May 625 AD, Rabi' al-Awwal 4 AH

We prowled the streets of Yathrib, our torches flickering before us, creating ripples of light in an otherwise dark city. The moon was obscured by clouds in the sky. It was a bad omen. The gods communicate with us at times through use of elements of nature. The moon needed to reappear. And fast. Our lives were at stake.

Our sandals crunched on sand as we ascended the slight incline. The faint figure of the fortress towered above us. The wall of the fort was roughly the height of a man. Stout, unimpressive, yet sturdy all the same. It had no ramparts, and so no sentries paced above us, vigilant.

Hostilities with the Banu Nadir had commenced. Our team was one of ten individuals. Volunteers to perform this most exhilarating of tasks. Why was I among them? Why did I choose to be part of a group with none other than Muhammad ibn Maslamah at its head?

I was eight. I was foolhardy, and despite my harrowing experience of Uhud, the thought of earning glory and reputation very much enticed me. In some ways, I was there because of Uhud. I had shamed myself on that hill, as well as beneath it. I displayed weakness. Traits unfit for a warrior. I had cost people their lives. I sought to redeem myself, at least in my own eyes.

And so, all ten of us clung to the shadows, snuffing out our torches. We huddled against the wall of the Banu Nadir fortress, hidden from sight. Muhammad ibn Maslamah walked to the gate – heavy and wooden and studded with iron bolts. The torch in his hand laid his gaunt features bare. I felt my rage pricking at me, my temper beginning to flare. I shook my head in order to clear it. I would not shame myself again.

I dug into my cloth gown, feeling for the dagger hidden within. I clasped my fingers around the wooden hilt.

Muhammad ibn Maslamah approached the gate and gave three loud raps. An eternity passed before he knocked again, his patience seemingly unwavering. The silence stretched and waned. There was the barking of a stray dog. The hissing of a cat. Something with wings flapped overhead. The distant high-pitched howl of a fox.

There was the sound of wood grating against iron. A slit in the gate opened, revealing a pair of livid eyes.

"What do you want?" the man demanded.

"I would speak with Huyayy, if you please," ibn Maslamah responded in the most conversational tone ever. You would think he was here to discuss the weather.

"Begone, traitor," the man behind the gate barked back. "Our tribes were as one. Aws and Nadir. We fought by your side against Arab and non-Arab alike. Now, you piss on us?"

The man spat.

"Huyayy, I beseech you," ibn Maslamah insisted, untroubled. "It is a matter of great urgency."

"Begone before I open this gate and ram my sword – "

The man was interrupted by another, it seemed. The newcomer, invisible to us beyond the gate as we were to him, was heard to be arguing with the gatekeeper. They spoke in hushed yet heated tones.

Finally, the newcomer seemed to have won the argument as a new voice, more kindly than the last and softer, spoke to ibn Maslamah.

"Muhammad," the man greeted him. "Do you honestly believe it is appropriate to show your face here? We know where your loyalties lie now."

"I come in peace, o Huyayy! I am Muhammad ibn Maslamah al-Awsi! Once, we were as brothers! As your man has said, you have fought at my side in many a battle, and we have slain foes together, Arab and non-Arab alike. I pledge to you that I come in peace, unarmed, seeking an audience with you, my dearest of friends."

There was no answer. Moments later, I thought I could hear a faint murmur beyond the thick wood. Ibn Maslamah seemed like a brute to the untrained eye, a man capable only of hacking and stabbing, but there was an intelligence to him that was unsettling. He was capable of putting up a convincing act of sanity, I saw. I witnessed it first-hand, in Qusayy's shed. And now, again.

Ibn Maslamah took a deep breath.

"Your men have seen what became of Muhammad at Uhud. The battle has proven his incompetence; his pretension. His lie.

But he has become too powerful to remove.

He is a danger to the city of Yathrib.

He has expelled the Qaynuqa' and now he wishes to exile you, my brothers. Brave men of the Nadir have died for me on the battlefield. I see it as a betrayal of their memory to stand by and watch as the reputation of their kin is soiled, their honesty put into question.

