"What did you do?" Mas'oud boomed, hopping over the fence to enter the sheep pen.

"I didn't...I didn't," I stammered, gaping at the flailing sheep.

The sheep was kicking frantically with its legs. Its eyes lolled in its head as it continued to writhe on the ground, frenzied. Mas'oud bent over the flailing sheep, steadying it firm with meaty hands.

"What did you do, you little shit?" he demanded. The sheep bleated. The vigor in its voice waned. "This is how you repay me for feeding you? For keeping you housed?"

I did not know what happened. I knew something was amiss since there was a distinctly unpleasant odor hanging heavy in the air for days. Then this one sheep started writhing like it was possessed.

"Yazid!" Mas'oud cried out. "Yazid, come here!"

The sheep's bleating ceased, and it kicked no more. Its eyes fluttered shut. It lay there limp and motionless as Yazid ibn Mas'oud clambered into the sheep pen. The stench made me wrinkle my nose. But then I winced as my back spasmed.

It had been days since my whipping, but the its effects were being laid bare. They were worse than the actual lashing. My gown was now tattered, as was my tunic. They chafed against my untended wound, and more blood welled from my back as a result of the collision. Every breath was a chore, painful and agonizing beyond words. Walking, straight-backed no less, would have been a miracle.

Yet, I was supposed to see the cattle well fed and watered all the same. The gods only know how that was expected of me without land for grazing. The terrain was entirely unsuitable for sheep herding.

"It's been infected," Yazid concluded, hunched over the dead animal. He cringed away from the carcass, appalled at the pungent smell. "This is fly strike."

"Fly strike?" Mas'oud demanded, incredulous.

"It's the smell of it," Yazid replied. "And the color as well. Look at this patch of green at its hind. Maggots have buried themselves all the way beneath the animal's skin, feeding off the flesh. Then flies leave their eggs on the wool, attracting more maggots."

Mas'oud didn't look like he understood a word of what his son said, but he rose to his feet all the same, furious, glaring at me.

"You slimy little bastard," he wagged a finger at me. "You sabotaged me!"

"How was I supposed to know?"

"You're the slave, not me!" he barked. "Besides, can't you smell the damn thing? Did you not see the green patch?"

"This is poor work on your behalf," Yazid accused me, his eyes hard.

"Poor?" Mas'oud spluttered. "Poor? It's a fucking travesty is what it is. You know what else is a travesty? Do you know? The fact that you'll be going three days without food or water, boy, that's what."

"Maybe if you weren't such an incompetent shepherd, this wouldn't have happened!"

That earned me another backhand.

And he did make good on his promise. I was not afforded a single meal for over three nights.

On the hard, cold floor of the main chamber, I lay huddled against myself, shivering, teeth chittering. My back screamed at me in agony as gusts of wind seeped through the doorway, finding their way into my gaping wounds, unsheltered by cloth or wool. Every breath hurt. It seemed like the slightest of movements opened the wounds again. I lived in fear of the wounds festering, or perhaps of an infection.

And my churning belly was another matter to contend with. There had been a near famine in Yathrib because of the siege. On Sala', I went days without putting a scrap of food in my mouth. But this was different. It was like my body had been depleted of all resources.

I lost time. Sometimes I would be aware of being in one place one moment, then another the next. The world spun and shook, a constant wave of dizziness washing over me. The persistent anguish of my back, the skin flaking off or the trickle of fresh blood down my spine. The incessant haranguing of my belly, demanding any hint of sustenance or nourishment. I could not form a proper, coherent thought to save my life.

Words addressed to me by Mas'oud or Yazid would fall empty on deaf ears, my attention divided, utterly unfocused.

Then there were images. Flashes conjured in my mind's eye from nowhere. First, there was the usual scene of Qusayy's death. The blood splattering on walls and cloth gowns, the old man sinking to his knees gasping.

Then I saw my father's head sheared from his body, rolling into a ditch. My brother's neck half-tethered to his shoulders, gushing flowing blood as the executioner took another jab at it. His mouth spurted more blood and his body wavered. My uncle was sobbing softly, murmuring useless prayers. His feet twitched when his head was lopped off. The memory made my empty belly spasm.

