The three of us lay shivering on the summit of Sala', the fierce winds biting at us, piercing my bones. What I had just witness difficult to process, to say the least. It still felt surreal, as if I were afloat, or as if my life was one horrible nightmare. Stunned, I gaped at the pools of blood staining the edge of the trench.

        The drops of rain trickled down my cheeks as my thoughts stammered, one numb thought drowning out the other. The gods had abandoned me and had taken away everything I held dear.

         I cared little for my family, but I did not wish them this fate. Worse still, I knew what was to become of us now. Exile would have been a kinder fate.

        I thought I would become a warrior, that I would pursue a lifetime of bloodthirst and vengeance, but instead the life I had known had been swept from beneath me like a rug. Where were my brothers to spare me this misery? I did not hold out a candle of hope.

         "Trust no one in this life," 'Umar once told me. "Least of all those who call themselves friend or kin."

        The world is a grim place and bleak. Only death and betrayal are certain, I realized, laying there helpless. I would never become a warrior, only a damsel in distress, swayed this way and that by fate and the capricious, fickle nature of gods. I cursed Hubal and al-Manat. I cursed the whole lot of them, residing up in their precious heavens, capricious and fickle, laughing at my misery. I hoped that the Muslim god would emerge triumphant from this battle of the supernatural and crush the Arab gods that were so callous. Just to spite them.

        The women and children were divided among the Muslims, the spoils of battle. The plumpest, well-endowed women were awarded to the chieftains of newly converted nomadic tribes, a gesture that was meant to woo them and strengthen their collective faiths. My mother and Dawood's girl were dragged off and claimed by a chief of the Banu Ghatafan. The Banu Ghatafan were a large Bedouin tribe from the Najd region. They were allied to the Muslims, but many of their clans had defected to the confederacy. Some of those clans, however, were successfully restored to prior alliance toward the end of the siege.

        Now, they were collecting the bulk of the plunder.

        I was ten years old then, yet I was broad of shoulder, taller than most boys my senior. I would be seen as a valuable slave, no doubt, and so it would have been likely that I would be gifted to one chieftain of fragile faith or the other.

        Instead, a stocky man approached me, putting himself between me and any other. His sleeves were rolled up revealing hairy forearms. His large belly protruded before him, jingling as though it were a being in its own right. His beard was unruly, and unkempt, a tangled mess of curls, greasy and littered with crumbs. To top it off, he was balding as well.

       "This boy is mine," he rasped. "Anyone who desires him must meet my sword."

      "Peace, Mas'oud," another deep voice called out from behind me. "You are speaking to your brothers in faith. There is no need for aggression."

       I saw 'Umar ibn al-Khattab walk to his side. I felt my temper begin to flare.

      "I will not tolerate any more of the booty we earned handed to these strangers. I was here from the start, I tell you. I journeyed here from Makkah. I risked it all. And all I have to show for it is a lame camel and a blunt-edged sword." the man called Mas'oud blurted out.

       I thought 'Umar would strike him then, as his face flushed red with anger. But he managed to collect himself.

      "I will make sure it is known that he belongs to you," 'Umar replied.

       'Umar pointedly ignored me the entire interaction, refraining from meeting my eyes. I noticed he held an item swathed in cloth in one hand. He handed it to Mas'oud.

      "Under one condition. The boy you are to be given is worth more than just milking your cows. Use him wisely."

       Mas'oud removed the piece of cloth.

       It was my bow, I realized, aghast.

       Mas'oud looked troubled, eyes darting from me and then back to the bow.

       "He is a robust boy, sure enough. He ought to be useful with a sling."

       "That bow is a spoil of war, you sparrow-brained bastard!" I screamed at him, regaining my senses, my rage turning into a frenzied outburst. "I killed a man for it! I earned it. Do not touch my bow!"

        Mas'oud scoffed. He stepped forward and struck me across the face with the bow. I fell sideways, blood and sand filling my mouth. I sat up again and spat them at Mas'oud's feet.

        "I do not wish to risk him in battle," Mas'oud said, cradling the fine bow.