Brave men of the Nadir, we cannot expel this pretender with each of us working on his own. We must unite, the Nadir and the staunch men of the Aws together. We must slaughter all his followers. As one. Yathrib will be ours once again. Make Yathrib great again."

A few men of our group gasped at the outburst. It seemed so genuine. Had we walked to our doom with willing legs? Was Muhammad ibn Maslamah betraying us? None of us had any torches, so we were left shivering in the dark. Out of fear as well as the biting cold.

I'm never going to see the girl again, I thought to myself, horrified. I'm never going to avenge Qusayy. His spirit will forever haunt the plains of Arabia, pacing aimlessly as the souls of the unavenged were wont to do. The souls of those denied justice.

The men in our group and I shared uneasy glances. Was this night to be our last? The minutes between ibn Maslamah's plea and Huyayy's answer seemed to stretch for an eternity.

I shamed myself at Uhud, I thought with a resolve. I will not shame myself in the face of death again. I set my feet and braced myself for what was to come. Perhaps a horde of warriors spilling from the gate, clamoring for our blood? I would be ready. My grip on the dagger's hilt was knuckle-white.

There was a long pause. But then the gate creaked open. Ibn Maslamah visibly relaxed as he stepped forward to greet Huyayy ibn al-Akhtab, shaykh of the Banu Nadir.

Huyayy walked out of the fortress, alone. He was an old man, I realized, dismayed. The vile ibn Maslamah was laying his shrewdness bare, as well as his capability for atrocity.

Ibn Maslamah draped an arm over Huyayy's shoulders. In his other hand was his torch. The chief of the Nadir was unarmed and dressed in a plain white gown, the color of his short hair and moustache.

We slunk out of the shadows.

Ibn Maslamah let his free arm drop and swept it at us in an encompassing gesture.

"These are my men."

Ibn al-Akhtab raised an eyebrow.

"These are all the men you've gathered? Surely this is not enough to save Yathrib."

Ibn Maslamah gave him a sympathetic look, and I shivered again. I felt the rage tingling up my spine. It was the same look he gave Qusayy.

"It is enough, Huyayy. It is enough."

He snapped his fingers and that was the signal. Blades flashed in the torchlight as they were drawn. Realization dawned on ibn al-Akhtab too late. He lowered his head and shut his eyes, bracing himself for what was to come.

He was thrown on his back and blood spattered and stained the ground in all directions, men raising their daggers high in the air before stabbing again and again.

Thick tendrils of dark smoke curled lazily upward, hanging heavy in the air in the form of gloomy clouds. The air smelled of charred earth. Nauseating and putrid yet intoxicating. It sent my head spinning and tears rolling down my cheeks. Fire rippled through the great green, eating through land, expanding as fast as...well, as fast as fire. I marveled at it, watching wide-eyed as it wrought destruction. So eagerly demolishing everything in its wake in all its roaring yellow, red and orange glory.

It had been weeks since the Banu Nadir were declared criminal. The angel Gabriel supposedly descended from the heavens to reveal that they were plotting treason, working with the enemy. And so, like the Banu Qaynuqa' before them, it was decided that the agreement of the muhajireen and the Yathribi tribes no longer held the Nadir. They were no longer part of this nation, this ummah, and all the privileges it entailed.

In truth, I know not whether the Nadir chieftains were truly disloyal or if the it was merely an excuse. In hindsight, it seemed like a perfect opportunity to eliminate opposition, regain stability and unite the Muslim community as one again, to nudge them in the direction of recovering from grief by giving them a task in order to keep them active lest they dwell in their sorrows.

I remembered 'Umar's inquiry over the Jews. He wondered if they would pose a problem, expressed that most were reluctant to convert, unlike the Aws and Khazraj who were now Muslim in their entirety. There was a thought gnawing at me in the corner of my mind, wondering if the Qurayza were next. My tribe.