I groaned, my eyes fluttering open. I realized I was laying flat on my back in the main chamber. There was a faint pain as my wounds scraped against cold floor, distant. I was aware there was the sensation of liquid accompanying the pain as well.

I'd lost track of time. I didn't remember what had happened in days. How many had it been? Were the three nights over yet? It felt like three weeks. Was it three weeks?

I groaned again, seeing the silhouette of a little boy, slight and round-shouldered stalk toward me shyly. There was something in his hands. My eyes burned in their sockets. Too exhausted, too spent to bother looking at the approaching intruder.

'Ammar stooped over me awkwardly, hefting a water skin in one hand. I noticed his head kept darting back and forth from the side rooms that housed father and brother. With one hand, he propped the back of my head up, and with the other, he placed the skin on parched lips.

I did not resist as blessed liquid streamed down my dry throat. I slurped down the entire skin readily. He plucked in some dates into my mouth and I chewed weakly. Before I knew it, I drifted off to sleep.

When I woke, 'Ammar was gone.

"Wouldn't be selling these for next to nothing if it wasn't for you, useless runt," Mas'oud clapped me against the side of my head.

I grunted, falling to one knee. My head rang. There was a buzzing sound in the ear he struck.

We were in one of the marketplaces that used to belong to the Qurayza. Mas'oud and Yazid had set up stall at the break of light. On the counter, in full display, were the fleeces of sheep. It was all that remained of Mas'oud's flock. All the sheep were slaughtered, and I was made to shear the fleeces off. Most of the meat was discarded at the advice of Yazid.

"It's a cautionary measure," Yazid had said. "They may have been infected in the flesh as well. The meat might well be rotten."

Mas'oud favored me with a smirk then.

"Let no man say Mas'oud ibn al-Aswad starved his slave,"

And so, I was made to eat foul meat. And I would have if it weren't for 'Ammar.

The young boy would sneak out of the bedchamber he shared with his brother, with water skin or juice in one hand and a handful of dates in the other. He spoke not a word, and so neither did I. Once I recuperated my strength, he merely placed the rations at my side before silently retreating back to bed.

'Ammar was with us that day in the marketplace. He would not meet my eyes. He would not meet anyone's eyes. It was not out of shame or anything; that was his nature. His head was lowered, his eyes fixed on his sandals. A meek and timid presence that preferred to slink back into the shadows, forgotten yet vigilant.

Many of the fleeces I'd sheared had yellowish or sickly green patches like the one we'd discovered on the first sheep. They were thrown away. It was Mas'oud's idea to sell the remaining fleeces.

"No man worth his salt would buy sheep fleeces for regular price at this time of the year," he'd rasped. "But I'll have to sell them now before they're ruined as well. Because I have a stuttering moron for a slave."

The marketplace was all but deserted. There were very few merchants behind stalls offering any competition, and fewer still customers roaming the path between the two columns of stalls.

"People will be requiring dates now, Father," Yazid said, scanning the landscape for any potential buyers. "Dates or lamb or any fruit."

"Well, we can't harvest twice in only a few months now, can we, you dimwit?" his father chided him.

Then, Mas'oud perked up.

"Customers," he mumbled. He kicked the side of my leg. "Go greet them. They're heading our way."

I rolled my eyes and shuffled forward. I skirted the stall to find that the customers were none other than 'Amr and Mundhir.

I stopped in my tracks, my mouth hanging open. 'Amr had a characteristically grim expression on his face. Mundhir was scowling; a sight entirely unsuited to his usual jovial demeanor.

'Amr stepped forward and banged a fist on the counter.

"I need to buy something off you," he growled at Mas'oud and Yazid.

Mas'oud drew a false smile on his face and extended both arms wide in a gesture of friendliness.

"Al-salamu 'alaykum, my friends," he greeted them. "What is it that you require?"

'Amr pointed at me.

"I'm buying your slave."

Mundhir grunted in approval, arms folded. His height was comical standing next to the much taller 'Amr.