         Without prior warning, 'Umar grabbed Mas'oud by the collar with both hands. Effortlessly, he yanked him off the ground so that they would meet eye to eye. Mas'oud let out a yelp.

        "Do not risk incurring my wrath," 'Umar spoke very softly. "It is my condition. The boy wields the bow in battle, or he goes to the Ghatafan."

         Mas'oud nodded vigorously before 'Umar eased him down to the ground. He regained his composure, smoothing his crumpled gown, trying to restore some dignity.

        "Do not try to hurt yourself with it, boy," he tossed the bow at my feet.

         I plucked it up hurriedly, seeking comfort in its embrace. So sleek and smooth and light to the touch. Double curved, of polished dark oak. So graceful. So elegant. So beautiful.

         It was all I had left.

       "Give me a quiver," I barked at him, my voice choking with fury, breaking slightly. 

       "Raisin head," 'Umar acknowledged my presence for the first time. He met my eyes. "Do not ask of Allah a lighter load. But ask of him the strength for the ordeal."

       Mas'oud ibn al-Aswad was a muhajir – an early Muslim from the days they yet lived in Makkah and called themselves tribesmen of Quraysh. Like Father, he made a living as both merchant and shepherd. Like many other muhajireen, Mas'oud saw his fortunes soar after migration to Yathrib.

       "Are you going to pick up your pace or do I need to haul you forward by your hair?" my master growled at me as we came into full view of his private plot of land.

       Flanking him was his eldest son. I heard Mas'oud refer to him as Yazid. Yazid was willowy and gaunt, towering over his father. His beard was close-cropped and his trimmed short. His face did not seem one accustomed to smiling.

       I cradled my bow, whispering a prayer to any god that could listen.

      We were walking to an isolated strip of land where the landscape seemed rigid and hard to the touch. Under the sun's golden dew, the harvested farmland shone a dirty yellow.

      Like piss, I thought.

      Normally, the farmland would be overgrown with lush greenery, wavering reeds of wheat and barley. But since the Muslims harvested their crops early this year in preparation for the siege, it was not so that day.

      There was a single small shed disturbing the steady flatland at its heart. Mas'oud and Yazid walked inside; the latter ducked through the doorway, leaving me alone outside.

      What was I supposed to do now?

       The weather had eased, and the grey clouds had retreated. The skies were clear, painted with a plethora of hues in the setting sun, as though some majestic beast vomited all over plain canvas.

        There was the chirping of birds and crickets as I stood awkwardly before the shed. The faintest hint of wind tugged at my gown. I shivered as the air leaked through my bare lower body, for my trousers had been torn off. I'd also managed to lose my wool coat and the litham. All I had to my name was a bow, a plain white gown and the tunic I wore underneath.

        I started, hearing shuffling. My eyes searched the vast expanse of farmland, searching for the source of the sound. Then I heard it again. It wasn't shuffling. It was sniffing. Coming from the doorway.

       There, stood a boy roughly my age, leaning on the doorway. He was sobbing. The boy was round-shouldered, spindly and slight of build. He had a mess of brown curls resembling a lion's mane perched atop his head.

       I moved closer to the doorway, my curiosity piqued. The boy raised his head from his hands, revealing a pair of emerald green eyes, flooded with tears. He cringed away, timid and reluctant, as I approached him.

       "What's wrong?" I asked. I was not sure why I cared.

       The boy said nothing. He only continued to shrink away until he was lost to me inside the shed.

       But then I heard the wailing.

      "O Allah!" I heard the high-pitched shriek of a woman from inside. "O Allah! What destruction! What a disaster!"

       I raised an eyebrow, walking into the open doorway hesitantly. I paused for a minute, my eyes adjusting to the gloom. There were no torches or lamps to illuminate the interior.

       "O Umm Yazid! Umm Yazid!"

       It was a woman swaddled in a black gown, beating a fist against her chest at the center of the main chamber. She screamed again, slapping her cheeks with both hands. I gaped at her as though she were a madwoman. The lamentation was obviously a façade. There was not the hint of a single tear on her face.

