. It was one headache resolved.

I don't like not having control over things, Ruqayya thought ruefully, trying to suppress her agitation as the Roman girl lured her into the house and began toying with her curls.

"What of the war?" she asked her aide. "I am uncertain which side to support."

Ruqayya had engineered the assassination of 'Uthman with a deft hand to sow the seeds of discord in an already fractured Muslim community. The new Muslim suzerain – 'Ali – was heavily contested.

And then there was the governor in Syria, the man they called Mu'awiyah who refused 'Ali's claim to leadership. Her little birds informed her there was potential for the skirmishes that had so far proven to be so lucrative to evolve into full-scale battle in 'Iraq.

"We are a neutral actor," Ruqayya decided. "When there is demand, we provide the supply."

Sofia gave her a peck on the forehead. She needed to hop in order to do that.

Ruqayya giggled despite herself at the endearing act.

My little midget.

"It would be wise to determine our next move according to how events played out in the east," Sofia offered her counsel. "For now, lay back and relax."

Whatever Ruqayya wished to express next abated under the pressure of Sofia's welcome advances.

But there was one loose end that irked her still, in the corner of her mind.

The old governor, the man who called himself son of Abu Hudhayfa, who she had used to mobilize the troops against 'Uthman. He had fled the moment 'Ali's governor set foot on Egyptian soil.

What ever became of him?

***

I had only been to the Sinai peninsula once before.

I was headed to Egypt, part of a conquering army four thousand men strong.

Back then, I had naught but the clothes on my back, the strength of my arms, the sword at my hip and the bow on my back. Back then, I was destitute and dependent on the whims of my betters. I had set off with value to prove, value to gain. To curry favor with an overlord.

Such is the fickleness of the gods that I did not know whether to believe in or not, I scoffed, remembering the Egyptian campaign all those years back.

For that day, my state perfectly mirrored that of a decade and a half ago when I trudged these very sands of the Sinai deserts.

This was Sinai. This was the local town of 'Arish, on the peripheries of the peninsula far to the north. This is near where Egypt would end and the Levant would begin.

Piss poor place, I found myself saying under my breath, surveying the town as I prowled it, half-hidden beneath a crimson cloak and the guise of darkness.

It was not too different from the urban centers found in the Arabian homeland. I despised the night's gust sweeping in the smells of the sea to wash over my face. It reminded me too much of Alexandria and Martha and days long past. Though built on the shores of the same sea, 'Arish was laughable compared to Alexandria.

But tourism was not my purpose there.

I was to carry out this most careful of tasks as a first step in order to restore myself to Mu'awiyah's good graces.

"What do we do when we find him?" Mundhir asked for the hundredth time.

"How does this remain unclear to you?" I snapped. "What do you think we'll do? Take him offshore and have a dive?"

Mundhir shrugged beneath an identical crimson cloak. We meant to be conspicuous. "Why not? If the man's an upright fellow, we ought to invite him to a tavern and have a laugh."

"I'll give you a bloody smile if you don't keep quiet," I nudged him in the ribs.

The eerie silence reminded me of my long-standing debt with the Immortals – al-Khalidun, the clandestine organization of assassins hellbent on my destruction. They worked in the shadows, sulking like cowards on nights much like this.

But I had lopped the head off the serpent with the help of my newfound lover, Amina. I killed Qasim, the head of this organization.

Why, then, did I shiver with every fiber of my being? I looked over my shoulder this way and that, as though I were the hunted not the hunter in this expedition. I saw daggers in every shadow, black coats in every corner.

Once, I could have sworn I saw the vague figure of a man in an alleyway between two houses. The faint light of the moon illuminated a single blue eye and cascading brown curls. A clean-shaven cheek and a prominent half-jaw.

The other side was entirely engulfed by darkness. But I knew the truth of its gratuitous appearance.

"No," I whispered, shaking my head briskly. "Impossible."

"Syria," came the reply. I gulped, eyes wide, my accursed uncertain nature cloaking me beneath a cloud of self-doubt at every waking moment. What had happened to me? When had I become this? As a child pissing himself at the sight of hyenas.

"Syria," came the daunting whisper.

I jumped as a finger tapped my shoulder. I tripped, stumbling to a knee, a bead of sweat trickling down my forehead as the shameful terror that held me in its clutch left me breathless and panting.

"It's the fellow m'lord sent us to make friends with," Mundhir pointed at a newcomer with his thumb. The man was cloaked in green, as agreed upon. Mundhir turned toward him. "You seem handsome alright. Want to have my babies?"

"Syria," the former governor of Egypt repeated the passcode. The son of Abu Hudhayfa, as he was known, one of the first to rise up against 'Uthman, who was my overlord's cousin.

A handful of his followers trailed behind him. I waited until they were near enough.

"Right," I answered. "Your asylum has been granted."

I turned from his pleased face that twisted in a smile. I cupped my mouth against my hands and yelled to the gloom.

"Syria!" the streets of 'Arish echoed as a half-dozen carefully planted troops emerged from the darkness.

I pounced forward, fist behind my shoulder. I decked the man right in the throat, and he collapsed immediately. The rest of his followers were surrounded and overwhelmed by my own.

"You will be restrained and taken to Damascus for your punishment," I caressed my damaged knuckles. "Justice for 'Uthman."

Thank the gods I did not fuck that up, I thought to myself, my first task in this new skin completed.

But would I ever shed it? Was that even what I wanted?

Gods...