Mas'oud's smile faded and his arms dropped to his sides.

"What makes you think he's for sale?" he demanded in a low voice. "And I'd watch my tone if I were you."

'Amr conjured a silver coin and slammed it onto the counter. I stooped to study the novelty. How had he come across this? On one side it bore the resemblance of a bearded man with a funny hat. There were words in a foreign script I could not understand. Though I could speak Arabic and some Hebrew, I could not read or write in either language. But I knew enough to discern that the writing was neither.

"One dirham for the boy," 'Amr snarled at Mas'oud, sliding the coin across the counter.

In my old age, I now know that this was Persian currency. It bore Persian script and the image of the Persian king. In its native land, the coin was called 'drachm', but to us it was known as dirham; only one of the silver coins bore significant value.

But Mas'oud threw his head back and barked with laughter all the same. A horrible sound that I winced at. Like stone grating against stone. Even Yazid smiled faintly at his side.

"You would buy my slave boy for a dirham?" Mas'oud shook his head, regaining a serious expression. He banged a fist on the counter, standing face to face with 'Amr. "Three. Three dirhams or walk."

"Three!" exclaimed an incredulous Mundhir. "Bastard snores in his sleep!"

'Amr clenched his jaw and favored Mas'oud with one last lingering look of enmity. Finally, without a word, he spun on his feet and stalked away furiously. Mundhir scurried away hastily, at his heels.

I sighed in dismay and shot 'Ammar a glance. He did not meet my eyes.

Mas'oud clapped me on a temple again, sending me staggering sideways.

"Go get me customers!" he bellowed at me.

How, you thick-headed idiot? I thought to myself. But then, I felt my yet unhealed wounds chafe against the cloth of a gown 'Ammar lent me and thought better of it.

"How?" I asked instead.

Mas'oud stroked his chin in thought. Finally, he nodded, grinning.

"Pickpocket them," he beamed as though it were a brilliant idea.

"What?"

"Pickpocket the people," he began shoving me toward the muddy pathway. "Make sure they know you robbed them. Run this way and leave the rest to me."

I stared at him, dumbfounded. What an idiot.

"I'm the master, you're the slave," he roared at me. "You do as I say."

Finally, I sighed in exasperation, shaking my head. I walked past our stall, my head darting this way and that for any potential 'customers'.

Who's that? I wondered, approaching a novelty of a man.

He was short, of a height with Mas'oud, though not nearly as plump. His was the palest skin I'd ever seen! Like curdled milk, only he blushed pink at his cheeks. His eyes were two pools of blue, resembling that of a clear sky. He had a mop of thick yellow hair on his head, the color of straw. His beard was flecked with red.

He carried a sack in one hand. I snatched it from him and darted away.

I could have easily outrun him, but I deliberately slowed my pace near Mas'oud's stall. It was there that I was grabbed by a gloating Mas'oud.

"Miserable slave!" he bellowed in my face. He struck me across the face and my cheek flared. I bit my tongue and blood welled inside my mouth.

"I'm sorry, Suhayb," Mas'oud addressed the blonde man I'd robbed. He returned to him his sack. "He's always getting himself into trouble."

Bastard, I thought, as he raised his hand again, with the ghost of a smile creeping on his hideous face.

"Enough," the man called Suhayb yelled. "Peace, Mas'oud."

Mas'oud faltered for a moment, a confused expression on his face. Finally, he shrugged and let me down.

"I promise you, Suhayb, I will discipline my slave," Mas'oud addressed him, his voice apologetic. "Perhaps I can interest you in some of my fleeces. For your trouble, it is the least I can do."

Suhayb ignored Mas'oud, fixing his attention on me instead. He began fretting on me, inspecting the ruffled collar of my gown where Mas'oud had grabbed me.

"Are you well, friend?" he inquired, visibly concerned.

"You're not Arab," I accused him. He turned around at the sound of my voice. I saw that he held a sack in one hand.

There were crinkles at the corners of his mouth, suggesting that he smiled often. He smiled now and his curiously blue eyes lit up.