          No, I thought. They were no longer my tribe. My tribe was 'Amr and Mundhir. I should not care what happens to them. My loyalties lie elsewhere now.

In any case, the Nadir were to be exiled. As soon as they abandoned their fortresses.

Which was why we were burning their crops. The chieftains and the wealthier tribesmen were predictably hesitant to abandon the safety of walls, and so the Muslims decided to provide them with an incentive. Leave or starve and watch precious farmland go to waste.

I studied the once lush landscape, searching for any part that was not yet charred and blackened. When I did, I hurled my last torch and watched the wheat and barley catch fire with grim satisfaction.

I walked back in search of drink and fresh air, to where the concentration of gathered Muslim troops was thickest. Their wives and sisters were offering them skins of water and milk, succor in the midst of labor beneath a baking sun.

'Amr or Mundhir would doubtless have found some water, at least. I thought that I should seek them out, shoving past heavy bodies and flowing gowns.

And then I saw her.

I stopped in my tracks. My breath caught in my chest. So sleek, so mischievous yet elegant. Curvaceous hips though she did not boast of a thick build. And that face. Her mesmerizing pale skin, the bloated red lips. The glittering wide beady eyes.

I felt a pang of jealousy seeing her help a grey-haired man take a swig from a water skin. With a start, I realized that the elderly man was none other than Sa'ad ibn Mu'adh, the most powerful of all Aws chieftains. He was dressed in a spotless crimson gown embroidered with cloth of gold at the cuffs and sleeves.

My jealousy eased, realizing he must be her father or something.

Then our eyes met.

She did not seem surprised in the slightest. She merely smiled thinly, removing the skin from ibn Mu'adh's lips as he dabbed at them with a sleeve. Then, she spun on her heels and left. I ran after her, shoving past sweating men and dawdling women. I spun left and right, seeking her out. Searching for her sleek and slim figure.

          She is lost to me, I thought miserably. Curse the gods. They dangle my desires before me, promising me fulfilled dreams and an easy mind, then yank her away from me at the last moment.

          She must be returning to her home. That meant she would not be among the crowds. Instead, she would be seeking out the Awsi neighborhoods, if that was where she dwelled.

I jolted forward, abandoning the heat and din of the gathered masses behind. I squinted, studying the alleyways ahead. I thanked the gods for the clear sunlight this day.

          There she is, I thought, starting toward an alleyway where I thought I saw her crane her neck behind her and smirk.

I sprinted, racing forward with as much vigor as my legs allowed me. My sandals sent specks of sand spraying away behind me.

Inches away from her, she looked back again and smiled, daring me to rush forward.

My chest burned with the effort and I was breathless before I finally caught up with her.

I lurched forward and tackled her to the ground, in a similar position as the time we first met. Panting and flushed red, hunched over her, studying every spellbinding detail of her. Absolutely entranced.

          She must be a witch, I thought. Or a phantom. Or both. No human could be so pretty.

Her full lips curled upward in a slight smile.

"We should really stop meeting like this," her soft voice sent my heart fluttering.

"The moon graces us with its presence in daylight," I stuttered.

"We have a poet among us," she teased me.

I steadied my breath and racing heart.

"Sa'ad ibn Mu'adh," I mused. "You are a Muslim."

It was a stupid thing to say and I regretted it as soon as I opened my mouth. What was about her that slurred my thoughts and heightened my nerves so much? I couldn't form proper thoughts in my head. Was this a spell? I knew some dabbled in the dark arts. Was she really a witch?

"I'm no Muslim," she replied simply with a confident smirk.

"Wh-h...what are you, then?"

She shoved me off her as she did once before. And I landed heavily on an elbow in a similar position as the time before. She found her feet and dusted herself, watching me with an amused look on her face.

"Tomorrow," she said, biting her lower lip, taking several steps backward. "By the tree to the west yet unscathed by the fires."

She paused, then looked me in the eyes.

"Sumayya," she said, continuing to bite her lip. "Sumayya bint Huyayy."

And with that, she spun and darted away at lightning speed. And she was gone.