       She looked up at me in disgust, pausing her theatrics for a brief moment before resuming.

      "Oh, quiet your wailing, you headache of a woman," Mas'oud barked at her. "Quiet, I say, before I come there and silence you myself."

       She ceased her acting at that.

       "What's the problem anyway?" he demanded. "I'll find myself two or three others to marry. I'm a man with a man's needs. And the old hag was sagging anyway."

       Mas'oud emerged from a side room then, looking bored. He wagged a finger at the timid shaggy-haired boy who was clinging to the corner of the main chamber.

       "You. 'Ammar," he addressed him. "Fetch some water."

       But then he took notice of me. He scowled.

       "Never mind," he waved a hand in dismissal of 'Ammar. "We have a slave boy for that now." 

       Mas'oud moved away from the entrance to the side chamber, striding to me, still scowling.

       "Your presence here is evil, boy," he rasped at me. "Your advent is a foul omen. The moment you stepped into my home, my first wife dies? You curse me with a stillbirth? You little bastard."

        He raised a hand and backhanded me across the face, sending me sprawling across the room.

        "Oh, Umm Yazid!" the woman resumed her lamentation. "Oh, Umm Yazid! What a disaster!"

         In ibn al-Aswad's home, the days were hard and the nights long. I was allowed to sleep in the large audience chamber on the cold floor. I was not afforded any rugs to cushion my body, pillows or furs for shelter.

         There were two other rooms, one where the man and his second wife slept with their three youngest children, all little more than infants. The two older brothers, Yazid and 'Ammar, shared the other chamber. I did not pay much heed to the youngsters of the brood, but it was those two sons that I was forced to interact with.

         Yazid, the eldest, a tall, lean man in his early twenties, soft-spoken and deeply pious, with a face as hard and serious as that of 'Amr, though he lacked Amr's tender-heartedness.

        The younger brother, 'Ammar, spoke but very little. I noticed how he shied away from any human interaction with father, stepmother or any of his siblings.

        I remember Mas'oud as a malicious man and gluttonous, driven only by his greed for money and desire for power. He was of humble upbringing and great ambition. I would bear the brunt of his avarice.

        But he did not have the brains to compliment that ambition.

       "You want me to tend your sheep?" I asked him, dumbfounded. "Here?"

       We were overlooking the sheep pen that was at the rear of his home. There were a dozen or so animals bleating within.

       He yanked me by an ear.

       "Is there a problem with that, boy?" he roared, revealing a set of rotting yellow teeth. "Is it too much to ask of you to earn your living, boy? To earn that roof over your head. To earn every scrap of food warming your miserable belly."

        I swatted his hand away, glaring at him.

        "You dull-witted moron!" I screamed at him. We were almost of a height. "You need land fit for grazing to herd sheep, not farmland. To herd sheep, you need a brain inside that ugly head instead of cow dung."

        I spat at him. The spittle struck his forehead, gleaming prettily as it trickled down his face.

        He kneed me in the side of my thigh. I grunted, toppling over in surprised agony.

       "Yazid!" Mas'oud bellowed, yanking me by my long curls. He pounded my head against the ground. I felt blood seep out of my nose. "The whip!"

        "Father," Yazid grunted in greeting as he moved to Mas'oud's side.

        Mas'oud relinquished his hold on me, rising to his feet. But when I tried getting up myself, I was met with a hard knee to my spine. I craned my neck to the side. I saw Yazid looming over me, his face entirely bereft of any humor. He pressed his knee deeper into my upper back.

        "I'll teach you respect, you insolent slave," I heard Mas'oud rasp, unseen.

        I heard the crack of the whip before I felt it.

        And I screamed.

       My flesh flared with sharp pain. There was another crack and I screamed again, tears welling in my eyes now. I tried rising but Yazid's knee slammed me back into place. I flailed with my arms, but he established a hold over them as well.

       My back was burning, as though it were set aflame. Sobbing slightly, I felt fresh blood well from the wounds on my back, singing my blazing back further.

       The whip cracked again.

        And I screamed.