"Some call me Roman," he chuckled.

"Are you Roman?"

He chuckled again, a pleasant sound. Then, he shook his head.

"My mother was," he answered. "She was Greek and Roman. But my father – he was Arab."

He extended a hand to me in greeting and I clasped it.

"Suhayb," he introduced himself. "Some call me Suhayb the Roman. But I assure you, I am as Arab as you."

He chuckled again.

I nodded, my face dropping.

"I'm just a slave," I confided in him, miserable. I did not know why I was sharing that. There was something about his perky personality that made me warm up to him, perhaps trust him.

He laid a hand on my shoulder.

"You know," he began. "I was once a slave as well."

My head jerked up at that and I met his eyes then.

"You were?" I asked, incredulous.

He giggled softly.

"Don't look so happy," his face turned a pretty red, like a pomegranate. "But yes, I was a slave. You see, my father was a powerful man. We used to live in the lands of Persia, my family and I. But then, one day, the Romans raided our group and took me prisoner."

"And they made you slave," I guessed bitterly.

He nodded solemnly.

"I lived in the Levant for the better part of my life, in Syria," his voice was bereft of any mirth now. "In the lands of the Romans. I learned the skill of trading there as well as the Greek tongue. Perhaps it wasn't an entirely grim ordeal."

"But you're not a slave anymore," I complained. "And you're not in the lands of the Romans. You're in Arabia!"

"Yes, yes," he smiled. "I was sold to a merchant in Makkah. He freed me. And so, I became his associate. I amassed great wealth in Makkah..."

He trailed off, an inquisitive look on his face. I gathered that he was asking for my name.

"Hanthalah," I stammered. "Hanthalah ibn Ka'b."

Suhayb sniggered softly at my nervousness.

"Though I was a wealthy man, Hanthalah ibn Ka'b, and a free one at that, I remained miserable. Do you know why?"

"Why?"

"Because money does not make a man. It is faith. Faith in the Almighty Allah."

Suhayb's tone was solemn now, reverent. He raised a finger up at the sky.

"Though I enjoyed high status among the Quraysh, I abandoned their graces in favor of the righteous path. I weathered persecution, boycott and abuse both physical and verbal in Makkah. They would not even let me leave the city at the time of the Hijra, Hanthalah. It was a fate worse even slavery."

Suhayb's voice broke at that.

"What did you do?" I inquired, genuinely curious.

"They laid siege to my home to prevent me from taking leave. They sought my wealth. More, they wanted me to forsake faith. But I bamboozled the polytheists, Hanthalah. I ran with bow and sword to a hill outside Makkah, harried all the while by the Quraysh men. I told them they could grab all the riches in my home. In exchange for letting me go to Madinah."

I raised an eyebrow.

"You let them have all your money?" I demanded. "You're not a wealthy man anymore! Why?"

"They could have taken all the money in the world then, and I would not have been shaken. And no, Hanthalah, I am the wealthiest of men. I have my faith. 'And He is with you wherever you are'," Suhayb recited a Qur'anic verse.

Oh fuck, he's going to begin preaching now.

" 'Allah does not burden a soul with more than it can bear'," he recited another.

He paused before reciting another verse.

" 'And He will grant after hardship, ease,'

There you go, Hanthalah. Time and again Allah tells you that He is with you, against all odds. What more do you want than Allah's protection? The next time you feel burdened by the cruel life of slavery, remember that He will never forsake you."

He hefted the sack he held in one hand and offered it to me.

"You look famished, my boy," he made a cluck of disapproval. "I was going to sell this sack of dates. But you are in more need of it than I."

I slowly accepted the heavy sack, raising an eyebrow at him in dubiety.

"You're giving me free food?" I asked, suspicious. "Your merchandise. Why?"

What game was this? What did he want?

"I heard the Messenger of Allah say, 'The best among you is he who donates food'," he patted me on a shoulder before taking his leave. "Best of luck, my friend. I hope to see you a free man one day. And never lose faith."

Never lose faith, I thought, clinging to the sack of precious dates. I will never lose faith. In the gods. The true gods.